#i actually wrote fic its a miracle

[capseycartwright]

and half of my heart has always been yours

Lightning doesn’t strike twice –

Except it did.

Because Eddie is thirty-five, when he watches Buck’s lifeless body disappear behind glass doors and he realises in that moment that Evan Buckley is the love of his life.

And he’s dead.

Eddie spends eight days in the hospital waiting for his best friend to wake up from his coma so that he can tell him that he loves him. It's kind of the worst eight days of his life.

ao3 link

Eddie was thirty-one years old when he watched his wife die. It’s a moment he would never forget, not as long as he lived, and maybe even after that – as he got older, he was more able to sit with his grief, accept it as part of himself, and he was glad he had been there: glad that in her final moments, Shannon hadn’t been alone. He had been able to give her that much, at least, even if he hadn’t been able to give her much else over the course of their relationship, their marriage.

Eddie is thirty-five, when he watches his best friend in the entire world get struck by lightning, and he clambers up a ladder – a metal ladder, he realises later, hardly a safe place to be in the middle of a lightning storm, but surely lighting couldn’t strike twice – and tries to pull Buck’s lifeless body toward him, because his automatic response is to want Buck to be closer, closer, even as his arms burn with the effort of trying to pull Buck closer.

He has to lower him down, in the end. Eddie didn’t want to - but he couldn’t bring Buck’s lifeless body closer to him, so he did the next best thing, and he lowered Buck into Bobby’s waiting arms.

Eddie is thirty-five, when he watches his partner hit by lightning, and he’s thirty-five when he drives the ambulance containing Buck’s lifeless body, Hen and Chimney’s yelling in the back as they desperately work to save his life static noise as Eddie tried to focus on the road and getting them to the hospital as fast as the ambulance allowed.

Eddie is thirty-five, when he feels Buck’s ribs crack under the force of his own hands, the crunch sounding sickeningly loud as he takes over from Chimney and tries to force life back to Buck’s body.

Seven minutes, seven minutes - Buck had been down for seven minutes, and he barely registers the meaning of the words when he hears Hen yell that Buck has a pulse because all Eddie can think of is that he broke his best friends ribs, and -

Lightning doesn’t strike twice –

Except it did.

Because Eddie is thirty-five, when he watches Buck’s lifeless body disappear behind glass doors and he realises in that moment that Evan Buckley is the love of his life.

And he’s dead.

“Do more.”

Do more, do more - as if Eddie doesn’t know that every doctor and nurse in LA General always did their best, did more, went above and beyond the call of duty to try and save lives: but they weren’t just saving any life, they were saving Buck’s, and Eddie knew how this story went because he lived it before, and it ends with him standing at a graveside wearing a stiff black suit and wondering if his love is the curse, wondering if everyone he loves is doomed to die.

Do more -

Because their best wasn’t enough, not when it came to Buck.

“Eddie,” Hen’s voice sounded fuzzy. “Eddie - can you focus on my voice?”

Eddie thinks he shakes his head. He’s not sure.

“Eddie, I need you to focus on my voice,” Hen continued. “Eddie, you’re having a panic attack.”

Oh. Oh - well, that made sense, actually. Eddie hadn’t had a panic attack in a long time: Frank, and Buck, probably, would assure him it's because he has been putting in the hard work and focusing on his mental health, and all that hard work made for less panic attacks. Eddie would probably say it’s because his life was finally happy - he hadn’t felt like he had all that much to panic about, lately, and so in the months since the last time he’d had a panic attack, he’d forgotten the way it burned his chest as the terror consumed his body.

“That’s it, that’s it Eddie - in, and out, nice and slow.” Hen had a soothing voice - it made sense that she was a paramedic, because she had a calming effect on people. She was born to help, Eddie figured - maybe he should tell her that.

The room slowly came back into focus, Hen’s concerned face close to Eddie’s own.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, face burning red with embarrassment as he realised what had happened - the way he had panicked, as if he was the only one of them who cared about Buck. Buck, who was like a son to Bobby. Buck, who was Chimney’s brother-in-law. Buck, who Hen loved like a brother. Eddie wasn’t the only one who staked a claim on Buck, and here he was, making it all about him.

“It’s okay,” Hen reassured, gentle, always gentle. She brushed Eddie’s soaking hair back off his forehead, her gesture motherly. “It’s okay to be scared, Eddie.”

