#almost rebuilding itself again to trap you inside

[bullet-prooflove]

In For Five: Tyler Owens x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hunterthecharmer @heylookwhoitis @shakespeareanwannabe

Companion piece to:

The Mechanic - Tyler faces a problem when Boone brings his mechanic ex girlfriend back into the fold.

Rigs -Tyler reflects on history with you

Ford Mustang - Tyler extends an olive branch.

Engine Parts - Tyler and you try to clear the air.

Your first job with the Wranglers is to get Tyler’s truck back to your garage in Lawton. When you step out of your tow truck and lay eyes on it, you know it’s going to be a bigger job than you initially reckoned because the poor thing is barely holding itself together in the aftermath of it’s adventures in a tornado.

“You can fix it right?” Tyler asks as you stand before the vehicle with your arms crossed over your chest.

“It looks like it needs an exorcism.” You tell him with a sigh before attaching the chain to the truck. “Let’s hope it holds together long enough for me to get it home.”

Arnett is almost three hours away from Lawton and Tyler decides to ride shotgun, leaving the other Wranglers with the RV as they help locals rebuild the community where tornado hit.

“It’s where the money from all the merch goes.” He tells you as you hurtle down the 60, your eyes on the road, Luke Combs on the radio. “We try to help out as best we can.”

He was the same back then too, you recall, throwing himself into the thick of it, pitching in any way he could.

It’s an hour into the trip that you realise he’s fallen asleep, the lyrics to Fast Car are still playing but Tyler’s voice isn’t accompanying them. You look over to see him tucked up against the door of your tow truck, head resting on the window, arms crossed over his chest. He looks so boyish in that moment, so care free and you remember what Boone had said when he’d taken you aside after Tyler had climbed inside your truck.

“He hasn’t been sleeping since the big one.” He confides in you. “He says he’s fine but what happened in that movie theatre scared the shit out of all of us especially when we almost lost Lily.”

Tyler hasn’t talked much about the tornado other than a brief outline of Kate’s work, it isn’t until that moment you realise just how close it had been for all of them. It explains the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes these days.

It’s when you pull into the garage that you try to wake him. You try saying his name but he doesn’t stir so instead you reach across to touch him, your hand lightly squeezing his shoulder. He jerks awake, his body tensing, his eyes wide and fearful and you know that he was back there again, trapped in that movie theatre along with everyone else, waiting to die.

“Hey, it’s alright.” You say softly, your hand coming to cup the side of his face, your thumb tracing over the dusting of stubble across his cheek. “It’s just me.”

His hand clasps your palm to his face, his heart thudding in his chest as he closes his eyes and his breathing stuttered.

“In for five.” You whisper and he draws in a deep breath. “Hold for five and then out for five.”

It’s a throwback to three years ago, when you used to wake up with your pulse racing in the middle of the night. He’d be right there with you, his forehead resting on yours as he soothed away your tears.

“Do it with me.” He’d say as he looked into your eyes, drowning out everything else but the sensation of his chest pressing moving in time with yours. “In for five.”

His breathing starts to even out, his shoulders relaxing. His lips brush over the underside of your wrist, his heated breath ghosting over your skin as his eyes meet yours. It takes you back to the last time the two of you were together in a motel room in Kansas, him undressing you by the light of the street lamp outside, his lips chasing over every inch of you before he took you apart.

“We’re home.” You whisper and Tyler sighs because home is where ever you are, it’s just taken him this long to realise it.

Love Tyler? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[thatsoanjie]

When the wind settles

Sebastian Sallow x reader

Summary : After Ranrok was ended, a Goblin rebellion happened. This is 5 months after the rebellion, and everyone thought you were gone for good. Sebastian revisits Feldcroft in an attempt to find traces of you again, not knowing what's to come.

Word count : 1.5k

Notes : This one was a little heavier to write! Just had to get this one out of my mind.

TW : Mentions of su!c!dal ideation... read at your own discretion.

Read my disclaimer and fair use notice here

The ruins of Feldcroft lay still, a silent testament to the war that had ravaged the land. The village, once vibrant with life, was now a graveyard of memories, its cottages reduced to charred skeletons, its streets choked with debris. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and ashes, a grim reminder of all that had been lost. Snow had begun to fall again, soft and steady, as if the sky itself was mourning.

Sebastian Sallow stood in the center of what had once been his home, his heart as cold and lifeless as the stones scattered around him. It had been five months since the final battle of the Goblin Rebellion, five months since he had lost almost everything that mattered. Ominis and Anne were safe, and for that, he was grateful, but the knowledge did nothing to fill the void inside him.

Because you were gone.

The thought was a knife in his chest, a pain that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat. You had been his anchor, his hope, his everything. And now you were nothing more than a memory—a ghost that haunted his every waking moment. They had told him you were dead, that you had been lost in the chaos of the battle, your body never found. He had refused to believe it at first, had scoured the wreckage for any sign of you, but as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the terrible truth had settled in.

You were gone. And there was nothing he could do to change that.

The guilt was a constant companion, a weight he could never shake. You had been the best of them, the light that had kept him going through the darkest times. And now that light was extinguished, leaving him to stumble through the shadows alone.

He had come back to Feldcroft because there was nowhere else to go. The world outside was trying to rebuild, to move on, but Sebastian was stuck in the past, trapped in a moment that he couldn’t escape. The ruins of Feldcroft were all that was left of his old life, a desolate reflection of the emptiness he carried inside him. 

He wandered through the village, his steps slow and heavy, his mind lost in the memories of what had once been. He could still see it, as if the echoes of the past were imprinted on the air—the laughter of children playing in the streets, the warm glow of lanterns in the windows, the scent of freshly baked bread wafting from the cottages. But those memories were like ghosts, insubstantial and fleeting, impossible to hold on to.

Just like you.

Sebastian’s breath hitched as he reached the edge of the village, where the land sloped down toward the river. This had been your favorite spot, the place where you had always come to find peace, to escape from the burdens of the world. He could almost see you there, standing by the water, your hair catching the light as you turned to smile at him.

But it was just a memory. Just another ghost.

He closed his eyes, the ache in his chest unbearable. He didn’t know how to keep going without you, didn’t want to keep going. The world was a darker place without you in it, and he was so tired of stumbling through the shadows, of trying to find his way in a world that no longer made sense.

But then, through the silence, he heard it—a sound so soft, so faint, that at first, he thought it was just the wind. But it came again, more distinct this time, a footstep crunching in the snow behind him.

His heart stopped, his breath catching in his throat. He turned slowly, afraid to look, afraid to hope. And then he saw you.

You were standing just a few feet away, your figure half-hidden by the falling snow, your eyes wide with shock and something else—something that mirrored the grief and yearning that had been eating away at him for so long.

For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing, to reconcile the image of you standing before him with the brutal reality he had been living in. It couldn’t be real. You were gone. You were a ghost.

“Sebastian,” you whispered, your voice trembling as if you, too, were afraid that this was just a dream, that you might wake up at any moment and find yourself alone again.

He shook his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re not real,” he said, his voice breaking as he took a step back, his hands trembling at his sides. “You can’t be real.”

“Sebastian, it’s me,” you insisted, your voice thick with emotion as you took a step toward him, your hand reaching out as if to reassure him, to prove that you were real, that you were here.

He flinched, his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at you, his mind screaming that this couldn’t be happening, that you were just a figment of his imagination, conjured by his grief and longing. “You’re dead,” he whispered, his voice raw with the pain that had been festering inside him for months. “They told me you were dead.”

“I almost was,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath. “I was hurt, Sebastian—badly. But I survived. I made it to one of the camps, and they healed me. After that, I helped wherever I could—healing, rebuilding, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. But my work there was done, I had nothing keeping me there. I had to find you.”

He stared at you, his heart breaking all over again at the sight of the tears in your eyes, the grief and love that shone in them. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his emotions. “I thought you were gone, and I didn’t know how to keep going without you.”

You took another step closer, your hand brushing against his arm, warm and solid and so achingly real. “I’m here now,” you whispered, your voice filled with a quiet, unshakable determination. “We’re both here, Sebastian. We survived.”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight with the tears he had been holding back for so long. “It should’ve been me,” he choked out, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to suffer like that. I should’ve been the one to die, not you.”

“No,” you said firmly, your voice laced with a fierce, desperate kind of love. “Don’t you ever say that, Sebastian. We both fought, we both survived. And now we’re here. Alive.”

He hesitated, his heart warring with his mind, his grief and guilt battling against the overwhelming relief of having you in his arms again. “I thought I’d lost you,” he repeated, his voice breaking as he finally let himself believe what he was seeing, let himself believe that you were really here, that this wasn’t just a cruel trick of his imagination.

You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, your touch grounding him, anchoring him in the reality of the moment. “I’m right here,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the depth of your emotions. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you, Sebastian. Not now. Not ever.”

He couldn’t hold back any longer. With a broken sob, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as tightly as he could, as if he could somehow make up for all the lost time, for all the moments he had thought he would never have with you again. You clung to him just as fiercely, your tears soaking into his shirt as you buried your face in his chest, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you tried to steady yourself.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words spilling out of him in a rush, as if he had been holding them back for too long. “I love you. I should have told you before, but I was too scared, too afraid of what might happen. But I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. “I always have, Sebastian. And I’m not going to let you go. Not now. Not ever.”

He kissed you then, slow and deep, pouring all of his love, all of his grief, all of his yearning into that one kiss. It was a kiss filled with the promise of tomorrow, with the hope of a future that he had thought was lost. And as he held you in his arms, surrounded by the ruins of Feldcroft, the wind swirling around you like a shroud, he knew that he had found you again.

And that was enough.

***

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Requests are open.

[seigephoenix]

How about M!Warden/Zevran and quiet, cozy nights for dadwc :D

Happy Friday! For @dadrunkwriting. Here is Malcolm Cousland x Zevran for a quiet night. Zevran actually being a sweet, thoughtful partner. Malcolm being his adorably goofy self. Nice to see a Hero of Ferelden that doesn't take themselves so seriously.

Content Warning: cozy, sweet, a tad bit sad in some parts especially near the end but not "crying buckets sad" Length: ~1.2k words

Malcolm looked out the window that faced the courtyard in Highever castle and smiled as he saw the hustle and bustle winding down for the day.  He’d stayed on to help Fergus rebuild their home and then he was going on his own quest.  Ferelden had a band of Wardens again and Vigil’s Keep ran smoothly even when he wasn’t there.  Malcolm had to search for a cure.  He couldn’t tolerate the thought that he would leave Zevran before they were both old and gray.

Malcolm spotted a familiar head of blond headed towards a merchant and was curious.  What did Zevran need a merchant for?  Malcolm pressed his face against the glass, and he debated asking Fergus about the merchant.  His older brother was so lovingly exasperated with him and it showed.  Andraste’s tits, just be direct Malcolm.  No need to jump through a million different hoops to arrive at a destination three feet away.  Malcolm knew it was easy for Fergus, but his tongue decided to tie itself into a knot anytime he wanted to ask or say something so direct.  The fear of rejection or being ridiculed was choking at times.  So, Malcolm preferred to wait until someone decided to tell him on their own.  Except, the curiosity was eating him up inside.

“Just go and ask for Maker’s sake.” Fergus huffed from his desk.  “You are going to be the one to explain why there are smudges on my window.  I’ll not take the tongue lashing for you this time.”  Malcolm glared over his shoulder at his older brother before returning his attention to the courtyard, but Zevran was already gone.  His shoulders slumped and Fergus rolled his eyes.  He absolutely tried his best to be encouraging to Malcolm, but his brother was trapped within a reality of his own making.

“Where are you going?” Malcolm asked when Fergus stood.

“Now that is none of your business baby brother.”  Malcolm swatted at his hand when Fergus poked his forehead.  They were opposite in their coloring; Fergus took after their father while Malcolm favored their mother’s side of the family.  Fergus disappeared through the door and Malcolm quietly mocked his older brother.  “I heard that.”  Malcolm froze at those words but shook his head.  Brothers.

That Evening

Malcolm studied his correspondence with Vigil’s Keep.  Nathaniel was making excellent progress with growing their numbers and influence.  He had thought it prudent to leave Nathaniel there as he was still a Howe.  Despite what happened during the Blight, many people still looked up to and respected the Howe name.  He looked up as the door opened and Zevran slipped in holding a bottle of wine and a small bundle tucked under his arm.

“You’re awake.  Good.” Zevran smiled as he set the bottle down by the end table beside the fireplace.  “I do not think I will ever get used to such luxury.”  He settled down on the soft carpet next to the roaring fire.

“Truly?  Seems it suits you just fine.” Zevran smiled from position and stretched with a slight arch to his back.  Malcolm followed the movements before setting his eyes back on the papers.  Nathaniel would team up with the steward at Vigil’s Keep and then he’d never hear the end of it.  “I’m almost done.  I’m sorry Zev.  I put this off as long as I could.”

“You’re overworking yourself again.  Come and sit by the fire with me.”  Zevran stretched his hand towards Malcolm.  “Simply tell your steward that you were seduced into spending the night with a handsome devil.”  Malcolm chuckled as he set his quill down and joined Zevran on the rug.  Zevran shifted until his head rested on Malcolm’s thigh.

“I’d give the poor man an apoplectic fit if I told him what I was truly getting up to.” Malcolm smiled when Zevran’s hand reached up to tangle in his hair.  Hair that he’d had to crop short after the battle with the Archdemon, but he was slowly growing it back out.  He missed the feel of Zevran’s fingers running along his scalp.

“Seems to me that the man could do with a bit more excitement.”  He tugged until their lips met in a tender kiss with just a trace of heat.  “I do love you.”  Malcolm felt his heart stutter and melt at the words.  Words he knew were never easily spoken, words he’d once thought he’d never hear.  Their road wasn’t smooth by any stretch of the imagination.  Two broken people, scared of the word and emotion, coming together to find each other.  In a time scattered with war and rife.

“And I you.  More than anything.” Malcolm gently laid his lips on Zevran’s forehead, savoring the faint scent of leather and a smell that reminded him of sultry summer nights and exotic wares on the market.  Malcolm slowly lifted his head and smiled down at Zevran.  He jerked back in shock when Zevran bolted upright.

“I almost forgot!”  Malcolm released a shaky breath as Zevran popped to his feet and grabbed the wrapped package off the table.  It wasn’t big, which was intriguing enough, but the shape of the gift was square.

“What is this?” Malcolm asked when Zevran handed it over to him.

“Happy birthday my love.”  Malcolm stared at him in disbelief.  “Did you truly forget your birthday?”

“I.  I guess I did.  I never really bothered with my birthday, it’s just another ordinary day to me.” Malcolm murmured as he ran his fingers over the front of the package.

“Well, no longer.  I intend to make sure you enjoy every birthday going forward.  Now please, I want you to open it.”  Zevran placed his hand on the wrapping paper and Malcolm chuckled.

“Alright, alright.  I’ll open it.”  The paper fell away, and the breath lodged in Malcolm’s throat.  His family stared back at him from the canvas.  He traced his mother’s lips up to the curled buns at the back of her head.  Bryce stood beside her with a dignified smile on his face.  He saw himself and Fergus there beside them and…

“Oren.” Malcolm choked on the hiccup that disguised his sobs.  His baby nephew.  A truly innocent victim in Arl How’s mad ambitions.  His death tore Malcolm to shreds with guilt.  He’d promised the boy that he’d train him on the sword starting the day after.  “How?”  Malcolm looked up at Zevran with eyes wet from tears.

“There were a few portraits that remained unharmed throughout the years.  I also hired an artist that knew your family quite well.”  Zevran reached out and brushed the tears off his cheeks.  “I did not mean for my gift to upset you.”

“I’m not upset, not really.  You gave a piece of my family back to me.  A piece I thought had long been lost.” Malcolm whispered as he stared down at the portrait in his hands.  Zevran sat beside him as he set the painting against the table.  “After Howe set fire to the castle, we didn’t think any paintings survived.  This means the world to me Zevran.  Thank you.”  Zevran smiled at him and offered a glass of wine to him.

“Shall we toast to a glorious birthday?  I’ll give you your other present tonight.”  Malcolm choked on the wine as unbridled thoughts came to his mind given that sultry tone of voice.  Zevran merely chuckled and gave him that mysterious smile that told Malcolm he did it on purpose.  The man lived to torment him like that.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Five of Pentacles

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | one

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Still reeling from the attack on Jortho, you begin your journey to scower the systems for galactic aid. The Mandalorian takes you aboard his ship temporarily, agreeing to shuttle you to your next destination. You both figure your tenure on the Razor Crest will be short lived... But you've been wrong before.

Word count: 3.8k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings: blood/gore, minor character death (mentioning), mature themes/language, vomiting

Notes: Hi friends. Here we go. Chapter 2... The last paragraph is marked with ///|||///, denoting a change to Mando's POV— his pov will be cropping up now and again, and I have a tendency to play with the timeline/tenses when it does. Enjoy x

You have to think about it. Genuinely.

It takes longer than you’d like to admit, with the Mandalorian looking down at you expectantly, a gloved hand slotted against his belt—postured and waiting.

‘Do you have a way off this skug hole?’

You open your mouth, but no words come out. It snaps closed. You swallow, but the action provides no relief. Your tongue feels too big for the small space it’s trapped in; too swollen, too dust logged— like you could choke on it, if you really tried. Finally, a single syllable frees itself, the weight of it plummeting through your ribs, ricocheting off the bones until it lands in your stomach with a dull, sinking splash.

“No.”

He doesn’t move.

“Do you need to get anything?”

You shake your head, small at first, phantom movements, before stringing together a sentence. “N-No. It’s all gone. Everything I had- it all went up on the shuttle-“

Oh gods, the shuttles.

Your heart seizes, a cold hand like a vice, gripping the bloody organ. You feel green; sickly chartreuse slithering it’s way up your esophagus, poisoning your soft palate. There were pilots on board when the ships blew. Two on each one. That’s four— four people. You knew their names. Knew their home planets. Knew about their families. One had a kid. Fuck. That’s four dead, and you didn’t even think of them— Maker, how could you not have thought about them?— No, fuck, fuck fuck-

It didn’t before but it’s hitting you now, stabbing you right between the eyes, the image of their bodies disintegrating in the blast wave, charring up like coal and carbon. You breathed them in, you realize. Their corpses coat your lungs.

The thought is all it takes.

Your feet move on instinct, scrambling to the side of his gunship where you vomit, bracing yourself against the riveted siding as you hack and sputter, wretching bile and what little broth you’d had for supper to splatter onto the cracked earth. Mercifully you’re hidden enough around the corner that you don’t think the bounty hunter sees, and if he does, he has the curtesy not to say anything.

What a gentleman, you think dryly, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

You pant, body beyond spent, chest heaving as you press your scratched palm into the durasteel, the cool metal soothing it’s sting. Moments stretch like this— you doubled over, catching your breath— before you stumble back into view, graceless and encumbered, as if you didn’t just casually throw up down the front of yourself. You stand below him at the bottom of the ramp. He’s still there, a fixed point. Steel boots welded into the steel ramp.

“Uhm, are you-“

You cough, and it’s an ugly, hoarse sound; your throat burns, roughened and raw around the edges, and your nerves are too strung out for polite colloquialisms. You don’t have the energy to play coy and tip toe around the question. You’re fucking tired.

You try again.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

And now it’s his turn to hesitate, almost like he didn’t fully think the proposition through— as if it’s all just dawning on him now.

The Mandalorian didn’t strike you as someone who familiarized himself with answering to anyone— or picking up hitchhikers, for that matter— even if the offer was his to begin with... That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Those words in that order? He meant to give you transport off planet? He wasn’t just… making conversation? Did Mandalorians even do that? Maker, if you’ve read this whole situation wrong, no small thanks to a laser-brain full of mush, you reckon you’d die from embarrassment on the spot where you stood, splotched with soot and puke and blood.

You think he’s going to tell you to shove off— you see his hand balling into a fist at his side— and close the ramp right then and there. Be rid of you. Sluffed, like a flea from a dog.

But he doesn’t. He surprises you both.

“Yes.”

Oh. Oh. Kriff, okay. Think think think-

Your mind reels and you’re rambling now, words ending and beginning in the same breath— steamrolling over yourself.

“Okay, I-I need to go back in to town, just for a—I cant let them think I’m just leaving them like this... Is that okay? I’m sorry, I won’t take long, I promise, I just— they need to know I’m getting help. Is that- uhm, can you wait? Can you wait for me?”

There’s another unreadable pause that makes you want to bury your head in the cold, fallow soil.

The man is looking at you like you’ve grown another kriffing leg, but eventually he grumbles out a noise that sounds like an affirmative, turning on his heel, and disappears into the belly of the ship— leaving you there alone.

Alone.

Pin pricks needle at the nape of your neck and the hair down your arm stands on end.

Alone.

You’re alone for the first time since the attack and suddenly you feel half your size and shrinking smaller still, like atoms collapsing and folding in on themselves until they dematerialize completely—and you along with them. You tell yourself to breath. To fight the bubbles of panic as they burst and pop, dimpling you from the inside out. Breath. Focus, he said. Focus.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

The Mandalorian never reemerges.

Well… you guess that was your cue.

///

Staggering back into Jortho is like sleepwalking through a nightmare.

The smoke from the bombing has completely engulfed the lower atmosphere, doming the town in a thick canopy; the sky is blackened, starless, and the moons hover noncommittally like mere suggestions in the dark canvas.

Half the town had been decimated to rubble, and the other half was covered in the shockwave of it’s explosion— caked in grime, windows knocked out, doors splintered open. You almost expected the pieces to have reversed themselves back up, like you’ve seen in holovid special effects—homes rebuilding, fires dousing themselves, air purifying itself from the smog… but they don’t. They remain in shambles.

