#MY ATOMS ARE BUZZING

[taylorhawkins]

Taylor Hawkins + Matt Cameron are the Nighttime Boogie Association ❤️

(their voices together = HEAVENLY)

[jonny-b-meowborn]

it's honestly surprising that I didn't get diagnosed with autism on the spot when as a kid I used to say that the perfect way to eat a tangerine would be to

peel it

separate the chunks

remove all that white shit

remove this like transparent skin thing

peel apart every single one of those tiny lil tear shaped thingies and put them in a bowl

eat them one by one

and the only reason I never did that was that I didn't have the time, but I loved to eat the separate tiny bits whenever I got the chance

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 & 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 | a joel miller x reader oneshot

summary: this is based around work song by hozier, felt a deep need to write some joel miller comfort stuff. listen to the song if you fancy, it really helps, i swear. this is just a lot of angst, fluff, and longing wrapped into a 5k fic i wrote out a couple weeks ago out of missing writing and joel miller.

word count & warnings: 5k | 18+, fem!reader, mentions of violence/blood/fighting (nothing graphic), joel being in a state of shock, sex for comfort/coping, no heavy sex warning it's just v intimate, psuedo love confessions bc joel is bad with words

It’s like an atom bomb uprooting your world with the heavy rasps of a hand against solid wood, sending a sharp buzz of electricity down your spine as you shoot up from your position on the couch, nearly tripping over Ellie on the way. The remnants of a night spent like a teen, enjoying a sleepover with the young girl who had a lot to talk about. You knew enough about Savage Starlight that you were practically an aficionado now, but that didn’t matter. 

Ellie only stirs slightly, turning on her side on the cushion of her make-shift pallet and you open the front door slowly despite your rapidly beating heart.

Joel never knocked, never really announced himself. He would come in quiet, quick, and busy himself upstairs. You knew that because he usually found you in his bed, waiting for him.

Tonight was a little different. 

No grave can hold my body down,

I'll crawl home to her

You world spins as you see what’s on the other side, a soft gasp leaving your lips as you see him.

Joel. But he wasn’t alone.

“Maria—“ It’s laced with too many emotions, too many meanings. You shift your gaze between the two.

“Everyone—“ Maria has to force herself to take a deep breath, a careful hand on Joel’s arm as she forces him to take a step forward, “everyone is fine.”

“Maria, he’s covered in blood.” As if that wasn’t obvious.

It was crusted and oxidized down, sticking to his skin and covering him like something out of a horror movie. He wasn’t shaking, that was the first thing you noticed. Joel was unnaturally still. Frozen.

“Do you have him?” Maria asks, only expecting one answer. “I’ve gotta tend to Tommy and he’s not telling me a damn thing.”

“Is he hurt?” Your brow furrowed in concern, but Maria doesn’t elaborate at all. You reach for Joel silently, his skin icey to the touch, the rigid, cold weather partially to blame.

“He’ll be alright.” Maria assures you with a nod and she’s gone without another word, leaving you to stare at the shell of a man before you, his eyes boring into the ground, staring at the scuffed up material of his boots, not a word to be spoken. Not even so much as a breath.

“Is he in shock?” Ellie’s less than chipper voice speaks from behind you, forcing your heart to kickstart again.

“Um, I don’t—know…” You pull him inside gently, which he doesn’t fight, but he feels lifeless, “has he—have you seen him like this before?”

“Never.” Her eyes well with silent tears and you quickly shoo her away. Ellie almost seems thankful. Joel can’t admit it to himself but Ellie knows. 

You care. 

“Go upstairs and get some sleep, Ellie.” You assure her, “I can handle it.”

The walk to Joel’s bedroom feels miles away. Joel shows no signs of life still, as you drag him inside of his room and shut the door with a soft click.

“You need to shower.” 

Joel knows this, he can smell it on him.

The smell of death.

You smell it too, but you can’t bring yourself to admit it.

“Joel,” You speak softly, invading his line of sight, a gentle touch against rough skin, his scruff a few days grown and there’s a small twitch as your warm hand makes contact, “are you here?”

His nod is a sigh of relief, a weight off your chest.

“Okay—okay, that’s good,” You keep your voice low, like a secret between the both of you, “do you need my help?”

Joel shakes his head weakly, pulling at the buttons of his thick coat, realizing slowly that it was just as bloodied as the rest of him. He wants it off. All of it. Now.

“Are you going to fight me if I try to help?” It’s lighthearted, but you can see how deeply it digs at Joel, like a fresh wound. “Sorry—I just, I want to help. Okay?”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t push your hands away when they reach forward and take the coat from his hands. You toss it in a nearby corner, out of sight and out of mind.

You could handle it later, get rid of the mess so Joel wouldn’t have to bother with it.

He toes off his boots after tugging at the laces, delicate fingertips tracing down his chest as you unbutton his flannel, forcing it down his shoulders. It takes a moment, but eventually he’s down to his boxers and tattered white undershirt, barefoot on the hardwood floor.

And he stops, leaning into you, pressing his forehead against your own in a silent bid of thankfulness, a heavy sigh escaping his chest.

Joel showers alone, eerily quiet. You get rid of the clothes, bringing them out to the garage to deal with in the morning.

Joel is already in the bed by the time you make it back to his bedroom, but if he was actually asleep was yet to be discovered, the nightmare replaying behind his eyelids unbeknownst to you. 

I was three days on a drunken sin

I woke with her walls around me

Joel wasn’t supposed to come back until later in the evening that day, well after work was wrapped up for the day and everyone was already tucked into bed. You found yourself in Joel’s bed most nights now, off and on for the first few months but now, almost a year into…whatever this was, it was a weekly thing, as often as Joel wasn’t out on patrol. 

There was never an agreement about what this was either, not that there needed to be. But, the unspoken rule was to keep your problems away–the anger, the fear, the suppressed feelings you both have tried to keep at bay for weeks now. Joel only mildly complains about things around Jackson, but never about his life before, how he feels now, or how his pseudo-daughter seeks out comfort in your presence when Joel isn’t around. 

Joel hasn’t stirred for hours, or so it feels. The night sky fades away into early morning, the tiniest amount of dawn peeking through his window and bathing him in a shadow of blue. The crinkle of sheets pulls your attention toward his face, your body heats like a furnace as it slid near, hoping that even in his slumber he might draw closer. There’s a brief moment where you think he might wake, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you closer. Nuzzles. 

You’ll take it. 

He moves silently, letting you hold him. An arm slipped under his head, a leg slipped between his own thighs and his hands found their way around your middle and you sigh, a deep breath through your nose that does nothing to calm your worrying, aching heart. 

If he wanted to talk about it, he would. That’s all you can hope for.

I didn't care much how long I lived

But I swear I thought I dreamed her

Joel is edging on delirious. The adrenaline was beginning to wane and he kept seeing things in faint recollection. The faces of the couple that had snuck into the cabin he and Tommy were patrolling last night, the fear on his brother’s face–something he hasn’t seen from Tommy since they were teenagers. They’re battle-hardened warriors, attack first and ask questions later. His brother was helpless then and if it weren’t for Joel’s terrible bout of insomnia—he couldn’t think about it.

He feels everything finally caught up to him, the physical exertion, the mental toll, he’s never slept so easily in his life and he feels terrible about it. He feels terrible about bringing this on you, forcing you to help piece him back together and keep him from falling apart. 

Joel is a man, solid and steel-like in his ways but he’s not invulnerable to emotion. He feels it creeping in as he blinks his tired eyes open, the flutter in his chest growing strong when he feels you wrapped around him and his own limbs just the same. 

He could’ve swore you left. The look on your face, of pure terror and disgust as he poured his heart out to you, but Joel quickly realizes that was only a dream, something his mind cooked up in the haze of hysteria.

“Is Tommy hurt?” You ask with a timidness he’s not used to, your fingers massaging at the base of his neck, twirling a curl of his hair around your finger idly, “Maria...didn’t say, she looked exhausted.”

We don’t talk about these things.

We don’t talk.

We don’t.

“I’m not asking you to tell me what happened,” You assure him like he’d spoked aloud, “Just…even a nod, Joel. Anything.”

Joel waits too long, to the point where you think he’s fallen back asleep. But eventually, he shakes his head. You relax briefly. No, he wasn’t hurt.

But, that doesn’t explain the blood. 

As much as you wanted to know, it wasn’t your place to ask.

She never asked me once

about the wrong I did

Joel doesn’t understand why he feels drawn to you, so eager to have you here, home. You had your own place, your own things, but when you were here it almost felt normal. Real. He’s dragged this out for months, avoiding the looks you give him when things get a little too intense and he pulls away. 

Ellie calls him an idiot every month that passes, knowing how good it is to have you around.

“Jesus, Joel—you can’t really be that oblivious.”

Joel forces Ellie to drop it.

But, not before she mumbles the word under her breath.

There’s a soft sob that racks your body as Joel stirs, crying silently above him with worry. You weren’t as great at burying those emotions as him, unfortunately.

Because, for tonight, well—it was almost too much to process.

“I took care of it,” Joel speaks through his gruff, sleep-filled voice, “Tommy’s fine.”

It? Took care of it? Come on, Joel.

“It was a couple. Hunters. They were from the west.”

You stay silently, scared that speaking might startle him too. You didn’t want to steal the chance of knowing, understanding.

“I handled it.” The emphasis around the word is enough to make you understand.

He killed them. There was no way around that.

“I’ve never…” The quiver in Joel’s voice is apparent, no matter how hard he tries to mask it, “I’ve felt a lot of things. Anger, betrayal, but that fear—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling Joel closer into the space you shared.

“They had their hands around him,” Joel explains slowly, like he’s trying and failing to relive that sight in his mind, “my damn hearing, old fucking age—another minute and things would’ve been a hell of a lot different.”

“But, you took care of it.” You affirmed him and his hands tightened against your skin. “Seem pretty damn capable to me.”

“Fuckin’ cowards.” Joel spits out, “We were sleepin’ and they tried to get the jump on us.”

“It’s alright, though—Tommy’s okay, you’re…okay,” You hesitate, a quiver of a breath from Joel ghosts over your chest, his tired eyes peering into yours, “You’re okay, right?”

“Always am,” Joel assures you with a low, soft response, “had so much on mind, though, ya’ know?”

“Well, yeah—”

Joel shakes his head, cuts you off for a brief moment. You don’t really mind, talking felt too draining right now.

“Ellie’s still learnin’, she can’t even go out on patrol by herself. Tommy and Maria have the baby now.” Joel’s fingers squeeze again, a nervous tic he’s picked up when he’s got himself wrapped around you, the urge to say things he wishes he could but can’t. You’re begging for it now, wondering if this was the moment. “I couldn’t live with myself if things went the other way.”

My babe would never fret none

About what my hands and my body done

Joel was a killer. Is. But, with good intentions. Not that it was needed anymore.

Survival, family, protection. He’s killed for the wrong reasons and the good ones, but it’s never been something you’ve judged him on. You never even questioned it. You accepted it, moved on, and treated him like everyone else. But, of course, there was a tinge of sweetness that creeped in, got him all caught and wound up in your web.

“Did she give you any trouble last night?” It’s a quick turn from the heavy conversation you were having, but it isn’t lost on you. He’s silently asking things to shift to something else.

“No more than the usual,” You shrug, talking softly in the early morning ambience, wind howling outside his bedroom window, a storm brewing on the horizon, “I don’t think it’s me that you should be worried about her giving trouble anyways.”

He would be stuck here in Jackson for a few days. You’ve never been more thankful for shitty weather in a goddamn apocalypse. 

“That kid loves you.” Joel comments fondly, and I do too.

“Only because I help her and Dina sneak out during town movie nights,” You admit, glancing away sheepishly, “she really worries about you.”

Joel nods knowingly, his usual scowl returning to his face. You reach forward, rubbing your thumb along his cheekbone—in this light he looks fine, untouched and perfect, but he winced at the contact. He’s a tough man, but he’s not invincible. 

The touch of his fingers as they wrap around your palm are instinctive, he’s careful that he doesn’t startle you by the quick action, but it’s almost like he’s being shocked and brought back to hours before, the one hit they managed to land on him.

You’ve seen a few of Joel’s violent outbursts, yelling matches upon yelling matches with Tommy but it’s never been directed at you. You retract slightly, fingers curling over the top of his own.

“I’m sorry,” You apologize, “I didn’t realize—“

“I would never hurt you.” Joel says adamantly, but you can’t help but feel puzzled. “I’m not a monster.”

That idea never crossed your mind.

“Defending yourself doesn’t make you a monster, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t know why he feels the need for validation. 

“Maria—she thought I,” Joel laughs sadly, a huff of air that borders on defeat, “Tommy was hitchin’ the horses up and she saw me first, without him and she thought I left him behind. That I sacrificed my own damn brother to save my ass.”

Maria had never been fond of Joel, that much was always apparent, even from the moment you met. She tolerated him because he was Tommy’s brother but that was all. There was no way around it. 

“I’ve done plenty of shit to cement my place in hell somewhere, and so has Maria,” You tell him, “Doesn’t matter what she thinks, Tommy knows you would never do that.”

Joel squeezes your waist tighter, the soft skin molding under his calloused fingertips, “You’re too damn good to me.”

The kissing starts slowly, a soft caress as Joel moves in closer, and doesn’t even try—he waits for you, teasing you with a touch until you can’t fight anymore and you press your lips against his gently. It’s the first time in the last several hours that Joel doesn’t feel like he’s drowning, barely skimming the surface to keep himself afloat. 

He feels horrible, using you like this—coping with things by stowing them away and surrounding himself with you in a hope that you wouldn’t ask anymore questions, that he would have to explain his actions or justify them. But, you taste too damn sweet under his tongue and he prods until you let him in, a small sigh leaving your mouth as your lips part. 

“Fuck, darlin’.” He swears like a symphony, sounding more devious than it should as it leaves his lips, “Can’t keep at this, not with Ellie upstairs.”

“Joel, she’s not here.” It’s not so obvious to Joel, who’s just about as oblivious to every teen antic thrown his way. “She’s out with Dina, probably. That’s usually where she goes when she’s upset.”

Joel’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I heard her moving around when you were asleep,” You explain quietly, jostling your head slightly on the pillow until Joel’s situated over you slightly, his head resting in the palm of his hand that held him upright, “it’ll do you some good to talk to her in the morning.”

Joel nods knowingly, half-smiling as he pushes your hair behind your ear, his thumb finding the sensitive dip behind your lobe and rubbing until you couldn’t hold your laughter in, letting it bubble out weakly before falling silent, a soft, but serious look growing across your features.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” You tell him, “please.”

“C’mere,” Joel nudges his chin upwards, drawing you in close, “I’m not goin’ down without a fight, darlin’.”

“I’m serious,” You don’t need to force a love confession on him, not that it would salvage anything or make things better, because Joel already understands—there’s too many instances where he’s felt his heart tug in all the weird, uncomfortable places he’s kept locked away since he was younger, before the outbreak, before Sarah, “you can’t do that anymore.”

“I’m here,” Joel assures you, forehead pressed firm against your own as he nods, “I’m right here.”

He failed to mention how after the attack, the split second of everything flashing through his memory, the possibility of losing Tommy, disappointing Ellie, that you were the one thing that kept him conscious enough to come home.

He’d left you with a burning kiss the day he left, kissing like two lovebirds trying to keep a secret as you hung around the stables as the pairs readied to leave. 

It was his own little promise of a return, but you didn’t realize in just what shape. He was good at masking, even now. Joel was hurting, but all he wanted was you.

And you could give him that.

And she put her love down soft and sweet

In the low lamplight I was free

Joel hums, soft and quiet, “Don’t move,” He pleads, “need you right here.”

His palms are heavy, feeling so much larger than they should as they span the length of your body, pulling you in close and cradling you like a safety blanket. Maybe you should stop, it isn’t the best route to cope with the situation, but Joel is there—wanting and needing and he’s mouthing at the junction of your neck in a way that has you gasping for air. 

He needs you to occupy his mind, it’s what you did best for him. Joel needed somewhere else to be, anywhere but the hellscape behind his eyes when sleep succumbed to his pure exhaustion.  

Just a moment. Just a moment to breathe. To feel.

Your brow furrows so deep that you're scowling now, but mostly out of concern, forehead scrunching from the emotion and you cradle Joel’s face carefully between your hands, “Tell me what you need.”

You. 

He doesn’t say as much, but you can feel him sifting for your tattered pajama pants as he digs his fingertips under the waistband and yanks, hoping you’ll get the idea. 

Okay, this is fine. He needs sex, you can provide him that. But, you won’t let him escape. Joel needed to be present and here with you, not forcing himself to some far off space in his mind and keeping you around him like nothing more than a warm body for him to fuck.

He’s got you all pliant under his touch as he needs at soft skin, thumb digging into your hip bone as he shifts between your legs lazily, spreading you wide and using the arm that is holding most of his weight to unfurl his hand and reach for that tight space behind your knee, tucking that leg up and over his right hip—this feels undoubtedly vulnerable, but he’s staring at you with those eyes and you absolutely fucking melt, his mouth parted by mere centimeters as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.

“Go on, darlin’,” Joel encourages, “I know you need it too.”

That was an understatement.

He’s already hard, head of his cock resting against the small expanse of skin between his groin and belly button. It’s like a wave of heat that rushes over your bodies when you finally touch him how he’s been begging—not so much with words but pleading looks. He needs it even more than you do. 

Usually you would spend a while in the throes of leisurely foreplay, letting Joel devour you until you were nothing but a heap of numbness on the bed and only then would he allow you what you were begging for the entire time. His cock, buried deep enough inside you that it felt impossible. But, there was none of that.

Your thumb slides over the head, smearing the precum in a too teasing motion that has Joel cursing under his breath before you’re abruptly guiding him to your core, slick and waiting without a single touch, embarrassingly so. Fortunately, you and Joel were long over that. Joel was overly aware of the effect he had on you—mind, body, and soul. 

He slides home and you have to take a moment, a second to breath, chest expanding with a full breadth of air as Joel pulls you in closer, if that was even possible, warm hands settling firm on your hips, his head resting against the pillow you both shared, “There she is,” Joel comments vexingly, “always know what you need, right, baby?”

As good as it feels to hear him, the way he can melt you with a single phrase or sound, he’s still on guard in the way he’s shielding himself against your body, rocking his hips in a motion that drowns out all relative thinking and it builds, builds until you can’t take it and you feel like you just might burst. You slip a hand out from under him to pull at the chain on his bedside lamp, drowning you in a soft yellow glow and Joel doesn’t look right away—that’s how you know. 

“Switch me,” You suggest softly, followed by an even lower, disgruntled noise from Joel, “—Joel, come on.”

Joel feels that distant ache in his bones, the soreness in his hands from the damage they caused, he groans with the movement, but even louder with the way you sink back down onto him once he’s settled against the mattress, hands fisted into his shirt and rumpling it up his stomach, revealing a few inches of soft skin, grinding down against him until he’s nearly writhing. His mouth opens slightly, ready to say something you didn’t want to hear.

You offer a soft shhh, eyes focused on the lines of his face, beautiful with age and scrunched up in pleasure, eyes closed as he settles into the feeling of you again, “Stay with me,” You jeer quietly, a soft giggle settling on the surface as you smile, ever so slightly, ”‘can you do that?”

Sometimes it feels like an impossible feat, but Joel grips you a little tighter, pulls you in ever the more closer and the slick of your body feels so goddamn good, he doesn’t even realize his thought breached his lips before your breath is hot against his ear, his mind battling the thoughts buried under the surface and every filthy thing he could blurt out in the moment, he’s so tense with anticipation, “Stop thinking so hard, Joel. You’re home. Safe.”

And for once, he gives in. A long, hard fought battle that succumbs to his own exhaustion, allowing the kinder touches, the intimate glances between two people, almost like your fingertips were grazing each other’s souls. It’s felt intense before, but this moment is sharp around the edges and Joel knows what you need to hear. He’s fought it for a while, trying to right his wrongs, remind himself still, that he didn’t deserve you. He’s done fighting.

“Just need you, darlin’.” He admits gruffly, lips sliding against each other in a messy, lazy attempt at a kiss, “Always know just what to do.”

In other words, you could read Joel like a book.

And in the few years you’ve known him, you were hoping that was the case, considering the level of intimacy you’ve reached. Joel comes with a tired, drawn out groan that pierces you deep, and you’re right there—right there, before Joel is flipping you over with little fight on your end, sucking on your clit with a ferocity that doesn’t let up, coming with a shout as you grip his hair at the root, riding out the extent of your climax against his mouth as he eased you into your sated state of exhaustion.

The comedown is heavy, long, extended bouts of silence as you two try to catch your breath, slow your pounding hearts and Joel, at some point, finds his way higher up your body, his head laying against your chest, just underneath your breasts and it's an easy position to rub your fingers into his hair, along the planes of his face. He'd never admit it, but this is his favorite part. The after.

For you, it was everything.

"I want you around more often," Joel says quietly, like a whisper, "—m'tired of worrying about you when you're not around."

It almost makes you think you slipped into some sort of fugue state, not believing that the Joel Miller had said anything remotely close to a confession. But, then again, he surprised you every day. And you knew he couldn't ask you outright, not now, maybe not ever.

But, you'd settle for this.

"I'm not going anywhere, Joel." You promise, "You've always got me to come home too."

[cordeliawhohung]

okay HI IM SUCH A BIG FOR THE SOFT SPOT SERIES I LOVE READING IT SO MUCH.

Just wanted to pop in and request a little comfort with ghost? I'm mid-way my midterms right now and I haven't slept properly for nearly 4 days. I need that man to either fuck me to sleep or cuddle me.