“We all are,” Chimney reassured, solemn in his words. He didn’t know - how could he know? Eddie didn’t know, until a few minutes ago - consciously, at least. Maybe subconsciously he had known for longer, but not consciously, no: his treacherous brain had waited until the moment Eddie had felt Buck’s heart stop beating under his hands to let him in on the secret.

He loved him.

Eddie was in love with his best friend.

read the rest on ao3

[ks1971]

Split me open Pour your love in me Oh, it’s been a while since I've had a company Oh, it's been a while since someone touched me

[jaetaimjadore]

cryingggggg enha just released what im positive will be the masterpiece of a century, @lebrookestore finally showed up in my feed (f u tumblr 🖕), and the weather is ABSOLUTELY DIVINE but here i am stuck in interview prep hell T^T

[wingedsnek]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus & Matthew the Raven Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, Matthew the Raven, Lucien | Lucienne (The Sandman) Additional Tags: Comfort No Hurt, rated for language, preening Summary:

Dream had a no good day and Matthew didn’t know what what to do.

So he did his best.

[cubedmango]

ok hypothetically if i was to write something for the klapollo minibang this year instead of art what ancient wip should i try bringing back to life. hypothetically.

[snek-eyes]

Good Omens fic recs

Hello all! Wanted to share a few of my longtime faves. These are all pre-s2, might do another with my post-s2 recs? Narrowed it down to 10, since that's the max links tumbl lets you have in a post.

Any Way You Want It

Author: Justkeeptrekkin Words: 27,500 Chapters: 5/5 Rating: Mature Mood: Vacation, soft but introspective After finally getting heaven and hell off their backs (at a cost) Crowley and Aziraphale go on holiday to a cottage in Scotland. Fluffy with fun snappy dialogue, the two really feel like best friends here! Aziraphale struggles with his tendency to go slower than even he wants.

Instructions Not Included

Author: Atalan Words: 68,000 Chapters: 13/13 Rating: Teen Mood: Detective / Gen (There are feelings but it earns that slowburn tag) My "if season 2 isn't good, this is my season 2" fic. Now, I liked season 2, but this is still SO good. After the notpocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley start a detective agency investigating supernatural happenings together. New characters include Raphael (who totally missed the apocalypse haha whoops), and a big spooky dog (whomst I adore). Note that while this fic stands just fine on its own, there is an unfinished sequel that imo doesn't leave off anywhere stressful.

When in Rome

Author: Kedreeva Words: 4,000 Rating: General Mood: The liminal space of nighttime conversations What happens after Aziraphale invites Crowley to oysters: Wings and reading. Tentative and innocent in those early days.

the deft, sweet gesture of your hand

Author: deadgreeks Words: 12,000 Rating: Explicit Mood: Hurt/Comfort, introspection A few years after the failed apocalypse Crowley shows up badly injured at the bookshop. Aziraphale has to help heal Crowley and save them both, and still finds the time to knit his feelings.

Chemistry

Author: Twilightcitysky Words: 122,000 Chapters: 19/19 Rating: Explicit Mood: Y'ever want a side of learning something with your romcom? After realizing they might need their own corporations to heal themselves now that they're not working for heaven and hell, Aziraphale and Crowley turn on all their bodily functions. All of them. What could be a silly premise is played out very satisfyingly, the actual biology of hormones at play here is fascinating. (this is not really at all related but: has anyone else read Peeps by Scott Westerfeld? Because the format reminded me of this in that it did a similar thing of playing straight the concept of "what could cause vampires to be real" that drew on inspiration from real life parasites interspersed between the chapters. I dig it. Anyway!)

Reservations

Author: AnnetheCatDetective Words: 10,000 Chapters: 3/? (Technically unfinished, but leaves off in a satisfying spot) Rating: Not Rated Mood: Meta (Character study as story) “There's some competition for Aziraphale and Crowley's usual table at the Ritz…” A couple of miracles bend reality and, well… you ever been like, “The boys need therapy, but who could possibly give it to them?” I love crossovers where the TV boys meet other versions of themselves, this one is my favorite.

i can't say the words, so i wrote you into my verse

Author: mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday) Words: 5,000 Rating: Teen Mood: Snapshots through history "Crowley has tattoos and every few centuries, Aziraphale discovers a new one." Simple and paints a lovely picture.

By Definition

Author: idiopathicsmile Words: 3,000 Rating: Explicit Mood: Smutty but fond A night together after the Ritz fic where Aziraphale is asexual and Crowley isn’t and how that works for them. The dialogue here is positively delightful.