Time has granted you the unforgiving gift of clarity, and it’s one you’d rather not have been given. You don’t want to see the aftermath without the saccharine filter of shock to cushion you. The town is just as you left it, but somehow worse— worse because you can hear the crying, now. The wailing. You didn’t before with the blood pumping in your ears, deafening you, but you do now. The woeful noises that reverberate over the crackling embers still smoldering, the muffled sobs being choked down behind fractured walls.

Tripping over stray debris, you find Hareem close to where you’d left her, her fuse short hair grey with ash. The blood you smeared from her cheek still clouds her skin there, staining it as it does your fingers that wiped it. She wobbles to her feet and meets you in the middle of the road.

Neither of you speak, not at first. You hold onto her shoulders, and like a pillar of salt, you quake.

You try explaining to her that the communication’s system on your transport freighter had been blown up alongside the town, that you’ve accepted a ride from the bounty hunter and that you’re getting off world to contact the RRM headquarters, that you’d stay if you could but you can’t and you need to call for assistance, for help. You try to tell her that you’d do anything— travel through dimensions, if you could, to undo all of this chaos— if the laws of time allowed it.

You want to go back and pretend today never happened. To unlearn the tremor in your hands as they grip her frame. To unlearn all of this. To unknow. But,

you can’t.

All you can do is move forward. Do the next right thing. Take the next right step.

You’ve explained yourself in circles but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The words feel shallow, like slapping some bacta on a severed limb, and guilt rips through you— your voice torn with it.

“But how can I leave now?” you ask helplessly, eyes skittering around you. “After all- all of this?”

Hareem finds your hands, her spindled fingers encasing your own. A crease engraves her forehead, little lines clustering around her eyes. “You’ve done enough, hm? You go now. Go with that Mandalorian. You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“Har-“

She doesn’t let you say it. The older woman soothes a thumb into the web between your knuckles.

“Make contact. Comm for aid. It will come, but it won’t if you stay here.”

Your shoulders release with a defeated sigh. You know the Balosar’s right— you’re the one who’s told her as much. That’s RRM protocol. In case of emergency, you were to comm in and reconvene with the closest branch to your system to send additional supplies and volunteers to the camp. You know this better than anyone here, and yet this woman, this refugee, was the one aping your mission back to you.

She’s firm. Kind. “You’re just one person.”

Briefly, you wonder if she’s a parent. You think her child would be lucky to have her as their mother-- all of her somber strength. You think you would have been lucky, too.

Maybe things would be different—maybe you’d be different.

You gather yourself, piece by piece, and give her knobby hand a squeeze. You bore into her, determined and unwavering. You need her to understand. “I’m not abandoning you—any of you. I need you to know that, okay? I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I know, my friend,” Hareem says plainly, a sad sort of resolve quieting her tone. She has no fight left, nothing left to give— as empty as her pockets, lint lined and turned out. Barren. “I know.”

///

You weave your way back to the ship, feet padding across the arid landscape. You don’t blink, not even once, eyes crusted open and gaping. You barely remember the trek but somehow you’ve managed it, treading up the ramp, the thuds sounding hollow and foreign to your ear.

“I’m not a taxi service.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

“Maker almighty,” you gasp, hand coming up to clutch your canary heart, beating fast and frantic. He’s just standing there, waiting, the dimmed lights of the hull glinting off his beskar. It’d only been a few hours, but you had already somehow forgotten how kriffing imposing he was, how ominous. A vacuum in space.

“O-Okay,” you stutter, a twitch in your brow.

“I’ll get you as far as you need to go, but on my terms. I’m not making a special trip— can’t promise you when.”

You nod. You’re not sure what to say. Lamed, all you can do is repeat yourself.

“… Okay.”

“What sector?”

“Bajic,” you start, fiddling with a loose thread poking from your sleeve. “We- uhm, the RRM, we have a branch there, but then—” your throat bobs as you swallow your words, and he gives you an exacting look, tilting his helm subtly. There was no getting around it.

You’re pinned.

“Coruscant. I’ll need to get to Coruscant,” you finish quietly.

Did you just hear him ‘tsk’ under that metal bucket?

“It’ll take a while to get to the Core. Longer than you’d like.”

And here you go, babbling again before you can stop yourself, throwing up defenses, excuses— back pedaling. You’re earnest, and it’s dripping from you. “Listen, if this is too much, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. Really— you don’t have to take me anywhere you don’t want. I-I, honestly, I’m just grateful you even considered it.”

Silence. An endless sea of silence.

No current, no breeze. It feels like you’re stranded in dead water, drowning in it. Again, you hang there on bated breath, just waiting for the man to chuck you from his ship. Not worth the effort. Not worth the fuel.

And again, he surprises you.

He tips his chin, gesturing to the side. “Fresher’s that way. We’ll be up in five.”

You exhale, visibly relieved, and mumble a thank you before shuffling off in the direction he motioned towards. You get one foot through the door before you hear him.

“Dala,”

Your attention snaps to the Mandalorian. There’s that word again—you think he’s called you that before—but there’s something different in his voice now, a lilt you’d not yet heard from him. What is that? Nerves?

“There is… one more thing.”

You cock your head just as a gargled coo comes from somewhere behind him.

///

You look like bantha shit.

Which, considering the events of your evening, should probably go without saying— and yet, the woman staring back at you in the small refresher mirror still manages to startle you.

You’re covered in dirt and cinders and contusions you hadn’t had the luxury to notice before. With the adrenaline retreated from your veins, you finally feel the full scope of your injuries and Maker do they hurt. Your tunic is torn at the collar and the fabric is discolored, pants and boots scuffed and ashen. Your bottom lip is swollen, a split running down the side of it, the seam of which is cracked with dry blood. Your palms are scratched— knuckles, too. There are narrow licks from shrapnel bites nicking your forearm. Twisting your body, you discover a dark bruise already blooming on your shoulder from the initial impact of the blast. You’re stiff and achy all over, and you can practically hear your bones creak and groan with each strained movement.

You turn on the faucet and begin to bend forward before you wince, a sharp pain gripping your skull. Ginger fingers come up to touch the back of your head, patting around tentatively until you find a raised bump and something viscous wetting the strands of your hair. You pull your hand back, inspecting it— more blood, glistening black under the low light.

Your eyes flit back up to your reflection.

You should be scared at this point, you guess. Worried, at the very least, by all of this—by the gore of it, the cuts and marks. But it’s your eyes that frighten you most— they’re hard. Devoid. You don’t recognize them. You’re a stranger.

You blink. She blinks back.

Rust red water eddies in the basin of the sink as you scrub yourself clean. You let out a hiss as the cold stream hits your skin. You count your breaths.

///

Being anywhere on board his ship without the Mandalorian feels wrong. Unnatural. Like you’re a tourist, out of place.

Unsure of where else to go, you find yourself in the cockpit with the bounty hunter, sitting in the seat beside him. Glancing over the knobs and dials and pulsing displays, your focus drifts in and out, posture slumping, lids growing heavy, darkening around the edges of your vision, blurring—

“Try to stay awake.”

With a sharp inhale, your eyes snap open, blinking wildly, and you scoot your hips up higher into the seat. You shoot the back of his helmet an inquisitive look you’re not sure he sees, but he responds to it all the same.

“Could have a concussion.”

“Didn’t know you were a doctor,” you reply, tone low and rolling. Maker above, apparently the final stage of shock was sarcasm. The fact that you thought it wise to damn near sass a Mandalorian on his own ship after he saved your kriffing life...

Stars, maybe it really was a concussion. Brain damage. Had to be.

He doesn’t acknowledge the quip, which you can’t readily blame him for. A quiet beat, red buttons flickering against the dark of the cockpit, and then—

“There’s bacta in the medpack. Might not be much left.”

You’re wide awake now.

Your rebuttal is immediate, bristled even, words escaping before you have a chance to even consider his suggestion. “No— no, thank you, but I’m not taking the last of your supplies. I’ll be fine, you’re- you’re doing enough for me already.” He graces you with another of his grunts, a hush following closely behind it.

Your gaze wanders—it wanders onto him, and you watch him.

Watch as the stars dance across his armor, incandescent and shimmering. Hypnotic, even. Something you hadn’t noticed before catches your eye, and you have to crane your neck to get a good look at it. It’s hard to make out, but you think there’s a symbol on the pauldron adorning his shoulder. You can’t imagine it’s completely cosmetic, seeing as the hem of his cape is frayed and worn (and the fact that being a lethal hunter didn’t really scream ‘needless decoration’), but maybe, if you work up the courage somewhere between here and Coruscant, you’ll ask him about it.

His posture is carved out of stone and he sits like a statue, spine rigid under all that beskar. Fleetingly, you wonder if it’s heavy, if it’s uncomfortable—to carry it with him wherever he goes. But you suppose he’s grown accustom to the weight, wearing it like a second skin.

He’s broad too, you note. Of course he is, you recognized that straight off, but inside the confines of the ship, without the towering Lothal sky as his backdrop, it truly strikes you just how large the Mandalorian is. He engulfs the space around him. Devours it.

You stay like this, entranced, studying the man properly for the first time, allowing the muscles behind your tired eyes to relax on him— until his visor notches up quickly and meets your line of sight in the mirrored pane of the window, catching you in the act.

Kriff.

You avert your eyes, an embarrassed warmth crawling up your neck, suddenly finding a particular panel soldered to the wall incredibly interesting— looking anywhere else but at the faceless stranger you’re saddled with.

The kid gurgles, interrupting the awkwardness, and you’ve never been more grateful for a three pronged toddler in your life.

He’s sitting in the copilot’s seat opposite you, as if the tiny thing is navigating for the Mandalorian, and he’s completely dwarfed by the massive chair. Everything about him juxtaposes the other man. He’s all brown robes and wispy peach fuzz, and he looks almost comically out of place against the interior of the gunship. He’s playing with a shiny metal ball in his lap, and with one small arm, he extends it to you like a gift.

Out of the two of them, the child was a one man welcoming party.

“Is this for me?”

He gives a soft patuu, and your heart nearly bursts. You take it from him gently, and the little guy coos through a babbling grin, cheeks round and impish. “Thank you,” you tell him, all serious-like, and you have to actively suppress the squeal that threatens to break free from you. He glances to the Mandalorian with such a look in those big eyes; its hard to make out, but you think its something close to pride or satisfaction, maybe: Look dad, I shared my toy.

Kriff, this kid is cute. Like, dangerously cute.

You both take each other in like this; your micro expressions, his pruned little forehead, your fleshy form, all soft lines and angles. You’re sure you look just as strange to him and he does to you, especially given the only other lifeform on board he has as reference is coated from head to toe in metal. The child’s gaze snags on a lock of your hair, little teeth peeking through his mouth, eyes glued to it like a metronome as it dangles. You give your head a little shake, strands waving, and he giggles. You skip the ball over the hills of your knuckles, dazzling him momentarily.

“Does he have a name?” You ask, his eyes like black saucers peering curiously at you, and you give him back his toy— an offer he eagerly accepts.

“No.”

“So what do you call him then?”

“Just ‘kid’.”

A beat. “... Do you have a name?”

“Mando.”

“Just ‘Mando’?”

“This is the Way.”

You nod, worrying your cheek absentmindedly as you stare out the transparisteel. This is the Way. You’re not entirely sure what the phrase meant, but you know respect when you hear it— how reverent it sits on his vocal chords— and by the manner of which the man, this Mando, spoke, you can tell there’s more to those words than you know.

And you can appreciate his desire for anonymity; it doesn’t bother you much—you figure you won't be around long enough for it to matter anyways. You don’t know a lot about the Mandalorian people, but you have heard rumors. Everyone had. That’s all they were anymore: rumors and stories. Legends. Just seeing one was rare, and talking to one even rarer. But flying with one and his adorable, green baby? It was… definitely unique, to say the least.

You share more dulled quiet. And although the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable now—you’re settling in to it— it’s not exactly desirable either, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t last.

Mando clears his throat, breaking the white noise that’s blanketed the three of them. He doesn’t turn his helmet. He keeps his focus straight ahead. You watch his reflection in the ship’s window and you can’t know for certain, but you think you feel your eyes brush against his, if only for a moment. A unintelligible noise filters through his modulator.

“Do you?”

You grin, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

“Last I checked.”

It’s the first smile he draws from you. The first of many.

///

Despite Mando’s warnings and better judgement, sleeping is exactly what you end up doing. You pass out, hard, stirring only once when an errant beep sounds through the cockpit. You’d fallen asleep right there in the chair, chin tucked into your chest, hair fanned across your cheek, arms wrapped around your waist in a measly attempt to trap your body heat to you. You’ve woken to find the cockpit empty— the ship must be on autopilot, you think— and by the illuminating glow of hyperspace, you spot his medkit, sitting open on the seat across from you and in it, nestled among old wrappings and gauze, a single patch of bacta.

///|||///

That smile.

Din remembers this moment, much later, holding it like a photo in a locket. Private. Secret. He keeps you there, gold plated on a chain, to loop around his memory.

Encircling him. Strangling him.

[prettyspence]

Hanging in the Inbetween

Summary: Moving to DC proves to be the right move when you meet Emily Prentiss, finally come out to your brother, and feel like you have a happy future with somebody you could actually love.

Tags: 18+, smut, reader-insert, coming out, internalised homophobia, getting together, smut/kink tags under the cut

Pairing: Emily x Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Read on AO3

Smut/Kink Tags: top!emily prentiss (but the lines kinda blur), light dom/sub, fingering, sex toys, dirty talk, kink negotiation, first time

You moved to DC for a few reasons, the first of which was that you wanted to get the fuck out of Virginia.

The move to Richmond from Manassas hadn’t even helped much: you were working in your dream field and had some distance from your family, sure, but Virginia’s still the South. And after you came to a very poignant realisation about yourself earlier in the year, you wanted to get as far away from the bigotry that defined your lived experience there as possible.

The second reason was that you missed Aaron. Your brother had moved away when you were only little, but you’d always been close and he was the only family member left that you felt you could genuinely trust with your secret, even if the idea of telling him that you liked women still left you frozen with fear.

So when he invited you to brunch with his colleagues at the FBI you agreed in a heartbeat, it seemed like a great way to meet new people in your new city and spend time with your incredibly busy older brother simultaneously.

If you had any doubts about your sexuality, Emily Prentiss would have eradicated them. As soon as she’d walked into the cafe, her enigmatic presence had captivated you and you were hooked, addicted, obsessed. She smiled warmly at you but all you could do was stare dumbly at her as you shook her hand, eventually managing a weak smile in return. It was as if she was glowing, the others dimming in comparison as you took in her breath-taking beauty. Every time she spoke your breath caught, aching to bask in her voice for the rest of your days.

It felt so dramatic, childish almost. You’d never understood that ‘take your breath away’, ‘at first sight’ kind of love, but you knew it as soon as you met Emily.

But Emily was this gorgeous, confident woman. You knew she was a lesbian, she didn’t hide that from anyone and frequently made jokes about it, and while you shared her identity, the way you approached it couldn’t have been more different. Sure, if anyone looked hard enough, they would catch the adoring looks you sent Emily at every get-together, the way you blushed at any interaction with her. Hell, even she probably knew.

But it could never happen. After years of conservative indoctrination and being surrounded by people convinced of your ‘sin’, you were still on your journey to accepting yourself, still sometimes sick to your stomach every time you remember that you weren’t ‘normal’, that your parents wouldn’t see you as their daughter as soon as you told them. So you hide under layers of facade, wear a mask of confidence over your crippling insecurity and internalised homophobia, pretend that everything’s fine when it feels like you’re crumbling under the surface.

You thought you’d crumble further when Aaron inevitably discovered the truth about you, but really it’s the moment where your foundation starts to rebuild itself. It happens completely accidentally one evening, you don’t mean to come out at all. You’ve been so careful at using gender neutral language for so long. You always talked about a future ‘partner’, said ‘they’ when talking about prospective relationships, the kind of words that don’t attract questions or attention. But you slip up.

“Have you thought about getting back out there, Y/N?” Aaron asks one evening, when you’re both sitting on his couch having a much needed catch-up. “I know it’s been hard after you and Samuel broke up, but maybe you should think about putting yourself back in the scene.”

“God, Aaron, you are not talking about my love life, please,” you groan, swatting his arm lightly. He’s not usually interested in what’s going on in your romantic relationships as long as you seem happy, but it’s been pretty obvious how low you’ve been recently. It’s sort of sweet that he’s talking about something he feels so awkward about to try and make his sister smile.

“I’m serious,” he smiles fondly. “I want to see you happy again, like you were with Tom, remember?”

You were not happy with Tom. You’re not sure you’ve ever been happy in a relationship (for the obvious reason that none of them were women) but you’re pretty damn good at pretending, so you can hardly blame him.

“Ahh, I don’t know, Aaron,” you grimace. You can’t think about anyone but Emily right now, God you’ve tried to move on but everyone seems to pale in comparison at the moment. “When I finally get a girlfriend I want it to be real, you know. An accidental meeting, nothing manufactured…”

You trail off as you see his eyes widen and face contort in surprise. Immediately, your stomach sinks and eyes brim with tears as you realise how badly you’ve fucked up. Jumping up from the sofa, you run to the bathroom and lock yourself in, barely able to contain the sobs as you feel your world implode around you. Fuck, you’re out. Aaron knows.

You sink down to the floor and fold yourself as tightly as possible, trying to hold yourself completely as you feel your walls crashing down, anxiety taking over. It’s only minutes after you’ve barricaded yourself in the bathroom that you hear the knocks at the door.

“Y/N,” Aaron says softly. “It’s okay, I’m not angry, I was just surprised. Why don’t you come out and we can talk about this? I’m not mad, I promise.”

It feels like it must be some sort of trap. Surely Aaron isn’t really okay with it? Choosing to trust your brother despite your scepticism, you peel yourself out of your protective position and splash some cool water on your face in an attempt to calm yourself down a little before unlocking the door.

You must look utterly miserable because Aaron’s face immediately softens and he envelopes in a warm, protective hug, the kind that used to reassure you in your childhood and still has the same effect today.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Y/N?” he asks as he guides you to the sofa, voice gentle.

You take a deep breath before you explain everything, finally unloading the emotional turmoil that’s been whirling around inside you for months, connecting with another person properly since you realised yourself. You weren’t lying anymore; Aaron knew the truth.

Aaron basically forces you to stay over that night, tucking you in the way he used to do before he left for college, left for Washington to be a big bad FBI agent. You don’t fight him. It’s nice to be taken care of again, to feel really close to your brother for the first time in a long time.

Instead of crumbling, your foundation is firmer. You genuinely feel like you can do this, like you have a happy future ahead of you again.

⭐️

It’s a Tuesday evening and you’re running across town, butterflies swimming in your tummy. An excited smile is playing over your face on the metro, in the taxi, while you run down the road towards Aaron’s apartment. You keep checking your phone to confirm this is really happening, but the text message isn’t leaving; it isn’t a delusional mirage borne from isolation and desperation.

Hi Y/N, how would you feel about grabbing coffee with me later this week? ;) Feel like we haven’t had a chance to properly get to know one another! Let me know - Emily

You pound on the door as soon as you get there, knowing Jack is at a sleepover with his friend tonight, squealing as soon as Aaron opens the door. He smiles amusedly as he lets you in, practically bouncing with excitement as you thrust your phone in his face. “Is this what I think it is?” you ask eagerly as he reaches a hand to steady your shaking ones so he can read the message.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” he says. “It could be. I’ve seen the way Emily looks at you, this looks like an invitation on a date to me, especially with the winky emoticon, but equally, she might just be asking you as a friend.” He smiles sympathetically as he says that, hating to temper your excitement. He’s never seen you this happy over a prospective partner and he doesn’t know how he missed how unhappy you were with men.

You giggle at Aaron speculating over the message as you would’ve done with your girlfriends back home. “She doesn’t know I’m gay,” you reason. “But I’m pretty obvious so she probably guessed. Maybe she really does want to go on a date with me!”

“Well, why haven’t you messaged back?” he asks.

“I wanted to tell you first,” you say, a little shyly. It was just nice to share in your truth with somebody. You couldn’t help feeling so eager about it.

He smiles fondly down at you. “Why don’t you make your message back a little more flirty?” he suggests as he makes his way to the kitchen to get you both a drink.

“Ooh, okay,” you muse. Subsequently, the next half an hour is spent agonising over the appropriate response, giggling and squabbling together in the way you used to before life got in the way.

Emily, I’d love to! It would be a great pleasure to spend some more time with your gorgeous self ;) How does Thursday at Cooper’s work? Maybe late morning?- Y/N

As long as we don’t get a case, I’m there :) - Emily

(If Aaron does his utmost to ensure there isn’t a case, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)

⭐️

After agonising all morning over the perfect outfit, you hurry across the city to get to your favourite cafe in time to meet Emily. You arrive first, ordering yourself a coffee and a pastry and finding a cosy seat in the bay window, your favourite spot. Thankfully, it’s not overly busy and Emily spots you as soon as she walks in not long after you’ve sat down, grinning widely as she approaches.

“Y/N, I’m so glad we could finally do this,” she says earnestly as she gives you a hug.

“I know,” you smile shyly, returning her hug and revelling in having her so close, feeling the warmth of her body against yours, catching the gentle notes of her perfume.

“I’ll just go order a mocha and I’ll be right back,” she smiles, heading over to the counter.