Again, love your work. Love everything you write, really. You're an amazing author and thank you for sharing your skill to the world LIKE YOU SHOULD 💅💅💅

hi hun! thank you so much!!! i'm glad that you're enjoying it a;lsdkfj like i've said before soft spot is my babyyyyy and youch! sorry to hear about finals! that's such a pain, and i apologize that this has taken a moment to get back to you. but now that you mention it, i don't think i've ever written anything just... fluffy for Simon. so i think i'll write you a short and sweet fluff bit that will hopefully cheer you up! thank you so much you are such a sweetheart 😭

warnings: none! super fluffy! sleeping issues and Simon thinks cuddles is the best medicine (:

masterlist (:

Sleep wasn't coming easy for you. A majority of your nights had been spent getting minimal sleep before being startled awake by your own thoughts. It was difficult to pin down the exact reason. You weren't stressed, or at least you liked to pretend that you weren't, and there were no strange dreams or nightmares that ailed you. Just your own thoughts, the constant feeling that you had to be doing something, anything, otherwise you were wasting time.

You stood in the kitchen with a cup in hand as you ran the sink. Everything always seemed louder at night. Your footsteps, the water pouring from the spout, even your own heart beating in your chest. The very atoms buzzing in every object around you even seemed too loud.

"It's late."

Simon's voice was deep and groggy as he spoke from the doorway, and it was piercing enough so that it cut through the noise of everything else in existence. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and you could see a faint indented line across his cheek. He must have been sleeping pretty well, which was the whole reason you left the bed in the first place; to not wake him with your restless tossing and turning.

"Baby, go back to bed," you said softly. You eyed the pale green neon of the microwave clock that read 2:04 in the morning before taking a quick sip of water.

"You've got work in the mornin'," he said simply before stepping further into the kitchen.

You sighed before setting the cup next to the sink, and you leaned against the counter. There was little doubt in your mind that Simon was just as tired of your restlessness as you were. Constantly slipping out of bed, wandering around the flat in an attempt to get the buzzing in your mind to stop long enough to hopefully fall back asleep again.

Simon's hands brushed against your hips where he pulled you closer, and you nearly melted into him. Hands resting against his chest, you let him pull you close. You felt the warm breath from his nose tickle your hairline as he pressed a soft kiss against your forehead.

"Come back to bed," he mumbled into the crown of your head. It wasn't a request, but wasn't a demand, either. It was something that landed somewhere in the middle.

Either way, you listened. Even though you could feel the static of the world rattle your bones and shake your mind, you trotted off after Simon as he led you back into the bedroom. Your side of the bed was cold when you crawled back in, and you wondered just how long you had been standing in the kitchen for.

Simon liked his space when he slept. Something about you being too wiggly, but you didn't mind. You were used to laying your head on your pillow and holding the blankets tight under your chin to lull yourself to sleep. So when you felt Simon's hand on your shoulder, rolling you over to face him, you were a little surprised.

"Come here," he prompted in his sleepy daze.

And so you did. His arm snaked around your torso as he pulled you close, and instead of a pillow underneath your head it was his chest. His other arm rested on his torso so that he could reach and rub gentle circles along your back. One last time, he leaned forward to press a quick kiss to your head before laying down.

He didn't say anything else, and neither did you. The only thing you did was lay there, cheek pressed against his chest while your arm held him around his waist. Each beat of his heart reverberated brilliantly within his chest, and every breath he took sounded long and deliberate.

Instead of focusing on the noise of the universe around you, you found your mind enamored by Simon instead. How the subtle rise and fall of his chest rocked your body with his. How you could hear the blood gushing through his body, feel the fibers of his body creak with the weight. His warmth bled into you, coaxing your muscles to soften. You focused on trying to match your breathing with his, and you wondered if you did it long enough, if your hearts would start to sync; if your blood would pulse at the same speed; if your bodies would begin to meld.

Eventually his hand stilled, and his breathing slowed even more, and you continued to match his pace. Soon, you were nothing more than just two souls occupying the same space; atoms weaved together; lovers intertwined. Slumber settled over you before your mind even had the chance to process it, but even in your sleep your body knew you were right where you belonged.

sorry if this is too short! i'm trying to practice not writing 6k words for every single thing i put on this site a;lksdjf either way i hope it was enjoyable, and i hope you're able to get some good rest soon, anon <3

[jackiepackiee]

Oh hey there! This my first time requesting you!

I have a request for chuuya nakahara and dazai osamu. I wanna ask that how would he be a as a boyfriend to a s/o who could control electrons in the atmosphere.

For dazai its how would he confess to girl who he admires for a long time but is scared to lose her, but she confesses to him before he could?

Thank you very much and I love the rule about angst without a happy ending i mean cmon life is tough enough already we all are carrying emotional baggage in some way or the other 😭😭

Love you admin, take care! 💞💞

Trying this again because I finished and tumblr deleted it ALLLL

I love science!

𝒟𝒶𝓏𝒶𝒾 & 𝒞𝒽𝓊𝓊𝓎𝒶 𝓍 𝐸𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃 𝒜𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈- 𝓃𝑜𝓅𝑒

𝒯𝓎𝓅𝑒 - 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃𝓈 / 𝒹𝒾𝒶𝓁𝑜𝑔𝓊𝑒

𝒟𝒶𝓏𝒶𝒾

Will ask the most annoying questions

“Can you make your body a metallic bond so when you’re hit by an enemy, you’re malleable. Oh! Can you make the hatrack an ionic bond so I can make his charges line up and he’ll explode!”

“Dazai… No!

Yall meet a work

He teases you, goes on missions with you, pranks Kunikida with you

But it’s not until your ability goes haywire and you’re hurt one day that he realizes he likes you

From then on, he hugs you when your ability acts up

Nullifying you and getting a hug

A win win in his book

Little things change

He does his paperwork, doesn’t drink as much, teases you more, and makes less suicide attempts

Though, he can’t confess

You’re too good, he can’t ruin you with his depression and violent past

But, what if you say no?

He thinks it’s a lose lose

What a dumb thing for such a smart guy to think?

He finally decided to confess when Ranpo tells him that it’s a good idea

(Ranpo, the world's greatest detective, can obviously tell you like Dazai and he likes you. Why not be the wingman for the new it couple?)

“Dazai… the entire agency knows. And I’ll tell them for you… unless you get me a snack. Yknow, I’m no romance detective, but love is in the air.”

So… he brings you to the Port

Wins you a cute little teddy at a game slot

He’s about to confess

But… before he can speak

“Dazai, I like you!”

You like him. You. So incredibly intelligent, strong, kind? He’s smart, but would’ve never seen this coming

He noticed how the ocean twists

You ability acts up and is causing the hydrogen and oxygen to disconnect

You’re practically shaking with nerves

So… he hugs you

Not a kiss… he would never rush such a perfect moment

The ocean calms, you ability nullifies

Now that you’re dating, the question are WORSE

“Did you change the atoms in my brain so I love you?” “One, no. Two, that’s not how love works!”

Brags to everyone, even if it’s annoying

Just adores you

Thinks he could die happy

Although, he’d much rather live to love you

Makes sure that all your missions are local so he can get to you incase electrons start buzzing around

Calls you dumb things, stupid science jokes, it’s a headache

Overall, so smart but sooo stupid

𝒞𝒽𝓊𝓊𝓎𝒶

Thinks you’re the coolest!

Likes to think your abilities are similar and you two have a connection

Also… a bit dumb

So he asks so many questions

What, he’s fascinated with you and he wants to know as much as he can

“Valence electrons? What?” “What do ya mean I can’t see em? Too small?”

Even if he’s technically the strongest in the entire Port Mafia, thinks you’re better

I mean, he can control gravity but you can manipulate matter!

Thinks that you’re a gift for all his years of hell and unluckiness

Even if you’re just a friend… for now

Never EVER lets you go on missions alone

Makes sure at least one of his trusted subordinates is with you

And if that can’t happen, he’ll make sure Mori gives Chuuya you’re a dangerous work

He’ll miss sleep to take your work, just so you’re safe

If you’re ever overwhelmed, he’ll float you off the ground

Makes sure that you can calm down

Maybe it’s the air higher up, maybe the scenery?

Or… maybe it’s his arms wrapped tight around you

He realizes during one of these moments how much he loves you

“Shh, it’s okay. You ability is stable and you’re safe.”

After asking Kouyou for advice, he’s ready to confess

Buys roses, wine, a jazz record, and a little stuffed animal

Knocks on your apartment when…

You open the door… looking stunning.

“Chuuya? What’re you doing here?”

A gorgeous red outfit, styled hair and makeup. He used his ability to float the gifts to the ceiling so you wouldn’t see.

“Oh… you look pret- I mean! You’re so dressed up.”

“Yeah… was about to leave.”

His heart sunk, although his cheeks warmed at the sight of you in such a beautiful outfit.

“Do you have a date?”

“Date? No, I don’t.”

What a relief!

“Well, what’s the occasion?”

“… I really like you Chuuya! I was gonna try and find you at work now!”

Oh woah… did he just die and go to heaven?

Gives you the sweetest kiss (It’s definitely his first)

Now that you’re dating, he spoils you

Remember how no one is allowed to put you in danger?

Before, he’d let other watch you

But now he’ll clear his day just for your safety

Tries to learn as much as he can about science so he can talk with you even more

“Damn it… electron sea? I thought we had seven seas already?”

Overall? Perfect 11/10

[zeep-xanflorp]

Dumb question; Rick is really nihilist or naah? It was just a thing from the first seasons or smth

not a dumb question! my autistic self enjoys rambling about this topic in particular.

in my opinion, rick is the worst nihilist ever. he tries to be one so badly. he wants nothing to matter. he wants to not care about anything. he knows just how big the universe is and how minuscule humans are in comparison to the vastness of infinity. just as we don't care about the intricacies of quarks and electrons buzzing around us to make everything go, the stars and the multiverse don't care about the intricacies of our lives.

but that doesn't play out in practice. in reality, he cares for people. he holds people close to him. he lets people matter to him to spite infinity. he's an existential nihilist in my opinion, meaning that even if nothing inherently matters, the things he cares about matter to him. a hydrogen atom matters to the atom it gets paired with, in the compound that it comes to be a part of. just like we matter to the people who come to be in our lives. the stars in the same galaxy matter to one another, neighbouring galaxies about to collide matter to each other. the relationships we form with others, even though it might not matter to something bigger than us, is still important because of the value we place on it.

and rick reconciling with the fact that he cares about people - about his family, his wife, his friends - is the heart of the show to me. he's learning that it's okay to care. that it's okay that people matter to him and that he does in fact matter to others. importance is relative just like everything else.

[chouxsardine]

Mariner's Complex -- Jake Kiszka x reader

Summary: "Look for the lighthouse when you are lost, it will always bring you home. May the light in your soul guide you, may the love in your heart keep you strong." -- Jake is nervous before going on stage. You know just the right way to calm his nerves.

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 2532

Warnings: 18+! minors be gone, mention of alcohol, mention of anxiety, public sex, unprotected penetrative sex, soft Jake (please let me know if I missed any!)

Genre: Smut, hurt/comfort (kind of)

Author's note: This piece is inspired by the gif above. I am smitten upon seeing it. This is my first time writing smut. It's about vulnerability, about receiving and giving love, lots of love. It is my fictional way of hoping that Jake is reminded of being one of the best guitarists out there and that he is loved by us. Deepest thanks to the wonderful @sacredjake for beta reading and for inspiring and encouraging me to pick up writing and post this. Please do yourself a favor and read her works; they're awesome beyond words. Enjoy!!

🎧: songs that pair nice with this piece: Lost at Sea by Lana Del Rey and Rob Grant; Mariners apartment complex by Lana Del Rey (can you tell I'm bad at titles now?)

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There’s just something about the air in the stadium before the concert; it feels like with every inhale, it immediately turns into adrenaline. With its graininess accentuated, one can almost sense the atoms buzzing in the air, like a shoal of sardines forming a bait ball, enclosing him, a cyclone where he is the eye. Is this what Josh means when he writes “carbon dancing through time” ?

His mind is racing a million miles a second; it’s like hoping onto a car with broken brakes, he’s bound to hit something in the hazardous terrain——

Knock knock. “Jake?”

As if someone pulled the switch, he is snapped back to reality. He immediately recognizes the voice of his lover. The sweetest sound in the world. His shoulder visibly relaxes, the corner of his mouth turning up, and his heart feels tender. He has always appreciated this—forever so considerate and thoughtful, always respecting his privacy even though they have already been together for so long.

“Come in!”

As expected, his lover’s face came into view, the familiar smile.

“I got you the salad you wanted!” You said, raising the white plastic bags in your hands.

You can tell he is anxious the moment you push open the door. Years of a committed relationship must have formed some kind of telepath between you two. You can almost sense it in the air. Is it a thing though? Like the service dogs that can smell it when their owner’s heart is beating too fast. Well, you know someone’s heart is certainly racing now.

You can’t quite figure out where his anxiety is coming from. They boys are at the middle leg of this tour. Is it from the traveling? Or maybe it has to do with his string snapping during soundcheck earlier? Or it could just be his brain playing tricks on him. And you respect that, even amazed or amused because you know it’s from the very same place where all the amazing melodies and witty remarks are born.

You spotted the glass on the vanity. Amber liquid barely covering its bottom, corresponding to the proportionate empty space in the newly-opened bottle of whiskey right next to it. You know Jake is never one to get plastered before going on stage. The alcohol is just a pacifier for his nerves. You follow his gaze to the white roses sitting in the vase. He’s remained quiet all this time, not even trying to hide his feelings, only giving you a smile through his reflection in the mirror. The comfortable silence hangs mellowly like willow branches, a mute radiation of his trust and vulnerability.

You set the bag aside and squat down in front of him, thumb brushing the back of his hand. You know better than to ask questions like “are you okay”. You know that right now your physical presence is already a comfort for him. You’d rather let him take the lead for the rest.

Jake tilts up your chin—a silent cue for kisses. You happily oblige, feeling his lips forming a smile upon contact with yours. He releases a contented sigh, pulling back after a moment. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah? You’ve got me now.” Now sitting across his lap, your hand rests gently on his cheek. Jake immediately leans into your touch like a cat, turning his head and pressing kisses into your palm.

“They already double-checked it. I’ll ask them to pay extra attention before the show starts, just to make sure.” You said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, revealing the little hoop dangling.

Jake hums, knowing you are referring to the snapped string earlier. Stupid mistake. His throat feels dry, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I——”

“Shh,” you give him a peck on the lips, “none of that. You don’t have to explain anything. Those feelings are valid. And they are temporary.”

Then a brilliant idea strikes you.

“We’ll take a walk, alright?”

“Here?” He cocks his head in slight confusion.

He immediately recognizes that you are giving him a taste of his own medicine. Well, in a good way. He knows you are talking about one of those “mental health walks” that he proposes when you are engulfed by the noises inside your head. But the backstage is not street gardens or some hiking trials in a park, how will that work?

“Yeah, you have time. Right?”

There’s indeed at least a good half an hour before the last sound check. He can’t argue with you. By the way, when were he ever able to say no to your invitations? This little genius mind of his lovers, constantly conjuring up the most amusing and endearing words and ideas like the hat of a magician. With a resigned smile, he caves in, placing his hands in yours.

“Come on, up you get, you lazy butt.” You step back and pull on his arm.

“Hey, you love this butt!” He protests in feigned grievance.

“Yup, can’t deny it’s a nice one.” You jokingly smack his ass as you follow him out of the dressing room, feeling happier hearing his banter, seeing him slowly getting back to himself. He’ll get there, you will make sure of it.

The corridors are generally quiet around this time, allowing the artists to rest before the real frenzy starts. Occasionally, stage crews pass by, rolling equipments boxes down the hall. You two swiftly move out of their way, hand in hand, strolling as if window shopping in the mall. You are entertaining Jake with a funny little incident you saw on your way to buy him food.

“You should’ve seen it, really,” you snort out a laugh recalling the scene, “that poor lady is struggling so hard and the shopping cart is just running away from her, loaded with two cases of Guinness!”

Jake is laughing with you, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. You turn to admire his profile, the apple of his cheek rising, the wrinkle to his nose deepening, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. There’s nothing you love more than seeing Jake smile and laugh, it never fails to create that fizzy feeling in your heart, like a bubble approaching the surface of a cream soda.

Having jumped out of your storytelling, your attention diverts back to the feeling of Jake’s arm snaking around your waist. Now his hands are sliding up your sides, from the small of your back to the sweet spot on your flank.

He turns to look at you. Upon meeting his gaze, you immediately pick up the implicit plea. His caramel eyes full of admiration, the edge of his iris grows fuzzy. His eyelashes flutter as his gaze falls to your lips.

You cover the distance between you with a kiss. This one is different from the one in the dressing room. The tip of his tongue tickles your bottom lip with small licks before him pulls back a bit and mutters under his breath, “Want you, want to be close to you.”

Once again, you are more than willing to indulge.

It’s just so convenient that you happened to be near the corner where a pilaster protrudes enough to hide you from the passersby. As your back hits the wall, your fingers are already tangled in Jake’s hair, holding him close. You are circled by him, his freshly applied cologne lingers, now well adapted to his skin, bergamot wrapping the hidden notes of pepper and cedar. Jake kisses along your jawline and traces downwards, creating a dotted line of kisses across your breasts and hovering over your navel. His hands tugging on the waist of your pants. As he unzips it smoothly, he dives back in with more kisses, nibbling on the material of your underwear.

“No,” you mumble, tugging on his elbow motioning him to stand up, “I want you in me.” You loved it when he goes down on you, but not now. Now you need it to be about him, you know he needs it too.

There is a halt in his movement, suddenly his eyes a shade darker.

“Yes, let it out, Jake.” You hold your forehead against his, making sure he hears every word certain and clear. Whatever it is, a much-needed release, a claim of territory, an outlet of his bundled nerves. “Use me. Fuck me.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” Jake sucks in a breath.

You smirk, tilting your head back against the wall and surrendering more of your body to his arms. Jake’s hands on your thighs cover the coolness of your skin as your pants pool around your ankles. His knuckles tracing your heat through the fabric, the ghostly touch making you squirm.

“Please, Jake.” You loop your arms around his neck, raising up a leg pressing it into the side of his waist.

“So wet for me already, angel.” With frantic eagerness, he takes out his length and pulls your underwear aside. Your slickness draws his hard cock inside as he bottoms out in one firm and steady thrust. Jake was looking down as he enters you, his eyebrows creased in concentration, eyelashes throwing shadows under his eyes. He never fails to marvel at the way your bodies connect, it catches him in awe every time no matter how many times you have fucked, just as you are exploring each other’s bodies for the first time. When his gaze meets yours again, it’s like moonlight spilling behind clouds. You are the only object of his vision.

“Yes!” You mouth silently as he starts moving, him picking up the pace almost instantly as if placed in a running wheel. Jake’s head nuzzles into the crook of your neck, hot breath radiating and him lapping up at whatever area of skin he comes in contact with. His arm goes under your knee and finds leverage on the wall, the other hand holding onto your pelvis, pinning you in place. The rough texture of the brick wall rubs against your back along each shudder, magnifying the titillation deep inside you.

You feel like with each thrust his insecurity and anxiety ebbs away like the snaky morning fog, replaced by his confidence and charming self: the one you know will work his magic on stage tonight just like ever, the one that will make the entire stadium shake and roar just by his fingers moving across six strings, the one that proves both to the world and to himself again and again that “it could be done”.

You can feel him swell and twitch against your walls, you squeeze you thighs and clench, knowing he’s getting close. The spasms of his cock tickling that particular spot to the point of no return, the ecstasy washing over you like a cascade. The whines and screams rolling and tumbling in your chest like a pot of boiling water, threatening to jump out of your mouth. You roll your eyes back and swallow them down, releasing only one suppressed moan of “let go, baby” against Jake’s ear, and that is enough to send him over the edge.

With one jerk of his body, he cums hard. You can feel the additional thickness of his release almost dripping down your crotch. Jake’s whole weight falls towards you with the hunch of his shoulders. His chest presses firmly against your body, its rise and fall teasing your still hard nipples.

You hold his head against your chest as he comes down from the high, fingers brushing away the naughty strands of hair that have flown into the corner of his mouth and stuck to his cheek.

“As much as I would like to stay here forever, you really have to get going. They must be looking for their rockstar everywhere.” You chuckle while shimmying out of your rumpled underwear, using it to clean up.

“Damn.” Jake leans back against the wall as he watches you, still on cloud nine and short of words. For a moment, all he can do is look at you.

“Stop staring.” You nudge him, unable to stop blushing facing his caramel eyes filled with unadulterated adoration. You bet if you could reach into them, you would find a handful of stars. Plus, Jake looks exceptionally beautiful post-fuck, the upturn at the corners of his mouth accentuated the curve of his cupid’s bow. The smug smirk is counterbalanced by the rosy blush on his cheekbones, a tell-tale sign of his satiated desire. Good. That’s what you’d expected and what you’d like to see.

Jake cups your face in both of his hands as he leans in for a kiss. This time, almost childish, his pouted lips pepper all over, the bilabial “mwah” is especially pronounced, causing you to giggle again.

“Quite the walk, huh?” You insinuate.

“Well, now I prefer to call it the ‘mental health fuck’,” Jake slowly straightens his back, resembling a cat stretching after a content nap. “Catch you on the flip side, my love.”