Bark Dust

Author: rfsmiley Words: 8,000 Rating: Mature (mostly for injuries) Mood: Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Historical Crowley is very badly injured in a battle, and Aziraphale has to figure out how to save his life.

Tell Me A Story

Author: brilliant_or_insane Words: 5,000 Rating: Teen Mood: Soft and warm Aziraphale likes telling stories and Crowley likes to listen. But when the demon is dissatisfied by sad endings and can't relate to the happy ones, Aziraphale decides to move them forward by telling a new story. (Of course, Crowley isn't entirely satisfied with the angel's perspective on that one either.)

[liveontelevision]

Hello friends,

Sorry about the lack of content recently, I've been running kinda low on energy :,) but I have some little treats, never fear.

Here's a short Vox thing I wrote awhile ago, it's angsty it's kissy, it ends with a cliffhanger. Classic fic by me.

I meant to turn it into a full thing, and I just might later? We'll see

CW: Smoking and smooching

Human | Vox x Reader

You cringe, scrunching up your nose when the familiar scent hits you. You approach the TV-headed demon, who was lounging on the large balcony of the Vees' Penthouse. Or was it lamenting?

"Yuck. You still smoke here?"

"It's Hell, doll. It's not like it'll kill me. Can't even feel the high anymore, actually."

"I guess not.. Then why do you even smoke? If it doesn't affect you?"

"Eh. I don't know. Try not to think too hard into that shit." A comfortable silence falls between the two of you.

"Can I bum one?" With a mocking scoff, he reaches into his pocket to pull out the pack. In a thoughtless decision, you place the cigarette between your teeth, pulling his face in your direction and inching impossibly close to him. He seemed startled by your sudden attack.

You hover just in front of his lips, lighting the end of your cigarette with the cherry of his own.

That was definitely an interesting move for someone with absolutely no history of smoking. As you inhale, you choke up and immediately cough out the rest. Vox is only watching you, a smile tugging at his lips while you cough up a lung. Your eyes water and you let out a whimper before propping your arms against the railing.

"Smooth." He comments.

"W-Watch it." You snap back.

You do manage to draw out a smoother hit, looking down at the city that, ironically, seemed so lively.

All that time went to waste. All those years you'd spent chasing over this CEO, being a part of the paparazzi, stalking the media for any buzz, passing his building when you have the time.. had the time. The fact that he's seemingly replicated his dream headquarters in the center of the underworld seemed like a Hell in itself. Constantly mocking you for never getting your big scoop. For wasting your life on him.

You couldn't help but approach it at first. You reluctantly enter the stores and offices that surround the first floor, inspecting all his products. You didn't recognize him at first. I mean, he has a TV screen for a head. His voice is what gave it away. His charismatic facade and sauve persona he uses on any television program. That's what you recognized. Apparently those are skills that stick with you after death.

He found you eventually. You'd been residing on the barren side of Hell. It was cozy. Not everyone had family members with them, you were just the lucky few. Your sweet grandma was here. Sinners who are visibly older seemed to be avoid by most clear-minded demons. Why bug them? And what kind of decisions did they make to end up here and survive for so long? They probably don't even remember why they're here. But some seemed to remember their lives.

Your grandma recognize you almost immediately. She was quick to take you into a part of hell that seemed to bypass the cities and dangers. It, of course, had its flaws. The Hellborn rodents were bothersome, but it somehow managed to be peaceful on its own.

It didn't last long, though. Extermination Day finally caught up to your little home. You have no idea how you survived, it was a miracle. but you were the only one. You started appreciating your aftlife in another fit of irony. You're nearly immortal, maybe it's time to give the city a try.

"Thanks for taking me in, too. You didn't have to do that."

"I can't leave my favorite stalker on the streets." He nudges you, having to lean down a bit to do so. He was towering. You let out the softest chuckle, leaning into his touch, despite it's teasing motivations. You sigh, taking another drag.

"Wait these aren't Valentino's smokes, are they?" You hold it over the edge, ready to flick it from your fingers, if that's the case.

"Definitely not. I wouldn't give you those if you asked." You hum at his words, releasing a puff of smoke. "But, uh.. let me know if he offers you any, alright?" You let out a little laugh and nod.

Your comfortable silence was broken, with the end of your cigarette. You let it crumble to the ground, stomping it with your nice business shoes. Vox rolls his eyes, shooing you away.