You sit back and just watch her, how graceful and powerful she looks as she moves, how assertive and confident she is. Her gorgeous raven hair frames her face so perfectly and her body looks so strong under her smart, professional but stylish outfit. She smiles beautifully as she comes back over, holding a pastry in her other hand.

“Ah, another pastry addict,” you say, still a little shy and flustered.

“Oh, don’t you know it,” Emily chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Nothing better than a buttery pastry mid-morning, right?”

“Mm, I’ve got a huge sweet-tooth,” you confess. “I’ll do pretty much anything for a sweet treat.”

She laughs loudly at that, looking at you with so much warmth you think she might light you on fire. “I don’t blame you,” she agrees. “The team knows that if I’m grumpy, all I need is something sugary and I’m back on track.”

“You’re so lucky to have such a wonderful team,” you tell her, smiling back at her. “I’m so jealous of you and Aaron, surrounded by all these amazing people.”

“Oh, I know it,” she says. “Found family is important, and I rely on them a lot. I never thought getting into the FBI would change my life this much.”

“Oh, really? What led you to the academy?” you ask, gazing at her adoringly, not bothering to hide it. If you’ve misread the situation, so be it. You’re fed up of hiding, you’re going to take this risk, dive head first into it.

You chat amicably over coffee and pastry for over an hour, and when she frowns and tells you she has to get back to work, you can’t help the raging disappointment inside you. You’ve never felt this connected to somebody, ever. Maybe it’s just that Emily is the first woman you’ve allowed yourself to crush on properly, but it feels like more than that. It feels real, reciprocated even. You can’t help the burning excitement in your chest as you think about what it might be like to be close to her, to call her your girlfriend, to kiss her, to come home to her.

She gives you another hug before you part ways and the smouldering imprint of her body against yours keeps you warm the whole journey home.

⭐️

It’s nearing 7pm when you hear the knock at the door. You uncurl yourself from your cosy position on the sofa and put down your hot chocolate, leaving the movie you’re watching playing quietly in the background as you get up to answer it.

“Emily?” You’re a little bewildered to be honest. Wrapping your cardigan a little tighter around yourself, you send her a puzzled look, but you’re curious, too. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to tell you something,” she says, face serious. “I’m done screwing around; we’re not children, so let’s talk about this like adults.”

Right on cue, butterflies start swimming in your tummy, partly nerves, partly warm fuzzy hope. “Okay,” you say, still a little confused, but you guide her to the sofa and gesture for her to speak.

“I like you,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I’ve liked you since I met you and you intrigue me. I want to know more about you. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous, inside and out, and I’d love to take you out for dinner, on a proper date.”

You’re stunned for a moment, not entirely sure you’re actually awake. “Yes,” you say as soon as you reboot, reaching out to grab her hands gently. “Yes, please, that sounds amazing. I like you, too, I’ve liked you since I first met you.”

Her face lights up at your admission as you share a heated look before leaning in for a gentle kiss. You scoot a little closer to her and place your hands tentatively on her waist, only feeling emboldened when she leans a hand up to place on your neck, the other finding your hip. As you melt into her touch you feel her melt into yours, a mutual melding; a coming together.

It doesn’t stay chaste and gentle for long, however, quickly finding a rhythm that properly conveys the intense passion and amour filling the room, Emily eventually leaning forward and pushing you back slightly on the couch so she can lean more of her weight on you. This must be heaven. No kiss has ever felt like this, not even with your long-term boyfriends, no-one has ever made you feel the sparks that are flashing in your tummy right now.

“Hey, is this too fast?” she asks as she pulls back a bit, breathing heavily as she reaches a hand up to brush some of your hair away from your face. “Do you want to slow down?”

“No, no,” you deny, desperate to continue. “I don’t want to stop, I just… I haven’t been with a woman before.”

Your confession is shy, tentative; you don’t want to scare her off, but she simply smiles softly down at you, continuing to gently caress your hair. “Don’t worry about that,” she says. “We’ll see where this takes us and if you want to stop or slow down just tell me, alright?”

“Yeah,” you agree before leaning back in to continue the kiss, pushing your hand up under her shirt slightly and feeling her toned abs, the soft curve of her waist. It only serves to make you wetter, the feel of a woman under your palms more euphoric than you ever could have anticipated.

She moans as you explore her midriff, pushing your shirt up to do the same, and if you thought feeling a woman was amazing, being felt by one feels incredible, shivering under her touch as she runs her fingers up and down your waist, pushing your shirt up even more to caress the sides of your breasts.

“Off.” You obey and sit up a little bit to shrug off your cardigan and t-shirt as she does the same, both left only in your bras and pants, pressed skin-to-skin on the sofa. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous, Y/N,” she moans, kissing you deeper as she tangles her fingers in your hair, tugging a little at the strands.

“Emily,” you whine as her other hand comes to your breast, teasing you with a finger slowly before running her thumb over your nipple through your lacy bra, squeezing gently. You’re already a dripping mess for her, this is already the best sex you’ve ever had, and you’ve barely started.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she suggests, pulling back a little to sit up before taking your hand and letting you lead the way. “Take your bra off and lie down on the bed.” Her voice is soft but there’s an authority to it that calms you slightly. You may not know exactly what you’re doing but Emily does and she’s going to take care of you.

“I have a few toys,” you confess shyly as you follow her orders, watching her with blown pupils all the while. “They’re washed and clean, and there are condoms and latex gloves, too.”

“Oh?” Emily asks, quirking an eyebrow slightly.

“They’re in the bottom drawer,” you say, blushing wildly as you share your sex toy collection with the woman you’ve been crushing pretty hard on for a while now.

She immediately lights up and rummages through, a playful smirk colouring her face as she pulls out a few options. You take in the fairly sizable dildo -- a favourite of yours -- the finger vibrator you’d bought only last month and a butt plug you’d had for years with hungry eyes, excited for what she has in mind.

“Before we really get going, let’s talk,” Emily smiles gently, leaning over to kiss you softly before pulling back. “What are you into, up for, wanting to try?”

“I’m not really sure,” you say, blushing awkwardly. This kind of discussion is fairly foreign for you. “I’ve never enjoyed sex before because it was always with a man.”

Emily pulls a face to make you laugh before nodding in agreement. “Okay, well how about I tell you a few of the things I like and you can tell me if you’re comfortable with them? And if you do try it and you’re not into it we’ll just stop, yeah?”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“Great. I like to be on top mostly, I’m quite a dominant person but I can tone that up or down to whatever you like, too,” she starts. “I’m very into dirty talk -- a little mild verbal degradation etcetera -- I love clitoral stimulation and don’t get much from internal simulation so maybe you could use this finger vibrator on me while I tell you what to do? And I could use this dildo on you if you’d like, the butt plug, too?”

“With my boyfriends the only time they could make me cum is if they got really into dirty talk, calling me names and stuff” you confess, “so that works for me, especially if you alternate with praise. And I’m happy for you to top and be more dominant, that sounds… good. All of what you said, I want, except I think the butt plug is a bit adventurous for today?” Your face must be fire engine red but Emily is looking at you fondly so you clearly haven’t turned her off with your inexperience or bashfulness.

She grins at you before leaning in to kiss you again. “Perfect. If I say or do anything you don’t like, tell me immediately. I won’t be offended, okay? I’ll do the same.” You nod in agreement, blush calming down as she settles her body over yours, a comforting, reassuring weight in an unfamiliar scenario.

She quickly gets the lube and condoms out and once she’s ready, Emily trails latex covered fingers down your waist, tickling slightly and revelling in the shiver she elicits, before slipping beneath the waistband and pressing gently, teasingly against your clit. She presses another kiss to your lips, deepening it against your moans as she moves down to push a finger inside.

“Emily,” you cry, panting as the initial pressure against your walls makes you see stars, warm wetness helping to ease her fingers inside. She slowly works you open as she alternates between kissing you, sucking on your neck and whispering dirty, encouraging platitudes in your ear.

“Do you think you’re ready to take my cock, princess?” she asks, tone dripping and sultry as she whispers directly into your ear, licking a stripe over the shell as you moan loudly. She holds the condom-covered dildo directly in your line of sight as she presses her own heat against your thigh, rutting slightly to ease her own immediate arousal.

“Yes, Emily, please” you beg, pushing your thigh up so she can use it properly, getting an appreciative moan in response.

“Good girl,” she praises, kissing you again as she lines up the dildo, easing it into you gently, pausing when your aroused moans betray a hint of pain. “God, you took that so well. You are a dirty little slut for me, aren’t you? Built to take my cock.”

“Yeah,” you whine, writhing as you feel the fullness of the dildo inside you, moaning again as Emily starts to fuck in and out. She starts out slowly before speeding it up, fucking you hard with your own dildo as she murmurs absolute filth into your ear. “Stop, stop.”

She stills her hand immediately, but you quickly ease her mind. “I’m close, don’t want to come yet.”

At that, she beams down at you. “Good girl. I think it’s my turn to get off, don’t you?”

Technically, she’s been grinding down on your leg the whole time she’s been fucking you, but you get what she means and reach for the finger vibrator, dildo still wedged firmly inside you, while she rolls onto her back. You fit the vibe onto your first finger and turn it on, thankful you recently changed the battery recently as you slide on a latex covering over your finger. She smiles encouragingly as you maneuver her hips to the right angle before teasing her a little with your middle finger to ease her into it before pressing the vibe to her folds first, thoroughly enjoying the jerk her hips make at the pleasure, before working your way up to her clit.

She throws her head back and moans wantonly as you work her over, running your other hand up her side before making your way to her breasts, leaning down to suck and bite gently at them as she cups her hand against the back of your neck, keeping your mouth where she wants.

“Keep going,” she moans as she approaches her orgasm, rutting against your finger as you swallow her nipple into your mouth with renewed vigour, desperate to bring her off. She shouts your name as she cums, squirming around your finger as her hips writhe with pleasure, eyes screwed close. It’s a beautiful sight, seeing a woman cum, and it’s so much better than whatever you’ve seen in porn, because you did this. Emily’s orgasm is your work of art and you couldn’t be prouder to sign your name against it.

“Good girl,” she sighs as she comes down. “You did so well. Now, shall we finish you off, baby?”

You’re virtually there already, seeing Emily’s pleasure had been getting you closer and closer to your own orgasm. It only takes Emily rolling you onto your back, kissing you again and fucking you a few more times with the dildo  that’s stayed inside you the whole time while fingering your clit just teasingly enough to get you over the edge, powerful orgasm crashing over you as Emily whispers praise against your ear. It takes you out for a minute, lost in the haze of pleasure and its aftermath, feeling so right in that moment that you never want to leave it, wrapped up in Emily’s arms while you hang in the inbetween of a dreamy daze and reality.

Eventually, you blink your eyes open, meeting Emily’s glassy ones and smile up at her, working the energy up to roll her over and kiss her again in earnest, knowing exactly what she likes by now.

“What was that for?” she asks after you break apart, chuckling a little at your eagerness.

“A thank you,” you murmur, smiling fondly down at her.

“The best thank you you could give me is a dinner date later this week,” Emily grins. “And I’ll thank you afterwards with another mind-blowing orgasm, how does that sound?”

You stare down at her for a moment, wondering how on earth you managed to win somebody so perfect, before shaking out of it and smiling softly again. “That sounds perfect.”

[hoe-doroki]

flotsam, jetsam, lagan, and derelict

A response to this ask:

Reader having a silent mental breakdown and trying to hide it with Bakugo and iida!( bakugo’s fine if not iida)

warning: detailed descriptions of panic attack, self-loathing

pairing: Iida x gn!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

wc: 1.5k

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

Your ship was a sturdy one—or so you’d always thought. You weren’t naïve enough to realize that your ship didn’t have a number of holes in it, depression, anxiety, intrusive thoughts to name a few. Sometimes they broke through planks, splintering the wood in moments of tension or grief, maybe separately or maybe all at once creating a fall hazard yawning open on your deck. Sometimes they were quieter, bits mold spore collecting on the framing or rust on the sheet metal, leaving you mysteriously enfeebled until you stumbled across an infestation of the stuff and knew what had happened. In either scenario, you’d scramble for more wood, more steel, the sturdiest you could find to rebuild the rotted out sections of your boat. And almost always you could rebuild, restore before you began to sink.

But that was all for naught if the person doing the fixing—the captain—couldn’t steer.

You weren’t sure if it was the slow decay sneaking up on you again or if there’d been some greater break today, but your boat wasn’t just in disrepair—it was crashing. You were hitting rocks that were saying that you weren’t good enough. That you never had been good enough and would never be enough. It was something that you heard every day of the sound of the waves, but today it was thunderous. Deafening. The noise was screaming in your head and you were screaming back—you weren’t sure for what. Did you want salvation or did you want cessation?

“Y/N?”

You blinked your living room back into existence. There was a show on the TV, you had no idea which on what program. Iida had chosen it. Maybe your eyes had been on the screen, but they’d been unseeing, your ears plugged with water, locking you in with your thoughts.

“Are you cold?”

You weren’t. In fact, you were sweating—your hands, your armpits, the back of your neck. As steadily as you could, you shook your head, working hard to keep your face placid. Your boyfriend was sharp and he’d notice if your face exposed your inner turmoil.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice pressing. “You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t felt the tremble that he’d spotted immediately—it was just another way that your body was betraying you. “Mhmm,” you intoned, trying to act as though your attention was rapt on the TV as you shoved your damp hands under your thigh.

“Then are you sick?” Iida asked as he leaned forward to get a better look at you.

Your façade began to break. Your breathing was getting heavier and you didn’t feel the usual comfort you did when your boyfriend was this close, giving you his attention. You felt splayed, quartered, and scrutinized while you just wanted to be able to board yourself up somewhere small and hidden.

“Please, Iida,” you whispered, looking down at your lap. “Please just watch your show.”

“Watch my—” Iida grabbed the remote and turned off the TV promptly, giving you even more of his attention. “Y/N, I insist you tell me what’s wrong.”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes tight as they too began to feel hot. “Nothing.”

The word came out so quiet while everything inside was still crashing, shouting. You weren’t good enough and now you were a liar too. You couldn’t even have a movie night without devolving into a shaking, sweaty mess. You couldn’t steer your boat without leaving flotsam and jetsam, lagan and derelict in your wake, portending a shipwreck.

“This doesn’t look like nothing,” Iida said, putting a hand to your shoulder.

The trembling had vibrated up your whole arm and uneven gasping was rattling your chest. Every effort you put into stamping it out, rebuilding your mask with eyes a little too wide, lips a little too quivery was torn out of your hands. Your grip was failing.

“Okay, stay right here,” Iida said, pushing off the couch. “I will procure a paper bag.”

Iida was back in a flash—had he used his quirk or were you just that far gone?—unfolding a paper bag and holding it in front of you.

“Breathe into it.”

But you were frozen. Your hands had gone numb under your thighs, the trembles now feeling like the rattling of a skeleton’s bones. No flesh, no muscle, no life—just shaking and air forcing itself into your body only to squeeze right out, rejected before it could find your blood, your marrow.

Iida held the bag to your mouth and pressed a large hand to the back of your neck, trying to settle your heaving, your capsizing. Your blood felt light, carbonated as tingles spread through your whole body. They felt like bugs or tiny splinters trying to find something vital and fleshy to sink into and ruin.

But you could also feel Iida’s hand stroking up and down your neck, the top of your back. Slowly, you began to hear him say, “Breathe, breathe, breathe.” Eventually, you remembered what the word meant as you grabbed hold of the wheel again, and steer away from some of the rocks.

You didn’t know how much time passed. It felt like forever and nothing more than a second frozen in time. What did time matter when you were this detached, this unmoored?

“What was that?” Iida asked as he pulled your bloodless hands out from under your thighs, rubbing them in his. “God, Y/N, that was terrifying. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I—” you tried, but the word was all breath. You swallowed thickly and tried again, still nothing more than a whisper. “I never say anything.”

Your boyfriend stared at you, open mouthed. “This has happened before?”

You looked down, shame putting distance between you and his blue eyes. “A few times but…the lead up happens…sometimes. It just doesn’t…it’s not like I know when it’s going to end up like this versus when it’s going to be normal.”

“Hold on a second,” Iida said a hand chopping in front of you. “What do you mean by normal?”

“Just…” You shook your head, hearing you’re not good enough and why are you even bothering him smack from side to side as you did. “Thoughts. About myself. Usually I can handle them.”

“This is handling it?”

“No!” you said, frustration and pique spilling out of you. “This is obviously not handling it! Usually I can just navigate through it and live another day.”

“Okay, okay…” Iida said, voice quieting as he seemed to realize that he was pushing you towards a gangplank that was already in reach. “Is there anything that I can do?”

A million thoughts popped into your head of the things you wanted. You wanted to be held, reassured, given water, touched, loved. But the language for that dried up on your tongue and the only thing that made it out was, “No.”

Iida sat with that for a second, sharp brows angling in on each other. Then he sat back, looking determined. “An insurmountable challenge only looks that way because you have not yet seen the finish line,” he declared. “There’s always something we can do.”

“We?” you asked, risking a glance up at him.

“We,” Iida repeated confidently. “You and I, we make a we. And if you think I’ll let this happen again, without trying to do something about it, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

“But…”

You shook your head again, wishing that the simple language that Iida used, the simple vision of your problems that he seemed to have was anywhere near the truth. You’d only let him see the shiny hull, the exterior you’d worked so hard to polish over the years. He knew nothing of your many layers of disrepair, the self-loathing that had, in fact, kicked in the very floorboards you stood on, until there was very little ground at all.

“I never know when it’s coming. It just happens and I have to be ready for it all the time.” Tears welled in your eyes and you tried to blink them away. “It’s so exhausting.”

“So let me help,” Iida said as he brushed his tears away.

“I don’t know how,” you whispered.

Iida looked at you, eyes sad but smile warm. Then he lifted you onto his lap and wrapped his arms around you. Deep voice muffled in your neck, tickling behind your ear, he said, “Does this help?”

It took a second. Your body was tense, wanting to reject the comfort in favor of more pain. Wanting to let you hate yourself because it was what was familiar and, even in the coarse hold of self-loathing, the familiar felt safe. Like you’d fallen for your captive and you were trapped playing both roles.

But he kept holding you, rubbing your back and breathing in a slow, even tempo. You could feel your sailor’s knots relax your contours falling against his as the pressure of his broad body grounded you. “Yes,” you breathed. “It does.”

“Good,” Iida said, adjusting so that you were just that much closer. “Then it’s a place to start.”

[realcube]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMJE29FG7/

omg i hope u can open the link and see the tiktok i just wanted to share bc it’s so fucking funny. i could def see bokuto, noya, tanaka, or anyone else u can think of sobbing LOL

IRVEBLVGAETZ wait the video was so precious and funny AAAAA 🥺 thank you so much for sharing, anon 🙏

AND YES thEY would!! so i humbly offer you this 

tw// zombies, crying, swearing. mentions of shooting

Kōtarō Bokuto 

you jokingly asked him if he’d leave if you got turned into a zombie and he said HELL NO 

if you’re a zombie then he’ll become a zombie too periodt

akaashi constantly plays the mom friend like ‘if (y/n) jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?’ an bokuto is like ‘fuck yea i would’

but then he was like (with the puppy eyes btw) ‘if i got turned into a zombie, would you leave me, puppy?’

you shook your head, slowly wrapping your arms around his waist and looking up at him, ‘no, kō. in fact, i would handcuff myself to you so you don’t cause any trouble.’

you expected him to chuckle and maybe give you a lil’ kiss but instead he pushed you back onto the couch, so you were laying down and he was on top of you with his head buried in your chest

‘but what if i try to eat your brain?’ bokuto muttered, the cloth of your shirt muffling his sniffles

you shrugged, your hand making its way up his spine to rub his back soothingly, ‘you do that everyday anyway.’

bokuto let out a deep bawl

‘i was joking!’ you cried, thinking that he was crying bc you said he eats at your brain lol

bokuto shook his head, pulling his face back from your chest to reveal his quivering lips, damp puppy-eyes and shiny nose , ‘you’re so damn sweet, (y/n)!’ he howled then hastily concealed his face with your chest 

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, ‘wow, kō. are you really crying because i said i’ll stay with you during the zombie apocalypse- you’re my boyfriend, what do you expect?’

bokuto sighed, quickly calming himself until his wails were nothing but sniffs, then he choked out, ‘but if you’d stick with me through the end of the world, you’d stick with me through anything else, right? like..if i broke my dick- or if i couldn’t play volleyball anymore?’

geez.

he read into that a lot more than you thought he would 

‘oh, yeah- i’ll be with you during anything and everything, don’t worry.’

that was enough to make bokuto start crying again, ‘I DON’T DESERVE YOU, (Y/N)!!’