He was already a couple of strides away when he rushes back to kiss you again, catching you in surprise. Aggressive and fervent in his actions, but oh so gentle when his mouth meets yours. This is the type of kiss where he takes the lead, and you are completely at his mercy. The tip of his nose brushes against yours, and his teeth softly bite your lower lip. It’s a kiss that steals your breath and your heartbeat away for tits entirety . “You know you are my lighthouse, yeah?” He stares right into your eyes, his voice low and husky. “ You always guide me back when I’m lost at sea. My Leucothea, my Lady of Luck.”

You feel a lump in your throat, and every word goes straight to your heart. The feelings there are so overwhelming that they rise and swell like tidal waves. It;s so much love that it makes you want to cry.

“Gosh, Jake, such the poet.” That all you manage to say.

“Because you’re my muse, my angel,” Jake smiles again as he steps back one last time. “And now it’s time for me to set sail again, yeah?”

“Aye aye,” you blow him a kiss, “Fair Winds, Captain.”

You watch as he leaves. The Starcatcher symbol on his back standing tall and proud. The crystal embellishments on his jacket scintillate, jet crystals and glass beads shimmers, reflecting the lights like a thousand stars falling onto his shoulders. He is the warrior that breaks their fall, wearing them proud as a crystal armour. You watch as he marches forward, carrying on his shoulders the weight of dreams. Your dearest rocker, the bravest captain.

For Jake, the atoms are still buzzing, but now he can feel them moving rhythmically, like the joyful wings of a hummingbird or the secret dance of bees. They delivering a yet undecipherable but nonetheless auspicious message. Soon he will be going on stage, carrying a heart full of love from his lover, so he can give all his love to his fans out there. And he knows if he looks, he will find you among the crowd, a cluster of flame, a powerhouse of love.

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Thank you so much for reading!! :) any comments and feedbacks are greatly welcomed and deeply appreciated.

The description of Jake's jacket is heavily relied on this post

kudos to who spotted the TLSP reference hehe

If you are in need of some fluff, feel free to check out my another Jake pieces: Permission to Fall || Ticked (all my boxes) || Love is a four-legged word || The Lucky Ones

[cam-ryt]

uh for the prompts... uh… obikin sharing first kiss after Ani is knighted, with bunnywan - Ani is weak for Obi's beard and also his lips … whatever you think you should throw into the mix lol (preferably if Ani resisted to jump the Tuskens qwq thanks to Obi wan being a bun bun - and is more cuddly and friendlier lol)

Sunday prompt day ☄️

Aaah it's late but it's still Sunday !! I had a crazy week so this one is a bit shorter than the others, I hope you'll still enjoy it 🫶🏻

______

Anakin’s knighting ceremony happens in a haze, motivated more by the shadow of the war and the need to have more confirmed Jedi than anything else. 

They’re five to be granted the title of Jedi Knight today and everything feels like it’s done in a hurry. Master Yoda and Master Windu are overseeing the ceremony, but despite the solemn vows and the discourses about the central place of the Jedi in the galaxy, Anakin can’t help but think that it’s a waste of time. 

His eyes search for his master in the small crowd gathered in the room. Obi-Wan is looking at him, arms crossed over his chest, and he smiles softly when their gaze meets. He looks proud. It sends a pleasant thrill into Anakin’s stomach. He can't wait to be alone with him for the rest of the ceremony. 

He doesn't really care about empty words and public displays of faith and obedience to the Order. He's not a Jedi, no matter what Master Yoda has to say about it. Not yet. Obi-Wan is the only one who can truly make him become one, and Anakin wouldn’t have it any other way. 

When the ceremony is finally over, he manages to skillfully avoid the other padawans, shows his express respects to Master Yoda and Master Windu and slips in beside his master. 

“Let’s get out of here.” He whispers pressingly, fingers brushing Obi-Wan’s wrist. 

For once, the older Jedi doesn't protest about wanting to talk to Master Yoda or greet each and every padawans for their new status. He just nods and follows Anakin outside, which is new and pretty unsettling but the young Jedi is too excited to care about it. 

Anakin takes a deep breath when they’re finally outside, perched on the small rooftop of the Jedi Temple. From there they have a 360° view of the labyrinth of buildings that is Coruscant. The day is slowly declining, painting the planet in hues of orange and yellow and Anakin takes a moment to admire the view. 

His body is buzzing with unspent energy and he feels like his head is going to explode with all the thoughts traveling through it right now. When he turns around, Obi-Wan is leaning against the balcony railing, arms crossed and once again looking at him. A familiar and comforting vision. 

He looks calm, his features devoid of any emotions but his eyes betray him. 

“So you want to do it here ?” He asks, and every atom in Anakin’s being starts shaking. 

“Yes, Master.” He replies, noticing that his voice sounds raw to his own ears. 

He’s been waiting for too long. 

“Come here, my dear padawan.” Obi-Wan asks softly, not moving an inch from where he’s leaning against the balcony. 

Anakin feels like his body is animated by his very own will, every muscle tensed, every cell drawn to the same direction like a compass. For some reason he’s a little out of breath when he stands before his Master. 

Obi-Wan’s clear eyes are shining in the falling twilight and Anakin feels a chill running down his spine. 

“I’m so proud of you, Anakin.” The older Jedi says, voice always so collected, parsecs away from how the young man is feeling. “I’m proud of how far you've come despite life never being easy on you.” 

“Master…” Anakin almost whines, taking a step closer and grabbing one of Obi-Wan sleeves to fidget with. 

He feels on edge, almost shaking. His heart races in his chest and he’s sure his Master can feel it. He can’t even shield his thoughts and feelings correctly. 

“You’ve been a great padawan.” Obi-Wan continues, ignoring the way Anakin clings to him a little more each passing minute. “Not the easiest one, but the most hard-working and talented I’ve ever seen. I’m honored I have been your Master.” 

“You will always be my Master.” Anakin replies a little bit too vehemently, which makes Obi-Wan smile. 

“Now you’re my equal, Anakin.” 

The young man thinks he’s going to faint when Obi-Wan raises his hand and brushes his fingers behind his right ear, gently grabbing the little braid hanging there, decorated over the years by colored threads. 

He slightly tugs at it and Anakin forgets how to breathe. 

“I have a gift for you.” Obi-Wan says. “But the tradition says you can ask me for something before I make a Jedi Knight out of you.” 

The way he says it makes Anakin’s throat go suddenly dry. He knows about that tradition and he knows exactly what he wants. But now that Obi-Wan asks him, it feels like every drop of courage has left his body. 

“I- um.” 

He runs his tongue on his dry lips and clears his throat. He’s not a stupid enamored teen anymore, he's a stupid enamored adult able to ask for what he wants. And he wants that for as long as he can remember. So why is it so hard ? 

“What do you want, Anakin ?” Obi-Wan asks softly, and as he asks he wraps his padawan’s braid around his fingers and pulls until their faces are so close they can feel each other’s breath.  

Anakin’s gaze flickers from Obi-Wan's eyes to his lips, already feeling weak in the knees. He wonders how they would taste covering his own. He's been daydreaming daily about how soft they looked, about how soft Obi-Wan looked overall when Anakin feels so rough in every aspect of his life.

“You.” He murmurs. “I want you.” 

Obi-Wan sighs and when Anakin thinks he’s going to laugh to his face and reject him, he wraps his other hand around his neck and pulls him into a kiss that makes the young Jedi's heart miss a beat or two. 

He’s never been kissed by anyone and there’s no one else he wants to put his lips on. He almost pinches himself to make sure this is real. But everything is real. Obi-Wan’s fingers caressing the back of his neck, tugging at his braid, his beard tickling his cheeks, the clean smell of his soap, the velvet of his lips, as perfect as he imagined.

Once he has overcome the shock, Anakin forces his body to react, to quit the freezing stage in which he’s stuck. He slowly cradles Obi-Wan’s face, brushing at his bearded cheeks and jaws, pressing his thumb on the curve of his lower lip, running his fingers through his carefully styled hair in wonder. 

“You’re so soft.” He whispers against his mouth, and Obi-Wan chuckles. 

Anakin presses his face in the crook of his neck, entangles his fingers in his bronze locks and tugs lightly to kiss the exposed skin. Obi-Wan makes a noise and Anakin lets go of his hair to wrap his arms around his waist, pulling him into a closer embrace. He doesn't know where to touch, where to begin, how to show his mountain of feelings. He's overwhelmed by the infinity of possibilities opening in front of him. 

“Why didn't you say something ?” He finally asks, snuggling as close as he can against his master’s chest and humming with contentment when he feels fingers carding gently through his curls. 

“Too dangerous.” Obi-Wan simply says. “I wanted you to be able to make a choice, not as my padawan but as my equal.” 

“So much time lost.” Anakin grumbles, but he swallows back his complaint when Obi-Wan lips place a trail of kisses against his throat.

He can't help but steal them once again, already addicted to their softness. He doesn’t know what he’s doing but he’s enthusiastic nonetheless, and they end up laughing more than kissing when Anakin keeps bumping their nose. 

“We should go see your mom, tell her you’re a Jedi now.” Obi-Wan says eventually, always the wiser. 

“Mm.” Anakin replies, comfortably cuddled up against him. “Five more minutes.” 

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. 

“You always say that.” 

“You better get used to it.” Anakin grins and places a kiss on his soft beard, just because he can. 

"I guess I should." Obi-Wan sighs, but he can't hide the smile playing on his lips. "Oh, wait."

"Mh ?" Anakin raises an eyebrow and straightens up when he hears the familiar buzzing of Obi-Wan lightsaber being ignited. "Are you going to kill me now that I know your secret ?"

"What secret ?" Obi-Wan asks, focused on detangling Anakin's braid from his fingers in order to be able to finally cut it.

Anakin doesn't even flinch as the light blade approaches his face. He trusts Obi-Wan blindly.

"How you had a crush on your padawan during all those years." He smirks. "How embarrassing."

"Less embarrassing than him having a crush on me since what... Childhood ?" Obi-Wan counters back.

There's a light humming against Anakin's ear and suddenly there's a little braid hanging in front of his eyes.

"You're free." Obi-Wan smiles, but moves his hand away when Anakin tries to grab the braid. "No way. I'm keeping this."

"Weird, but okay." Anakin smirks, and then brushes at Obi-Wan's beard. "Then this is mine."

The older Jedi laughs and shrugs.

"Weird, but okay."

[minniethemoocherda]

Am I Pretty Enough To Fucking Die?

A/N: Sorry it's been a while since I've posted! IRL stuff got kinda busy for a minute! But I hope it was worth the wait! Also this takes place before my last fic "Saying Something Stupid" Xxxxxxx

Ao3

FF.net

They should have realised the first time that they should have died.

They had spent so long in their human form back then that they had nearly been successful in making themselves forget what it was like to be in their natural liquid state. But subconsciously, they mustn't have had, as it was all too easy for Sinister to bring them back from death.

Countless of the countless experiments Sinister put them should have killed them. At times they wished that he had. But as much as it felt like he was trying too kill them, Sinister always brought them back to life.

It wasn't until when Sentinel-Trask shot a fireball at their face, and they heard Logan scream their name in a repeat of that first fatal night, that the thought first came to them. Because whilst the force of having their body ripped apart hurt like hell itself, it could only have been half an hour later that they were able to pull the burnt blobs of their body back together.

Logan refused to leave their side for at least a week after that and whilst Morph wasn't going to complain, they couldn't help but wonder if the extra protection was even necessary.

Morph had no idea about the science behind it but they knew that somehow they didn't need a brain to function. That the few times they reverted back to a full liquid state, just because they didn't have a physical brain to control them, didn't mean they couldn't. Whenever they were in a human form they would create whatever they needed to move their body, such as their heart or lungs or whatever gendered organs they were feeling that day, even though technically they didn't need them to function, as e it would hurt if one of those concocted organs were injured, as it was their cells that were getting damaged, at the end of the day, they could just shift themselves a new one.

They knew that there were other shapeshifters out there. Mystique being the most famous amongst them. Morph had never met her in person but they had read her file. They knew that she could also change their internal organs, it was how Nightcrawler had come into existence after all. And Beast theorised that she could shift at a cellular, maybe even atomic level. But her natural state was still human, a blue skinned and yellow eyed one but human non the less. Whereas Morph's natural state was as a pile of gloop.

Currently they were in what the team saw as their normal form, pale grey skin with a featureless face. The others did know that it wasn't their real form, but Morph doubted that many of them remembered that.

Except for Logan of course, who knew them better than anyone.

They were sitting besides The Wolverine now, a half forgotten game of go-fish scattered across the table between them and bottles of beer keeping them warm against the chill of the evening breeze.

Stealing glances at Logan wasn't anything new for them but this time was different. They gazed at how the last rays of sun illuminated the sharp edge of his nose, wondering how many sunsets that face had seen. Morph believed that Logan was a sight that they would never tire of seeing.

"You gonna keep starin' or are you gonna ask whatever's in that bald head of yours?" Logan grumbled after Morph must have been looking for too long.

The liver and stomach they'd created, digested the alcohol, giving their body a warm buzz, which was probably why Morph didn't think much before opening their mouth.

"When did you realise that you were immortal?"

Judging by the look on Logan's face that wasn't what he had expected them to ask but he answered anyway.

"The first time I remember getting shot in the head."

"Yeah but how did you know, for certain that you were immortal?"

"I don't. Not yet." Logan shrugged. "Beast reckons that gettin' my head cut off would probably do the trick but I ain't plannin' on testin' that out." He then fixed them with those sharp blue eyes of his. "Why?"

Morph took a deep breath. Honestly after coming out as gay and non-binary, this wasn't half as scary.

"I don't think I can die."

"Oh shit." Logan replied after a moment, rare genuine shock crossing his grizzled features. "You sure?"

"Not yet." Morph repeated back to him in his own voice.

"Well I definitely ain't helpin' you test that out either." Logan snorted as though the pair of them were just shooting the breeze, as though this conversation was a completely normal thing to talk about. As thought this was just nothing thing to add to the list of things they had in common like their love of beer, enjoying taking the piss out of Scott and past psychological torture.

But then Logan had always been the only one who understood them. It was what made him so easy to talk to. Almost too easy. Which made it hard not to tell him how they truly felt.

"Looks like you're stuck with me then old man." They said instead.

"Huh." Before Morph had the chance to reflect on that reflective tone, Logan continued. "Well I can think of worse people to be stuck for eternity with."

"Worse then me?" Morph said through the sharp teeth of Sabertooth's mouth.

"If you spend the rest if time dressed up at Creed, I'll kill you myself." Logan said, punctuating his point with the familiar snikt of his claws.

Then the crease in Logan's brow tensed into something sharper.

"Look, sometimes it's harder to be the one who survives. And just 'cus you can't die don't mean you can't feel pain." Logan stated, watching the sun as it finally sunk bellow the horizon.

They both knew that he wasn't talking about the physical kind of pain. It probably wasn't the healthiest conclusion to come to when dealing with ones own mortality or lack there of, but the thought that they couldn't stop coming back to was that it meant that they would never again be able to hurt Logan again with their death.

Then Logan put his claws away, stroking the red of his knuckles as he cleared his throat.

"So don't go looking for new ways to give us all heart attacks alright. I-we don't like seeing you get hurt."

"Trust me I'm not." Morph snorted. "You don't have to worry about me."

Steel blue eyes met their empty grey ones.

"I'll always worry about you."

It wasn't an I love you, and it probably never would be but, promising to care for them for the rest of eternity would most likely be the closest Morph would ever get and they would hold those words forever in their fabricated heart.

Morph honestly hadn't thought too deeply about their new realisation. After coming to terms with their gender and sexuality this was just another thing to add to the long lost of weird shit they'd learnt about themselves.

But it was a comfort to know that whatever life might throw at them, they would always have Logan by their side.

A/N: So the concept of Morph being made of gloop has really stuck in my head and got me thinking how they can function without organs and if they don't need them, then what could actually kill them?? Like they get blasted in the chest in the OG show?? Then Sentinal-Trask blasts them too and we even see them turn to gloop in that shot!!?? So yeah my latest headcanon is that like Logan, they too are potentially immortal! Xxxxxx

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

CULT OF VAGABONDS: PROLOGUE

NAVIGATION || COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER I ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: It all began with a white van, a gun to the spine, and five smooth words. It ended with death.

WORDCOUNT: 4.07k

WARNINGS: Abduction, blood and gore, high stress situations, angst, major character death, vomit, descriptions of wounds, canon typical

A/N: I apologize to the people who hate reading all italics - I had to do it for my own sanity since this is a flashback, lmao. I promise it’s not sticking around. Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*  

OPERATION: KINGFISHER

OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI

OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED

STATUS: ACTIVE

MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:

It would have been kinder to take the bullet.

Your mind runs as you’re placed into a wooden chair roughly, the bag over your head obstructing everything but the thin beams of light passing through the itchy ramie fabric. Bits are glimpsed—people moving, shifting large bodies; tapping feet, and muttering voices like a grim party of ghouls.

You’re going to hyperventilate, you admit with a startling calm that bleeds into induced shock. Under the binds, your hands shake so violently in your lap that you wonder if they’ll break apart like glass—the skin fragments shattering as bones turn to sharp dust. Air gets thin. Black dots start dancing.

“Sir,” a voice to your left speaks, American, and you’re flinching away before the word is fully out, head whipping to the side as if you could make out more than a blob of black and gray. A sob lays heavy in the bareness of your throat as sweat slicks your neck. What was going on? “I…I can’t—”

“You’re excused.” 

The sound of receding footsteps and the slam of a door is scarcely heard above your own breathing, a deep inhale to help push back the void, and a wheezing exhale to welcome the next. Bare membranes of your throat reek of bile, and you think you threw up in the van that had driven you here, though you don’t remember much of that. 

Just the gun in the base of your spine and a low, smooth, voice with a British accent into the shell of your ear.

“Head down and stay quiet.” Someone had said, sternly.

Oh, it would have been kinder to take the bullet. What was it that those shows always warned you about? Never let someone take you to a second location? Your eyes wrench closed as the muscles of your numb fingers tense and loosen in an anxious pattern.

Along the floor, your feet shimmy, not able to keep still despite your mind screaming at you to try—try and disappear into molecules of oxygen and carbon. Everything had a sheen of hypersensitivity. The lights buzzed in your ears like bombs, the rope peeled back atoms of your epidermis, and the tiny groans coming from the left of you were like screams as your senses burned with a thousand suns.

But the British man had said to stay quiet—so stay quiet you did. What other choice did you have? You knew they had weapons, you shouldn’t doubt that they would use them. 

But you really wanted to start screaming your head off.

When the heavy hand landed on the top of your head, only a soundless sob fell from the strained noose of your esophagus. The bag was ripped from you with a flurry of hair and dribbling tears, sweat flying down your neck faster than Pegasus sprang from the Gorgon Medusa’s blood. 

Immediately wrenching your small-pupiled eyes closed with a whine, an invasive overhead light composed of knives stabs into your already blurry vision; your hands jerk upwards to attempt and cover the attack. Silence reigns above all, besides from the single source of that muffled groaning from beside you.

“Mhm…Erm…Hem,” it seemed like the sounds were gasping breaths of your name, hidden behind layers of gagged fabric, swathed in saliva and distress. But…how?

Who else was in this room with you and your kidnappers?

Blinking away the shock to your senses, your chin rises from your chest and your hands lower back down hesitantly. You’re ashamed to admit it, but the first thing you noticed was the state of the room.

Namely, how tiny it was. 

Peeling blue paint hides a slideshow of broken drywall, a layer of indiscernible wallpaper hanging off like broken limbs that reach to the concrete floor. Although this might have been a beautiful basement in the past, now your flickering eyes lock onto the newer additions. 

Swallowing saliva through a closed airway, the tray of silver metal doesn’t fully register with you, nor, then, does the revolver and the six bullets placed beside it. That dying innocent speck in your heart tries to persuade you to a state of fantasy. 

‘If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not pointed at you, it can’t hurt you…If it’s not—’ The sentiment replays over and over in your head when you rapidly look away from the weapon like it was on fire and begin to notice the statue-like men instead. 

This can’t be real…it has to be a joke. Some sick, twisted, joke.

Five of them, all dressed in black; balaclavas over slate faces tainted with grim determination. You glance over the lot of them and feel your intestines bunch, the beasts shuffling from one foot to another with a predatory gleam to the laced boots. Not one of them was lacking combat gear—vests, holstered weapons, and packs filled with God-knows-what—they looked like soldiers, but that wouldn’t make any sense. 

Your hysterics only increase when one speaks, body flinching back.

“Let’s get this started, then, shall we?” You can’t even tell which began the uttering, but the accent is undeniably British. Gruff, tainted with sharp gravel; not to be ignored if that authoritative edge was anything to go by. 

The individual with crossed arms takes a step forward, buff and taller than all of the others except for one. That gargantuan creature watches you with numb light-blue eyes and pale lashes from a place against the wall. A shiver travels up your spine, and your shirt sticks to you, but you can’t look away. 

They are the eyes of the living dead.

 “This can’t be happening…” Your lips twitch, but only you can hear your words.

The one who appears to be the leader—Buff—tilts his head, but the dark cerulean orbs don’t even look at you. They keep to your left, at the sounds of panicked scuffling and scraping wood. “Gaz.” 

Another man advances, not as robust as the first, but nonetheless built with violence. Tall. Steady. He bleeds contained purpose in the sinuses of his long fingers.

Biting your lip, number two — “Gaz” — stops near the metal table, but he doesn't look at you when your tear-flooded eyes bore into him. Your tongue is lead. 

Who are you? You want to scream. What do you want?! 

From the side of your eye, you see a flash of a navy blue suit, and your vision snaps to it aggressively. The air gets heavy and a stone sits in your guts. 

Gaping, a familiar visage stares right back at you, the build of the face and the structure of the bones reflected back onto you––slated in the very genetic makeup that builds your frame. 

A nice suit. A hurried goodbye in the morning as the butler made breakfast in the kitchen—A kiss to your forehead. Your tears slap your clenched hands, and you think you’re digging your nails into your flesh, but the thing that hurts the most is the hopelessness in your chest.

“Dad?” You sob and stare at the ragged form as your father struggles to speak around a gag, eyes running from one scuff and cut to another as the lights suddenly get ten times brighter. Damn not speaking, this was your father!

But if he was here along with you…

At that moment, all you can describe is the way your own heart was going faster than it ever had, to a point that the world swirled around you in shades of blue and red. If there was a time reminiscent of events that had never happened to you, getting into a deadly car crash or hanging onto the edge of a cliff as torrent rains battered your head, this would be it. 

The alarm in your still head was telling you that this is the end of the road. 

Your father’s hands are tied behind the chair, and you can see the signs of crimson dotting the floor from the binds, skin torn and weeping. His eyes are bathed in fear, the fast rise and fall of his lungs telling you all that needs to be unsaid. 

And his blatant fear only increases your own.

“Dad…what’s going on?” One of the men in the front shifts, standing beside the dead-eyed individual, looking away to glance in the corner with shades of blue in his orbs and a fixing of his stocky biceps. “What is all this? Where…where are we? I was just walking to school—p-passing through the old neighborhood—” 

You’re rambling through panic, and everyone just watches. They watch and watch and watch. Was this a game? A sick, twisted prank? How could they do this and just watch you panic like a bear in a trap?

A hand snaps to your father’s gag and you yell when he rages, body shifting forward feebly before a shadow descends upon you. A swift force keeps you back, and your head snaps upwards. 

You’d never thought that eyes could stay with you for all eternity—when you had a friend that moved away in sixth grade, the first thing you forgot about them was their eyes. The voice was much more important to remember; their gentle touch when they pulled you up at recess after an unfortunate collision when playing tag. But at that moment…

Never would the image of sepia-colored eyes like those leave you again. Inlaid in brown skin and below dark eyebrows. Like a meadow, brown was encircled by light—a ring of amber around the pupil and flecks of emerald, though most of that was lost by numbness.

The hand digs into your shoulder, forcing you to stay in your seat as your lips quiver. It’s not delicate, the hold, and when your eyes scrunch in pain, he somewhat lessons it though not enough to stop the sting. The man everyone called Gaz was incredibly strong. 

Something swam in the recesses of his gaze, some hidden emotion of sorrow or pity that showed as hesitation. He clears his throat and takes a glance at your now-raging father. You shake more violently than a house in a tornado; frozen and unable to speak. What was he going to do to you?

Gaz turns back to you and whispers, blinking through long eyelashes as the fabric of his face covering slightly moves, “It’ll be over soon.” British as well, but a tone smoother than the previous. The hand squeezes your flesh, and you flinch as far back as the seat allows.

He was the one that grabbed you this morning; your legs seize up like a dead deer at the familiar speech pattern. 

The man moves back without uttering another word on sure feet, and you stare after. The sentence Gaz had given you was anything but reassuring, and with your state, it was more of a threat. 

“Get your fucking hand off of her! What the hell is going on? Why is my daughter here?!” Your father’s voice fractures your gaze away from the menagerie of masked abductors, and you turn to watch him growl out in hatred; shell-shocked. “Are you after money? Ransom…? Answer me!” 

“I’d think this would work better,” Buff grunted out, dropping the gag to the floor carelessly, “if you answered me, instead, eh?... Now, where’s the shipment?” 

“Sweetheart,” your father turns to you, but your eyes always filter back to the gun—the men. The last out of the five strangers was one that you hadn’t seen move from the far corner yet. His hands were constantly readjusting over the black metal of a large assault-style rifle that you had only seen in movies. “—Sweetheart! Hey!” 

Snapping to the feral expression of your father, you suck down air you’d been taking for granted and push away the dark spots. You’d forgotten how to breathe properly. Staring into his burning eyes, a plea is stuck to your tongue and a hunched build of your spine. But making yourself smaller wouldn’t help you like it would a rabbit hiding from a circling hawk.

“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights.

“It’s all going to be alright, okay?” He gasps at you, head swiveling to all parties faster than a racehorse. Buff seems to listen intently, arms loose over his chest and huffing under his breath. His deep blue eyes swivel to you, glinting darkly. “Everything is going to be alright—”

“Pick it up, Sergeant.” The command is cold, numb, and the clinking of a silver barrel connecting to a tray as it was grasped was enough to set your atoms on fire. 

The gun lays loose in Gaz’s hand, hanging at his hip as Buff moves closer to your father and bends down to look into his eyes. 

“The shipment. Tell me. I don’t make a habit of repeating myself.” In the corner, the isolated man hunches his shoulders, eyes darting from you back to your dad—but your own stare stays stuck to the gun. Ears twitch at the loud conversation as the black wave of overwhelming delirium gets larger. 

Shipments? Your fast mind runs as your eyes dart from the weapon to your father, your wrists now raw and skinned from the constant movement. 

Your dad grunts and his desperate eyes look at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. 

“I–I don’t know what you’re talking about, what shipments? Who are you?! If you’re after ransom money just call my wife—she’ll get you what you need.” The leader chuckles lowly while shaking his head in exasperation, pulling back as his gaze goes hard. Your father strains forward after him and repeats the same sentence as before. “What is my daughter doing here you son of a Bitch? You don’t need her.”

He turns to you, his nice suit ruined with sweat. You’d never seen your father scared—not when you’d broken your arm when you were younger or any moment later. Not until now. His pupils are small; pinched in and glossy. Like a fearful animal trapped in a corner. 

You doubted you looked any better as you blink back with a thousand-yard stare, choking back gasps and biting a cut into your lip. Constantly thinking that if you speak your head will get blown off in a shower of crimson.

“Sweetheart, this is all some big misunderstanding, alright? Don’t worry, we’ll be back home soon and this’ll all go away.” 

“Yeah, you’d like that then wouldn’t you?” Buff growls, “Go back to a cush life while your weapons and drugs fund terrorists, eh?” 

Terrorists?! Your eyes widen, turning back to the men with horror. So this wasn’t about your family's money?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Your lips move, mouth parted and eyebrows tight as your very blood seems to cool over. Everyone looks at you and the one second of courage vanishes. “‘D-dad?” 

“Ignore them,” the patriarch hisses, trying to get your attention back on him, “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They—You’ve got the wrong people!” 

“I…I don’t understand why–”

“Sergeant.” Dread seeps like poison one drop at a time to corrupt you. There was never a moment in your life where you had ever felt like you were going to die before—an innocent sentiment of invincible youth. 

But the gun being loaded puts the sense of watching a train crash right into the forefront of your mind; a sudden knowledge of your own morality. Your jaw goes slack as you hold back a scream. Steady, gloved, fingers pick up bullet after bullet and place the copper metal into a steel chamber, brown eyes hard as the stunned silence from your father physically hurts. 

Clink-shunk, chink-shunk.

“What are you—?!” 

“Last chance to change your mind.” The leader interjects, sighing, and you wonder as you hunch into yourself just how cruel this man really is. “Best pull the memory to you quick.”

“What?” Your father laughs in pain, throat getting choked up as he looks to every person, “Are you going to shoot me? In front of my kid?” 

At this point it would be more accurate to call you ‘checked out’ if the blank look on your face was anything to go by; tears were falling and mixing with sweat, but your eyes were far away. As if about to fall asleep as you watch the world pass you by from the car window. 

The leader shakes his head as Gaz finishes loading the revolver, flicking the barrel back with a deft movement of his wrist. Those brown eyes stay firmly stuck to the back wall. 

Dead Eyes sends a long look to your father, and the wide-gazed form beside him tightens his grip over his biceps, shifting large hips. The man in the corner only snaps his head down and tries to disappear. 

Electricity sizzles the air.

“No,” Buff answers casually, “we’re not…We’re going to shoot your daughter.” 

Bile hits the floor as it rockets from your mouth; hissing through the lines between your teeth and splattering to the concrete in a sound of viscous liquid. Breakfast from this morning was unrecognizable as you blink down at it. 

Someone’s shouting pleas—you’re sure it’s your father, because who else—and while you stay half-bent over the chair as your side leans on the arm, everything starts to ring. Feet struggle to stay steady on the ground below you, shoes stained with stomach acid and saliva as it drips from your chin. Over the rageful screams from your dad, the leader continues and you sputter.

“Gaz, it’s all you.” 

“Yes, Sir.” The gun raises to your head, and your face tightens as you spy it from the corner of your eye, not registering beyond words and colors fading out before wafting back in. 

Were you going to die in this basement? It seemed your body knew the answer even as your brain tried to disagree. There was no running or escaping, not a chance with all of these people. Even if you did manage it, how far would you get before a bullet was in your neck?

“Hey!” Your father yells, voice fracturing; arms twisting and feet splaying. The hammer of the revolver is clicked back and your pulse mirrors. “Hey, no, no, no. That’s not—She…She has nothing to do with this!” Your eyes slowly widen, face tilting as you still try to break through your dizziness. “I swear, she doesn’t know anything!” His face peels back, yet his eyes seem to focus on nothing as his attention hops from one person to another in distress. “Let her go and I’ll tell you all of it, okay? I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

Tell you all of it? What does that mean? You want to ask, but the knowledge that your body had chosen neither fight nor flight but freeze was heavy in your heated and pounding brain as it pulses against your skull.

Thump-thump, thump-thump. 

You count the flood of blood that spreads through your body as the taste of vomit sticks to the back of your throat. Rats squeak from behind ventilation grates but wait eagerly for a meal as particles of dust fly past your wide vision. 

Your father doesn’t look at you as you gape, and you’re not sure what to think. 

Shipments? Terrorists? What could your Museum Director dad have anything to do with that? He had to be lying to save your skin—giving these people a false reality. Yes, yes, that was it. He was trying to save both of you, you just had to trust him. 

Your chest rises and falls swiftly.

“I–I swear! I promise, let my little girl go and I won’t—!”

“I think she’ll stay right here.” The leader grunted, hooking his arms into his vest collar, pale eyelids half-closed. “Speak. Quickly”

“Okay! Just put the gun down—please!” The gun is lowered immediately, but it doesn’t make you feel any more present. Brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes meet yours for a few seconds before blinking away to the wall behind you; eyebrows minutely pulling tight.

You’d never hated a look of shielded pity more. 

“They come in at night and stay by the dry docks—I don’t know how they get here so fast,” your father speaks as a man possessed, and, strangely, the individual in the corner starts to hang onto every word. Sending your form quick glances with rapidly moving eyes. Not that you noticed. “The products all just sit there until I can come by and take inventory! Two fifteen in the morning! It’s all under my name, I pay off the inspectors every month. Check dock number seven-one-three and the blue cargo containers.”

“What?” You mutter, trying not to gag and shake as if pushing away the instinctual actions would help you focus on the bitter revelation. “What are you…” 

This is more than a lie—these are details. In-depth. 

No, your mind tells you, no he’s just lying. Everything’s a lie.

“I swear it’s only me, no one else knows about it.” The man in the corner’s feet are shifting, leg muscles testing and relaxing as his fingers twitch over the metal of his gun. Your dad looks at you from the side of his eye, guilt in his bones. “God…I–I sell everything over the auctions held at—” 

A gunshot pierces the air. 

Liquid splatters your face, warm and heavy, and before you even know what’s happening you’re releasing a scream so loud it echoes off the walls. Snapping your chin down to your chest and bound hands over your head, a great yell erupts from the men, and a clamber of skin on gear follows the dragging of feet. Grunted breath and calls of alarm. All the noise scares off the scavengers in the vents with shrieks.

“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”

You find a slumped figure in the chair your father had just been in with a shuttering inhale. Slack-jawed, you look over the crater that was left of his face numbly; lips and teeth ripped apart and a caved-in skull. His hair was strewn about, and without a cohesive thought, your fingers itched to smooth it down. 

He hated when his hair was unruly. 

A navy suit you’d seen at breakfast was stained—irreparable—with brain matter and blood that cascaded down a massacred face with a head tilted forward. His nerves jump with activity, spurring fluid to the ground until a puddle forms. 

Your father was a good man. You—your father was a…good man. 

The rest of the men continue to scuffle, barking orders as more feet suddenly race from the other side of the door. Your ears tune it out. You can’t look away, not even when a hand is placed on your shoulder and you’re suddenly being forcefully turned in the opposite direction of the corpse. 

Unresponsive, your far-away look meets creased amber and dark lashes—eyes you had decided you’d never forget and now that sentiment was forged with steel and tempered to perfection. Just like you’d never forget that your father’s body was just a reach away, and it was never supposed to happen. His blood was staining your clothes; your face and hair. A bath of gore.

Dead…? No, he was just alive a second ago. He—he can’t be. How? I just saw him this morning. We were going to go into the museum tomorrow to help set up a new section.

Your mouth moves, but no words escape.

A smooth voice tries to speak to you, but all you do is watch the fabric of a black balaclava shift and strain as the noise sounds like car sirens. Gaz is attempting to shake you, lightly, and when it doesn’t help he looks around stiffly, pausing on the body before looking away to the ground in search.

Without much thought behind the action, your loose lips pull back and utter only one word. Weak. Fractured and horribly hoarse.

“Oh.” 

It was somewhat of a mercy when the itchy ramie fabric of the previous bag was refitted in one swift motion. And all the while you sit there, shaking, a hand never leaves the top of your head, holding it down.

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[bunnelbaby]

Here’s a list of superhero shows for you to enjoy while regressing or dreaming:

𐐪𐑂 Static Shock

𐐪𐑂 Super Sema

𐐪𐑂 Spirit Rangers

𐐪𐑂 Kitti Katz

𐐪𐑂 Mama K’s Team 4

𐐪𐑂 Action Pack

𐐪𐑂 Team Zenko Go

𐐪𐑂 Kiya & the Kimoja Heroes

𐐪𐑂 PJ Masks

𐐪𐑂 StarBeam

𐐪𐑂 Moongirl and Devil Dinosaur

𐐪𐑂 The Powerpuff Girls

𐐪𐑂 Kid Cosmic

𐐪𐑂 Powerbirds

𐐪𐑂 Atomic Betty

𐐪𐑂 Spidey and His Amazing Friends

𐐪𐑂 Justice League

𐐪𐑂 Young Justice

𐐪𐑂 El Tigre: The Adventures of Manny Rivera

𐐪𐑂 American Dragon: Jake Long

𐐪𐑂 X-Men: The Animated Series

𐐪𐑂 Stretch Armstrong and the Flex Fighters

𐐪𐑂 The Superhero Squad Show

𐐪𐑂 Legion of Super Heroes

𐐪𐑂 SheZow

𐐪𐑂 Captain Planet

𐐪𐑂 Big Hero 6: The Series

𐐪𐑂 Darkwing Duck

𐐪𐑂 OK KO: Let’s Be Heroes

𐐪𐑂 The Aquabats! Super Show!

𐐪𐑂 Batman: The Animated Series

𐐪𐑂 Ben 10

𐐪𐑂 Generator Rex

𐐪𐑂 Batwheels

𐐪𐑂 Freakazoid!

𐐪𐑂 My Life as a Teenage Robot

𐐪𐑂 Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

𐐪𐑂 The Adventures of Napkin Man!

𐐪𐑂 Danny Phantom

𐐪𐑂 DC Super Hero Girls

𐐪𐑂 Sesame Street: Mecha Builders

𐐪𐑂 Miraculous Ladybug

𐐪𐑂 She-Ra and the Princesses of Power

𐐪𐑂 Superhero Kindergarten

𐐪𐑂 Hero Elementary

𐐪𐑂 Super Why

𐐪𐑂 Wordgirl

𐐪𐑂 He-Man and the Masters of the Universe

𐐪𐑂 Mysticons

𐐪𐑂 Kappa Mikey

𐐪𐑂 Teen Titans/Teen Titans GO!

𐐪𐑂 Krypto the Super Dog

𐐪𐑂 The Secret Saturdays

𐐪𐑂 Randy Cunningham: 9th Grade Ninja

𐐪𐑂 Hamster & Gretel

𐐪𐑂 Earthworm Jim

𐐪𐑂 Dynomutt, Dog Wonder

𐐪𐑂 Buzz Lightyear of Star Command

[denimbex1986]

'If Peaky Blinders made the Irish actor a household name, will Christopher Nolan’s nuclear blockbuster send him into the stratosphere? He talks about extreme weight loss, hating school and why his next character won’t be a smoker.

Cillian Murphy is struggling with what he can and can’t say about his title role in Oppenheimer, the latest Christopher Nolan epic, such is the secrecy surrounding this film. Murphy is under “strict instructions” not to talk about the content. Which is awkward when you’ve flown to his home in Ireland to interview him specifically about playing the physicist who oversaw the creation of the atomic bomb, later detonated over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It’s not clear who issued these instructions. Nolan? The studio? The US government? All I know is that as well as Murphy being gagged by hefty NDAs, I am not allowed to see it (“bit unfortunate”, he concedes).

So, yes, here we sit in an empty upstairs room of a restaurant near his house in Monkstown, Dublin, working out how to do this. The room is dark, the sun shining through a solitary Velux lighting his features like a Géricault. The only background noise is the low hum of a wine refrigerator. Murphy loathes interviews, looks visibly tortured at points. But he relaxes when I ask if he’s pleased with Oppenheimer. “I am, yeah,” he says. “I don’t like watching myself – it’s like, ‘Oh, fucking hell’ – but it’s an extraordinary piece of work. Very provocative and powerful. It feels sometimes like a biopic, sometimes like a thriller, sometimes like a horror. It’s going to knock people out,” he adds. “What [Nolan] does with film, it fucks you up a little bit.”

Nolan wouldn’t disagree. The director recently told Wired magazine that some of those who’d seen it were left “absolutely devastated … they can’t speak”. Which sounds like a bad thing, but is related perhaps to the thought of the 214,000 Japanese people, overwhelmingly civilians, who lost their lives when the bombs were dropped. Kai Bird, the historian who co-authored American Prometheus, the 2008 biography of J Robert Oppenheimer upon which the film is based, said he was still “emotionally recovering” from seeing the film, clarifying that it was “a stunning artistic achievement”.

Murphy’s portrayal is said to be astonishing (“Oscar-worthy” is the buzz). This is not unbelievable. While Hollywood might not know him as a leading man, this quietly intense actor has long been celebrated in the UK and Ireland, most notably for his nine-year stint as Tommy Shelby in Peaky Blinders. When he first appeared on our screens, looking like a renaissance painting of Saint Sebastian – chiselled head contrasting with translucent blue eyes – it was impossible not to be distracted. He appeared first on stage in Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs, then the screen adaptation. Then 28 Days Later; Intermission; Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes the Barley. Previous collaborations with Nolan include the Dark Knight trilogy, Inception and Dunkirk, “significant milestones in my career,” he says, adding that Nolan “might be the perfect director”.

It was Nolan’s wife, the producer Emma Thomas, who called Murphy one afternoon at the home he shares with his wife, artist Yvonne McGuinness, and two teenage sons. Nolan doesn’t actually have a telephone, or an email, or computer for that matter: “He’s the most analogue individual you could possibly encounter.” So, Emma said Chris would like a word and passed the receiver, then the director came on the line. “Cillian, I’d love you to play the lead in this new thing,” he said. Murphy tries to recreate his response to this news. “I was lost for words. But thrilled. Like beyond thrilled.” It is characteristic of Murphy that the modulation of his voice barely changes as he expresses this. He was so stunned, he had to sit down. “Your mind explodes.”

In the absence of the three-hour feature, I scrutinise Oppenheimer’s three-minute trailer. It’s a rush of snapshots against the crackling of a Geiger counter. There’s Murphy, short back and sides, lifting 1940s eye goggles; blue and red atoms coming at him fast; orange light; white light; blackout; silence. Massive explosion against the backdrop of space. Overlaid is Murphy’s narration, “We’re in a race against the Nazis / and I know what it means / if the Nazis have a bomb.” There’s Matt Damon looking porky as army general Leslie Groves, director of the Manhattan Project: “They have a 12-month head start.” Murphy, pointing with cigarette: “18.”

He has put back on some of the weight he lost for the part, I’m relieved to see; his skin isn’t quite so taut over his skull and there are freckles over those eagle-wing cheekbones. He was determined to nail the scientist’s silhouette “with the porkpie hat and the pipe”, testing himself to see how little he could eat. “You become competitive with yourself a little bit which is not healthy. I don’t advise it.” He won’t say how many kilograms he lost, or what food the nutritionist told him to cut out. NDA? “Ach, no. I don’t want it to be, ‘Cillian lost x weight for the part’.”

Then again, the hurtling speed at which Nolan worked, crisscrossing the US, made it easy to skip meals. Murphy began to forget about food in the same way he began to forget about sleep. “It’s like you’re on this fucking train that’s just bombing. It’s bang, bang, bang, bang. You sleep for a few hours, get up, bang it again. I was running on crazy energy; I went over a threshold to where I was not worrying about food or anything. I was so in it, a state of hyper …” he gropes for the word, “hyper something. But it was good because the character was like that. He never ate.” Oppenheimer subsisted on little more than Chesterfield cigarettes and double-strength martinis, rims dipped in lime. “Cigarettes and pipes. He would alternate between the two. That’s what did for him in the end,” Murphy adds, a nod to the scientist’s death from cancer in 1967. “I’ve smoked so many fake cigarettes for Peaky and this. My next character will not be a smoker. They can’t be good for you. Even herbal cigarettes have health warnings now.”