Yū Nishinoya

ok- y’all aren’t dating yet 

but he has a MASSSSSIVE crush on you and he makes it very obvious

he simps for you on the daily but you always brush off his advances as playful banter or his naturally flirtatious manner

but you secretly really want to be with him but you don’t want to get into a relationship with him just for him to lose interest and start simping for someone else bc you saw how quickly he shifted from kiyoko to you and you don’t want to get attached just in case he shifts again

and you are both really good friends so now noya has almost given up on trying to woo you as he’s realised that he might be too far in the friendzone

so you’re just out together at the park as friends and you’re on your phone while noya just stares at the sunset, appreciating your presence 

you see ^that^ tiktok on your fyp but you’re single so you try it out on noya

‘what would you do if i got turned into a zombie?’

noya didn’t even bother to ask about the motives of your question and instead he just replied, ‘i’d find a cure and turn you back into yourself!’ like the little optimist he is

you felt a light blush spread across your cheeks and noya clearly noticed it too bc his lips curled into a bright, smug grin 

so you felt the need to respond rather harshly to make sure he knew that you weren’t falling for him or anything despite the fact, you were falling for him ‘easier said than done, genius. what did you get on your last chemistry test again?-oh and your biology one too?’

nishinoya’s bottom lips jutted out to form a pout, ‘well, in that case, i’d make a cage and trap you inside. then i’d go save the world and shit by killing all the other zombies and once society starts rebuilding itself, i’ll wait until one of the science-y dudes makes a cure then i’d come back to your cage and give it to you.’

honestly, you couldn’t even argue with him 

if anyone was gonna save the world from zombies, it’d be noya 

‘anyway, what would you do if i became a zombie, (y/n)?’ 

you paused for a second, tapping your chin with your index finger while thinking then said, ‘i don’t think i could make a cure so i guess i’d just handcuff myself to you so i don’t lose you then figure something out.’

noya literally passed away - with happiness ofc

he was already smiling but now his smile was 10x brighter

‘(Y/N)! SERIOUSLY?! YOU’D DO THAT FOR ME?! WHY?!’ he basically screamed, surprised that you’d say something so sweet since ngl he was really expecting you to say that you’d drop-kick him into the sun, in that situation 

you nodded, ‘yeah, of course. y’know, i’d hate to lose you, noya - even if you are trying to eat my brain.’

a small gasp escaped your mouth as noya flung both of his arms around you and wailed, ‘I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, (Y/N)!!’

you never really thought that your first time telling nishinoya that you love him would be before y’all were dating bc of a zombie hypothetical but..you did it anyway :)))

oh and needless to say, you went on your first date the following day

Ryūnosuke Tanaka

you sit in his lap and watch tiktoks while he peers over your shoulder so he saw the video too lol

he was like ‘pfft. geez why is that guy crying over something like that? pussy alert.’

but then, knowing that he saw the video, you hummed, ‘same!’ then turned your body to face his and caress his cheek, ‘there’s no way i’d be able to leave you, baby. so your zombie-self can have fun dealing with my ass for the rest of your undead life.’

dude he was in tears-

in his own words, pussy alert 

‘you’d be doing me a favour, babe.’ he said shakily, trying his best to hide the fact he was on the verge of bawling his eyes out 

also, you’re not allowed to leave his lap until the sunrises now

he loves you too much to let you go - even to bathroom or kitchen

you’ll have to pry your hips out of his firm grip so good luck with that 

[imagine-darksiders]

Homesick - Chapter 2

Behind the door.

Warnings: implied child abuse, abusive parents, blood, nosebleeds, angst, themes of childhood trauma, ptsd

Tags: Darksiders, DeathxAzrael, hurt/comfort, angst, Reader, Found family, Reader needs a hug

Chapter 1

---

“What lays beyond that door?”

Azrael's innocent question causes you to stiffen and your steps falter on the landing, knowing precisely to which door he's referring, but unwilling to even spare it a backwards glance.

The momentary delay hardly lasts for more than a second and goes seemingly unnoticed by the angel, whose gaze appears too focused on the locked, mahogany door that stands quiet and guiltless at the furthest end of your landing. Hanging back near the top of the staircase however, with eyes sharp and turned just enough in your direction that they catch the hitching of your chest, Death does notice.

Then, he blinks, and you're suddenly twisting your head over a shoulder to look beyond Azrael at the door in question, a smile on your lips but not in your eyes.

“Oh, that's just a storage cupboard,” you say casually, waving a dismissive hand through the air and continuing your journey to the opposite side of the house, “I've been in and out of there all week stacking boxes of junk up to the ceiling. Now, come this way, all the best human-y stuff is stock-piled in my bedroom.” 

You're too quick to disregard the door, too eager in turning to walk towards your room on stiff legs and Death wishes the angel would turn to look at you so he might also see what the Horseman sees, if only to confirm that he isn't imagining things.

Alas, letting out an intrigued little hum, Azrael clasps his hands loosely behind his back and sweeps after you, all the while pivoting his head this way and that to take in everything your humble home has to offer.

------------------

You had so nearly forgotten what the joy of discovery looks like in another person. To see the eyes of someone else grow wide and bright with unbridled wonder at a world you've long since lost a taste for.

Azrael's fascination at the most mundane of human objects manages to put a genuine smile on your face, though the ensuing pain still throbs like the beat of an insistent drum every time your cheeks press against your bruised eye.

Luckily, the angel appears to have missed your subtle wince.

After first having dragged him away from your television, you've managed to introduce him to many of humanity's other wonders that lay dotted around your bedroom.

Before long, Death had even slunk inside to join you both, taking up the mantle of an uninterested observer and absently perusing your book collection in the corner whilst keeping a surreptitious eye on the goings on of his companions.

You've perched yourself comfortably in a bean bag, content to simply sit back and observe whilst Azrael explores your room, his wide, white wings folded neatly against his back in order to spare some of your ornaments from being knocked off their shelves. 

“This... ursine mammal,” he says, pausing beside your bed and poking a finger into the fur of an old, stuffed bear sitting atop your pillow, “Does it serve some purpose?”

You're too preoccupied with fighting back a laugh to answer him right away, and by the time you realise he's watching you expectantly, Death pipes up in your stead, cutting off any explanation you might have offered.

“I imagine it's only there for decoration,” he muses, casting a critical eye over your bookcase and the dozens of unread stories scattered about on the shelves, “But then, I have to wonder if half the things in this room aren't just ornamentation.”

Knowing what he's implying, you spare the back of his head a scowl. It isn't as though you've had a lot of time to read those books he gave you, not between rebuilding your own home and helping humanity come to terms with life post-apocalypse.

“Ah!” Azrael's head shoots up and he tears his eyes from the bear, glancing towards you instead. “It is symbolic, no? In resembling a most ferocious predator, this bear represents the perfect guard for your home.”

He looks so damn pleased with himself, you almost don't bother to correct him, instead wrestling your grin into a pensive frown and nodding slowly. 

“Uh, sure! That is a pretty... exciting way to look at teddy bears.” Hopping to your feet, you make your way over to the bed and sweep a few of Azrael's primary feathers aside, picking up the toy bear and squeezing it to your chest. “But mostly humans use these for comfort at night, when we sleep. We usually get given them as children. And, as we grow older, I... guess we just get too attached to get rid of them. Most humans keep their childhood toys long into adulthood.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Death huffs, shaking his head with a smile hidden beneath the bone-mask, “You humans will get attached to anything that sits still for long enough.”

Azrael, on the other hand, looks as though you've just revealed to him one of humanity's greatest secrets. Rubbing his chin in thought, he says, “Remarkable! I've heard that humans are rather famous for the bonds they forge with other species, yet I never imagined that could extend to inanimate objects as well.”

“Yeah, you'd better believe it,” you smirk, placing the bear down on your pillow once more, “Someday I'll have to tell you about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower.”

At once, the Archangel blinks hard, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair line. “A tower? Surely that’s a jape?”

So perplexed is his expression, you throw back your head and let out a bark of delighted laughter. “What are you, Shakespeare? Nobody says ‘jape’ anymore, Azrael!”

Off on his own side of your little bedroom, Death's neck twists around slightly to regard both you and the angel as you engage in a light-hearted back and forth about the use of archaic vocabulary. He doesn't even realise that one corner of his mouth has begun lifting at the sight. 

There is a truth about the Horseman that even he is reluctant to acknowledge, and that is that the constant slew of bad things happening in the Universe is... wearing. It’s wearing. To be on a constant path that always seems to lead towards battle or tragedy? Sometimes it feels as though his entire existence has merely consisted of one battle after another. 

He saves one world, only for another to be torn apart, he destroys a species, and another asks him to fight their war for them, he helps the makers but in doing so, inadvertently kills their elder. Century after century - a millennia of bloody battles and terrible sacrifices and trying to keep his siblings safe - If he ever stopped to think about it... 

Death’s eyes slip slowly shut. 

He has worked... so hard, hasn’t he? Is it really so wrong if he enjoys these moments of fleeting repose? 

All of a sudden, a strangled sound leaves Azrael's throat and Death is yanked from his peaceful reverie. “Y/n!?” the angel exclaims, his expression shifting to horrified in less than a second, “You're bleeding!”

Apparently, mentioning your name and blood in the same sentence is enough to get Death's voice to crack as he whips around properly and barks, “What!?”

Baffled, you raise a hand to your nose, dabbing at a sticky wetness gathered there whilst the taste of salty liquid drips onto your upper lip. “Oh, so I am,” you observe casually, only to have a pair of chilly hands curl unexpectedly around your forearms. 

Without warning, the terrifying visage of the Horseman is looming mere inches from your face and in another instant, one of his hands presses itself to your forehead and firmly – albeit gently – tips it backwards.

“Um... Death, we've talked about this. Personal space, remember?”

The Horseman remains eerily silent as he stares transfixed at the blood oozing from your nose and you squirm uncomfortably when the grip he has on your arm begins to grow even tighter. Meanwhile, his wordlessness allows Azrael to fret aloud in the background.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” the angel mutters, pacing back and forth behind Death, never tearing his eyes from the red straining your face, “You shouldn't be having all this excitement. You should be resting.”

It's difficult to hold back your groan of exasperation as you lift your arms and knock Death's hands aside, stepping out of his reach.

“Oh for - It's just a nosebleed! Honestly, what has gotten into you two?” With a hefty sigh, you skirt around the rigid Nephilim, dodge one of Azrael's wings as it tries to curl instinctively around you and march into your ensuite bathroom.

Almost immediately, the angel tries to follow, but he swiftly has the door pushed shut in his face before he can enter and soon, they hear your voice filtering out to them from the other side. “I'm not a baby, guys! Nosebleeds are no big deal, it's just happening because of... well, you know.”

Azrael's stomach twists itself into knots at the sight of yet another locked door standing between himself and his human friend. He's about to call out for you to let him see the damage when an icy chill sweeps across the room and he turns, his mouth falling open slightly at the sight of Death staring at him through unseeing eyes.

The old Nephilim's body has gone completely still and there's a haunted look about him, as though he's lost, or perhaps trapped in another time, another place.

“Horseman?” Azrael murmurs uncertainly, feeling the cold prickle at the hairs on the base of his neck. Seconds pass and he receives no answer. Hesitant now, the archangel reaches towards Death's shoulder and, when he isn't immediately shoved away, places a hand on the frigid, solid muscle that bunches under his gentle touch. “Death,” he tries again, and this time the Horseman's head snaps up to stare at him, as if only just realising he's there.

The angel ducks his head to better catch Death's eye, his voice soft enough that only the two of them can hear it. “Are you alright, old friend?”

A long silence stretches between them with only the faint sound of running water from your bathroom tap to fill it.

Then, giving a start, Death roughly shrugs the comforting hand off his shoulder and stalks past the angel towards your window, leaning his elbows heavily against the sill and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Azrael's concern. He doesn't think the archangel has ever been that close to him before, close enough that the subtle scent of old books and clean linen invaded his nose and chased away the awful stench of your blood, effectively leaving his mind clear once again. 

'Idiot,' he chastises himself, eyes still wide behind the bone mask. How could he have frozen like that? In front of Azrael no less. Creator, he'd never live that one down. He had – for lack of a better word – panicked, and it's as embarrassing to admit to himself as it is to have been caught panicking. But...

The sight of your blood... The smell of it, sweet and strong enough that it even settled on his tastebuds...

It's pathetic, really. He is Death. He's seen and caused far more bloodshed than arguably any being in any realm. So why then does your spilled blood hold his dead heart in such a cruel and unforgivably tight chokehold?

The redundancy of taking a calming breath isn't lost on him, yet he does it anyway, tipping his head up to peer out of your window, chest rising and falling with motions he could only have picked up after spending so much time around you.

It's begun to rain, he notes idly. Tiny droplets of water patter down onto the dusty window panes and Death follows the path of one until it merges with several others and is lost in the fray.

Down in the streets below, many passers-by have dived for shelter, yet there are still two figures who remain. One is an angel, whose golden complexion shimmers when raindrops trickle steadily down his face. He's standing in the shadow of a water-logged bus stop and beside him, leaning just a little too close, is a serpentine demon, scales black and glittering like obsidian. The odd pair rest almost shoulder to shoulder underneath the bus stop's awning, each sharing a brief respite from the rain with what was once a well-loathed enemy.

Death blinks upon seeing that their hands are intertwined. Dainty, golden fingers curl loosely around clumsier claws and suddenly, the Horseman feels as though he's intruding on their secret moment, so he turns back to face your room.

Azrael has drifted closer once again and there's a knowing expression on his face that causes Death to frown. Sure enough, the archangel spares your bathroom door a hasty glance before he looks at the Horseman once more. “...Death,” he says slowly, “It's... all right, you know. If seeing Y/n’s blood upset you-”

Hackles are raised in half a second, a set of sharp teeth clack together and Death hisses, “You think I'm upset?”

Judging by the flat look he receives, that is precisely what the archangel thinks.

Despite the obvious vehemence behind Death's tone, he's careful to keep his voice down, ever mindful that you're only a room over. Perhaps getting defensive isn't the best idea.

“There is no shame in it, Horseman,” the angel coaxes softly, “Y/n is my friend as well. There has already been far too much human blood spilled this century.” He casts another, baleful glance towards your bathroom, quietly adding, “I didn't think I would be seeing it again, not this soon. And especially not from our human.”

...Our human.

Death is unnerved by how natural that sounds coming off Azrael's tongue.

Expertly, the Horseman wills his shoulders to slump and his muscles to relax, then, with an unmistakable air of indifference, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns himself deliberately away from the archangel, glowering at your bedroom wall.

And Azrael, wise enough to read the standoffish behaviour for what it is, allows his mouth to fall shut because he knows that, as far as Death is concerned, the conversation is over.

He has a care not to release a weary sigh. But with you shutting him out physically and the Horseman shutting him out verbally, it's difficult for even the composed archangel to keep exasperation at bay.

Just then, your voice calls out to them from the other side of the door. “Ugh, sorry about this guys. It's slowing down, but it hasn't stopped yet. I'll just be a minute!”

“So long as you're all right,” Azrael replies.

When he receives no response from you and no further input from Death, he lets his head drop into a disappointed nod, pressing his lips together. Suddenly, his presence feels a little too big for the space he's occupying. He needs to think.

Azrael leaves your bedroom with a far heavier heart than he'd gone in with, raking his fingers through fine, white hair and expelling a soft breath from his lungs, as if that might alleviate the weight settling across his chest.

So far, this first visit to your home has not gone as he'd hoped it would. Through no fault of your own, mind. But trying to focus on taking in everything you show him whilst he knows you're in more pain than you're letting on is woefully distracting. That's without even mentioning the creeping sense of unease that has been hanging over him ever since he first stepped foot through your front door. 

Briefly, Azrael wonders if Death had noticed the way your breath hitched slightly and your reply had an almost imperceptible, underlying tremor when he asked you what lay beyond the door at the end of your landing. He'd have to ask the Horseman about that later, when he's in a more talkative mood.

Already, the archangel can feel the beginnings of a frown forging crevasses down the centre of his forehead. He composes himself in another breath and finally lifts his eyes from the carpet, only to stop in his tracks. 

That door – that unassuming door to your cupboard lays ahead of him, quiet and solid as all doors should be, just sitting there under a flickering light bulb, as though it had been patiently waiting for him to notice it.

And notice it, he does, because something about the door has changed since he saw it last, something so obvious, yet also entirely unsettling.  

Where it had once been shut tight, now it stands ever so slightly ajar.

Despite everything in him screaming that he must respect the privacy of his host, Azrael's curiosity grows too bold and he finds himself treading silently down your landing, his shoes making no sound on the grubby, cream carpet. Drawing to a halt, the angel's keen gaze sweeps over the wooden door, taking in hairline cracks and mottled rot that a hundred years has left upon it like battle scars on a warrior's face. Slowly, he roves his eyes down to the dull, brass door handle and he immediately falters, doing a double-take.

Sitting atop the handle is a very noticeable, very thick layer of dust.

His brows knit together until they nearly touch and he reaches out to swipe a finger delicately along the brass. When he pulls away, he lifts his hand for an inspection and, sure enough, the pad of his forefinger is now sporting the same, grey substance.

'Why would a door you claimed to use recently have so much dust upon the handle?' The feeling of unease that had been stealthily keeping to the back of his mind now pokes its head out a little more, creeping forwards, daring him to acknowledge it.

'Something's wrong...' a quiet voice tells him.

Azrael's hand reaches out once more, except this time, it curls around the handle entirely and rests there for a moment as the angel's mind starts to race. 'Y/n.... Are you hiding something from us?'

As soon as the thought enters his head, he can't shake it loose. 

Yes - he trusts you - he knows you'd have no reason to lie to him, and especially not to the Horseman. And yet... Clearly there is something beyond this door that you're trying to divert their attention from and whatever it is has you spooked.

Feeling more and more like a common criminal, Azrael keeps one ear on the room behind him and slowly begins to twist the door handle, wincing when its rusty springs catch and squeak in protest.

His wings shiver with anticipation as he pushes the door open.

What awaits him on the other side is decidedly not a storage cupboard...

“A... bedchamber?” he murmurs to himself. 

Within an instant, he's hit by an oppressive wave of must and wood rot. The smell spills like liquid from the room and seeps into your hallway, causing the archangel's lips to curl, though he's quick to smooth his expression out again because there's something far worse lingering below the initial stench, something that – even after a hundred years – still clings to the peeling wallpaper and broken, dust-choked bed in the corner of the room.

It isn't quite magic, more like the residue of a dark and terrible memory. Azrael knows as well as any angel that memories can be immensely powerful things and capable of haunting a place long after the living are dead and gone. Hesitating, he takes a moment to steel himself before stepping over the threshold and entering that old, foreboding bedroom.

At once, he notices that, as with the door's handle, absolutely everything is covered in a thick layer of grime and dust, the television on the wall, the various, glass bottles that stand on a table at the room's centre, amidst which sits a single, yellowing glass.

Against the wishes of his own nose, Azrael takes a brief sniff at the air and grimaces.

Alcohol.

Even the most pious of angels would recognise it.

He dismissively turns his attention from the bottles and glides over towards a worn dresser that stands to the left of the bed, a bed that stinks of an odour he desperately tries to ignore. Upon the dresser are a vast array of what you;d once called 'photographs,' all of which sit inside basic, wooden frames. Inquisitive, Azrael bends down and peers at them, a soft smile worming across his face when he sees a familiar human grinning back up at him.

You couldn't be much older than four or five, but he'd recognise you at any age. It seems even as a child, you possessed that same, mischievous spark in your eyes.

You're standing alone, and in spite of a clear gap where a tooth has fallen out, you're beaming up at the camera so hard, he imagines your cheeks had to have hurt. In fact, the more Azrael inspects the photo, the more he thinks your expression most resembles a grimace, not a smile. He shrugs it off however, and moves on. After all, the facial structure of humans is such that they're capable of expressions far more complex than those of angels or demons. Perhaps he’s only misreading it. 

The next picture sees you looking a few years older, sitting in the lap of a tall, angular man wearing a white shirt that looks to have been frequently stained by all manner of substances whilst his face is stretched into a grin that makes Azrael's skin crawl. Captured in stillness, it looks menacing and shark-like. Worse still is the large hand that seems to have secured itself like a vice around your thigh, squeezing noticeably into the little, blue leggings you'd worn that day.

You aren't smiling as widely in this photograph....

The archangel's face begins to fall as well.

Humming, he moves on to the next picture and in an instant, that creeping unease suddenly rings in his head like an alarm bell.

Again, you're older here, perhaps early into your adolescence, and the smile you'd sported before is barely there at all. The same man is standing behind you this time, and his long, gangly fingers are clamped down over your too-small shoulders, fingernails digging so hard into the bare skin, the resulting indents are even picked up by the camera.

Your lopsided wince that could be mistaken for a smile at a glance shows off one side of your mouth and in it, Azrael can clearly see that you're missing a tooth.

He may not be the most well-versed on human biology, but he's definitely heard that children only lose the same tooth once. And that the process is a natural one.

Through the lense of the camera, your younger counterpart seems to peer up past the glass frame, past the fabric of time and space and straight into Azrael's misty, pale eyes, a silent yet clear plea in the tilt of your brows and the whites of your knuckles.

'Help me.'

All at once, the archangel feels sick. He staggers backwards, away from the dresser and doesn't even notice the golden halo on his back is thrumming with protective magics, pushing them outwards to envelope your entire house.

He doesn't need Jamaerah's second sight to know that you were afraid of that man who's eyes are stained the same colour as yours. Hazarding a guess as to why you were afraid causes Azrael's throat to tighten.

Swallowing hard, he tries to regain his composure. The archangel has always considered rationality to be one of the greatest weapons in his arsenal and if there was ever a time to use it, that time is now. 

'Perhaps... I am mistaken,' he reassures himself, 'I don’t know human customs nearly as well as I-’ 

“Azrael?”

The angel gives a start and jerks his head around to face the door, only to find Death eclipsing it, his eyes blazing like twin fires.

Stepping forwards into the room, he hisses, “What are you doing in here?”

The Horseman is quite certain he's never seen Azrael look so guilty.

Instead of giving him an answer though, the angel slowly breathes, “Where is Y/n?” Soon, he droops in relief when Death throws a thumb over his shoulder and replies, “Still in the bathing room, tending to a bloody nose... You didn't answer my question.”

Beckoning the Horseman closer, Azrael keeps his voice to a hushed whisper and holds the last photograph up in front of him.

“What do you make of this?”