I raise method acting and Murphy tilts his head and frowns. “Method acting is a sort of … No,” he says, firm but with a half smile. Oppenheimer had many defining characteristics, not least walking on the balls of his feet and a vocal tic that sounded like nim-nim-nim, but Murphy didn’t want to do an impression. Nolan was obsessed with the Brillo-texture hair, so they spent “a long time working on hair”. And the voice. The real question for Murphy was what combination – ambition, madness, delusion, deep hatred of the Nazi regime? – allowed this theoretical physicist to agree to an experiment he knew could obliterate humankind. “He was dancing between the raindrops morally. He was complex, contradictory, polymathic; incredibly attractive intellectually and charismatic, but,” he decides, “ultimately unknowable.

“Listen, it’s not like a spoiler,” he says, checking himself before he leans in, “but there are incidents in his early life that were quite worrying; very erratic.” They are in the film and the book, he steers. I suspect he is referring to Oppenheimer’s postgrad at Cambridge in 1926, when he placed a poisoned apple on the desk of a tutor towards whom he harboured complicated feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. Arguably, this was attempted murder. But Oppenheimer’s rich New York parents rushed in to bundle him into psychoanalysis. He was diagnosed with “dementia praecox”, a term describing symptoms associated with schizophrenia.

Murphy likes these complex characters; they’re his meat. People that don’t necessarily follow the – yawn – traditional transformative arc of storytelling. Not villains, exactly (although he’s played a few, including Scarecrow in Dark Knight and Jackson Rippner in Red Eye): “Villains are good if they’re well written, but if it’s one note or a trope, then they are dull.” He likes a script to stretch leisurely into all corners of the human condition, “all the shades”. At the same time, you have to understand his exceptional ability to portray interiority, physically manifesting intense human emotion without a word, radiating fierce, consuming energy. Which he does today, actually, when I stray off track.

Although Nolan is usually, shall we say, antiseptic in his approach to romance, Oppenheimer represents a significant shift. He told Wired the love story aspect “is as strong as I’ve ever done”. It features prolonged full nudity for Murphy and Florence Pugh, who plays Oppenheimer’s ex-fiancee, as well as sex, and there are complicated scenes with Emily Blunt, who plays his wife, “that were pretty heavy”. Murphy turns coy: “I’m under strict instructions not to give away anything.”

He asks if I’ve heard of chemistry tests. “They put two actors in a room to see if there’s any spark, and have all the producers and director at a table watching. I don’t know what metric they use, and it seems so outrageously silly, but sometimes you get a chemistry and nobody knows why.” This is a roundabout way of saying his scenes with Blunt and Pugh conjure this magic. His established bond with Blunt (they co-starred in A Quiet Place II) meant “the audience gets something for free”, he says. “You can be immediately vulnerable and open, and try stuff. There were moments where I remember saying, ‘I couldn’t have done that if it wasn’t with you.’”

Murphy, 47, grew up the eldest of four in Cork. His father was a civil servant, his mother a French teacher. They were a middle-class family, musical; his father “can pick up any instrument”, his brother played piano, and they regularly got stuck into “traditional Irish sessions”. Bookshelves were stuffed with literature, the radio often on, the “shitty” TV set not so much. Home life was busy but his parents taught him French and Irish, and sent him to an all-boys academic, rugby-playing private school. “I got all the education” he says, drily.

The story of how much he disliked the Presentation Brothers College, the hard-drinking masculine emphasis, how he found solace playing guitar in a band, is much rehearsed and he says today he doesn’t want “to slag the school off. I hear it’s great now.” Something about this experience seems nonetheless unsettling. He had one friend, who is still his best friend, “so I wasn’t, like, an outcast”. He played rugby for the first couple of years, but abandoned it “because everyone was all of a sudden towering over me.” Was it an unhappy time? He shifts. “It was OK. I was a bit of a messer, like I’d get in trouble and say nothing. It wasn’t the ideal school for me.”

He enrolled in and dropped out of a law degree at University College Cork, which created some friction with his parents (when I ask if his own sons will go to university in Dublin, he says, “Whatever they want”). He continued with the band, his first creative love but the one that got away. When they were offered a contract with Acid Jazz records, he turned it down for a number of reasons, he says, crucially that he didn’t feel good enough. He still writes and plays at home but, no, you won’t be hearing any of his recordings, ever, he says.

It’s a funny thing talking to Murphy. He’s at once garrulous (on the craft, or literature, or ideas) and reticent (pretty much anything else). I sense in previous interviews that he skates over issues close to his heart – such as the expression of emotion in Ireland and the need to teach empathy in schools. But when I try to drill in to these topics, get to the root, he clams shut, emitting energy like a nuclear reactor.

Later, in a different context, he will tell me a truth: “I’m stubborn and lacking in confidence, which is a terrible combination. I don’t want to put anything out that I don’t think is excellent.” But he clearly hates the pantomime of publicity, asking why I am returning to certain topics and repeating lines I’ve read elsewhere. I can almost see him at home with its views towards the Irish Sea, complaining to his wife as they tuck into supper: “Another one, asking the same fucking questions.”

If he could get out of going to Cannes, of standing on red carpets, dressed as is his habit for a funeral, hair shellacked, hands in pockets; if he could turn his back on the coloured-foam mics thrust in his face, he would. He really would. No, it dawns on him now, there’s something even worse than the red carpet; there’s the talkshow rounds. The very word “talkshow” comes out of him like a pain from his ribcage, as if the parcelling out of amuse-bouche anecdotes, offering them up to the forced laughter of that false god of show business, the studio audience, is in itself the most cheapening experience known to mankind.

“I do them because you’re contractually obliged to. I just endure them. I’ve always found it difficult. I’ve said this so many, many times.” Then there’s the double wince of realising that, yes, he’s done it again. He’s laid into the industry that feeds him. His hands raise slowly in surrender. “I want to just caveat this by saying, I’m so privileged. I’m so happy to be doing what I love. I’m really lucky. But I don’t enjoy the personality side of being an actor. I don’t understand why I should be entertaining and scintillating on a talkshow. I don’t know why all of a sudden that’s expected of me. Why?”

There’s an awkward silence. I say that he reminds me of Naomi Osaka, the tennis player who refused to talk to journalists after the French Open in 2021. He says he feels “100%” sympathy with her, “because why should she have to perform?” Then he relents. “But I get it. I get it’s a kind of ecosystem where the film feeds the publicity which feeds the talkshows which goes back and feeds the film, so, like, that’s how it works. I suppose I’m just not good at it. At interviews, at this stuff,” he gestures at me. He says after he leaves me today he’ll be going down the stairs thinking of all the things he’s said and worrying it’s come across all wrong. “Do you know what Sam Beckett said? ‘I have no views to inter.’ I love that. That should be the interview.”

We return to his art, the tension falls away and he’s back to his charming self, charged air evaporating. Since Oppenheimer, he’s also wrapped Small Things Like These, an adaptation of Claire Keegan’s brilliant novella set in 1985 in a small Irish town on the edge of which is a convent and “laundry”. Murphy is a huge fan of Keegan. He remembers reading her 2010 novel Foster on a train and having to pull his hoodie over his face because he was crying so hard. Anyway, he’d wanted to work with the Peaky Blinders director Tim Mielants and they were throwing ideas around in his sitting room when Murphy’s wife suggested Small Things. “No, there’s no way,” Murphy said. “That’s going to be gone already.” But when he called the agent, he found it was available. “I went, ‘No, you’ve got to be fucking kidding.’” Murphy pitched the idea to Matt Damon, who has set up a studio with Ben Affleck. “From there it all just happened really quickly.”

Murphy plays Bill Furlong who, funnily enough, is a man of few words. Keegan’s light-touch writing is everything he loves in art – the sense that you are not being bashed over the head by an idea. That’s how he tries to act, he adds. “I’m always trying to cut lines in scenes, because I feel like you can transmit it. Like when you see a person on a train thinking, or driving a car, and you are purely observing someone and feeling the energy that is vibrating from them. That’s the sort of acting I love. In a lot of film and television, they want to cut those bits to go to the action. I like films that pose the big questions and then leave it to the audience.” Perhaps this is at the heart of his reticence in interviews? That he doesn’t feel the need to explain.

He still finds it “nuts” that the last of the Magdalene laundries closed in 1996, that it was illegal to buy condoms in Ireland until 1985, that divorce was made legal only in 1996. He remembers vividly thousands of people still going to see moving statues in Cork when he was growing up. “Crazy. But, like, how far the country has come since then, we’re so socially advanced now compared with where we were. But you must look back. And art is a better way of doing that than reading all these reports [into the laundries].” (Afterwards, he emails me: “The nation is actually dealing with an unresolved collective trauma. Who knows how long this will take to heal, but I feel strongly that art, film and literature can help with that process. It’s a kinder and gentler sort of therapy. I hope that our movie can help with that in its own little way.”)

Because he’s a nice man, because he doesn’t want me to feel bad about our encounter, and because he’s generous and hospitable, Murphy finishes by telling me some of the best places to visit in Ireland. He and his family are staying here for the summer. They’ve had it with air travel and his home town of Cork is only a couple of hours away. He supplies me with other recommendations: a great book he’s just read, Brian, by Jeremy Cooper, oh, and there’s the Francis Bacon studio exhibition I should catch on my way out.

But before I go, what has he learned from playing Oppenheimer? Foremost, he says, that scientists think differently. He knew this already from playing physicist Robert Capa in Danny Boyle’s Sunshine (2007) and hanging out in Cern, home of the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva, for research. “I had dinner with all these geniuses. I’ll never understand quantum mechanics, but I was interested in what science does to their perspective.” He sought their opinions on subjects that matter – love, politics, our place in the universe, “infinity, or whatever the fuck. Because they have a completely different way of taking in information than we do. I remember one scientist saying, ‘I don’t believe in love. It’s a biological phenomenon, the exchange of hormones between the female and the male. That’s all. Love is a nonsense.’” Murphy taps the table with his hand. “I couldn’t go along with that, obviously.”

[spinchip]

Never the Dark

CHAPTER 17

Read on Ao3

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16

warnings: discussion of past child death, drug abuse/addiction

HOW BEAUTIFUL, THESE THINGS YOU DO // IN CASE THEY HELP, THESE THINGS YOU DO...

Tumbling headfirst into another Realm is never a graceful thing.

Wu’s words before he’d sent Zane flying through that portal are playing on repeat- He can see his face drawn and shuttered in sorrow as he splattered the realm tea across the throne room floor, “I am sorry I couldn’t protect you,” He says as the ground under the Ice Emperors feet grows unstable, “I am so proud of all you are, Zane- The white ninja, the first nindroid, my student, and my friend. I hope one day you can forgive me.” Zane has never seen Wu cry before.

the ground vanishes beneath him, and he’s falling.

Nindroid. Nindroid. Nindroid.

NINDROID.

He’s a nindroid. He’s- he’s-

The impact is not gentle. He lands in mud at least, the cushion of it just barely enough not to snap his spine with the force of it. Back first he crashes on the side of a wet hill, a mound of earth slick with muck that he tumbles down until he rolls to a stop at the base in a mess of broken armor and tangled limbs. His mouth tastes like old blood and oil and he can’t think- can’t- can’t calm the utter horror and panic crawling up through his wiring-

Memory floods his processor hot and uncomfortable, his world expanding from a tiny cold pinprick to an unfathomable reality of loss. He didn’t realize what he was missing- couldn’t understand the absence of it. Now it's all he can feel. A gaping chasm opening up in his chest that eats and eats until all that remains is the memory of a good man and the bloody remains of a bad one.

He’s Zane. He’s Zane Julien, Dr. Juliens son- he’s supposed to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He- oh FSM all those people- the krag- Blood blood blood. Blood and ice. A flash of that awful blade when he didn’t feel bothered to freeze, a flash of the blade when he needed to make an example out of the insignificant resistors- no,no, no, he didn’t do that. That couldn’t have been him, please.

He rolls onto his hands and knees and dry heaves. He hasn’t eaten in sixty years, nothing comes up. Everything aches, his body buzzing with the echoes of power that burned out everything that he was. The delicate sensors lining his body are raw and frazzled, overwhelmed with a constant flux of power that leaves his synthetic nerves overworked and raw. It feels like each of the tiny nodes had been scrubbed down to its copper insides with steel wool. His head is pounding as if he were a human who’d cracked open his skull. He’s half convinced if he reaches up to touch his forehead his fingers will turn wet with his coding- spilling out of him like blood.

The staff was gone. Not in his hands. His thoughts- so nebulous and thready while on the throne- connect together again with the humming under his skin contained and the remaining pieces of his sanity back. He feels so dizzy and wrong footed, everything in the world turned on it’s side and it will never, ever be right again. What did he do what did he do-

There. In the dirt, only a few feet away. The staff glows faintly, enticing him.

His body shudders with the afterimage of a constant, brutal ice-burn.

His stomach rolls with the taste of blood.

He lunges for the scroll, white-hot panic overwhelming every sense in his body until he’s got the delicate parchment in both hands. He tears it in two before going back again, rending it to pieces until every drop of that caustic power flickers and dies. He keeps tearing it far past that, until the pieces are so small there’s no chance it could ever be reconstructed. He’d tear it to atoms if he could get a better grip on it. He can still feel it in his mind. He can still feel blood on his hands. What has he done?

His vision is obscured by black spots. The panic and fear won’t subside. The soul crushing agony of who he’d become is suffocating him. He can feel his fans kick on into high gear in a desperate attempt to cool his insides down but it’s no use. He doesn’t even know where he is, if he’s safe-

Did any of the people under his rule ever feel safe? Does a monster like him deserve to feel safe? 

Wu didn’t think so.

His chest spits sparks and Zane gasps in pain before his elbows fold and he finally, mercifully passes out.

He wakes up in a cave. That should alarm him, but he’s so exhausted all he does is blink blearily up at the ceiling. It’s still hard to breathe- to move air through his aching, hot insides- but in a different way from panic now. It’s as if he doesn’t have the strength to force his fans to turn. His limbs feel heavy in the absence of the scroll's power and he’s so numb to everything around him. The ceiling above him flickers from the light of a fire. It’s warm, wherever he is. A face appears above him and he can’t focus on it- featureless, smooth, empty.

”Rest.” A voice orders, but there’s a motherly lilt to it that has Zane closing his eyes.

Part of him worries he might die here.

What does he deserve?

The next time he wakes up he’s scrambling out from underneath the blanket of furs cocooning him so he can dry heave onto the floor again, his whole body is trembling in pain. The numbness has retreated and in its place a bone-deep ache that leaves him wrung out and hung up to dry. It’s as if his wires were torn out and ran through a washing machine before being haphazardly shoved back inside. His vision is muddled with black-and-gray splotches, all blurry on the edges, and all he can hear is the sounds of his fans straining to cool his inner mechanisms. He’s deaf and blind and so vulnerable it makes his power source stutter. Fear fades away into pain and confusion- where is he? Why is he here? What did he do? He can’t keep his head on straight to answer any questions. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He hurt so bad he was certain he would die.

A hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades.

The final time he wakes up, he still feels exhausted. Not so bad that he would immediately fall asleep again, but it’s lingering. A thick weariness that lays across his shoulders like twenty pound weights. His skeleton aches and his sensors cramp- despite how lifeless he feels, his body is still wound tight with tension. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking in the green firelight.

He’s laying on his side this time, and there’s a bucket by the pile of furs he’s sleeping on. His head is still pounding and he has to continuously dismiss blaring red WARNING pop-ups from his vision as he struggles to sit up. The amount of effort it takes to get his uncooperative hands underneath him is monumental, his joints refusing to listen to him. A baby treehorn just learning how to walk flashes across his mind, and he almost smiles at the thought. It’s only once he’s vertical and leaning back against the cave wall that he realizes he’s not alone.

They’re sitting just on the other side of the fire, staring at him through the dark eyes of an expressionless mask.

His body is too exhausted to fight, so he simply stares back and tries to measure up the person across from him. His mind races- this was the same mask as before. This person was trying to- to help, “Were you the one who took care of me while I was incapacitated?” He says slowly into the space between them. His words crackle in the fire.

They don’t acknowledge him, simply looking down and continuing to stir a pot set near the fires edge, in the warm pale embers. The air smells sharp with spice and it makes Zane’s weak stomach turn.

He waits for a long moment, “My name is-“

”Don’t care.” Her voice comes out cutting and disinterested.

He wants to ask her more questions, but he bites his tongue. She didn’t seem like she was in the mood to talk, and frankly neither was he. Even mustering up those two sentences was a monumental effort. He allows silence to fall and tries to pool his strength, looking her up and down to try and glean any information.

She’s dressed in thick green wraps and furs, and on top is a set of carefully crafted armor. It’s the same off-white as her mask. If Zane had to guess, he’d say bone considering the texture. The bone of a massive creature, that is. It’s painstakingly carved and sanded down smooth and sharp in all the right places. Fully articulated gauntlets that don’t hinder her work over her dinner, an intricately whittled chest plate and pauldrons, arm guards, shin guards, plated armor sitting over her hips and stomach. Everything is lined with decorative curves and swirls. He doesn’t ask her about it, even if he wants to.

He fidgets awkwardly, looking around the cave next. It strikes him suddenly just how… lived in the place feels. It’s not a temporary camp, but a home.

Below his sleep mat was long pieces of burgundy wood and when he shifts, he feels the tell-tale flex of raised flooring. The fire she cooked in was recessed into the ground and surrounded by stone bricks to protect the wood around it, and a hole has been meticulously chipped into the ceiling to allow smoke to pour out safely. The cave is large, stretching deep and wide and other than her own bed across the fire, the space is filled with all sorts of luxuries and amenities. Furs are spread across the floors like rugs and there’s a space along the wall where sheets of paper are hung to dry- there’s a whole space for paper making, large jars filled with lye and pulp and frames for sifting. Next to that is a station for making paint and brushes. Next to her bed there’s a woven basket filled with rolls of hand-dyed fabrics and sewing supplies and the fruits of that labor are all around the home- pillows in bed, cushions at the table, curtains by the bath and laundry basin, even what looks like a bean bag made from the furry hide of some speckled animal sitting near his bed with a clutter of paper, charcoals, and other art materials pilled messily in a basket next to it.

There’s clearly a kitchen area tucked away in the far corner, wood shelving filled with rows and rows of dried herbs and spices, preserved fruits, breads and crackers and blue rice. A low counter of stone for food prep, Knives, spoons, pots and pans- two cups set out to drink from, two bowls and two spoons. She had everything in duplicate, even the stone table had two cushions on either side for another person to sit. There were more woven baskets, wooden chests, a laundry hamper, dying flowers in vases, and-

To his left, at the foot of the bed, is a stuffed pigeon hand sewn from soft fuzzy fabrics. It’s rumpled and bald in some spots. Well loved.

He blinks and his eyes flicker to the decor hung on the walls. He’s skimmed over them first, not really looking- but he does now.

All of that handmade paper is taped up and filled with child-like drawings of animals and plants and two people holding hands. The most prominent is a drawing of a large, poorly drawn armored woman wearing the same mask as the woman across the fire wielding a sword and protecting a smaller figure from a large monster trying to attack them. In nearly illegible script, with arrows pointing to the two figures respectively, they are labeled “MOMMY” and the other “ME.”

Without thinking, he reaches out to touch one when the woman speaks again.

”Do you eat?” She asks sharply, snapping him back to attention. He blinks, confused, “You aren’t human. Do you need to eat?” She clarifies, sounding almost annoyed.

”Yes, I can eat.” He answers.

She jerks her armored hand towards the table, “Sit.” She orders, taking the pot of soup over to the table and settling onto the green cushion with her legs crossed.

Zane is slow to follow because his whole body still aches. He stops short of the table when he notices the staff of forbidden spinjitzu propped up against the wall. It’s just a normal staff now that he’s torn the scroll off. That feels… wrong. Too anticlimactic. It should have ended another way.

She motions to the seat across from herself and he lowers himself onto the red cushion gingerly, wincing as his knees hit the ground harder than he intends.

In front of him, scratched into the stone in that same childish script, is the name Kiryu.

She serves him a big bowl of the food she’d prepared, covering the name completely. His stomach is still feeling touchy, and the strong smelling food does nothing to entice him to take a bite. He doesn’t technically need to eat, under normal circumstances. Nothing about what has happened is normal, though, and his body is begging for fuel to burn. So he picks up his spoon.

She’s mastered the art of eating under her mask, keeping her face completely covered while she picks at her dinner. It’s mustard yellow, thick, and filled with mystery chunks. When he finally hypes himself up enough to take a bite, he’s surprised at how bland it is. He might actually be able to stomach this. After his first swallow, his hunger makes itself apparent and he starts to eat a little more animatedly than he had before.

The woman finishes first, pushing the nearly-full bowl away and wiping her mouth off on her sleeve, “Do you know where you are?” She says finally, after watching him eat for an uncomfortable amount of time.

He places his spoon down slowly, unsure where this conversation could lead, “No, I do not.” He answers respectfully.

She regards him for a long moment, “You are in the Realm of Madness. You were sent here because you did something terrible, I imagine.”

The world stalls.

“What?” he says blankly. Sure, this place was- was strange, weird, whatever but- of course Wu didn’t send him back! He wouldn’t unleash the ice emperor on ninjago, no- but he thought- why would he think he had any chance at going home? His stomach turns violently against the food he’d just eaten.

“Calm down.” She orders sharply, and he hates the part of himself that latches on to that. The part of him that wanted someone else to tell him what to do.

He balls his hands into fists and consciously moves his internal fans, the equivalent of taking a slow deep breath.