Azrael's behaviour strikes him as so uncharacteristically odd and secretive, Death actually hurries over to him and snatches the picture frame from his hands, making an effort not to appear curious about the room he's never been inside. The angel watches raptly as Death scans the photographs with his luminous, orange eyes. Then, all of a sudden, the Horseman's fingers tighten around the little, wooden frame, hard enough to make it splinter and Azrael knows his worst fears are being realised. He hadn't imagined it.

Death sees it too.

“You guys shouldn't be in here.”

A tiny voice, low and trembling calls from the doorway and the angel's gaze snaps up. Death, in the meantime, remains too fixated on the photograph to bother acknowledging your presence.

Azrael drifts towards you cautiously, as though you'll bolt at any second. He tries to decide whether it would be better to apologise for invading your privacy or ask you why you look so terrified.

“Y/n,” he starts, paying attention to the way your hands turn over one another incessantly, “We were only-”

“... How... How did you get in? The door was - it was locked! You can't be in here... Get out!” Your voice raises in pitch. There are tears leaking from your bruised eye, swiftly turning the skin underneath it slick and shiny and there’s still a trace of blood underneath your nose.

Death finally lowers his gaze from the photograph and holds you captive under a wide and menacing stare. “A storage room, was it?” he asks curtly, showing you the picture clutched between his ever-tightening fingers.

The moment you lay eyes on it, your back goes rigid and all the blood drains from your face. “Put that down!” you demand and lift your foot as if to take a step inside the room, but as soon as you cross over the threshold, you seem to remember something, and quickly jerk yourself backwards, stumbling into the hallway again and sucking down a ragged gasp, blurting, “Just – Just don't touch it!”

“Why not?” Death drawls and tilts his head to one side, calculating, “It can't be that important to you. You've had it locked in this storage cupboard for these past two years.”

He's pushing you, Azrael realises with a sinking feeling, he's trying to provoke you into an honest reaction, no doubt. The archangel doesn't like it, but he likes the look of that man in the photograph even less.

“That's none of your business!” you snap, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your ribs. Unfortunately, your response only seems to stir something in the Horseman, who draws his head back as though you'd struck him a physical blow and he growls, “I hate to disappoint you, but it is my business where your welfare is concerned.”

“My welfare stopped being your concern about two years ago!”

Death falls silent, jaw clenching.

He'd be remiss to say that your comment hadn't struck at a place he guards jealously. He's painfully aware of the angel's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head and he nearly squirms at the pitying look he's receiving.

It would seem that Azrael knows him a little too well.

“You never once stopped being my concern...” the Horseman mumbles, his gaze moving down to the image in his hand. A younger, smaller you peers back at him with woe caught like sleep-dust behind your eyelashes. Death's eyes shoot back up to you again, the softness gone from his voice when he growls, “Why did you lie to me?”

Tensions are high enough that Azrael doesn't think it prudent to mention you'd lied to him as well.

Apparently, a direct confrontation was not the best way to deal with this delicate situation, a fact that becomes clear when you cinch your jaw shut for a moment, gaze flickering to and fro between the angel and the Horseman.

Seeing two of your most trusted friends standing in his bedroom with a symbol of your shame and your trauma held quite literally in Death's grasp sends your heart rate skyrocketing, fear like poison dripping down into your stomach. You can hardly believe they'd invade your privacy like this. Death especially, who knows better than anyone the necessity for keeping some secrets buried.

He doesn't need to learn about that part of your history - neither of them do. You don't want to have them worrying. And God forbid they should pity you.

Squaring your shoulders, you spin about on a heel and begin to march purposefully down your landing to the stairs.

“Where do you think you're going?!” Death barks after you.

Chest heaving, you pause on the first step and cast a heavy frown over your shoulder at the Horseman, matching his ferocious gaze without a single blink. “If you won't leave that room,” you tell him, “then I'll leave this house. And I'll thank you both to be gone by the time I get back.” 

And just like that, you continue to descend your staircase and disappear below the wooden balustrades. Seconds later and there's an almighty 'slam' that signals you've had an altercation with the front door before leaving through it.

For some time, the house is weighed down under a blanket of silence as the pair of unearthly beings are left to stand in the aftershocks of their actions.

“Oh dear..” Azrael's stare is vacant, worried, and he has several fingertips pressed to his lips. “I fear I've reopened an old wound..”

“No. This... isn't your fault,” the Horseman sighs, “I should have addressed this sooner. I've known for some time there was something Y/n didn't want me to know. And, I suppose, I'd always suspected that this room might lead to some answers.”

Taken aback, Azrael turns a mystified look onto the Nephilim. He'd expected Death to lay the blame upon his feathery shoulders, after all, he was the one who first ventured into this so called 'storage cupboard' and upset the proverbial applecart. Still, he finds it somewhat odd that the Horseman – a nosy creature if ever one walked the nine realms – hasn't ever tried to see for himself what lay beyond the door. Tilting his head, the angel asks, “You never thought to investigate?”

At the question, Death averts his gaze and shrugs one of his pale shoulders. “Admittedly, no, I did not.”

“Well... Why?” Azrael presses, though he already has an inkling.

After a moment of frowning pensively at the photo in his hands, the Horseman turns to look at him and he's once again thrown off by the level of emotion in those wild, striking eyes. Death really has grown since knowing you.

“I never brought it up because....” 

“.... You didn't want to jeopardise your friendship,” Azrael finishes for him softly, and Death is only grateful that he didn't have to say it himself out loud.

At the same time, the two of them peer back at the photograph and the archangel is surprised at himself for the anger that boils in his lungs at the sight of that man’s hands on you. Death however, isn’t in the least bit surprised at the presence of his own rage. 

“Horseman...,” Azrael says, his voice eerily calm, “You don’t supposed.... Y/n might be trying to hide something else, do you?” 

"The bruise...”

Furious, orange eyes meet cool and misty white. 

“It isn’t out of the question,” Azrael breathes, “A random attack from human zealots? Or-” 

“- Or something a bit closer to home,” Death finishes as he tosses the photo onto the nearby bed and turns to face the door. 

Outside, rain continues to hammer relentlessly on the house whilst a streak of lightening illuminates the bedroom and the two, imposing beings inside, one with dark magics crackling at his fingertips, and the other with a halo of solid gold on his back that thrums with violent energy as the glyphs on his wings begin to glow electric blue. 

Without a word, the Angel of Death and the Grim Reaper slip from your house and stride out into the coming storm, their ancient minds focused solely on tracking down their human.

[alwaysthinkingoutloud]

Hannibal Episode-by-Episode Meta/Analysis: Episode 8, Season 1 (Fromage)

Will’s sense of stability is crushing down as he continues his work with the FBI and his familiarization to darkness increases by day. He starts hallucinating about hearing dogs in pain, being attacked or trapped. Dogs are his pack, his family. So, what he subconsciously feels is loneliness creeping in. His current company is not enough/compatible to make him feel content anymore and that feeling of completeness perishes in his mind, not on anyone else’s account but his. Something inside of him is trying to wipe his palate of belonging clean. He knows that something is getting unlocked in him and he feels the void it creates along the way. Whatever is coming; it craves a stronger, more real, more deserving company than the dogs. It wants to destroy what was there before and rebuild a worthy companionship from the ashes. What is happening is not a foreign threat, though. Will is an unaware self-arsonist, his own house being set on fire by his own devilish flame.

He invites Alana over to “look for the wounded animal”, while it actually is an attempt to fill that void he has found in himself. He playfully brings up the idea of if she thought this was a date, and although he makes her feel otherwise, I think deep down it was a date in his eyes. He says, “It’s hard for me to wrangle a wounded animal by myself.” and is not that why animals hunt in packs? It is almost as if he is looking for a new, maybe even upgraded, sidekick. Someone who can understand, protect, and assist what he is to become. Someone to go after wounded animals with. It is actually an invite that is as romantic as it can get for an animal. As he soon mentions, he does not see any tracks except the ones they have made. He is not tracking any animal going around on itself, but the animal that is getting unleashed inside. The tracks he sees are the tracks he is looking for.  

Hannibal’s temporary tolerance for Franklyn’s blunt attitude seems to fade away as he refers psychoanalyzing his friends as becoming Hannibal. Surely Dr. Lecter would not like that kind of comparison. As Franklyn gets more specific saying it is Tobias that he is trying to analyze, we see a shade of familiarity passing on Hannibal’s face, indicating he already knows about what Franklyn has started to dig up. It is a bit of curious thing when Hannibal suggests that Franklyn may be attracted to psychopaths, since it takes more than one incident to make such a diagnosis. Well, Hannibal does know two since Franklyn is drawn to him as well as he is to Tobias, but Franklyn does not know what he is. So, Hannibal stops playing with caution. Another thing to suggest that he does not estimate a long lifespan for Franklyn.

As Jack also suggests, it does become easier for Will to look because he is acquiring a mental state -although unstable- similar to the killers he tries to understand. It draws him away from his relatively normal social ties and closer to whatever it is that is getting surfaced inside of him. But of course, for Jack, triggering Will’s devils is acceptable, even encouraged if it means it will be for Jack’s own benefit.

Bedelia keeps pointing out the similarities between Hannibal and Franklyn, trying to downgrade his position to just her patient. Hannibal, however, tries hard to gain the upper hand by suggesting equality between them. She does not allow that, though.

It is seen, Will’s experience this time is different than the ones before indeed. He sees Garrot Jacob Hobbs applauding on his design. He is not so uncomfortable with being comfortable with what he does anymore, he even accepts a praise. 

Another different-than-before act of Will is, looking still in trance, shifting right back to his empathic session with the killer in an environment he is not expected to, almost uncontrollably. He seemingly is having trouble with his on/off switch, getting lost somewhere between who he is and whose mind he borrows. Will feels the clueless and odd glances he gets from the people around him and finds himself confiding in Hannibal, once again, who looks at him with nothing but acceptance. Hannibal is the only person with whom he can discuss the murders happening not only forensically but also aesthetically and philosophically without getting alienized.  “What do you see behind closed eyes?” asks Hannibal and Will remembers seeing GJH, his own subconscious form of acceptance, and admits,

“I see myself.”

Franklyn figures out that the reason why Tobias would clue him in the murder he committed is because he wants Franklyn to tell it to Hannibal. Hannibal knows exactly why he would want that, and he retaliates by paying Tobias a visit. Franklyn, however, may attribute it to Tobias’s wish to be found out and discussed.

As the darkness inside of Will is trying to claw his way to surface, he feels the void it leaves behind and he tries to find someone help him fill it, someone to hold on to, that someone -at first- looking like Alana. After he kisses her, she tells him she does not think this is okay for either of them, leaving Will alone with the hole inside, just like the one he has on his wall. In her eyes; he is pierced with that hole, defective, flawed. After the rejection, he rushes to Hannibal’s. At first, it looks like it is not only to tell him about the kiss, but also to see if he can find the companionship he needs that he was just denied there. He surely thinks he would at least be a better companion than the person Hannibal just hosted, who did not even bother to finish his meal. However, as Hannibal also suggests, if Will always wanted to kiss Alana but only did it now, there must be another reason behind the timing. Will replies that notion with his thought that Alana knew there was no animal in the chimney and that he hallucinated it all. Considering Will did not even invite Alana up this time, it is questionable why Will really kissed her. Maybe after all, it was not due to his need of filling that hole with her friendship or romance, but it was a way to manipulate her away from what is happening inside his head. Maybe in his mind, Alana was never intended be befriended and after he fenced her out by making her uncomfortable; he came running to the man who does not think he is flawed. As Alana also suggested before, Hannibal and Will have that in common to flirtatiously change the subject. So, he does not come to Hannibal to say “Well, I’ve been rejected by Alana, hope you will take me.” but to say “She was this close to seeing me, look what a smart move I have made to divert her! Now, can we go back to discussing what is happening to me? Just the two of us?”

Will refers to the killer’s serenade as our song while talking to Hannibal and it is no surprise that Hannibal decides to lead Will to Tobias after that, moved by a little jealousy along with strategy. Afterall, Hannibal’s ultimate motive is to help Will embrace his darkness only to prepare him to see and accept what is behind Hannibal’s human veil. Will’s empathizing too much with another killer and understanding him well enough to be there a “we” is not tolerable. What is interesting is Hannibal’s doing that despite Tobias telling him he would kill whoever would come to interview him from the FBI. He may be okay with risking Will’s life like that because he thinks Tobias is too big of a threat to have around since he knows what Hannibal is, or because he got jealous of the way Will connected to this killer in a deeper, more different way than he did with the ones before. Probably both.

Right after that happening, while we are kept wondering why Hannibal would risk Will’s life like that, Hannibal confides in with Bedelia and tells her that he is considering a friendship with Will Graham. He mentions he finds Will’s empathic skills reassuring because he may understand him.

“You spend a lot of time building walls, Hannibal. It’s natural to want to see if someone is clever enough to climb over them.” 

says Bedelia, making it clear that Hannibal’s leading Will to Tobias was about testing him, as well as it was about removing Tobias from the equation. If Will can see Tobias, he can see Hannibal too. And then if Will kills/can kill Tobias -getting rid of the person who Hannibal feels Will got too close to- and survive, he will be worthy of Hannibal’s friendship. So Will is not only on trial for his unconscious loyalty, but for the authenticity and might of his predatoriness as well. When Will is talking to Tobias, I think especially from the accurate comment of Tobias about a richer, darker sound, Will already figured out that he was the killer. It was no coincidence that the voices in his head, his destructive dark urges that are trying to surface, came right at that second to draw him out of the building. I believe it was subconsciously to empty the room for Tobias, flushing him out by letting him murder the two officers. And it was, again, no coincidence that Tobias was able to kill two trained FBI officers but not Will. Will survived, as Hannibal hoped he would.

After Hannibal fights off and kills Tobias -eventually and meaningfully with the stag sculpture-, we see him looking at the door hoping, as FBI agents fill the crime scene. His worry when he sees Jack walking in alone for a second washes away, and leaves its place to absolute relief when he sees Will following him. The way he looks at Will’s eyes, sincerely, with genuine happiness, gratefulness, hidden pudency that he had put him in harm’s way in the first place… Admitting he came here on his own, but he appreciates Will’s company, he means it from the bottom of his heart. Looks like Will is not the only one looking for companionship. Hannibal knows that he found the one he has been looking for. The one who is clever enough to climb over his walls and the one who is worthy of his friendship. Worthy of his tears. Maybe, even worthy of his affection.

[sibillascribbles08]

Changeling

Just... an idea I had.

I won’t say much, I’ll let it speak for itself.

    Zane couldn’t sleep. 

    It wasn’t because of where he was, cramped up under the stairs of the lighthouse. His father assured him and the other ninja they’d be safer here during the night. The leviathan was unlikely to peek in there with Dr. Julien still sleeping up top. 

    It wasn’t because of the things he’d learned, such as finding out his father was even alive for starters. The whole thing had been a shock, certainly, but he was mostly just happy.

    It wasn’t because of the clammy air, the humidity of the ocean seeping in through the walls. It wasn’t the waves crashing up against the rocks outside. It wasn’t Jay snoring two levels below him, loud enough to echo in the hollow stairway but not enough to wake anyone else it seemed.

    No, Zane couldn’t sleep, because he swore he heard footsteps.

    He couldn’t pick out the exact location. It sounded like they were coming from outside the wall to his left, or were they against the wall? Heavy footsteps, or just loud ones, like the sound of a hammer against stone. 

    Zane was the only one awake. No one else to ask about the sound unless he made them all get up, which he wouldn’t do unless he was certain it was a threat. Nya and Jay definitely needed the sleep if they were going to finish The Bounty tomorrow. 

    He tried to logically reason out what could be making the sound. Was someone outside building? Unlikely. Even from here he could see that everyone was accounted for. The only person he couldn’t check on was his father. Could the man be up late? 

    With the footsteps still going, Zane decided to check. 

    He stayed silent as he climbed down from his makeshift bed. The stairs creaked as he climbed, but thankfully not enough to wake anyone. He slowed his pace as he got close to the top, just on the off chance his father was a light sleeper. He couldn’t really remember. 

    Zane carefully nudged the trap door open, peeking into the room. 

    No sign of movement, or light for that matter. His father was indeed still in the room, curled up on the floor, lightly snoring. Even Gizmo was still in place, eyes turned off. 

    Zane kept scanning the room, about to duck back into the stairs, when he caught something out of place. A silhouette at the window.

    His gaze snapped back over to it.

    Nothing.

    He blinked a few times, questioning if his vision was going faulty. Not impossible, the low light always made it harder to see even for him. 

    With the coast–seemingly–clear, Zane returned to the stairs. He went back down, listening. The only thing he could hear was his own feet against the stairs. 

    Perhaps he was hearing things. Maybe he got waterlogged during the trip over here. Salt water couldn’t be good for his circuits. He’d ask his father to check on him in the morning. 

    Something moved on the security monitor.

    Once again, he snapped his vision into focus, but it was already gone. Nothing but the empty staircase in front of the lighthouse. 

    Sleep. He needed sleep. Zane turned to climb back up to his bunk when the footsteps returned. His skin crawled. They sounded close, too close. He stepped a bit closer to the sound, closer to the wall. It was as if someone was moving around just on the other side. 

    Zane pressed his hands against the stone. He cursed the fact he didn’t just have x-ray vision. He kept scanning the wall regardless, looking for seams, cracks, something to indicate it wasn’t just solid rock. His fingers kept sliding along it as well, until finally his hand bumped into something. He glanced at it. While not very big it was undeniably a switch. Zane pulled it down.

    The stone moved, slowly swinging open to reveal a ramp going downward. He looked at his team, wondering if the sound woke any of them. Only Nya seemed to stir, rolling over on the crates she was sleeping on. 

    Should he wake them up? Was it worth doing so?

    No. Perhaps it was just another droid like Gizmo. Perhaps Zane could talk to them, convince them to come out and settle down. Then he could sleep properly.

    He headed down the ramp. Step by step the sound of the ocean got louder and louder. It was near a roar when he reached the bottom, and he could see why. The window–the only source of light in the room–was right up against the sea water. 

    Zane was transfixed by the light for a moment, the odd glow from the moon, but soon went back to looking. If there was another droid it had to be in here. He couldn’t spot another doorway, although it could be hidden. 

    He took careful steps into the room. As his vision adjusted to the light he could pick out objects. Boxes of parts, gears and tools were scattered among the shelves. A desk housed a number of blueprints, a few of which he recognized at a glance. Crumpled up papers lie on the floor. Was this his father’s lab? A bit odd the man didn’t show it to them earlier. Wouldn’t this be a good place to hide? 

    As he stepped farther into the room, a clang sounded behind him.

    Zane spun around, watching a couple of gears roll across the floor. “Hello?” He spoke. “Is someone there?”

    No response, not even footsteps at first. Maybe his first guess had been right, a person was somehow inside the wall. 

    Regardless, he stepped closer to the objects. Both gears were in good condition, at least, one of them even polished. He picked it up off the ground, studying it a bit more closely. He stared at his own reflection, at his tired eyes. 

    He tilted the gear to see the same pair of eyes just above him.

    Zane screamed. He scrambled back as he looked up, then opened his mouth to scream louder–though it never came.

    He swore he must still be looking at a mirror, or some kind of horrific version of one. He could barely call that his reflection apart from the outline. Rusted plating, exposed wires, his whole chest plate was open revealing more gears, innerworkings, and even a pressure gauge. 

    And the eyes, glowing a bright yellow, were fixed right on him.

    “Who–” Zane sputtered. His instincts told him to sprint back upstairs to get everyone else, but this doppelganger was blocking the way. “Who are you?” 

    They tilted their head, smile on their face. “Hello, I am Zane.” 

    “What?” Zane felt cold, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t his element. “No, I’m Zane.”

    “I am Zane.” They repeated, walking closer. Just how did they cling to the ceiling like that. 

    “What do you want?” Zane asked.

    They didn’t reply. They only reached out a hand. 

    Zane panicked. He weaved around the clone, full intention to sprint upstairs. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. 

    Something slammed into his back. Zane hit the ground. He pushed himself up, ready to scream up the ramp when a hand covered his mouth. 

    “I am Zane.” The clone pulled Zane’s head back as they leaned closer, face hovering next to his.

    “And you are not.” 

---------------------------------------

    A sharp noise caused Jay to jerk awake. He groaned, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It could be something bad, so he tried to snap out of his daze as he looked around for the source.

    He saw Zane, fiddling with something against the wall.

    “Zane?” Jay yawned and climbed out of bed. “What are you doing?”

    The droid’s head snapped in his direction, rather sudden. He almost looked spooked before he smiled. “My apologies, I thought I heard something. A rat perhaps?”

    “What would rats be doing out here?” Jay ran his hand through his hair as he yawned again. “You need to get some sleep, dude.”

    “I don’t need as much sleep as you do… dude.” He repeated the slang as if he’d never heard it before.

    Jay squinted. “You okay?”

    “Fine, never better actually.” Zane put a hand on Jay’s shoulder and urged him back toward the stairs. “Come on, you should rest. You do a lot of the rebuilding, yes? You need sleep. Then we can finally leave this island.”

    Jay snorted. “Zane, you say that like you’ve been here for ages.” 

    Zane laughed, something about it seemed off. “It’s just felt that long, I suppose.”

[itsbenedict]

Two-Faced Jewel: Session 5

A half-elf conwoman (and the moth tasked with keeping her out of trouble) travel the Jewel in search of, uh, whatever a fashionable accessory is pointing them at. [Campaign log]

Caught up in a blood feud between the villages of Wheat and Barley, Saelhen and Looseleaf are tasked with investigating a recent death. Their investigation takes them to a spooky tower owned by the local crazy torture wizard, which- hey, why was this guy not considered a suspect, huh? He's a crazy torture wizard!

Last time, the group was introduced to Malath Kanthalga, matron cleric of the village of Barley. She has no trust for outsiders- but she was willing to let Looseleaf lend a hand in proving once and for all that the scoundrels of Wheat were responsible for the recent murders.

To that end, the party is led a ways down the road to the farmstead of Roos and Gera Nicksickle, an elderly halfling couple which was recently slain.

En route, Looseleaf sizes up the farmers Malath has been arming, to see if any of them seem to have combat experience. There's one lizardfolk farmer who seems more comfortable with the armor, and holds his pitchfork like a spear. She makes a note of that.

They arrive, and are met by Lester Jawhold, a doughy-looking human man who's standing guard over the body out in the field, accompanied by a number of vicious-looking hounds. With permission to search the crime scene, some investigationing occurs.

Saelhen gets some basic details- the body was pierced through the chest with a four-pronged weapon, as described. Plus, there are the remains of hastily-erased footprints in the dusty soil- bootprints, it seems.

Looseleaf uses her animism magic to get a more direct picture of the incident. The corpse, recently dead, has a dead-corpse spirit that retains some information thanks to the emotionally volatile nature of recent events. The cause of death... being suddenly pierced through the heart, from the front, by a strange four-pointed weapon that induced extreme pain. It appeared to strike from out of thin air. Nothing about the corpse indicates a memory of seeing an assailant.

Indoors, the other victim, Gera, is found dead on the floor of the kitchen. It seems like the cause of death is the same, but... Looseleaf's animism reveals that her vital organs are intact, and she appears to have died of shock from the extreme pain.

All Saelhen finds from searching the house is... an empty cupboard with a recently-unlocked lock, and a mattress removed from its bed. Plus some of the same bootprints from outside.

Looseleaf has the idea to search the house for the victims' boots, to compare with the prints found outside. And what the search reveals is... there are no boots. They didn't own any. They were halflings. So their house being covered in dusty bootprints... well, it implies someone else was here and murdered them, which rules out the "a weird knife sort of inexplicably teleported into their chests" theory, at least.

The only real clue they have to go on is the extreme pain experienced by the victims. This suggests...

Malath gives a little exposition on the torture wizard- apparently he considers himself a savior, who through his experiments intends to vanquish pain itself- and surely torturing a few unwilling test subjects will be worth it, if he succeeds. Malath doesn't seem to consider it likely that Lumiere is the culprit, for the same reasons as Thalath- but jokingly suggests that perhaps Lumiere might have some information on who stole his torture tools to commit murder with.

Looseleaf: "So," Looseleaf asks, "if we're going to the tower wherein dwells a torture wizard, what can you tell us about what we might expect to face there? Ravenous horrific alchemical experiments ready to eat our faces? Traps? Magical servitors? A portal to another realm full of horrors?" Benedict I. (GM): She looks briefly surprised. "No, I... though I haven't been victim to him myself, I would warn strongly against confronting Lumiere, unless you're all much more seasoned than you look. None from our village have been able to resist him when he decided our consent was no longer worth trying to wrest from us." "Those who have been inside the tower might have more information for you, if you're fool enough to try." Looseleaf: "Well, team, you've heard the mission dossier, I guess. Do we think we're fool enough to try?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen Fishercrown is not fool enough to try. Unfortunately, Saelhen isn't getting to be Saelhen right now. "...I imagine that we have no other recourse." Benedict I. (GM): Vayen looks... almost gleeful, insofar as his face betrays any expression. Looseleaf: Thanks for the vote of creepiness, edgelord.

Saelhen opts to kill annoying helicopters with one stone, and suggests that the team split up to gather information on the tower from the townspeople. She also suggests that Malath personally keep an eye on Vayen, as the least-trustworthy-seeming member of the group. Good persuasion means it works, and Vayen goes off to interrogate Lester Jawhold while the rest of the team heads into town to ask around about Lumiere's past victims.

First, on the way back to town, they speak with Chitch Ssarzar, the lizardfolk with the apparent military background. He's got one hell of a sob story for them!

Saelhen du Fishercrown: 24 PERSUASION (8) all i do is win Benedict I. (GM): That'll do it- Chitch is pretty horrified at the implication that you're actually trying this, but with sufficient reassurance, he'll spill his guts. He came to Grain back when it was just Grain, twenty-odd years ago, hoping to raise his infant daughter somewhere less dangerous than the Cutthroat Islands. Then, during the fire, his daughter was kidnapped by the wizard, and he tried storming the tower to get her back. He got captured, strapped to a rack, and had his flesh flensed and healed and flensed and healed repeatedly. At one point he thought he'd get a reprieve, when the wizard's teakettle went off and he went downstairs to get some tea- but the flensing knives just kept going, by themselves, without stopping. He never saw his daughter again. He was eventually released, and thanked for his service, and by that point he was too traumatized to ask Lumiere what happened to his daughter, in case it provoked him to torture him more. He's pretty wracked with guilt over the situation.

They get a rough description of the first few floors of the tower, up to the torture room. Plus, some exposition on the town's history:

Looseleaf: Okay. More questions: this time, asking about the town. It was called Grain, once? It split into two towns and now Barley hates Wheat? There was a fire? How did this all come to happen such that a single town turned in on itself? Benedict I. (GM): Yes- either 28 or 29 years ago, he forgets exactly, there was some feuding between farmers growing different crops. The ones with less fertile soil, sandier towards the southeast and closer to the mountains, had some kind of grudge against the landowners with more fertile soil, and it was this whole political infighting nightmare he didn't understand, as he was new in town. Then the dragon attacked, and... he's not entirely sure what happened, because accusations were flying left and right, but apparently some people tried to use the dragon attack as cover to commit arson against their enemies? Saelhen du Fishercrown: DRAGON Looseleaf: A FUCKING DRAGON Benedict I. (GM): And most of the town burned down, and when it came time to rebuild, nobody wanted to build near each other- and there was some sort of weird religious split between Family and Harmony so that most of the Harmony people decided to go grow wheat on the worse land, and the Family people went to go grow barley on the better land. He'd never been super involved with the split, as a newcomer, and spent the early rebuilding period being tortured- Barley was just the closest civilization after he was set free. Looseleaf: Mmmmm. A tragedy, all around, gods-damn. Saelhen du Fishercrown: caused by a dragon. a dragedy, if you will.

Then it's off to visit the innkeeper, Cassie Zeishus.

Benedict I. (GM): When you reach the inn, you meet Cassie Zeishus, the innkeeper. She tells you about the time she visited the torture wizard to see if her husband was there. Looseleaf: Oh, yeah, you know. Just, a conjugal visit. To the torture tower. Benedict I. (GM): Apparently her husband, kind of a good-for-nothing out-of-towner she married largely as a charity case, kept on gambling and trying to sleep around and doing general sleazy vice stuff, and was miserable in a town that didn't want to indulge him- and she's pretty sure he faked getting kidnapped by the torture wizard to escape it. Saelhen du Fishercrown: as one does definitely not victim-blaming Benedict I. (GM): This was corroborated by Lumiere quite pleasantly answering the door and telling her no, he hadn't seen hide nor hair of this Arnie fellow, and would she like to come in for tea? And her saying no, no thank you, and walking away. Looseleaf: Huh. Benedict I. (GM): She doesn't know why the guy let her leave, despite a propensity for forcing people inside and torturing them in the past. She chalks it up to having been very intimidating towards him.

Saelhen also tries to inquire about Kensa, Thalath's sister, who's apparently in some sort of dire straits here. She doesn't want to give away that she's asking about Kensa deliberately, so she takes something of a garden path of conversation, about Malath and why the townsfolk call her "Mother". Eventually she gets to Kensa, who apparently weaves cloth and sells it to the general store, where she can be found around this time of day. (She's apparently got something going on with the shopkeep's son.)

Looseleaf: these affairs might not be something we can intervene constructively in. Saelhen du Fishercrown: I mean, Saelhen's definitely abducting this child Looseleaf: gosh, well, when you put it that way, how could we not. Saelhen du Fishercrown: let's visit the general store! saelhen enjoys cloth.

At the general store, they find... not really any evidence that anything bad is going on with Kensa. She seems... fine? Also six feet tall and jacked as hell, because she's a goliath and their twelve-year-olds are just like that?

Kensa notices Lady Noeru de la Surplus' fancy silk dress, and fangirls over it immediately.

Benedict I. (GM): "Whoa, is that silk?" "I don't know if we have any silk in the back, but-" "Silk?" the girl by the window asks. "Ohmigosh, you have a silk dress? Ohmigosh, how much did it cost?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Ah." Saelhen expected a little more resistance than this! "15 gold, when I bought it." Benedict I. (GM): "Whooooaaaa..." She's looking the dress up and down with obvious envy. "Nnnnngh, but I don't have... fifteen gold..." Looseleaf: oh my gosh she wants to buy it

Benedict I. (GM): "It's- hang on, if I get ten, will you sell it?" "I can probably get ten! And I'll throw in a replacement!" "Not silk, but-" "Uh, Mr. Teller, do you still have last week's stuff in the back?" Looseleaf: this kid's great Benedict I. (GM):"It's good, I promise!"

Saelhen, being a con artist and kind of a jerk, turns down the offer, but skillfully reframes the issue by exploiting Kensa's love of textiles to get it repaired on the cheap in exchange for a swatch or two of the fabric. Great... job...?

After interrogating the townsfolk, Looseleaf has a bright idea- she wants to buy a climbing pack to scale the tower from the outside. It costs her extra, since new stuff has to be custom-forged overnight (a remote farming village like this doesn't have much call for climbing packs), but she gets it.

Vayen comes back, with testimony from Lester. It's not much they didn't get from Chitch- just a note that apparently vegetables were chopping themselves in Lumiere's kitchen.

Looseleaf: i should get some food too maybe! anyways all this is really pointing hard to 'the four-pronged stabby painblades move on their OWN'. it's not clear who's BEHIND it, but it's pretty obvious now that all the clues point towards the stabbies being the culprit.

-

The next morning, they head out to the tower. They notice a couple things: one is a sign that reads: " KEEP SHOUTING",

and the other is a bunch of broken glass and rubble strewn across the ground. Looking up, they notice the sixth floor seems to have had a large window smashed open. Weirdly, less glass on the ground than you'd expect if it'd been smashed open from the inside.

Looseleaf's Animist class can Detect Magic, sorta, and it's pretty clear to her that the front door is magic- so rather than fall for an obvious trap, she puts her plan into action. She can jump 30 feet up with the aid of her wings, so she's able to jump straight to the third floor and try to drive a piton into the stone to drop a rope for the rest of the party.

Here is a list of problems with that plan:

Looseleaf has tiny little sticklike moth arms, which exert insufficient force to drive pitons into stone with no leverage.

Breaking a window to attach the rope to instead results in a broken window.

Inside the broken window is a spindly suit of armor covered in nasty spikes, which immediately springs to life and turns to face whoever just broke a window next to it.

Also an alarm goes off.

Looseleaf is able to get the rope secured before the living armor attacks her, and jumps back out the window- as a moth, she essentially has Feather Fall on at all times. Still, going in through that window presents a problem.

They've noticed something, though- the automaton doesn't seem to be chasing them out the window. It's just standing there, staring down at them. This... gives Looseleaf a bright idea.

Orluthe has to make his grapple check with disadvantage, given that he's trying to snag this thing with his halberd with one hand while clinging to the side of a building by a rope, but luckily this thing botches its own roll thanks to its patented "stand perfectly still because there are no intruders in the building" maneuver.

It takes a bunch of fall damage from hitting the ground, is knocked prone, and the remainder of the party immediately unloads on it on a surprise round with crits for a bazillion damage, killing it before it can move.

This was a really good idea!

Too bad there was another one just inside, which Orluthe is now alone with!

...Wait, no, he's a giant wolfman in football armor and he suplexes the other one out the window, where the exact same thing proceeds to happen to it. Okay. Cool.

With that, the party makes their way inside. Whatever the alarm was, it seems to have died down, physically- whatever was powering it petered out. Plus, Looseleaf's magic detection means there's no way they could get caught in any traps!

Any magic traps!

Saelhen fails her perception check while walking across the room to a treasure chest and hits a tripwire and a net falls from the ceiling, trapping her and Oyobi! I bet this would be a really dangerous trap if there were, say, two menacing spiky robots bearing down on them trying to kill them while they were defenseless. As is, though... it's a minor inconvenience.

After this snafu, Saelhen tries to pick open the chest, only to find that the lock is a) quite well-made, and b) itself trapped, with a poison needle in the locking mechanism designed to go off if a lockpicking attempt fails. She just barely gets her fingers away in time, and opts to leave this treasure chest to loot later, after they're done here.

The stairs up from floor 3 seem to be blocked off by a translucent red magic barrier, so Looseleaf resumes the original plan. She stands on the windowsill of the third floor, and just flaps up to the fourth floor, looking inside and this time unlocking the window telekinetically from the inside, rather than breaking it and setting off an alarm.

When she opens the window (to the torture laboratory), some more very scary torture robots immediately go after her, as do a variety of flying knives that have quite a bit of movement speed and stab her repeatedly.

Maybe this idea had some flaws.

Next time: Looseleaf hopefully doesn't get turned into moth sashimi by animated torture implements! More dungeon is crawled! Some jerk falls down the stairs and it's hilarious!

[moddersayethstuff]

So I decided to write down my massive headcanons on how Inkling Biology works, such as what their body is composed of, how they can turn into smaller forms, how they can get “splatted” without actually dying (and can “respawn” via man-made devices), and how they can weaponize the Ink that their body creates. I might also reblog this later with details on how Sanitation works (and can be reversed), some genetic oddities certain Inklings have (such as claws or size differences), and other small tidbits.

The main things you need to understand: 1. Inklings is a term for a race of Humaniod Cephalopods, and subraces include primarily Squidlings, Octolings, and potentially others. 2. Magic exists in the form is reality-controlling energy that Human Mages used to be able to control. When Humanity died in the floods, this “Magic Energy” seeped into the oceans and caused many types of ocean life to evolve (because anyone who attended any kind of Biology class knows that creatures don’t evolve on their own and mutations are never beneficial). This Magic Energy can be controlled with focus (or a natural talent) but the average Inkling has only a small amount of control over it, which I’ll explain later.

With that out of the way, I’ll start with what the Inkling body is made of. To put it simply, Inklings are like onions (and ogres). They have Layers. To be more specific, two Layers, their inner Blood Layer, and their outer Ink Layer. The Blood Layer contains all their internal organs, such as their lungs, stomach, heart(s), brain, and formations of cartilage function similar to bones. They also have an Ink Sac that produces a weaker version of the Ink their Ink Layer is made up of. The Ink Layer covers the Blood Layer, and consists entirely of a special form of Ink that can form into a kind of skin on the outside, as well as their eyes. The only natural holes in the Ink Layer that allow access to the Blood Layer are in their mouths so they can eat, small slits in their ears so they can hear, their noses so they can breath, and in the… downstairs regions so they can… you know. Should their skin be cut, Ink will leak out, but it’s no-where near harmful to an Inkling’s health and will at most weaken them a bit. But should anything damage the border between their Ink and Blood Layers (say, someone stabbed them with a sword), most of the time it will be fatal. Recovery is possible, provided their internal organs aren’t too damaged, but they would be unable to change into their Squid Form or it’s a painful, permanent death. In fact, damage to the Blood Layer is the only real way to permanently kill an Inkling, provided they keep their Blood Layer safe they can survive for a long time, until they naturally die at around age 100-110.

Inklings posses an uncanny connection to the Magic Energy that triggered the Oceanic Evolution, which allows them to use their Ink in ways other creatures could never dream. All Inklings are born with a certain Ink Colour, which they can change with a bit of concentration. It’s very difficult to precisely change to a colour someone else is using, but this difficulty can be removed by making physical contact (ex. Placing a hand on someone’s arm), and changing colour this way allows for perfect replication of someone else’s Ink. Mimicking someone else’s Ink Colour has several benefits, such as being able to swim in someone else’s Ink. As an Inkling reaches age 13-15, they begin to attune to the Magic Energy inside of their Ink, and can activate a powerful ability (which, by Mage Standards, is technically a Spell, but no one really cares about that fact). This ability displaces their Blood Layer, storing it in a sort of Pocket Dimension, while their Ink Layer morphs to a smaller cephalopod form, known commonly as a Squid Form or Octo Form, or the umbrella term Ink Form. This allows them to protect their Blood Layer from any damage, including falling from a great height or getting cut. They can also easily slip through grates and nets, being essentially liquid held together via Magic Energy. Because their eyes are a part of their Ink Layer, they can still see, but can’t smell. They can also hear, but the sound is very muffled. Their brain, stored in the Pocket Dimension, telepathically exists within the confines of the Ink Form, allowing it to control the body (telepathy is canon in Splatoon, see Judd who is canonically a Telepath/Psychic). The Ink Form can submerge itself in Ink, and it can sense what is outside of it, as well as move through it quickly. It can also absorb Ink into the Ink Layer, which is then deposited in an Ink Tank (or similar Ink Storage methods such as Inkweave) upon returning to their normal Humanoid Form. Originally, ancient Inklings were unable to take their clothing and equipment with them when they activated their Ink Form, but some studied and trained and perfected the art of storing their external gear in the Pocket Dimension when they switched, and gradually this technique became part of the Spell the Inklings naturally use (most of the time, but the few who don’t naturally have this ability can gain it the same way the ancients did). Also, Inklings in Ink Form are unable to hold things in their tentacles without wrapping their tentacles around the object they want to hold (and they aren’t very strong either).

When Ink of another colour makes contact with an Inkling’s Ink Layer, they feel uncomfortable and may be physically slowed, and too much foreign Ink causes their Ink Layer to detonate, but (due to more ancient practices that have been ingrained in the modern populace) their Ink Layer and gear are displaced, similar to if they turned to Ink Form. This displaced body, with no Ink Layer tied to it, is trapped in limbo until their Ink Sac can generate enough Ink to rebuild their Ink Layer, a process that can take anywhere from a day to almost half a week, whereupon they respawn the same place they were splatted. However, scientific research created devices that pulled in the displaced Inklings and accelerated the process, allowing them to respawn almost immediately. Inklings possess a special organ in their Blood Layer known as an Ink Sac, which creates Ink the same colour as their Ink Colour, and this Ink is pumped into their Ink Layer, but the special Ink that the Ink Layer consists of and the Ink the Ink Sac produces is slightly different. Regular Ink can be drawn out of an Ink Layer and can be stored externally via an Ink Tank/other method of Ink Storage (see above), or ejected forcefully via an Inklings mouth. This Ink Spit is how the ancient Inklings originally weaponize do their Ink, before tools that could shoot their Ink for them were created. Weapons contain siphons in their handles, similar to Ink Tanks, and draw out regular Ink stored in the Ink Layer for use. Often, Inklings will draw Ink out from their tanks as it gets siphoned into their Weapons, a trick that takes a bit of time to learn but eventually becomes almost second-nature for competitive Inklings. Ink sticks to most surfaces, except for some materials including certain types of metal, fabric, and plastic, as well as all liquids.

Other notes:

Inklings have tentacles comprised entirely of their Ink in their Humanoid Form that functions similar to hair, and it can change shape at the Inkling’s will, but most of the time these tentacles serve no functional purpose. Some Inklings have more dexterity with their tentacles than others, with the average Octoling having more control with their thicker and fewer tentacles than Squidlings. However, on the rare occasion that an Inkling loses a limb (usually if it gets severed but their main body is fine, they will heal over the wound and their Ink Layer will cover it up, a process that can take a few weeks) they will have a greater dexterity with their tentacles, a phenomenon that medical scientists are still trying to fully understand.

Certain chemicals have an effect on an Inkling’s Ink Layer that is similar to the effect of foreign Ink, and should any of these chemicals be mixed into bodies of water, any Inkling that submerges in this water will have their Ink Layer detonate, resulting in the same effect as being splatted. Submerging in bodies of water that don’t have those chemicals or getting rained on/having a shower is perfectly safe, and Inklings, being sea creatures, are also very comfortable being wet. Most Turf War arenas have these chemicals in the water as a hazard during competitive matches, but they dissolve quickly leaving the water safe again. Often, more casual Turf War matches between friends omit these chemicals, as pushing one of your friends into water is very, very funny.

Regular Ink, when applied to a surface, stays for about 5-7 minutes, before natural microbes in the air cause the Ink to evaporate. The special Ink that makes up an Inkling’s Ink Layer is unaffected.

And that’s pretty much it! I’ve got a lot of other headcanons and thoughts on this topic but I’ll save those for later. I’ll prolly reblog this post with addendums if I do so. Also note that I use all this for my Splatoon fanfic Inkopolis Rising, as well as several other Splatoon AUs and stories.

[moonice20408]

The Curious Disappearance of C. Cullen

Word Count: 3818

Read on Ao3 Read on FF.net

“This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved we’re investigating the disappearance of C. Cullen, as part of our new investigation!”

“New investigation?”

“Are vampires real?”

Shane groaned. “Oh no. No no no. Absolutely not. Nope.”

Ryan let out a laugh. “What, you don’t believe in vampires?”

“No Ryan, I do not.” Shane shook his head. “And you know what, I think I might believe in them even less than ghosts!”

“Oh wow.” Ryan laughed again. “Why are vampires so much more unbelievable than ghosts?”

“Because Ryan. They’re stupid! That’s why!” He slammed his hand onto the desk with some force. “If vampires were real, we’d know about it.”

“Well what if it’s like in the movies and they’re all just living in secret?”