“We all call this place something different. Exile, eternal prison, hell- the kids from Chima have this silly, flowery name for it. Tomb, or something close. Ninjargons the only one that doesn’t call it what it is- a form of punishment.” She stands up, going into the kitchen and taking out two cups and a leather bag, “They only send the worst of us here to suffer. They consider it kinder than death. I used to agree.”

He focuses on the one thing in this conversation that doesn’t make him want to scream, ”Who is they?”

She sits again, popping the cap on the leather bag and pouring a dark spiced rum into her cup, ”Anyone who opposes you. The good people, the ones who don’t have the stomach for blood.” She caps the bag and slides it closer to him, offering.

He can hardly swallow past the lump in his throat, ”I did not want to hurt anyone-“

”Don’t make excuses for yourself.” She says coldly, any trace of maternal inflection replaced by a viscous intolerance for pity. She looks at him hard, “I know what that was.” She nods to the staff by the wall, “I know what you are. That staff in the hands of an elemental master- well, it’s not hard to connect the dots.”

He shakes his head, “no- it was not like that-”

“What, then?”

Zane swallows hard against the accusation in her tone and tries to organize his thoughts, “I- lost my memory, I did not know who I was-”

“So you hurt people.” She finishes flatly. He flinches. “And you were good at it, too. That’s why you’re here. None of that other shit matters, kid- all it comes down to is that you were a monster they needed to destroy.”

There’s no words he can string together to make anything okay.

She lets out a mirthless chuckle, “At least some people had their reasons. No memory, huh? So you did all the things you did… because you could.”

Neither of them say anything for a long time. The fire grows low. She stands up to tend to it, leaving him alone at the table.

”What am I supposed to do?” He asks softly.

”Suffer.” She says bluntly. “Survive. Pay your penance. There are plenty who take the easy way out. I don’t care.” She gets up to tend to the fire.

”Why am I here?”

Another log goes on the fire. She looks up at him like he’s irritating her, “I just told you.”

He winces again before clarifying, “No, why am I here, In your home?” She stays quiet so he adds, “You helped me, and I am beginning to understand that is not something you typically do.”

She snorts at that. Another long pause, “I was there. I saw you fall. Scavengers would have found you in no time and you’d be dead by now.” She motions to his body, “Mechanics are scarce. Mechanics as good as yours even more so. If you want to survive in this place, you’ll need to hide every part of yourself or they’ll tear you apart and barter with your insides.”

A life in hiding. A life in constant fear.

Alarm bells ring in his head, “What do you want from me?” Because he was vulnerable and helpless and if she wanted to rip his head off and offer his hard drive to the highest bidder- well, he couldn’t defend himself.

Part of him wonders- would you even try?

“Nothing.” she answers without hesitation, but there’s no insult at his insinuation. “A few years ago, maybe I’d have killed you myself. Not now. I’m too tired for that.”

He doesn’t understand.

“I am not a kind woman.” She continues slowly, “I never claimed to be. My cruelty cost me everything. Perhaps part of me wanted to do something good in the end- a drop in the bucket weighed against all my transgressions. What good does a monster saving another monster do? I don’t know.” she shifts the embers at the edge of the fire, her voice taking on a contemplative lilt, “and what good have I done you, preserving a life for you here?”

“...Thank you.” he offers.

She doesn’t laugh. He thinks she might want to, “I don’t deserve your gratitude. I have done nobody any good my whole life.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.” Zane argues softly, eyes straying over to the stuffed pigeon plushy again.

She’s follows his gaze. Without a second glance, she stomps out the embers that spread too close to the wall of the fire pit, “You should sleep. Tomorrow you will be on your own.” She adds a log to the fire and places a cover over the top to keep the fire burning longer.

He gets up slowly from the table, making his way across the floor on aching legs before gingerly laying down on his bedmat. She doesn’t take off any of her armor as she settles under her own blankets.

Exile. Eternal prison.

Hell.

this isn't hell. he'd been in hell in the never realm, when he was on that throne. Still, this is a punishment. The worst kind of punishment that could be executed.

Wu sent him here, to this place. He must have believed he belonged here.

Blood flashes in his mind's eye. Exposed organs, death rattles from punctured lungs, bodies thin with starvation after frost killed any crops-

He does belong here.

Monster.

The next morning- is it morning? Zane has no idea- he wakes up alone. It isn’t until he musters up the strength to climb the rocky opening to the surface that he finds her. She’s sitting near the opening of the cave criss cross, with her back ram-rod straight. In front of her is a massive wall of mist, reaching past the clouds in the dim purple-red sky. He doesn’t know what to do other than sit next to her, so he does that.

She doesn’t acknowledge him.

She’s holding a picture in her hand- not a modern photo that he knows, but something older. Something fragile.

“Is that your son?” He asks.

“Yes.” She says quietly. He’s maybe seven in the photo, still so young, with skin so pale it’s translucent and wisps of bright blood red hairs poking from his head. Veins, ribs, and organs are all visible through his skin where she’s posing with him. She’s wearing her mask and holding him close, and he’s smiling at the camera with too many teeth- some sharp and jagged. Behind them is a strange forest- this photo was taken here, in the Realm Of Madness.

“He’s gone now.” She says simply.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as much as I am.” there’s nothing else to say, so they watch the day pass.

She reaches up and pulls her mask off.

Her face is bumpy and fuzzy, almost like felt, with a hundred colors overlapping and banding in random waves that follow the raised ridges along her skin. Colors blend and mix in bright, technicolor bursts similar to the sheen on an oil spill- and they move along her face and neck in pulsing flashes like currents shifting on the ocean floor. It looks like someone had taken the way her reflection looked on turbulent water and shaped her skull from it, nothing about her symmetrical or smooth- she has no nose and he can’t find her mouth of eyes, but he knows she has them. They ate together. She lookers at him. Old feathers poke out of her skin in sporadic patches and he can’t tell whether or not shes grown them or simply lost all her others. His processor can’t comprehend what he’s looking at- it doesn’t compute. Every time her tries to formulate an opinion it’s as if he hits a computing error and he has to start all over again.

Her head expands and contracts as if it was breathing.

He can’t stop looking at her. She doesn’t seem to care.

“The Realm of Madness is not a mercy.” She says, her face splitting in half to reveal perfect white teeth- jarring in the mess of the rest of her, “It changes us. I have held on for a long time, But I am tired now, and I miss my son.”

She stands and deliberates for a moment before she tosses her mask and the feather cloak around her shoulders to the ground at his feet, “Take these. I don’t need them anymore. The others of this land call me Birdy- hide in that too.”

”You are leaving?” Zane asks, scrambling to his feet.

”I am the original monster in this realm- I am the first. My suffering is done, and I am going to rest now.” Birdy says, voice light with the relief of an ending, “I’ve paid the price. I’ve paid it all.”

She turns towards that abrupt wall of mist and takes her first step forward, heading straight for the thick wave of release waiting for her.

Zane stands as quickly as he can and follows her with the intent to do- something. He doesn’t know what. What was the mist? What did it do? It sounded like death- he couldn’t just let her do this- a loud red warning pops up in his vision the moment the gas contacts his inner workings.

WARNING ‽‽‽‽‽‽‽‽ RADIATION FIELD Processing failure imminent Motor function failure imminent Power source failure imminent RAM failure imminent

PROCEED WITH CAUTION

He steps back and stares into the mist, looking for her retreating back for several moments.

She’s gone.

He stays in Birdy's cave longer than he cares to admit. It feels wrong, but he just… doesn’t know what to do. For nearly a whole week after Birdy's disappearance into the mist, he’d still been reeling from the damage to his body from… everything that happened. His self repair programming wasn’t designed to tackle the mess he’d made of himself, but it should work well enough that he isn’t constantly leaking power and weak.

There was also the minor issue of massive emotional breakdowns he was struggling through every few hours, when he couldn’t stop thinking about everything that happened. He wasn’t exactly at his best. Compartmentalization takes time, and sixty years was a lot to pack away.

He spends most of his time putting away Birdys things- packing up the drawings on the wall in a wicker basket wrapped in leather to preserve the art work, folding old clothes and packing them inside too- there were baby clothes here. Shirts and shoes for toddlers, tunics for a child. He wasn’t going to stay here forever, and the way she spoke about scavengers… he didn’t think any other person in the realm would treat these precious items with the respect they deserved. So he bundles it all up and hides it under the wooden floorboards.

He finds a stash of handmade candles and lights two for Birdy and her son. Hopefully they are both at peace now.

The idea of staying here indefinitely crosses his mind, but he can’t quite bring himself to truly consider it. No matter how much he wants to just curl into a ball and turn to dust here, safe in this tiny little home, his skin crawls at the idea. This wasn’t made for him. The bed he’d been using wasn’t his. Zane was sick of settling into a place that wasn’t his to take- the throne he’d spent sixty years on wasn’t made for him, either. It was already bad enough that he was going to take her mask and her cloak, maybe even her name- but that was different from her home. The things she wore were a disguise, hiding away the honest pieces of herself.

Her home was where she was herself, genuinely. He couldn’t make a space for himself here. It wasn’t right.

Three weeks after everything, he puts on the mask.

It’s hard to see out of, and it feels awkward on his face. It wasn’t hand carved for him, but Birdy's warning sits bright and clear in his mind. He had to keep his face covered- he’d tried cloaking, but the hologram projectors along the nape of his neck and down his back were all damaged too badly and the image came out glitched.  He clasps the feathered cap over his shoulder and prepares to venture out into the hostile world he’d found himself in.

Hostile. right. 

He needed a weapon, and the only thing here… the only thing he truly felt confident wielding was the staff. Two more days pass before he can bring himself to pick it up. With the scroll gone, it’s just a normal staff with a normal blade that he used to gut a man who made an attempt on Vex’s life-

He slams down his mental shields on that memory before he can taste the blood it left behind. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about what you are.

Monster.

A day after that, once he’d found a pale canvas bag and filled it with food, spices, and a few other essentials he might need, he finally steps out of the hole and back into the world.

The wall of mist is still there, calm and steady. He’s not sure what else to do so he just… starts walking. He keeps the mist to his right and travels parallel to it, waiting for the swath of empty flat land to change to… anything else. The world is dim and bland, a colorless expanse of darkness that seems to go on forever. He keeps walking. His mind drifts back to the Never Realm but the memories burn.

He tries to think about something else, but the only other thing that jumps to the forefront of his mind are his friends, and that hurts in a different, just as painful way. He’s not ready to think about them. What would they think of him now?

He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Don’t make excuses for yourself, monster.

He keeps walking.

Two days pass before he sees a forest. He almost hesitates to leave the mist behind… it was ultimately familiar now, a security blanket of sorts. The mist held a threat he knew. The jungle was filled with possibilities, and in a place like this none of them could be any good. He detaches himself from the mist anyway and treks across the broad empty expanse of no man’s land between the two biomes before he steps in a place with deep red trees and strange flora.

He’s always been good with animals, and he attributes that to why he’s able to catch himself before he stumbles right into a predator's strike range. He avoids the tree that trembles with the weight of something massive up in its branches, he turns away from the distant sound of buzzing because nothing good sounds like that, and when he notices a large shape lumbering through the bushes up ahead he presses himself against the red bark and waits for it to pass. He keeps his mind focused on the world around him and doesn’t think about anything else.

That’s when he notices the strange oblong fruits hanging from a coiling vine growing up the side of a tree. They’re orange in color and are covered in thin hair-like protrusions. Zane reaches out and carefully runs the back of his finger over the fruit- the hair is soft and flexible, almost sleek. He grasps the fruit on one hand and plucks it, noticing how it comes off the vine without a fight. He tucks it in his satchel and keeps moving, now with his eyes peeled for more vegetation.

A string of bead-like vegetables here, completely flat speckled fruit there, a corkscrew tuber that’s twisting itself out of the ground. Zane may have been a homicidal maniac for the past sixty years, but he was also a chef. He’d have to analyze his haul later to make absolutely certain it’s edible so that the others can eat-

The sharp stab of pain feels almost physical as his processor stalls. He stops walking, sliding down the trunk of a tree to sit on the soft ground. There is no one else to cook for.

Loneliness crawls up his chest and sits in the back of his throat.

What have you done? He asks himself, staring blankly at the dark forest around him. You have ruined everything.

He doesn’t know how long he stays sitting there before he stands back up and moves on, more subdued than before. He’s been alone before, in the empty space after his father died and before Wu found him. He’d survived that loneliness then. He could survive this too. He was good at surviving. He keeps exploring the forest. It’s absolutely massive, and seems to go on forever- so he just keeps walking.

His internal navigation system is acting strange- it’s keeping track of his movement through the forest, and it seems to continuously loop over on itself even though he knows he hasn’t been walking in circles. It must be broken too.

Twenty six days pass before he comes upon a small camp set up between trees, large swathes of thickets cleared away for enough room for a fire and a few tents. He doesn’t notice that at all, not at first.

What he sees first is a strange animal. Despite his misgivings about the fauna in the forest, he can’t help but move in for a closer look. It had a fat body, broad neck, and a pointed head. It was precariously balanced on four spindly little legs. Stranger still, the long hair along the back of its neck was braided, and the tail sticking out from its hindquarters matched. Thrown over its back was a saddle. It looked similar to a saddle used for a walloper, all leather and straps with a blanket laid underneath for the animals comfort. It made a strange, apprehensive sound as he approached it from behind so he slowed down and stepped along the side so it could see him better. It shifted on its hooves but seemed to calm down when it's dark eyes were able to clock him.

It had strange colors, piebald black and white with a pink nose. Its tall ears pointed towards him, flicking as it sized him up.

He’s not at his best. If he were, he probably would have realized what exactly a saddle means- this animal belonged to someone. If he had realized that, he would have been on the lookout for the owner, and probably wouldn’t have boxed in so easily.

He’s still a ninja through and through, and while he may have been completely enamored by the strange beast he was nervous enough that his processor was still hyper-vigilant of the world around him. A subtle twang, the hiss of something fast-

He jerks his hand back half a second before an arrow whizzes past his fingers, burying itself in the tree directly behind him. He whips around and flicks the staff in his hand to grip it better, preparing for a fight- but the silence that settles after that is heavy and so, so still. There’s movement in the trees around him, at his sides, and when he strains his hearing as much as he can there’s the barest hint of footsteps behind him.

The bushes on the other side of the camp rustle and then part as a woman and a man approach him almost casually. Confident they have the upper hand- which they did. Zane is tense and stiff as they come to a stop in the middle of their camp, sizing him up casually. He wasn’t certain he could fight effectively enough to make it out of this in one piece.

“Hello there, stranger.” The woman says with a lazy smile. Tall, dark skin and salt and pepper hair, covered in a plethora of extra eyes that roll and dart as she speaks.

The massive wolf at her side bares his teeth and looks at Samira like she’s lost her mind, “Let me chase her off, Samira. She was trying to steal Cowie.”

Finally, Zane gets a good look at the man-

He’s not a man at all. Not a human, at least. He was an absolutely massive wolf- taller than Zane by at least two feet with ruddy gray fur. His ears, face, and basically anywhere Zane could see were striped with old battle scars, but the thing that stood out the most was the way one of his arms dragged along the ground, digging gouges in the hard packed dirt with the massive bone shards that spilled out of his skin in even spaces. With his head turned, Zane could see these bone spurs poked out of each vertebrae in his spine as well.

It changes us all. Right.

“Wox, darling, you need glasses.” The woman says airily as she steps closer. Zane backs up as far as he dares with the threat behind him still hidden, but she doesn't pursue any further. She stops walking at Cowies (?) side and she looks relaxed, but her hand is sitting purposefully on the hilt of a wicked looking knife. Zane imagines he doesn’t look too friendly with his staff in an iron-grip, but Birdy had told him pretty explicitly that the people here would gut him if he gave them a chance. She gestures to him, “Where’d you get that mask?”

Wox looks confused for a moment, scrutinizing Zane until he seems to realize that he’s not the original owner of the mask. He’s still glaring at him hatefully and Zane knows he has to stay aware, just in case the guy swings at him with the morning star that makes up his arm.

“It was a gift.” He says truthfully.

She stares at him for a long time. Her eyes make her nearly impossible to read- but it seems she has no problem seeing straight through him, “What’s your name?” She asks next.

He hesitates. Zane… Zane doesn’t feel right, anymore. Not after what he did. He couldn’t use any of his old nicknames either, and he’d sooner take a punch from Wox than tell her to call him Emperor. “Call me Birdy.” He says finally, awkward and more than a little unsure.

Her jaw works as she mulls that over. “Were you trying to steal my horse?”

Horse. So that's what that thing was. He shakes his head, “No ma’am.”

“Oh, he’s polite!” Samira brightens at the formality before she turns to her companion, “See, Wox, he wasn’t trying to take her!”

“Then what was he doing?” Wox growls, pinning him with a distrustful look.

Birdy feels a little silly and childish as he admits, “I was attempting to pet her.” He nearly cringes at his own words, shuffling on his feet and trying not to look guilty.

Samira grins, and there’s a spark in her eye, “You can pet her.” She says graciously, beckoning him over. She drops her hand from the hilt of her knife, “She can be a little skittish around new people, but if i’m here she should be fine.”

There's a long moment where no one moves before Birdy finally takes a step forward. Despite everything, he was still a sucker for a good pet. He approaches slowly, keeping his eyes on Wox, before he reaches out a gloved hand and runs it down the horse's thick neck. He can’t feel the texture very well through his gloves, but he feels when she presses closer to the touch and he can't help the small smile that blooms under his mask.

“My name is Samira.” She introduces herself kindly, but she’s watching him- looking for any sort of reaction to her name, “Here, pet from her nose up. She likes that.”

Birdy follows her instruction, watching in fascination as the horse makes an adorable whinny sound at the affection.

“I have to apologize for Wox. he can be a bit protective of our things.” She says with a wince, “He means well.”

“It is alright.” He pulls his hand away, “Thank you for allowing me to pet her.”

Samira grins wide at him, with a bit too many teeth, “Of course. It’s nice to meet you… Birdy.”

He inclines his head.

She hums a little, “We’re headed back to Oasis here, soon. Would you like to accompany us?”

“Oasis?”

She smiles that same, too-wide smile. As if he’s playing right into her hand, “It’s a refuge for the people stranded here. I’m like the mayor, you could say. Wox is my second in command and Barath- he’s around here somewhere- is the brains of the operation. We built it so the people here could have a community and a place to call home.”

The look in her eyes feels sickly similar to Vex’s, but Zane shoves that thought away immediately. Vex’s cruelty was too fresh, too raw and recent. He shouldn’t let Vex warp his view of Samira- besides, there’s no cord connected to his head for her to rip out. She couldn’t take his memories. He wouldn't allow himself to become even more of a monster than he already was.

He rapidly runs through his options. They were… extremely limited. Sure, he could decline- and she seemed willing to accept that answer and allow him to leave with no trouble, but then he’d be right back where he started. Alone, walking through this forest without a clue of what to do or where to go, without any knowledge of the realm. Aimless wandering.

Maybe one of his biggest weaknesses is that he craves a purpose.

“If you do not mind my presence, I will accompany you.” He says formally.

Wox snorts roughly, “We’re taking in strays, now?”

Samira makes a motion with her hand and more people come trundling from the forest around them and begin breaking down camp, “I took you home, didn’t I?” She responds with a mischievous smile, then adds, “Besides, he’s not a stray. He’s one of us.” She says with a wide grin.

They only start moving when Barath returns. He’s a strange man, with a pair of thick glasses that only seem to enhance the way his eyes dart around wildly. He’s almost constantly taking notes, scribbling down observations from the world around them. When he first sees Birdy, he cocks his head to the side like a curious dog would and says, “Did you kill her?”

Birdy jerks at the question, “No.” He says, too defensive, “She gave me her mask willingly.”

“That is not like her.” He says simply, squinting at Birdy. A moment passes before he flips to a new page in his little notebook and scribbles down a new note, “I don’t believe you.” He says simply, and walks away before Birdy can say anything else.

He hangs back and tries not to get in the way as people collapse tents and stamp out the fire pit. He would offer to help, but the people here are whispering to themselves and throwing him unwelcoming glances. It seems Barath is not the only one who believes he’d bloodied his hands for this mask.

“You’re quite the sensation.” Samira says as she slings a pack over Cowies back, “Don’t be discouraged by their attitude. It’s been a long while since we’ve had a newcomer sent here.” She looks at him curiously, and Birdy doesn’t realize she’s fishing for information he shouldn’t give.

“I did not mean to make anyone uncomfortable.” He murmurs, all but confirming his recent arrival.

She smiles sharply, “We’re villains, Birdy. Skepticism is in our nature. They’ll come around.”

He shifts uncertainty at the reminder of who exactly he’s surrounded by, and Samira tracks that movement with knowing eyes.

Barath pulls out a heavy looking dial from his bag and holds it up for a moment before he begins walking away from camp, disappearing into the woods. Wox notices immediately, “Oy, wait for the rest of us!” he snaps, and the small party scrambles after him.

The trek though the forest is a strange thing- Barath twists and turns randomly, cuting a strange path through the foliage that Samira, Wox, and the others all dutifully follow. When Birdy checks his internal systems, he realizes the looping path problem he’d been facing is nonexistent now. Samira watches him quietly from on top of Cowie. She’d asked him to stay close to her, and as they walk her eyes stay fixed on him.

She misinterprets his body language, “We’re not walking in circles.” She informs him.

“I know.” He says without thinking.

There’s no reaction from her other than a curious hum, “Do you?”

He wisely stays quiet this time.

Another hour passes before Samira speaks again, “Do you know why we have to take a path like this?”

He shakes his head.

“We call it the evershift.” She says, and proceeds to spend the next few minutes explaining the way this realm is designed to drive a person crazy. Straight lines become circles. The cardinal directions are meaningless. To navigate through this place, you have to understand how the earth shifts. One wrong move, and you’ll be lost. “Barath invented a compass- he doesn’t like it when we call it that, but I've never been mechanically inclined. I’ll call it like I see it. It helps us navigate through this place accurately.”

Birdy redirects more power into his navigation system so he takes on more information, making a map and comparing the way the ground moves so he can begin to travel on his own. It’s a slow process, but now he has an idea of how to start.

“Tell me about yourself.”

He glances at her uncertainly.

Even his hesitation seems to please her, “Alright. I’ll tell you about myself first, hmm?” she leans back, “I was born in Cloud Kingdom centuries ago- I know, I look fantastic for my age. I was, essentially, a daycare worker. I took care of the children of the scribes in the main hall.”

Wox glances back at her but doesn’t comment.

“I saw a great deal of destiny's written… and I came to disagree with the system.” She says lightly, “War, famine, death, sickness- why must we write it? So I started a rebellion. The elders weren’t happy about that, so now I am here.”

She looks at him expectantly, and Birdy hesitates. “I am from… the Never Realm.” He says, stilted.

“Not originally, hm?” She asks, “You don’t speak with the right cadence.”

“...Ninjago has not been my home in a very long time.”

There’s an intrigued light in her eyes, “Just who are you, Birdy?”

“I do not know.” He admits, the truth of it making his circuits curl in sharp pain. He used to be Zane. He used to be the Ice Emperor. Now he was stuck in a realm he didn’t know wearing a mask and hiding in a name that wasn't his. He didn’t know who he was.

“There is plenty of time to figure it out.” She says kindly, and allows him to mull over his identity crisis in peace over the rest of the trip back home.

His first impression of Oasis is that it’s far larger than he anticipated. He didn’t expect this realm to be filled with so many people- were there really this many people banished to this place? All ages, all races, hundreds of people who were so horrible they were exiled to this hell to never return? He follows the group quietly as they pass through a set of large gates and wind around deep halls until the reach the entrance to a stable. Samira dismounts Cowie and greets another woman who was waiting for her return.

“Ila.” Samira smiles as she hugs her friend.

“How was the mission?” Ila asks, the tentacles pouring out of her belly wrapping around Samira in greeting.

“Very successful. We were able to extract four funeral flowers before the mist became too caustic.” She grins triumphantly.

Ilas two toned eyes peek over Samiras shoulder curiously, zeroing in on Birdy.

“And,” Samira adds, “We ran into a new arrival.” pulling away, she motions to Birdy.

He steps closer, “Hello. Call me Birdy.” He offers his hand.

“You’re not afraid?” Ila says in wonder, pushing her curious tentacles down so she can shake his hand with her own.

Birdy was good at surviving, and part of that meant adapting and doing it quickly, “I am not.” he says truthfully, even as her tentacles wiggle free to touch his gloves and the edge of his sleeve inquisitively.

“Ila is my personal assistant and chef.” Samira introduces.

Birdy feels himself perk up, “Chef?”

“You like to cook?”

“I do.” He says sincerely, carefully extracting his hand before Ilas tentacles can wiggle under his gloves and touch bare metal.

Samira smiles at that, “Why don’t you show our friend the kitchen while Barath, Wox, and I take the flowers to the lab for processing?”

That’s how Birdy ends up here, deep within the halls of Oasis palace marveling at the foreign technology set up around the room. Most of it is old, traditional ways of cooking- brick ovens, rooms for drying and preserving meats and spices, fire pits with huge pots and pans, a well dug into the earth that brims with strange not-quite-right water. The only bit of actual mechanical engineering in the room is a massive metal freezer filled with fresh meats and vegetables.

“This,” Ila points at the strange hairy fruit he’d pulled from his bag, “Is called filler fruit. Packed with protein, it’s a good, hearty meal.” They’d been going through the things he’d scavenged in the forest and taken from the original Birdy's home slowly. “Not much can be done with it flavor wise, though.”

She teaches him about everything in his bag that’s edible and some things that aren’t (“It makes for a nice perfume if you soak it,” She says about the strange corkscrew tuber, “But it’s toxic to eat.”) She goes down the line until she stops at a jar of pale purple ground spice, “Oh, this is basically mustard seed.” She sighs wistfully, “I used to make candied fruits using mustard. The kick it adds is divine.”

Birdy blinks before he pushes it a little closer to her, “You are welcome to keep it.” He says sincerely.

She smiles thinly, “You’re very sweet, but I can’t.” She hesitates for a long moment, “Barath hates the taste, so I don’t even keep it in stock.”

Not long after this, Wox appears in the kitchen, “I’ve got your room ready.” He says gruffly, obviously unhappy that Birdy will be staying under the same roof as he is.

“My room?”

“Samira insists you stay as long as you like.” He jerks his chin, “Follow me.”

He falls into a routine here, accidentally. He helps Ila with breakfast and lunch before she has to attend to other duties, he joins Samira at her private table for dinner at her insistence, and he learns all he can about everything the realm has to offer. The longer he settles in, the more irritated Wox becomes. Even Ila starts to subtly prod him about his conversations with Samira- but there’s not much to tell. She’s firmly established herself as a friend and doesn't push for information or say anything uncouth or untoward.

One day, after dinner, she invites him to her office.

She pours herself a generous cup of some type of whiskey, sipping it slowly as they sit in companionable silence.

“It was chaos when I first came here.” She sighs softly, a wave of exhaustion weighing down her shoulders ““There was no community, no society- just violence and lots of pain. You’ve noticed it, I'm certain. We’re all… different, here. Our bodies have been changed by the realm- that is the nature of madness.”

He shakes his head when she offers him a glass, but she’s not offended. “Mutations are hard on the body, Birdy. Uncomfortable at best, agony at worst.” She fishes a key from her pocket and uses it to open a hidden compartment in her desk, “You’ve toured the Jelly farm. You asked me what we were farming… well, I think you’re ready to know. When I first saw a jelly, I watched her use the poison on her lures to take down an undertaker.” She fishes out a small vial made of dark glass, impossible to see what’s inside. “Paralyzed it and ate it right up, and it gave me an idea. She numbs you first, before she eats you. If I could use her poison, refine it just right, maybe I could take that numbness and use it to take away that pain.” She uncorks the vial and tips it over her palm, a small pink marble rolling out to settle over her heart line, “And with a bit of help from Barath, I did it, and I built Oasis around this thing right here. It’s amazing how easy it is to bring people together when pain is out of the equation.” He studies it for a long moment, “That is a noble thing to do.” He offers quietly. “After everything I’ve been through, Birdy… I know pain. I can see it.” She takes a moment to really study him, “You’re in a lot of pain, Aren’t you?”

His throat feels tight and he struggles to swallow. She holds the pill out, “Here.” Samira says gently, “it works on emotional pain, too- and it’ll help you later on, once the chaos of this realm sinks its teeth into you. It will only get worse from here.”

There’s no guarantee it’ll work on him. There’s a possibility it will. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep again, without nightmares- maybe he could think about his friends without his chest feeling like it’s caving in on him. He’d been keeping himself distracted, had been doing everything in his power to keep his mind away from the brutal parts of his life that threatened to tear his heart from his chest. He was in pain. A constant, bruising agony that ate away at his processor in quiet moments that threatened to kill him with it’s cruelty.

Monster.

Suffer.

Penance.

What does he deserve?

He reaches out and slowly, tenderly closes her fingers around the pill and pushes it back towards her chest, “Thank you, but I cannot accept this.”

She looks at him strangely, her expression unreadable.

“Okay.” She says finally, dropping it back into the bottle, “...But the offer still stands. The first one is always free.”

“You’ll have a few hours from the first entrance before the mist induces irreparable delirium and you’ll be too confused to leave.” Barath says jovially, “If that happens, try and make it as close to the exit as you can so I can have someone go in for your body. It’s been too long since I've done a decent dissection.” He says with a bright smile.

“...I will do my best.” Birdy responds.

“Don’t listen to him, you’ll be fine.” a woman to his left reassures him, wrapping thick straps of leaver over her hands.

“No, you should definitely listen to him.” Wox remarks sourly, “He may be a nutjob, but he knows his science.”

“I’ve been in the mist plenty- I’ve got a good feel for it.” Lena continues, “I can get us out before things get to the point of no return.”

This is the first and only time Birdy has seen Samira look anxious, “The flowers are deeper than they’ve been before. Are you sure you’ll be able to reach them?”

Lena frowns at the ground and finishes wrapping her hands, “Just have some of the pinks ready for me when we get out,” She says, her fingers drumming on her thighs at the thought of a brand new sleeve of pills waiting for her. She shakes out the tension in her shoulders and smiles at Birdy, “Ready?”

When Birdy had volunteered to go into the mist, he’d had a good idea of what he was signing up for. He knew this was a risky thing- Samira said there were people who refused to go back in, even if she offered them a cure pill in return. Barath knew it was some type of toxin in the mist that attacked the flesh, preying on organic material with extreme prejudice. He hadn't quite realized it was radiation, and Birdy wasn’t able to explain how he knew that so he couldn’t say much.

What stuck out to him the most about Baraths notes on the graveyard was that it wasn’t so hard on inorganic material. You didn’t get much more inorganic than a robot. Theoretically, he should be able to last far longer than anyone else- even if his own systems were certain he would eventually go down like anyone else. Part of him insists that this doesn’t make any sense- he has to remind himself this is the realm of madness. Nothing makes sense. That was the point.

He inclines his head. Lena gives him a thumbs up and, with Baraths compass in hand, they plunge into the mist.

There’s no talking in the mist- keep breathing shallow and even, and don’t do anything strenuous. Nothing that could move the mist through your system faster than necessary. Absolutely no running. It’s a painfully slow affair. The little flickers of life he sees in the mist is strangely familiar- green grass. Brown dirt. If he were in the height of delirium, collapsed on the ground and struggling to get his bearings straight, he might think he was home again.

He can feel the mist seeping inside his mechanics. It feels strange and unsettling, like fingers brushing over his ribs and internal wires- but so far there’s no confusion, and he doesn’t have that strange buzzing feeling Barath describes as symptom zero. Lena, however, does seem to be feeling something. She keeps shaking her head like she’s trying to flick water out of her ears- but ever the professional, she soldiers on.

Deeper and deeper they trek, and as they walk Lena gets more and more lethargic.

There’s a weight settling over his skeleton too, but he’s still able to keep moving at a steady pace. She has to keep pausing to read the compass, changing directions every now and then into a winding route through the mist. She stares at the compass longer and longer each time, like trying to read text that’s too small. She's shaking her head more often.

The flowers Lena signs to him, pointing at the tall white buds rising out of the mist in front of them. Moving her hand in the proper configuration to convey that message seems to be a monumental task.

You okay? Birdy signs back, worried.

She looks confused, like she’s unable to understand what he said. She just turns around and goes to the flowers without responding, taking out a small paring knife and cutting them free at the base. Birdy follows suit- each cut spits out a fresh cloud of mist, thicker and whiter than the air around them.

He cuts another flower.

Why was he cutting these flowers again? There’s a reason, isn’t there.

Holding three in his hand, he stares down at the delicate petals. They’re pretty.

He blinks and shakes his head hard- he was on a mission. He cuts another before his processor catches up with him and reminds him to check on… on the girl who came in with him. Lisa?

He glances over and for a second he’s not sure what he’s looking at. There’s a lump on the ground. She’s got only one flower in her hand.

The flowers are so pretty. Why were they taking these?

A red warning pops up in his vision and he can't read it, the words too jumbled and wonky to piece together. That doesn’t make sense- his automatic systems weren’t damaged in the fall. Yet, he can’t understand the warning. The mist. He needs to get out of the mist.

When did he get on his hands and knees?

He stands up on unsteady legs and there’s a brief moment of clarity- he had to get out. They both had to get out, now. He stumbles over to Lauren and grabs her around the waist, hauling her up and holding her loose limbed body in his elbow like a football.

“Nn.. no.” She groans, clawing at the ground until she can wrap her hands around the flowers he’d dropped to grab her, “Need… need pinks…” she slurs desperately, clutching the delicate buds to her chest.

“We have to get out of here.” He argues, surprised at how steady his voice was. He still had time. The mist that the flowers spat was concentrated and strong, but now that he’d stopped harvesting them the fog had receded enough to allow him space to think. He has to wait until she’s got the flowers before he can walk, her struggling making it hard to keep his steps straight without falling.

He starts moving while he can think somewhat straight again. He doesn’t have time to spare to study the compass- each passing second threatens him with that looming confusion. His internal navigation is still steady. He has to trust that the mist hasn’t ruined that yet- so he focuses all his brain power into following the path back out. Less twists and turns, now that he’d mapped the way in. he should be able to get them out fast.

He needed to get them out fast. He was okay, he knew that-

Her nose is dripping with blood, bright red and harsh against the pale orange fur on her face. She’s panting and muttering something- Too far. I went too far. I had to- i needed pinks- i need- we went too far- and her time is running out. His arms feel heavy, but he can still carry her. He won’t leave her. He won’t.

Eons pass. It feels like years. Part of him whispers that it would be so easy to lie down, a homesick urge to rest among familiar green grass and dirt. It would feel so good.

He breaks out of the mist into fresh air and his knees hit the dirt again. He drops Lena in a heap on the ground and coughs up white mist until his internal fans run clear again. Thankfully, he still has the presence of mind to shift his mask to keep his face covered while he spits out thick white mucus.

Samiras knees hit the dirt beside him, “Birdy-” She reaches for him but he sits up, batting her hand away.

“I am fine. Tend to Lena.” He says roughly, swaying in place.

When he looks at her, she’s wide eyed in shock, “You can still form sentences?” She asks, awed.

“How long were we in there?” he asks.

“Twelve hours.” She whispers, “Every other team was unable to return before they hit eight.”

Samira insists he and Lena both ride Suncup back to Oasis even if he argues that he’s fine to walk. Halfway back, he’s grateful for her forcing him on the saddle. His head is still pounding, but he’s mostly happy that being up on horseback makes it easier for Samiras and Wox to field Baraths burning desire to poke and prod and interrogate him on exactly why he was so unaffected by the mist. He can’t think of a suitable lie with the exhaustion still weighing him down, so he’s grateful for the obstacles between the two of them. It also gives him a chance to monitor Lena- she hadn’t woken up yet, and her nose was still dripping blood on Suncups gray coat, but she was alive.

Barath wasn’t certain she’d make it back. They just had to monitor her until they could get her to Oasis’s infirmary. As long as everything went smoothly, Birdy was sure she’d be okay. Her vitals were stable.

This is the Realm of madness, and he’s part of the ninja. That’s a double whammy that ensures nothing will go smoothly.

He’s pulling Suncups reigns before he really even processes that everything has gone to hell, yanking the horse off the beaten path and into the underbrush. He whips Suncup around a tree and into the foliage and leaps off, pulling Lena with him and tucking her in the roots of a massive interwoven bush before he rushes back out to help the others.

It looks like a sand eel, almost. The same massive, gaping mouth and tiny eyes, but that’s where the similarities end- the rest of it is thick with fat, it’s twelve legs segmented and hairy and ending in long thick claws for climbing trees like a sloth. One wouldn’t have been bad, but six had dropped around them. Pack hunters. Wox smashes one on the side of the head with his mutated hand and it’s skull cracks and gives- a gruesome sight as blood splatters across the floor.

Barath is standing off to the side dodging debris and eagerly taking notes in his little booklet, more interested in documenting the creatures strange chittering communications than stopping the ambush. The handful of other warriors that’s accompanied them are trying to beat back the rest of the horde to little effect.

Samira jumps to the right, rolling across the dirt as the largest of the beasts attempts to flop its body on top of her- it’s preferred hunting method, it seems. Crushing its prey to death with its massive weight. She leaps back to her feet, turning around too slow- she doesn’t expect it to roll.

Birdy throws himself across the clearing and into Samiras side, the two of them sliding across the ground out of range of the beast's death roll. Birdy is back up in record time, and a wave of vertigo rolls over him. The mist is still lingering in his system- but there’s no time to breathe. The eels are eager to eat, and they don’t care for a fair fight. The alpha zeroes in on Birdy and charges, massive muscles bunching under it’s thick skin with deadly intent.

He hasn’t used ice since the Never Realm. He couldn’t bring himself too- it had been a tool of oppression for so long that the idea of even forming a snowflake made Birdys skin crawl. There was no other option here, though. Not with the beast bearing down on him, not with how weak he still was. He’d have to run after this, take off away from the group- if they’d kill him for his mechanics, there was no telling what they’d do to use his powers.

He reaches deep in his chest, in the cold space that’s always been there-

He flings his hand out. He’d freeze the ground. Their claws were too wide and flat to grip ice. Without traction, it wouldn’t be able to fight. None of them would. That had to be enough. So he draws up from that well deep in his heart and prepares himself to run and hope that Lena will be okay-

-And nothing happens.

The world stutters to a stop.

Ice, the one constant in the past sixty years- the one thing he could truly rely on, even in his darkest moments. His faithful companion during the good at the bad. It didn’t respond to him anymore. The cold chill in his chest is a echo of something he used to have. There’s an empty cavern inside him that expands suddenly, like realizing it was there has allowed it room to breathe and now its crushing his power core and all his internal wiring with the nothingness growing inside him. It stretches down his arms and legs, out to the very tips of his fingers until he is a hollow husk of a man who used to be someone important. Every piece of his body feels fragile and thin, everything he is suddenly a threadbare piece of cloth so thin and insignificant one wrong move will crumble him to dust. He is powerless.

He is alone.

It’s autopilot that saves him and Samira both. The deep set need to survive has him springing away from the beast's path, arm looped around Samiras waist to drag her with him, and it’s his one stroke of good luck that he’d been in front of a tree when the thing charged him. It smashes into bark and it squeals in pain, blood running from its mouth in thick rivulets. It begins to claw up the same tree it’s just dented with its head, chittering a strange song that has the four remaining beasts all pull back. The alpha scrambles up the trunk and leaps across the canopy, the rest of its pack scurrying after it until there is only their little scouting party and the fading crackle of shifting tree branches left.

Mourning has become such a constant part of his life here that he should be able to shelve the loss of Ice and continue on as normal, but he can’t. It feels so much more visceral than what has happened so far- he’d lost everything. Why this, too? Why?

What have I done?

What does a monster deserve?

Suffer.

He swallows down the scream that threatens its way up his throat. He needed to distract himself, he needed to put this away for a moment when he is alone and can fall apart in peace. he can't think about it. he's good at not thinking about things.

He stands up and looks to Samira, who’s already up and briskly brushing the dirt off her pants. Birdy jogs over into the woods where he’d left Suncup and Lena, pleasantly surprised that the skittish horse hadn’t booked it the moment they’d dismounted. He offers the horse a shaky pet before he eases Lena out of the bushes he’d hid her in and back onto Suncups back, leading the two of them back to the main path. Another party member had been injured, and Birdy insists he ride with Lena the rest of the way back to town.

It’s a quiet, somber affair now- everyone on edge, prepared for the next attack that never comes.

Ila waits for them in the stable, and when they arrive with injured she rushes out to fetch the nurses to help. Birdy accompanies Lena to the medical wing- he’s not sure why. He feels responsible for her now, after protecting her. He just had to see it through to the end. He has to make sure she was okay, after everything. They allow him to sit with her after they check her over.

Two hours after they finally make it back, Lena wakes up.

“How are you feeling?” Birdy asks quietly. The room is lit with only a few candles, and Lena still squints against the brightness.

“Did we get the flowers?” She asks instead of responding, whispering it the way people with strep throat whisper. He remember how raw his insides felt after the mist- it would be doubly worse for someone not so mechanically inclined.

“Yes, you did.” Samira answers for him, stepping into the dark room at the perfect time.

Lena straightens up at the sight of her, “My payment?” She asks with a weak smile, eyes flashing with need. Samira produces another of those black vials and hands it over to Lena, who struggles to pop the cork so she can pour all six pills into her palm with a happy sigh.

“As for your payment…” Samira turns to Birdy with a tight frown, “Not only did you get the flowers, but you saved Lenas life and mine. I… owe you.” She bites out the last two words, like it’s agony to say it. Like she wanted nothing less than to offer those words.

By his side, Lena gasps.

“So,” Samira continues, pulling out a small leather bag, “I am going to give you this. Then we’ll be even.” She tosses him the bag.

He catches it automatically, curiously opening the top to reveal an oblong black pill. “Samira, I do not want any painkillers-”

“It’s not a painkiller.” Lena says, voice dripping with longing.

“You survived the mist longer than anyone else ever has.” Crossing her arms, Samira looks away, “There was another like that- his trips to the mist changed him faster, damaged him far more quickly than the rest of us. That’s what happened to you too, isn’t it? You haven't been here the same time as the rest of us, but if you ran into Birdy then you were by the mist. You’re mutated, and it’s far along.”

Lena leans forward, “It’s the cure.” She says reverently, “It takes away the chaos and the pain. It returns you to who you used to be, before this realm destroyed you.”

He looks down at the little pill. So unassuming for the respect it demanded, for the amount of good it could do.

But he was a robot, and he didn’t need it. He was a monster, he wouldn't deserve it.

He picks up the glass of water by Lenas bedside and holds it out to her, dropping the pill bag onto her lap, “Take it.” he says simply, “I do not want it.”

He’d be a fool to ignore the way Lenas face twisted with pain each time she moved- her skin was thick and heavy from the realm, and it weighed so much it threatened to slough off her body each time so moved too quickly. She was covered in silver-white striped stretchmarks under her fur and scars from where her skin had gotten so heavy it’d torn free from her muscles underneath. Her tail was docked halfway down- it’s grown too heavy and had dragged along the ground to the point it was raw and weeping blood too often for her to salvage it. Leather wraps, tight clothes, anything compression helped- but eventually her body would grow so heavy that she wouldn’t be able to move. With the cure, she could be okay for a while longer.