“Oh, c’mon. There are cameras everywhere nowadays. You don’t think we’d have caught some guy just munching on another guys neck till he drops dead at some point? Then turn into a bat and fly away.”

“Well you’d just say it was fake if we did.”

Shane paused for a second then shrugged. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

Ryan shook his head, then faced the camera. “So, this episode of Supernatural is a going to be a little different.”

“How so Ryan?”

“Well… we’re not going anywhere. There’s no location footage this week guys.”

“Yeah, this week we just thought, ‘you know what, not feeling it.’” Shane relaxed back in his chair. “We’re gonna sit back and take it easy.”

Ryan ignored him. “The reason being, well two reasons actually. One being that, at least I figure, if they were real, vampires aren’t, err… trapped, shall we say, to one place. Therefore, if they were real, they’d still be free to leave a place. So, we’d get there-”

“And we’d be talking to no one.” Shane interrupted.

“Exactly.”

“Imagine that.” Shane continued. “Going to a supernatural hotspot, just talking to the air…”

“Would you-”

“Wouldn’t want that! Would we?” He threw his hands up in the air. Ryan just stared forward, looking into the camera with an unimpressed look. “Wouldn’t we just look dumb! Just yelling into an empty room, expecting a response.”

“Erm, excuse me, we’ve gotten plenty of responses!” Ryan defended.

“Pffft.” Shane waved his hand.

“You know what, I’m just going to continue.” Ryan said matter-of-factly.

“Please.”

“The other reason we’re staying here, is that this case is from England. And we just couldn’t find time that worked for us, as well as crew members to do a quick trip to another country.” Shane nodded with Ryan. “I did look around the location, y’know on Google, and err, it’s just a bunch of offices now, so…”

“Not as exciting as our last trip there.” Both of them shook their heads.

“Now,” Ryan straightened out the file in front of him, before looking to the camera. “I am going to admit, right off the bat…” He quickly peered to Shane. “See what I did there?”

Shane nodded.

“Vampire… Bat…”

“No, I got it Ryan. That was a good one.”

“Thank you.” Ryan smiled while Shane rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I have to admit, I, err… I’m already prepared for some… criticism, shall we say.”

“What, because vampires aren’t real?” Shane said sarcastically.

“No. Well, I guess that’s part of the debate isn’t it?”

Shane sighed and shook his head, looking straight to the camera.

Ryan continued. “What I mean is, that this is case we’re investigating, is one of the oldest cases we will have covered so far on the show.”

“Oh really? Interesting.” Shane said, genuinely intrigued. “What’s the oldest so far? Witch trials right, gotta be.”

“Err, well that’s the oldest full episode, I think. But there’s some of the ancient alien stuff we looked at-”

“Oh right, yeah.”

“But the Salem witch trials were 1690s. But the case today dates back, roughly, to the 1640s.”

“Wow. That’s pretty old Ryan.”

“Yeah, which is part of the problem. Because it’s as old as it is, the erm, documentation of it is… It’s not great.”

Shane let out a small laugh. “So, what you’re saying is, you’ve got shit.”

“No! No… It’s just we, meaning our tremendous research team, we’re usually able to get multiple accounts on stuff, and can cross reference information, you know, so we can put together a more valid case.”

“So, you’re telling me, that before the videos even started, this case has no credibility and is crumbling through your fingers as we speak?”

Ryan sighed. “Look, I feel that what we have is defiantly something. I just want to make it clear; it’s just not as backed up as our usual content. You know we try to keep it as honest as we can here. So, I figured, I’d be upfront about this, before people start yelling at me through the comments. Obviously, I’m not going to put together an episode if there’s absolutely nothing, cause that’s… that’s just telling a made-up story off the internet isn’t it?”

“Hmm,” Shane nodded. “Okay. Alright. I will reserve my judgement for the end.”

Ryan laughed. “I doubt that, but anyway, let’s get into it.

- - -

“Legends of vampires can be dated back millennia, and stories told of them are found globally. Many ancient cultures had tales centred around the nocturnal undead, reanimated corpses spreading disease to the living, or blood drinking spirits all that hold similar characteristics to the modern idea of what a vampire is.

The idea of blood drinking became very ingrained into the lore of vampires. It was once believed that the blood of a living person, contained that person’s life force, and to drink it would allow another creature to absorb that life force. Some even thought that by drinking a person’s blood, that the drinker would also gain the characteristics of that person, allowing the vampire to better disguise themselves amongst the rest of society.

The word ‘vampire’ itself only came into use in the mid-18th century, from fast spreading tales told in Transylvania, and was later further popularised due to Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula, which was published in 1897. It’s Stoker who is credited for defining the modern vampire, after combining multiple myths together for his book.

In most folklores, vampires were believed to be the revenants of evil beings, or an unrested deceased person who had committed unforgivable sins in their life, but it became a common belief that a living person themselves could become a vampire by being bitten. The belief in some parts of the world became to extensive that it led to mass hysteria, which resulted in many people being sentenced to death, usually by burning.”

- - -

“What’s interesting to me,” Shane started.

“Yeah?”

“Is just how wholeheartedly people, back in the day, believed in this stuff!”

“Yeah. I did come across something, and can I just say, the historical research in this case was very interesting… Like, go look up vampire history guys.” Ryan pointed at the camera. “But anyway, in, err, Greece I think it was, was that after three years, they would dig up dead bodies and they’d be examined.”

“To see if they’d become vampires?”

“Basically.” Ryan nodded. “And if they hadn’t decayed to standard, or whatever, then they’d be ‘dealt with accordingly’” He said, adding air quotations.

“Who decides,” Shane snickered. “Who decides what a suitable decomposition is?” They both laughed. “Were they just like, ‘hmm, no, too much meat left on ‘im’”

“‘toss him in the fire!’” Ryan added.

“‘Into the pit’,” Shane mimicked throwing something over his shoulder. “‘Bring in the next decayed body!’”

“It’s like a line at the doctor’s office.” They both chuckled.

- - -

“Now, back to the case at hand. In early the 1950s, construction workers in London were working to fix up a number of buildings that were destroyed by bombs during World War Two. In one particular location, the damage caused actually led to the discovery of a basement-like room, that had been previously built over, remaining hidden for centuries. Upon further investigation, it was determined that this room was originally part of an Anglican church that was destroyed during the Great Fire in 1666, and was never rebuild.

Inside this room, many historical artefacts were found, but some of the most interesting, at least to me, were a journal and a stack of documents, that belonged to a previous pastor of the church. It is worth noting that the year 1640 is written on the first page of this journal, but it is up for debate for how long this journal was kept. The documents that were recovered, have been since entitled the ‘Crusades of Evil’.

Unfortunately, over time a lot of the writing on these pages has become too faded to accurately read. But enough can be made out to get a good sense of what they’re about. In short, the pastor of the church would lead hunts for all manner of unholy creatures. Almost all of them resulting in the execution of people who were thought to be these creatures. These documents contain the information about the accused, which was essentially just a name and location, if that, as well as what they were accused of doing/being, and the method of execution. Most of the documents found were signed a S.C. Cullen. But, thanks to the journal that was found with these papers, we know that the man in question was named Samuel Cullen.”

- - -

 “No middle name?” Shane asked.

“Err, no this guy didn’t write his whole name. Unfortunately.”

“And am I correct in assuming that the unknown ‘C’ initial is perhaps the same as our missing person’s?”

“It is certainly believed that the initials do come from the same name, yes.”

“Interesting…” Shane paused for a moment. “You know… just to switch subjects here,” He huffed a laugh, “And I want this on record, this guy already seems like an asshole… I’m very against the whole idea of burning innocent people to death…”

“Oh good, I’m glad.” Ryan said sarcastically.

“But, I gotta say… Crusades Against Evil! Sounds like a badass movie!”

Ryan chuckled. “To be honest, when I first read that… I did think it sounded like some kind of shooter video game.”

“Oh! Like Doom! You ever play that?” He mimed holding up a gun, and pointing it around the room. “Vampires just popping up, like bangbangbangbangbang!” He ‘aimed’ at Ryan. “Kaboom.”

Ryan just raised his eye brow. “You done?”

“Yeah.” Shane sighed, smiling to himself.

- - -

“Not much is known about Samuel Cullen, other than the fact he was the church pastor during the 1630s and early 1640s at the very least, according to the papers found. And the journal that was found, was unfortunately in an even worse condition than the documents. That being said, one legible section did make reference to a son, and if you were paying attention, you’d have noticed I said most of the documents were signed by Samuel. Some however, were signed C. Cullen. Which has led many conclude that this C. Cullen was the pastor’s son. But when efforts were made to find out more about this man, researchers came up empty handed, and found almost nothing. Not even a first name.”

- - -

“Not even a name?” Shane said loudly.

“I know.”

“So I take it that it was Samuel naming his son after himself?”

“Err, yeah. At least that’s what most people think. Which, honestly, I think is a fair conclusion to make.”

Shane nodded in agreement. “That’s kind of sad, that we’ll never know this guy’s name.” Ryan hummed in agreement, and there was a brief moment of silence. “I bet it was Clive.”

Ryan laughed. “Clive?”

“I dunno man, first name I thought of.” Shane shrugged.

“You thought of Clive before, like, Christopher? A much more common name.”

“Aaa, this is an uncommon guy though, Ryan.”

Ryan shook his head, not commenting.

- - -

“As I said, Samuel seemed to be very enthusiastic about the hunts he led, given the number of documents signed by him. His son however, only seemed to have taken charge in two of these crusades. And if it is to be assumed that the documents were kept in any sort of order, then that would mean, these two accounts from the son were much further apart in time, than that of Samuel’s. It’s also worth mentioning, that C. Cullen’s papers were noticeably longer in length, even if too faded to fully read. But this does suggest the man was, perhaps, more detailed in his telling of what happened, or even maybe had more compelling evidence of what he believed to be a supernatural creature. Researches involved believe the most likely scenario is that Samuel put his son in charge of the church and of the hunts, when he was old enough, as the son’s involvement doesn’t seem to be much later. But that his son was much more hesitant at doing the job at hand. Therefore, leading Samuel to decide to take over once again, possibly to save his own or his family’s reputation.

One document in particular sparked interest, when upon further inspection, it appeared to be written by both Samuel and his son. When comparing the handwriting, it was concluded that it was mostly written by the son. Starting with what seemed to be a description on a group of people living underground. This most likely meaning the sewage system at the time. Bible verses can also be found, such as Leviticus 17:10-14, which quotes ‘And whatsoever man there be of the house of Israel, or of the strangers that sojourn among you, that eateth any manner of blood; I will even set my face against that soul that eateth blood, and will cut him off from among his people.’. But the account of the raid itself, as well as what is assumed to be the execution details, was written, and signed by Samuel. And no evidence of C. Cullen can be found after this point in time.

Which begs the question, what happened during this crusade that meant C. Cullen was unable to complete his own documentation? Was it a conscious decision to leave for good? And, what became of him?

- - -

“See,” Shane started, “I know where you’re going with that that question…”

“Yeah?”

“And I don’t like it…” He sighed.

- - -

“One theory as to why he vanished, is that it during this aforementioned raid, someone fought back against him, and he was killed in self-defence. As mentioned, this attack was written to be on a group of people. Consequently, it seems pretty likely that this group would fight back, given the chance. So perhaps C. Cullen met his match, and ultimate end in this way. Similarly, could it be that he was killed accidentally? Many historians agree that these types of hunts for supernatural beings, would have involved a large number of people. Could it be, that in amidst the chaos and disorder of the crowds, undoubtedly fuelled by fear, that C. Cullen was killed. Perhaps being trampled, or being mistaken for someone else.”

- - -

“Personally,” Ryan started, “I’m not sure I think that’s likely.”

“Of course you don’t, it’s a logical assumption.”

“Oh what, you don’t think, if we were in some crazed mob, I wouldn’t recognise you?” Ryan raised an eyebrow. “And I’d just accidentally kill you cause I was so caught up in the madness?”

“Okay one, you couldn’t kill me no matter how hard you tried.” Ryan made a sound to interrupt, but Shane continued before he could. “And two, hysteria does things to people man. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I just think that the leader of this raid, would be the most recognisable person out of everyone there. I imagine they’d have had him up on a little stage while they all crowded round for instructions before they set off. They’d all of had a pretty good look at the guy, and I’m sure he’d have just been a well-known guy at the time. The trampling, or self-defence I could kinda understand, but I can’t see how someone could’ve just like, grabbed him, and I don’t know, beat him to death or whatever.”

Shane just shrugged.

“Plus, again, he’s probably the most relevant person there.” Ryan added. “So, you’d like to think someone would have noticed his death and there’d be evidence of that.”

“It’s the 1600s, Ryan! What kind of evidence do you want? It’s not like they were running round taking photos or anything.”

“Well, there could be some sort of documentation of it. Newspaper article perhaps?” Ryan suggested.

“I don’t think many newspapers would’ve survived that long… Were newspapers even a thing at this point?”

“You know, honestly I don’t know.”

“And this is the 1600s, how many people were reading?”

“Hmm…” Ryan sighed. “Okay, you got me with that one.”

- - -

“The most commonly accepted theory is that C. Cullen simply ran away. As I said, it is widely believed that he was more hesitant about conducting these crusades in the first place, so is it possible that he used the attack as a cover to escape? Many believe so. Perhaps being in charge of the crusade in question granted him more protection in the event, and perhaps he wasn’t involved in the attack at all. He was simply waiting for news on whether it was successful or not. Is it possible that he hung back, and made his escape while the crowds fought without him? And that no one realised he was gone until afterwards. That being said, some have their doubts about this. Afterall, if C. Cullen was indeed so much more humane than his father, would he really cause an attack on other people, just for his own benefit? And would he be one to watch from the side-lines, while others risked their own life?”

- - -

“Okay…” Shane said.

“What?”

“I mean, obviously, I don’t believe for a second that there were actually vampires involved in any of this… But back in the day, people did quite truly believe that they were real. So, I can’t imagine it would have been difficult to get a crowd all riled up, and then send them off. Especially if the leader of it all also truly believed in the… in the cause, I guess. And I think, that if this guy did use the attack as a cover, and if he was as good of a person as everyone thinks, then he at least thought they were really vampires.”

“That’s fair.” Ryan agreed. “And if you think about it, bible verses were only found in his accounts. So that leads me to think that he at least had like, I dunno, God in mind or whatever.”

“It’s kinda strange to, like, imagine yourself living like that. If you’re taking the bible that seriously, and know it well enough to quote like that, it’s gonna be hard, cause it has a lot of contrasting points. I mean, I can’t say I’ve read the bible, but just from what I’ve seen online. It seems like it’s a bit all over the place!”

“Oh yeah, I agree. I mean, this quote again,” Ryan shuffled through his papers, “I will even set my face against that soul that eateth blood, and will cut him off from among his people’. I can understand that perhaps that could be interpreted to mean killing vampires is okay… But then in the same book you have ‘thou shall not kill’.”

“You know Ryan, I like it when we argee on this stuff.”

Ryan laughed. “Well, we’ll see what you’re saying after this last theory.”

Shane let out a loud sign.

- - -

“I’m sure you all can guess what this final theory is. But some people actually entertain the idea that C. Cullen was correct in his quest. And that he truly found a coven of vampires living underground in London. He was attacked, and transformed into a vampire himself, and he is still out there today.”

- - -

Shane let out a long and loud groan. Leaning back on his chair, and covering his eyes with his hands.

Ryan giggled. “What, you don’t like this one?”

“No.” Shane replied in pained voice.

“Well you’ll be glad to know, neither do I.”

“Oh really. I’d of thought this one was right up your street.”

“What? You seriously think I’d believe in vampires?”

Shane shook his head. “You are so genuinely terrified of ghosts, it’s really not so outlandish to think you’d believe in anything like this.”

“No, no. I’m gonna put vampires in the same category as I put witches. I think a lot of innocent people were unnecessarily killed. And in all honestly, I think Samuel Cullen here, knew what he was doing. I think it was a case of him wanting to maintain a reputation, and as with the second theory, his son just took off and left to live an honest life somewhere.” Ryan nodded.

“I dunno…”

Ryan exaggerated a gasp. “Do you think it was vampires?” He laughed.

Shane chuckled. “Absolutely not. But I mean, I’ll put the whole vampire thing down to mass hysteria, you know, like those people in France!”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I was so desperately trying to avoid you bringing that up.” He muttered.

“They danced till they died Ryan!” He looked to the camera. “Look it up! Anyway… Mass hysteria, plus, like I think I said this about the witches, but, general boredom can cause a lot of crazy behaviour. But with this C. Cullen guy… he probably just died. It’s not like they were medically advanced. People would get some sort of disease and the local doctor would give them cocaine or some shit. And it’s just a case of crappy documentation.”

Ryan laughed. “You don’t think he managed to get away and just move somewhere else? Probably chance his name?”

“I mean, that’s a possibility.”

“I just… I think there’s something just not sitting well with me, that this guys own father, never seems to mention a death. And that he just seemed to vanish and no one noticed.”

“Well maybe he did mention it, it’s just part of the journal that was unreadable.”

“Maybe…” Ryan said, unsatisfied.

“I guess we’ll never know…”

Ryan sighed. “I hate it when you say that.”

“I know…” Shane nodded, chuckling slightly. “I’m not gonna lose any sleep over it. It was four hundred years ago, he’s defiantly dead now anyway.”

Ryan nodded and hummed. “Well on that note!” The two laughed. “Hey, do you think if a vampire died, that it could still become a ghost?”

“Okay…” Shane stood up and walked off camera.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you!”

“It was just a question.”

Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think!

[kittyspotatoes]

👁👁 do my eyes deceive me? Is that an ask game I see??? Can I can get 2,3, 6, and 30 for anyone you want??

*generic NPC voice* You shouldn't be here.

Lmao this is a long post, don't rush responding to this 😂 thank you for asking damnnit you got me again!!

2. Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?

• Kahliir got those three down, she's responsible and learns to be domestic after she moves in with Jhinn! Someone has to maintain their home, they never know when the next war is 👁👁.  Jhinn can do all of those too except for child caring. Apparently the Psijic's don't have a book about parenting.

• Kisa can only take care of a pet. 🙈 specifically those that can leave her ass and be independent after she nurses them back to health.

3. Ask them to describe their love interest.

• "Intelligent, tall, really shy!" Kahliir exclaimed. "His voice is so dorky, good at alchemy, and he's adorably awkward!" Jhinn adds helpfully. Both energetically claps, giddily recalling Fennorian's most striking qualities. "HE OWNS A CAT PLUSHIE!"

• Kisa crosses her arms, stares intently at the ground and thinks about how many times Kaidan risked his neck for her. No matter how much danger she jumps in, the swordsman follows her through hell and back, questions her decisions but never judges her for the things she regrets, made damn sure she doesn't condemn herself to death for the sake of redemption, and he shared her burdens despite shouldering his own. She was a lot of trouble and even when she turns him down a thousand times, she can't put a dent on his resolve to stand by her through it all. "Hmm.. He has very low standards." Says the woman who runs away blushing. 🙈🏃

6. Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is?

• Jhinn and Kahliir are Vestiges. Mortals whose souls were previously stolen by Molag Bal. Now they are but husks of their previous being, Soulless Ones as some call them. This status allows and, frankly speaking, really shoves them to a neutral spot. Negotiating with Daedric Princes in exchange for the greater good no matter how temporary it lasts. Yep. Everyone. Even Molag Bal.

• For Kisa, she'll take advice from Miraak, maybe even Ancano and the Dominion itself. She will never take advice from Mehrunes Dagon though. 🙈

30. What would they do if they knew it would be forgiven?

What a fucking hard and heavy question for me lmao forgiveness varies for each of them. It pretty much asks me what their heaviest crime is.

• Jhinn would deal with this the easiest. He's a positively good egg. But despite his well meaning intentions, a tiny miscalculation sent him and Kahliir trapped at 4E 202 for a while, leaving behind the kids they took in. A few months in this future cost them almost a decade back in their own timeline. Things would never be the same even after getting back, but they can rebuild, and he will. It's not too late for progress.

• Kahliir always took comfort in the fact that she's using her magic for good. She is. But deep inside she wants someone to condemn her. She was a child, was being tortured, she only defended herself. It wasn't her fault for using blood magic, not her fault that her coven died. Everyone believed it. She claimed otherwise but she was a child back then. People dismissed it as trauma. But she knew, always knew, that day under the open sky, she could have held back. She could have at least spared her sisters who are all just as scared as her. She'll have a lifetime to atone for the sins everyone is wrongfully justifying. Ironically, becoming a Vestige made her immortal.

• Kisa… Honestly I don't know man. This is a bit more spoilery, but she's not winning anytime soon. For this quickly decaying world, she continually fights for hope but still loses in the end and gives in. So if she somehow knew her twisted ways can still be forgiven? There's nothing she can do but bathe in even more self loathing, believing she won't ever deserve it. And seeing the lands scorched by dragonfire stretch on for miles, she's probably right.

[zenothemanager]

Axion: A Kortia Fic

If I write this, does it still make it a fanfic? Anyway, enjoy this short little thing I wrote about Gerald.

“Identify yourself travelers.” A voice came from a small open spot above the steel-like doors that looked about the width of a highway. 

“I’m Gerald Yori, and this is Dakota. She has no last name.” Gerald spoke towards the doors in a commanding voice I didn’t think he was really capable of. The slit above the doors quickly shut and a beam of purple light hit us, which tingled a lot.

“Gerald what the hell is this light?” I questioned, looking over my arms.

“They’re scanning our identities to make sure we aren’t known criminals.” He said cooly, just as the light turned off. 

“Entry granted. Queen Flore hopes you enjoy your stay at Astron, The Light of Vallauria.” A robotic voice said from the wall, seemingly from nowhere. After that, the doors began to open.

“The queen's name is Flore? Isn’t that a bit close to Florus?” I questioned with a bit of worry. After all, we had left the Princess to deal with the Dyclos problem by herself.

“You don’t need to worry Dakota, there's no relation there. From what I hear, the Queen is nothing like the Florus family.” He assured me, just as the gates finished opening.

And inside was more neon light than I had ever been exposed to in my life.

“Look at… all of the lights…” I muttered in sheer awe as my eyes darted across every little thing I was seeing. Purple, pink, and blue neon lights were shining from every corner of my vision. Cars were stacked in traffic high above the streets, thousands of people walked the sidewalks, and every bit of the city felt alive. 

“You like it?” Gerald questioned, a small smile appearing on his face. 

“This is better than I ever imagined it to be Gerald.” I smiled at him, the realized that for once, he was actually smiling.

“Wait are you smiling again?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you're talking about Dakota.” He said, his face going slack as he immediately began walking away from where I was standing. “You better hurry up and get your looks in now, or you’ll get left behind.”

“Gosh Gerald, you sound like a mother trying to get their kid to follow them.” I sighed, tearing my eyes away from the skyscrapers that seemed to cut through the very clouds themselves.

“What does gosh mean?” He questioned, shooting me a confused look.

“O-oh it's a saying where I’m from.” I suggested.

“Sure.” Gerald muttered in disbelief, but stayed silent afterward. This gave me time to actually take a good look around as we walked.

The vibe of the city was definitely cyberpunk. Futuristic flying cars, neon on every inch of the city, and the various ads for products that absolutely blew my mind. One thing I did notice that was odd were the people themselves. 

They all looked different.

I knew they were all Vallaurian, but not a single one had common features that everyone would normally have. Some people had crazy eye colors, some people had crazy hair colors, and some people even had wacky colors of their skin, or even more limbs than they should have.

“There's so many people here Gerald, how do they feed everyone?” I asked, realizing the lack of farms in the grasslands surrounded the giant walled city.

“You remember the floating farms we saw in Imperious?”

“Yeah.”

“That's what the people of Ventali do too. Sitting high up above the buildings is a huge floating farm that blocks out the sky during the day to feed the plants. Between dusk and dawn though, the plain splits itself up and sits on top of buildings around the city.” He said, looking around the neon city with even more awe in his eyes than even I had. I could tell he was really happy to be back here, and that in turn made butterflies fly around in my stomach.

“Well, where should we go first!” I asked in an excited tone, a bit louder than I expected too, but no one around us seemed to care. 

“We have to go to Axion, to deliver this letter.” Gerald said, pulling the white colored letter from one of his pockets and showing me it. It looked a lot more tattered and torn since the last time I had seen it… all that time ago.

“I thought Axion was destroyed?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow at him as he secured the letter back into his pocket. He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, keeping his hands in his pockets. It seemed like he was worried about something.

“It was, but apparently they tried to rebuild it a year or so back. I think something happened with the funding or someone broke in, because they quickly stopped on the project.” Gerald explained as we turned a corner and entered an even bigger neon street. I wanted nothing more than to fangirl over everything I was seeing, but Gerald was right, we had a job to do.

“Even with that being said, who are we delivering it too? Who would be in an abandoned school?” 

“The Savior, I guess.” Gerald shrugged. He obviously didn’t know who we were supposed to deliver it too.

“You guess? I thought you had better information sources than that Gerald.” I teased. I was a bit nervous, however. Just who had told him that we should go to Axion? Could it be a trap?

“Apparently the person who wrote this sent another message to Lord Summerset and told him to ignore this letter. It also said that the message was going to be delivered to the ruins of Axion on… today.”

“So the time we spent coming here was just to stall then?” 

“You’re learning well Dakota.” 

“I swear, you are impossible sometimes.” I muttered, putting my hands in my pockets and walking closely next to him. It was an odd experience to be in a city again, after all the time I had spent away from Earth.

“Are you cold or something?” Gerald asked, turning to me with a confused look on his face.

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You’re walking close to me like you’re cold or something.” Gerald pointed out, looking me up and down. My face immediately turned red, just as he looked away. Did he really have to call me out like that?

“Well I mean, I am a bit chilly…” I muttered, letting my voice trail off.

“It is a chilly night.” Gerald admitted, pulling his brown traveller coat off. This revealed his extremely toned arms and his amazingly tight shirt.

Oh god.

He then stopped walking, and draped the coat over my shoulders, adding yet another layer of warmth to my outfit. Instantly his smell struck my nose and it was intoxicating for all the right reasons.

“T-Thank you Gerald, but won’t you be cold?” I questioned, pulling his coat further around me and relishing in this moment.

“Not even a little. This is nothing compared to the nights in Deazure.” He said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Turn left here, down the side street.”

We quickly crossed the street as the flying cars whizzed above our heads effortlessly. It still baffled me, just how did these things work?

But I knew that wasn’t important right now, so I focused on the task at hand. Getting to the school.

“This...is the place? It doesn’t really look like a school.” I muttered as I took a look at the path before us. It looked like at one point the walk way had huge flowery trees, but all that was left were burnt husks, and long dead flowers on the ground. Further down the path I noticed a tower the distance that looked like it was almost falling over. Below the tower, was what looked to be a broken rectangular building, with all of its windows blown out, and two huge doors lying on the ground in front of it.

"It used to be one of the most populated places in the city, believe it or not." Gerald explained as he put his hands on his pants pockets. He then started walking along the path, his shoes crunching over all the dead leaves that littered the ground.

"I heard a lot of conflicting things about it, but what actually happened?" I questioned, quickly following him.

"You probably won't accept the answer ‘a lot’, will you?" He asked, glancing over to me.

"What do you think Gerald?" I question with a soft smile, which just made him feign being annoyed.

"The Savior destroyed this place with his power. It's said he betrayed the very friends he had worked with during his years at the school, then, in an odd twist, he killed one of them. Following that he blew up this section of the city, causing all of this that you see around you."

"One person… did all this?" I questioned as I glanced at the broken building once again. It was only one story, which already raised a lot of questions. Just how had so many people attended this school.

“The more impressive part is that the fight happened underground apparently. Yet all this damage still happened.” Gerald said, his eyes turning more towards sadness. 

“Weren’t you here when it happened?” I asked softly, just as we got to what looked to be a courtyard in front of the fallen doors. Giant slabs of broken concrete, twisted metal, and leaves were scattered over this area. It was sad to see that what once was a place full of hope, was turned into such ugly rubble.

“I was.” Gerald simply replied, with sadness now evident in his face. Sympathy flowed through my heart, and I knew that this once, I couldn’t be the shy person I had been.

“It’s okay Gerald.” I said, getting closer to him and pulling him close to me. I was surprised when he didn’t push away, or say something sarcastic, or refuse at all. 

Instead, he wrapped his arms around me and held me, as silent tears fell from his eyes.

“I watched… I-” He said, his voice breaking as he tried to tell me something. As he said it though, it looked as if he were in pain just trying to push out the words.

“It’s okay Gerald, you don’t have to explain this time. Just...let it go.” I said, reaching my hand up and running one of my hands through his hair. 

And then he cried.

He cried and cried and cried, and let out every bit of emotion I knew had been building up. Ever since the first moment I had met him, I knew he was holding back unimaginable pain. I had tried time and time to ask him when we agreed to run away together, but he just wouldn’t break down, and he wouldn’t tell me. But now that I was seeing this, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt in my heart for even asking him about whatever horrible tragedy had made him feel this way.

“I think we should go Gerald, there's no sense in putting yourself through this pain just for-”

“No.” He said with a shaky voice as his tears stopped. The expression on his face hadn’t changed, and the pain was evident, but I could see a shimmer of determination in his hazel eyes. “We have to go in, I need answers Dakota.”

“Answers for what Gerald? Is it really worth putting yourself through all this emotional pain?” I questioned, almost begging him to reconsider his decision. I didn’t want to see the man I loved put through so much-

Love. Love?

What did I mean love?

“Before, I would have said no. But with you by my side, I think I’ll be strong enough.” He assured me, grabbing my hand in a way he had never done before. A blush hit my face, but the look in his eyes completely drove it away. He needed me to be strong now, or else he couldn’t get whatever he wanted from this broken place, and he would never be complete again.

“Okay Gerald. Let’s go face these demons head on. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” I reassured him, trying my best to give him a strong smile, even if I was dying on the inside from seeing him like this.

“Thank you Dakota, I don’t know what I would do without you.” He muttered genuinely, then pulled me by my hand towards the two grand doors that stood before the extremely dark entrance hall. We passed the fallen doors, the very same doors that the artwork in the Byrathes mansion was based off of, and then we entered what used to be a grand hall.

But it was now only full of skeletons and cobwebs.

“Oh god these are-” I started to say, the very hairs on my arms rising in fear.

“The bodies of everyone, still never removed.” Gerald’s voice cracked as he stopped and looked upon the horror before us. His hand squeezed mine tighter as he shivered slightly. I quickly moved next to him and pushed his face to meet mine.

“Look at me Gerald, they are just skeletons. You can’t do anything to change what happened here. The best thing you can do for these people that died is to live your life. You survived for a reason, so don’t waste it by holding all this guilt inside of you.” I pleaded, as I pulled him closer to me. 

All that I wanted to do was warm his cold heart, and bring a smile to his face.

“You just don’t understand Dakota, I was-”

“Might want to reconsider what you’re about to say there Gerald.” A voice came from above, and immediately my senses went into overdrive. Before either of us could react however, a figure dropped onto the ground next to us and blew up a ton of dust at us. 

“Gerald, we have to move!” I yelled trying to pull him along, but he simply wouldn’t budge. I glanced in the direction the figure had dropped onto, and the first thing I noticed was two glowing yellow orbs about where I expected eyes to be.

And then the dust disappeared, and revealed a figure in pure black armor, with their face covered. But even through this cover, I knew the two orbs I was seeing were their eyes, something I had never seen before.

“Who are you!?” Gerald yelled, letting go of my hand and pulling two blades from his belt, getting into an attack stance. The figure laughed, then turned to Gerald, but still pulled out no weapons.

“I am The Savior.”

[one-leaf-grimoire]

“triad”

Chapter 23: the joy of death

:((((

Ao3 link

A soft spring breeze blows the world away. 

Lucifero blinks his eyes as everything suddenly becomes bright again, and the prison around him releases. But he doesn’t try to escape wherever this place is… he takes a moment to study it. The cavern is gone, the Tree is gone, but he’s surrounded by grass, a forest, flowers blooming everywhere… and a stream, flowing quietly by where he stands.

It’s like… I’ve been transported somewhere else- He thinks, still dazed from being so violently assimilated. She trapped me in a ‘triad’... but then, this is the inside of her mind? Is this the consciousness we now share?

“I… I-I can’t-”

The sound of someone softly sobbing wafts through the air from behind him, masked by the sound of water and birds in the trees. Lucifero turns quickly, to see a form collapsed a few feet away.

That’s…

I clench my fist in the grass. All the emotion, all the grief and anger I held secretly before, it’s all oozing out, a beautiful symphony of despair that paints the world in bright, natural light.

“It’s… j-just not fair-”

I bite my lip so hard it starts to bleed, as tears stream down my face, over the black marks left there by a long-dead devil.

“What am I? Am I a monster? Or am I nothing? Not even strong enough to do this-”

I inhale, my vision blurring as my heart clenches further and further. I feel it all drawing closer, I feel the end inching up my skin, but I don’t want to die, not like this, not now-

Frustration builds, the peace around me just an illusion made to carry my soul just a little bit further.

One last moment of serenity…

I sit up, the rage and hopelessness painted on my face, and scream at the only person here who will listen.

“I’ve lost EVERYTHING! Just let me win- just ONCE! Is that too much to ask?! I have nothing left to lose, so why-”

Lucifero does nothing but watch as the despair deepens, and flowers bloom at the base of the horns on my head. 

My strength quickly leaves my voice, muting it to just a hoarse whisper as I start to break down into tears once again.

“... I have the power… so why… why can’t I…”

“... your plan… was to go back in time… and reset everything to how it was before…”

Maybe he was a Devil, maybe he was a creature who couldn’t hope to understand human emotion or attachments. But in that moment, when our minds were one, he did. Lucifero understood me completely.

“... before Julius died.”

The breeze passes through us, the only thing breaking the silence as I tremble, consumed by my anguish.

Yes… please… 

The tears are so hot, they burn my eyes and my skin.

I just want to be complete again… Julius was the thing that made me human.

“... But to do that… you would have to discard the past six months. Discard your friends… your lover… and your daughter… this whole timeline.”

A sour taste grows in my mouth at the thought.

Yes… aren’t I so selfish? How could someone even think of that path… only someone like me, someone desperate and greedy, would go through with it.

But, even so-

“To do that would require not just a lot of power… but an insurmountable amount of malice.”

...malice…

“And you… you have none.”

…

… 

What?

Slowly, sniffing deeply once, I sit up again, my tired, tearful gaze meeting him. Lucifero looks… placid. Almost like he belongs in this peaceful plane. 

“I didn’t tell you the full story. I wanted to feed off of your despair before… but now I can’t hide anything from you for any longer.” Lucifero looks up at the sky, and more a moment, he seems almost human, too.

“Simulcia… they came to Earth to destroy it. But they met someone… and she changed her mind.” 

I blink slowly, absorbing his words.

Met… someone?

“A human… she met a human. He was nothing special, but he managed to save the world, somehow, by changing her mind. The two of them… they formed what you call a Dyad. And they returned to destroy the gate and shut out the rest of the Devils.”

My mind vaguely recollects the vision from inside the Simulcian Consciousness, of Simulcia standing before the hoard of Devils. What Lucifero said to her that day:

“What could possibly be worth it?”

“I couldn’t understand back then… but after meeting you, and seeing your memories, I do…” He looks back down at me, and for some reason, he’s smiling.

“Love… I doubt there will be any room for Love in the world I have created. But it did exist… the Dyads are proof of that. You are proof of that. Because Simulcians are a monument of Love, not Malice. And thus… you are unable to destroy the world.”

He reaches down, his hand outstretched.

“Come… you’ve lived long enough. Sleep…”

The world darkens.

Zenon lets out a strained cry as he finally gets back on his feet. Blood gushes from a wound on his side, but he ignores it. All of his focus is on me, as I stand there, Dante’s head still clutched in my hand, and my eyes still closed.

“I… I won’t-” He grits his teeth, his eyes wide and almost crazed with desperation. “I won’t let you win.”

I reach up, my hand sliding into Lucifero’s. 

Sleep…

I rise to my feet.

Sleep.

Maybe, in the end, I’m relieved to see it clearly at last. The answer that evaded me for so long, the answer I never even thought to entertain. 

It doesn’t matter what I am… it doesn’t matter how evil I convince myself to be.

I don’t have the malice within me to go through with this.

Because I am a child of Simulcia… because I am loved.

And so… with that one last comforting thought in my mind, I open my eyes. And, for the first time since I landed at the bottom of this room, I smile.

“Zenon… please…”

I know I don’t have to ask. His bones are already sailing towards me.

“...kill me.”

…

…

…

A flame dances on the tip of my finger.

A blue Grimoire falls from my hand.

My father zaps Lyra with electricity as a joke.

My mother’s sad eyes. Always watching me.

The ocean. It surges at my feet.

White fire moving faster than light.

That smile.

His smile.

Her smile.

My daughter, warm in my arms, the last warmth I ever knew.

        She is proof of a love that no longer exists.

....

…

…

...

A bone shoots through my neck, and severs my head from my shoulders.

…

…

…

…

…

…

Someone is holding my hand.

…

Julius?

Julius, is it you? 

…

A face looms out of the darkness.

…

He smiles, and when I look into his eyes, I see myself reflected back in them.

…

“NO-”

Dante opens his mouth, the very last shard of his soul clinging to Lucifero’s, reaching out to grab me as my own life desperately tries to fly away. His face is cracked, Simulcia’s devil marks streaking down his cheeks like black ink, and the one large, glowing mark in the middle of his forehead threatens to blind me. When he speaks, it isn’t his own voice.

  ��           Did I give you permission to die?

Light bursts out from the place where my head was severed, blasting Zenon away. Lucifero’s devil mark turns bright blue on my chest, my body still standing. Zenon yelled in pain as he fell, his wounds just getting deeper from the impact. He sat up, just in time to see the most horrifying sight he had ever seen in his life.

Slowly, I begin to smile as well, as something evil courses through my veins.

I squeeze Lucifero’s hand, and his face falls as he realizes what’s going on. The flowers around us wither up and start to burn.

“You know… I never thought that humans could be evil. But Dante… now that I’ve seen the inside of his head, I’ve changed my mind. Humans ARE evil.”

“Zenon… I’m sorry. But it looks like I have no choice but to live.”

I can’t feel any part of my body. Thousands of glowing tendrils have shot out of my neck and onto my body. Time whirls around each one, doing the impossible and reversing the effects of the fatal wound.

“And now… within this man, I have found a well of MALICE so deep and dark-”

My head finally reattaches to my body, sealing itself with time and blood.

“I think I could destroy this world a hundred times!!!”

Power surges back through my poor, dead body.

Stop… STOP! PLEASE-

Dante’s malice amplifies something within me. Every dark thought, every ounce of my hatred, is concentrated and honed into just one purpose:

There is nothing left in this world for me.

“How dare you all go on living!!”

Lucifero’s wings sprout once again from my back, warping and glowing as they swell, higher and higher above me-

NO! PLEASE-

I can’t stop laughing. 

DANTE, STOP THIS! THINK OF HOW FAR WE’VE COME!

The weight in my hands becomes heavier and heavier. The world starts to warp around me.

         Let them all see… your wrath!

“Am I really a devil who’s supposed to destroy the world? AM I, Lucifero?! So be it… I’ll be that Devil if that’s what it takes to defeat you!”

…

…

All the rage, the hopelessness, the despair, is suddenly gone, and nothing but pure joy courses through my veins.

The joy of death, the pure, unadulterated malice-

None of it is mine…I was glad to die. But Simulcia’s will isn’t to destroy the world; Her will was to rebuild it. Rebuild it as many times over as it takes to make it perfect, a world where love can exist once again.

…

…

My wings swing down, their tips meeting somewhere below me. There’s a flash of light that engulfs the entire world, and everything disappears.

…

...

After the blinding light, darkness falls. Cold encases my body as I abandon time itself.

There’s… nothing. Just a void. An empty, black void. 

The abyss.

…

This is what I wanted.

Nothingness.

Quiet.

Death.

…

…

The joy I felt in that moment of destruction has disappeared.

The moment has passed; I now exist in a place where there are no “moments.”

Dante’s malice is gone. His soul is quiet. There’s nothing warping my vision or intentions.

But now... a new man stands before me.

He can’t possibly know what’s coming for him; an evil that will destroy his world. In fact, he’s looking upon one of the beings that made the end of the world possible.

And yet, he smiles.

He smiles… at something like me.

I reach out.

He reaches up.

And for once… a Devil and a human join hands.

To be a Dyad… is to Love someone so completely that you love yourself completely.

Love gave you the power to destroy the other Devils, leading to thousands of years of peace.

This is why you did it… for love.

For… the DYAD.

Simulcia’s will wasn’t to create a race that would serve as her vessel. Her will was to create a race capable of transcending the Self… to find the deeper meaning in our identity and see the truth of this world.

I saw that truth, maybe just for a short time.

But it’s too late. I gave into my wrath, and I destroyed everything.

This… this is the end. Of everything.

...

NO… not yet!

My hand reaches up, and light appears. It blinds me, yet I can’t close my eyes.

I’M NOT DONE YET!

I claw and scrape my way towards it, and a scream leaves my throat and echoes through nothingness.

Maybe I gave in… maybe I’m selfish… maybe I am evil, but I won’t let the world die with me! This isn’t my fate!

If this is a place outside of time itself… Then I just have to drag myself out. Just like I always have; I drag myself from the deepest abyss to the highest peak, and do it again when I get knocked back down. 

Feeling flows back into my poor, beaten, dead body. It hurts, more than anything I’ve ever felt, but I hang on. I am only part of a broken ego, and yet I am holding on.

For everyone… I have to WIN! Just this ONCE!

I stretch ahead, and the light finally engulfs everything once again.

Please… let me-

The light softens.

Sunset.

I’m standing in front of someone, someone who’s running towards me as fast as they can.

Slowly, I raise my gaze to look them in the eye.

Shock fills their face, and for the briefest of moments, they hesitate.

I level my hand at their head.

… I’m sorry.

William.

“Flame Magic: Solar Bolt.”

The bullet hits Patri right between the eyes, and he is blasted back with a spray of blood. His body wobbles, still clad in William’s uniform, before falling to the ground in a crumpled pile.

For that moment, the entire world stands still. 

I… I did it…

My hand is still raised in the air, trembling slightly. Sparks of gold dissolve through the air around me, like snow falling peacefully from a winter sky.

This… 

I let my hand fall to my side, and I close my eyes.

Every bone in my body is exhausted, overworked, pushed miles past their limits.

But…

There’s one more thing I have to do. Because…

He… he’s right… there… 

Behind me-

Slowly, I shuffle my feet.

Turn-

My bones ache as I move.

Around-

…

…

...

A bright blue moth flutters across my vision.

                              TIME IS UP

Fate itself lashes out to smite me, and I feel what’s left of my soul split in two.

Next time... chapter 24: the joy of life. The final chapter. :)