“No!” Samira snaps angrily, immediately taking a dangerous step closer, “You can’t just- give it away. That was my repayment to you, for what you did for me.”

Lena scrambles to take the pill before Samira can make a move for it, swallowing it dry before following it with a hasty gulp of water.

“You gave it to me, so it is my choice what I do with it.” He argues back.

Samira snarls, “That is not how it works. I didn’t do anything for you, now! I still owe you!” she waves her hands around angrily.

“I do not care about repayment!”

“That doesn’t matter!” She lets out an explosive breath, pinching the bridge of her nose like fighting an oncoming headache, “Fine. fine! I’ll repay you some other way!” she spins on heel and storms out of the room, a vacuum of fury being sucked out with her.

Birdy stares after her, confused and irritated. He didn’t want pinks, he didn’t want the cure!

“Thank you.” Lena says quietly. He turns around to face her- her skin hasn’t changed much outwardly, but there's a blissed look of relief relaxing the constant furrow of her brow. A pink pill is missing from the pile in her lap too, “I owe you.”

He feels a fresh bubble of frustration well up his chest, “No, you do not.”

She relaxes back onto the pillow in her bed, “Yes, I do. That’s how it works here. You do something for someone, and they owe you- the bigger the favor, the more you can ask for. For a cure pill, I’ll give you whatever you want… anything you ask.”

He rests his hand lightly on hers, the anger fading into exhaustion, “I do not want anything from you.” He says quietly.

There’s a long moment of silence, “I have to repay you so… I’ll let you in on a secret, okay?”

“You do not have to-”

“Samiras the bad guy.” She mutters softly, “She wants you to think she’s this reformed philanthropist, but that’s not true. She wants control. It’s all she’s ever wanted, and this is how she gets it.” She begins to languidly put the leftover pills back in their case, “Pinks are painkillers, yeah, but they’re also the most addicting thing you can put in your body. It only takes one, and you’re dependent on them- everyone wants one all of the time, and Samira controls the production. She and Ila are the only ones who actually know how to formulate them, so no one else can replicate it. Oasis isn’t a town, it’s her territory- and there’s a price to be paid by everyone who steps food on her soil.”

“A price?”

She shrugs, “food, spices, textiles, labor- all of it is promised in exchange for pinks. If we don’t comply, we don’t get any. It’s how she maintains control- and no one has any dirt on her, so no one can leverage anything to change the status quo. Ila is completely loyal to her, so if Samira is killed I think she’d let this place burn before she blabbed. No one can do anything but live by her rules.”

“Samira has never owed anyone a serious favor… until you. I imagine you won’t be able to get anything too outrageous, but it’s the principle of the matter. Everyone will know she owes you before long, and that’s not a good look for her. If people realize she's not infallible they'll start to get ideas.”

She pins him with her brilliant gold eyes, her gaze intense and focused, “You need to be careful, Birdy. You have a target on your back now- she’ll go to great lengths to discredit you and lower your reputation. You might even be in an ‘accident’ soon… you’re in the lions den, kid.” She smiles at the irony of that statement coming from a lioness, “Don’t let your guard down.”

“And maybe, if you can… get out of town.”

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumptember day 10

“What are you doing to them?” Brainwashed | Hanging from their wrists | Phone call

It felt like their brain was vibrating. All they could hear or feel was an endless buzzing, like all their atoms were trying to pull apart from one another. It was overwhelming, muffling any sensations from the outside world. They couldn't hear, they couldn't think. Their brain was vibrating.

It’d hurt, before. Or they thought it had. They couldn’t remember much before the buzzing had started, but they remembered struggling against the feeling. Had they fought because it hurt? Because it was bad? They didn't remember.

They didn’t struggle now. They didn’t know how, when the entire world was vibrating.

It was like bees had taken residence in their skull; not to harm it, but to reshape it. Everything useless was tossed away, the gaping holes being filled with honey. They’d fought to stop it, but then the memory of why they were fighting had been drowned in sticky sweetness.

It was dizzying and disorienting, it put their teeth on edge, but they didn’t know if it hurt. They couldn’t know anything, not when their brain was vibrating.

They heard voices somewhere outside of their hive they’d become, distant and nearly drowned out.

“What…what is this? What are you doing to them?”

“Hero, you’re aware of our reformation project, yes? Villain is our first patient.”

Just barely, they could hear the voices approaching.

“I–So you’re what, brainwashing them? Is this ethical? Does it hurt?”

Yes, the thought bubbled through the buzzing, it does, please it–

”No, not at all. It’s entirely painless.”

–doesn’t hurt? No, it doesn’t, but didn’t it before? They weren’t sure anymore. The question was being thrown away alongside the other trash, swallowed up and drowned out. They quickly lost hold of it.

Something touched a distant part of their body, and it took a long moment for them to realize they were more than their buzzing skull. Something had been holding their arms aloft, and with a click, it released. They nearly fell forward without the support, but something wrapped around their face held them up, pulling at their scalp.

“Villain, can you hear me? It’s Hero,” The voice was back, closer, but still muffled by the chaos in their mind. It felt like the voice reminded them of something, but they didn’t know. The part of their brain that had known had been scooped out and replaced, leaving barely the shape of a memory.

Something clicked, the noise echoing in the mind, and the buzzing sharpened. They shivered at the sensation of their brain finally sitting still, the see of static shifting into an organized effort.

“Stand up,” The voice wasn’t muffled by the noise, it was the noise. The vibration was shaped by the words, speaking with power that they felt in their bones.

It was a relief, and they chased after that peace. They stood on legs they hardly remembered they had.

Something was moving on their head, whatever had been wrapped around their skull being removed. The world exploded into color, the change taking them a moment to adjust to. When they opened their eyes, two figures stood before them.

The vibrating was already coming back, their moment of peace fading. But then one of the figures clicked a button they held in their hands, and everything sharpened.

“Tell me, who are you and what do you want?”

They hadn’t known the answer seconds ago. They still didn’t know, and yet the truth formed in their mind. After the disorientating chaos, the confidence they felt at their answer was a comfort.

And outside of the angry hive Villain’s mind had become, Hero watched, a horrified onlooker, as their former foe’s face split with a vacant, dull-eyed smile.

“My name is Sidekick, and I want to help you in any way possible.”

[killmongerskeepermain]

Ms. Udaku // Shuri

Summary/Request: Can you do professor shuri / student reader.

Pairing: Professor!Shuri x Student!Fem!Reader

Warning: None

Word Count: 2.1k

The blaring alarm was enough to make you jump out of bed and onto the floor. Today was the day. A handful of students were handpicked to participate in a special technology program. You had been looking forward to this since you were amongst those chosen last week. Being smart has its perks. You don't have to listen to Mrs. Johnson go on and on about atoms and ions. Plus Ms. Udaku was doing the lecture. If you had to pick a professor to pin after, it was her. She wasn't even that much older than you. You would pass by her office just to speak to her on your days off. Usually she would wave off students for bothering her but not you. She tolerated your antics. Sometimes it made you wonder if she felt what you did. But that wasn't important right now. It was a big day so you already had your outfit picked out and knew how you were going to style your hair. A girl gotta prepare. Your phone started to buzz and you saw your best friend's name flash across the screen. "You almost ready Kiya?"

"Hey Y/N, I'm doing my hair but I'll be ready in like 10 minutes." She said and you bounced on your feet. 

"Making sure you look good for a certain genius? We all knew she was going to be picked." You joked and she scoffed. "Bitch ain't nobody worried about looking good for Riri. I look good for me, myself, and I." She retorted and you smiled into the mirror. "I never said who said genius was. Bitch just admit you like her and move the fuck on. Yall already be eye fucking the hell out each other during microchem." You told her before letting out a laugh at her silence. "Yeah. Didn't know I peeped that shit huh?" 

"Fuck you. I'm heading over to your room." She said before hanging up as you did your mascara. You two agreed to walk in together since this was huge for the both of you. Will look real nice on a resume. A soft knock hit your door and you walked over to let her in. Her hair was in a high ponytail with her makeup done and you shook your head before letting her in. "Okay. Who you looking cute for? Ms. Udaku?" She asked as she looked you up and down. You shrugged your shoulders as you grabbed your bag and book off your chair. "Me, myself and I." You repeated her earlier words as the two of you left the dorm room, headed to your destination. The classroom was divine. And you wouldn't say that about any of the rooms in this bitch. You caught sight of Riri sitting in the second row and a small smirk played on your lips. "Come on, I know where we can sit." You pulled her behind you to the front row a couple of seats down from the girl. Kiya immediately took notice and punched your shoulder.

"You bitch." You gave her a smile as you took your seat. Mrs. Johnson walked in with a smile before greeted the room as all eyes were on her. "Good morning. I'm glad all of you could make it today. Now I'm not teaching this program since this isn't my regular class time. Your professor for the course is Ms. Udaku. She is taking her time from her own classes to teach you all so show her the utmost respect." She told us as another woman walked into the room. You couldn't tear your gaze from her as she waved with a wide smile. It was until her brown eyes set on you that you lowered your own to the notebook on the table. You felt Kiya pinch your thigh and you refused to look over at her knowing smirk. 

"It's a pleasure to be here. I wouldn't have known that so many people would be interested in this kind of stuff. But luckily you have me here to teach you."

"Will we learn about some of your experiments Ms. Udaku? They are popular amongst the student body at multiple universities." A voice asked from the back of the room.

"Please Shuri is just fine. I'm only 24 years old. Making me 2 or 3 years older than most of you here." She laughed and your heart skipped a beat. Fuck. She started her lecture and you felt Kiya nudge your arm shortly after. You looked over at her this time and she held a grin. "I saw that. Does my little Y/N have the hots for Ms. Udaku?" You rolled your eyes as you knew she didn't plan on letting this go. "No you didn't. Now shush. We're in the front."

"You picked these seats. Remember?" She smirked and you began to regret your plan. Last time I try to play matchmaker. "Shut up." You whispered before Shuri turned to face the two of you. Oh shit. "Would one of you like to tell me if this sequence will be a success or not?" She asked and you looked over at the sequence written out. You bit your lip, not wanting to look like a fool in front of her. "It'll fail." Kiya spoke before you could say anything and Shuri turned to you. "Your friend seems so confident in her answer. Why don't you elaborate why?"

"Well there's some components missing. Without them it won't turn out the way you expect it too. It'll turn into a completely different sequence, which could cause a big problem. So, she's right, it'll fail." You said softly and the room went silent. Were you wrong? Did you just embarrass yourself in front of the smartest woman in this room."What's your name?"

"Y/N." You began to fidget under her gaze and she gave you a soft smirk. "Good job Ms. Y/N." Fuck me. She held your gaze before turning back to the board. You let out the breath that you were holding as Kiya nudges you playfully. You felt another tap and looked back to see Riri with a smile. 

"Pretty good for a mechanic and a bookworm." She said before looking over at Kiya, who seemed as if she was about to combust. Riri took notice as she sat back in her seat and I couldn't stop the grin on my lips. 

"Okay Ms. Bookworm." You mumbled and she put her face in her hands. You stayed attentive during the rest of the lecture just staring. The way she talked so passionately about her work. The way her curls bounced in her face. You swore she caught your gaze a couple of times but you didn't even try to turn away. When the lecture was over she thanked everyone for attending. 

"This has been quite the experience. I do plan to come back for another class so be on the lookout for that announcement. Anyway, I have some things to attend to back in my office. Off you go." The students started piling out but you took your time to put your books in your bag. You noticed Riri walking up to Kiya and decided against eavesdropping on your best friend. She'll tell you right after anyway. You felt a presence next to you and looked up to see Shuri. 

"Ms. Udaku."

"Please. Call me Shuri. I wanted to tell you personally that you have a sharp eye. Didn't expect you to answer correctly after being put on the spot." She told you and you tried to hide your smile. 

"Thank you Shuri. Although you did have me thinking I was wrong." You replied and she gave a small laugh. 

"I was ready to tell you that you were. Since the two of you were talking during my lecture. But I'll admit you surprised me. See me after your classes, okay." She walked past you leaving you stuck in shock as you wondered why she needed to speak with you further. Kiya planted herself next to you before turning to watch Riri walk out the room. When the coast was clear she buried her head in your shoulder with a slight squeal.

"She asked me out. She knew I liked her. She KNEW I liked HER!" She said and you turned to her. 

"Ms. Uda- Shuri wants to talk to me in her office." You started and Kiya froze before grabbing your shoulders tight. 

"Okay Y/N. You are going to walk in there and butter her up. She wants you." She said and you scoffed. "She's our professor."

"She's teaching outside of her own class. So she's not OUR professor, Mrs. Johnson is. Besides, she's only 2 years older than you. I see nothing wrong." She shrugged as the two of you walked out of the room. "So while I'm getting head from Riri you better be in there face down ass up. And I want to hear all about it later tonight." 

"Bitch what?" You laughed as she held onto your arm to steady herself, lost in her own laughter. We had finally calmed down when you looked at the time. "Well let me go on and see what she wants. I'll see you tonight."

"I'll bring the snacks. Bye girl." We went our separate ways and you suddenly felt your heart flutter. Secondly your hands started to sweat as you neared the office door. You stood frozen in front of the door and began to panic. What if you go in there and make a total fool out of yourself? What if you caught the wrong signals? Maybe you should just book it back to your dorm room and forget about the whole thing. But then you'll have another class with her. She'll most likely confront you or-

The door was pulled open mid mental crisis revealing Shuri. "You're not that quiet you know. Come in." You stopped into her office and bit the inside of your cheek as the door closed shut. "You can relax, Y/N. I don't bite." Oh but fuck do I want you too. You gave a small nod as you took a seat across from her desk. She leaned against the side and you took the chance to ask the golden question. 

"Um, so what did you want to talk to me about?" You asked as she flipped through some pages in a file.

"You are one of the smartest people on this campus. Aside from Riri Williams. Your project on the machine used to detect usual metals under the water is astonishing. It even works above water. Where did you even get the parts for this?" 

"A nearby junkyard. Riri told me about the place. Surprisingly most of the stuff worked just fine. Just a small tune up here and there. She nodded her head before placing the file on the table. 

"I also want to speak about your staring problem." She said nonchalantly and you jerked your head up to see her already looking at you. "My staring problem?"

"Yes. During the lecture you always found yourself staring at me. Did I have something on my face? Or maybe you were spacing out? Either way I won't tolerate it during my class." With each word she got closer to you until her hands resting on the arms rests, trapping you between her and the chair. "I don't know what you mean?"

"Don't play dumb with me Y/N. I have one of the smartest brains in the world. If you don't want this, just say the word and we'll never speak of it again." She was close enough for you to feel her breath on your skin. Fuck it. You leaned up to close the gap between you and she smiled into the kiss as she nestled her knee between your legs. You swallowed a moan as she applied pressure to your clothed pussy. Her tongue slipped along your own when she pushed her way past your lips. Her hand slid under your skirt and grabbed hold of your panties. You spread out slightly as she dragged them down your legs. Your heated meeting with the professor was cut short when a knock sounded from the other side of the door.

"Ms. Udaku, I have some questions about the assignment due next week." She pulled away from you to allow you to pull yourself together. Slipping your panties in her pocket she opened the door to greet the student with a smile. 

"Of course. Ms. Y/N I'll see you next session alright." She turned to wink at you out of the student's sight and you nodded. You gathered your things before walking out of the office. You put a hand to your chest to calm down as you made your way back to your room. Not without stopping by the bathroom to wipe your thighs of the mess she made.

[r0semaryt3a]

Domestic Facade

Chrollo x (f) OC

A/N: so I started this as a little break from revision and to mess around with writing tropes I hate, but now I’m really into the idea and need feedback on the initial extract. I was going to post this directly onto Ao3 but want to increase my changes of writing more by having a few characters under my belt.

NOT PARTICULARLY PROOF READ

Feeback would be appreciated <3

CW: non applicable

Word count: 1,193

- Content bellow read on -

The early hours of morning began to arrive, sun trickling through open windows, seemingly drawn by the sizzling of eggs. Days like this were nice. Curtains drifting slowly in the breeze, everything at peace. The thought of work -as pleasant as she found it- not weighing heavy on Nirami’s back.

One of her few days off.

Nirami stood beside her kitchen counter, watching as steam billowed from her soon to be breakfast. She loved cooking. Always had, it was so fascinating watching atoms at work.

Sat, ogling, at the way her egg whites puffed up.

The things swayed in her pan with every small movement, don’t play with your food, a familiar voice rang in the back of her head. Her father always did hate this habit of her’s. Counted it a waste of food as stubby legs would dangle idly from her chair, fork prodding at the food she’d left to go cold with a pout. ‘I don’t want it.’ she’d whine, only for a firm voice to barter with her, holding the prospect of desert like a carrot on a stick. Inevitably causing her to cave. At the time, she’d looked at him as if he was the worst person in the world. However, now, standing in a kitchen of her own, she began to appreciate that he placated to her antics.

Slumping the eggs onto a plate, Nirami moved to check on her hashbrowns (an equally as interesting phenomenon to watch as her eggs.), she’d have to pay him a visit, get something to replace the flowers she’d given last time. He always liked Chrysanthemums, it wouldn’t hurt to pick some next time she went out.

A single churn of her salt shaker signaled the dinner bell; she sat down to eat. Tearing her food apart with an almost abnormally meticulous care.

Through her chewing, Nirami turned her attention to the flurry of plants climbing up her walls. A colleague had once suggested the idea of a simple houseplant, to keep her occupied during her parents' passing, a few years ago. A part of her had scoffed at the idea. And now here she was, all sorts of flora scattered around her apartment.

Nirami wouldn’t particularly say it had elevated her grief, but it was certainly a pleasant development. A particularly burnt piece of potato cut through her idle thoughts, maybe she should’ve focused a little more on ensuring her food was edible…The food itself was nice, it always was, for all her slip ups Nirami was a good cook. Eggs oozed; she eagerly wiped up their contents and around fifteen minutes passed before she’d finished. Raising to put her plates in for the wash. A sigh left Nirami as she went about her daily drivel, it was always like this, just as she liked it. The routine had brought solace in times of distress and kept her grounded for her line of work. Never changing, forever trudging along.

Life was simple like this.

Life was good like this.

Life was–

–buzz

The light of her phone flooded the room, its artificial hue reminded her of work. Placing her plate back into soapy water, her eyes scanned the screen’s surface. Unfortunately for her, it had already faded. Forcing Nirami to dry her hands and wander to the side, picking up her mobile, a smile split through her lips. Perhaps changes in her routine were good every once in a while, he was proof of that. Chrollo.

The two had met at her place of work, he’d been dressed to the nines. At the time, she’d taken his attire and assumed he was there to grieve a loved one, offering her condolences. Once he’d revealed he was simply there for an appointment, she’d found herself stumbling over her words. He was kind and quite the charmer, winning her over with ease (and a little coffee).

Since then the two had grown quite close, Chrollo had slotted himself neatly into Nirami’s schedule. Quite the feat indeed. He wasn't around much anymore, had to head back off to work, he’d told her. And so, anytime his name popped up on her phone, it filled her with nothing but euphoria.

The text was simple enough, morning love, yet she still found it hard to respond.

He always did have that effect on her.

Chrollo was far more composed than Nirami. Every word he ever said was picked with poise. She settled for an equally simple response (one most would’ve considered second nature.) morning. The words ‘delivered’ looked back up at her. No doubt he’d take a while to respond, he usually did…

With a sigh, Nirami set back off to do: something. A pleasant hum leaving her as she did. Her apartment was fairly small yet held a large range of activities. She settled for reading.

Plucking one of the many books from its neat place upon her shelf, she didn't particularly know what it was she’d picked. Nor did she care. Everybook in that apartment had been picked apart more times than she could count. Most of them were gifts. Small reminders of Chrollo’s many stays. He’d often send them over, classics and historical pieces, far beyond the ages. A few of them had been in languages Nirami had never even heard of, forcing her hand in learning all sorts of new tongues.

She’d taken to her sofa, swinging her legs onto its surface and brushing her fingers against the pages. Turning to the cover she was finally met by its title: Wuthering Heights. She was familiar with this one, had been when Chrollo had bought her this particular copy. The conversation of that ordeal lay sweet on her tongue.

“Ah, this one’s a particular favorite of mine.” A chuckle rang out as fingers grasped a hard worn cover, moving with almost criminal precision. Finally holding it in view Nirami’s eyes were alight with curiosity before her eyes met the title. “Fitting, a man of nuance, attracted to the definition of it.” A slight look of surprise overtook Chrollo’s features, the act so minute Nirami missed it by a mile. “You’ve read it?” The question wasn’t raised in a way of shock, more admiration, “mhm, a few times over actually. My father used to give me all his mother’s old books.” The conversation spanned for what felt like hours, every answer Nirami gave seemed to give way only for another question. All perfectly eloquent and all perfectly crafted to garner the exact responses he seemed to crave.

It had been like watching a thief at work, the thought was almost enough to elicit a small laugh from Nirami. Her Chrollo, a man who’d shown her nothing but compassion, a thief? Such juxtaposition was a thing of Shakespeare. The idea in itself seemed laughable…With all the ruckus in her life, Chrollo had come as a pleasant break, thoughts of him often flooded her head nowadays. Though she tried her best to filter them at work, he always loomed in some deep recess of her mind. In a way, Nirami guessed he was a thief: he’d stolen her attention in such little time.

Bzz.