"Don't ruin those, they were expensive." He mutters.

"Well I would've been fine if you didnt essentially set my wardrobe on fire." You scoff.

"Your wardrobe? Was a bunch of country bumpkin dresses with poofy sleeves, doll. Even Vel was ready to get rid of that mess." The silence overcomes again. The breeze coming from the sheer height of the building seemed refreshing. You looked up to Heaven. How cruel of them to put it in sight.

"I really thought that was it. That life was short and then you die. That there was no point in trying to get rich and famous as long you were doing something you liked."

"So you liked stalking me?"

"Fuck off, Vox, you know what I mean." You couldn't help but smile. "How could I have wasted all that time on you? I could've been building my skills. Maybe I wouldn't be mooching off of some big shot like you if I did." You looked away, not willing to make any eye contact while mentioning him.

"Hey, you know I don't mind.. you can't prepare for death." He reaches out, he's not sure why, maybe to offer you some comfort. Maybe he just wanted to see your face, again. You darted away from him unknowingly, making his hand recoil.

"But, I mind! I don't want to rely on you. I should be able to do this by myself, I came here the same way you did, I had the same chance to get to where you are now." You huffed, embarrassment from your confession turning your face red. "But I just.. I didn't. I keep wasting my time..."

A cool touch hit your cheek, and before you know it your head had been turned to face Vox. He kept his claws holding your chin upwards, despite your attempts to pull out of his grasp.

"Stop it. There's nothing but time here. Listen, I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but- for the first time in years.. I feel... human, again." You blink slowly at him, not exactly minding his touch at this point. "And that's because of you." You hated getting flustered, but his words alone caused you to tense up. He felt your jaw clenching in his hand, bringing him back to reality. With a quick release, he brings his fist to his mouth and clears his throat.

"So.. yeah. Don't get it in your head that this is some sort of.. sugar daddy thing. You're free to do whatever you want. You can do whatever you want. And- you uh.. you're always welcome back." You stare at him for longer than you'd like to admit. Looking for some kind of excuse for your gaze, you hold your hand out for another cigarette. He gets the memo after awhile.

You place it between your lips and before you get the chance to think, his hands are back on your chin, bringing your face close. He mirrors your actions from before. It startled you, the cigarette falling from your lips and rolling off the balcony floor. Both your eyes follow it for a moment, before looking at eachother and sharing a little laugh.

His own cigarette falls from his lips. And with his hand still on chin you're pulled into an expected kiss. The sight of his dazed eyes when he finally pulls away only leaves you wanting more. But.. you can't. You pull away with a sullen look and step away from balcony. Without a word, you leave him alone. He's lost yet another independent spark. His heart can ache later. For now, he's cursing himself for letting anyone see that side of him, again.

♡♡♡

Womp womp

Love the pics where they knew eachother in life 👌

Taglist:

( @vififofum / @thornwolfy235 / @tinywolfiegirl / @chipper-chip / @bat-boness / @misfitgirlwrites / @nayomi247 / @lonelynmisunderstood / @escapistoftherealworld / @b4ts1e / @hamthepan / @kyo-kyo1 / @looking1016 / @polytheatrix / @littledolly2345 / @lillianastuff / @yourlocalcryptidbee /@0strawberrysorbet0 / @themageofblood / @jayyyayaysblog / @floralsightings / @azmosposts / @8har0ley8 / @actuallyspiderwoman / @sirenetheblogger / @christineblood / @kaytemchugh / @cimadreamer / @simpdevil66 / @azmosposts / @m3ow1 / @acrazyartist / @redfoxwritesstuff / @4k1to / @meesachan / @corvusskid / @alientee /@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx / @alon3lylov3r /@sapphireravensworld / @mjmdragons / @catticora / @the-maladaptivedaydreamer / @carrie0-1 / @shamblezzz / @cassandras-nest )

[khuzena]

Que sera, sera

♡ˋ°•*⁀➷Rin itoshi x reader

Summary: the story which dives in the beginning and the end of you and rin. He doesn't believe in miracles, though he thinks you are one. He's thankful that what will be, will be. And its you and him.

Warnings: none, fluff to angst, angst to fluff. Childhood friends to strangers to lovers. Slow burn, maybe not i dont know. Happy ending.

A/n: GAAAHHHHHH SORRY I WAS SO TIRED I COULDN'T FINISH THIS ON VALENTINES DAY AWWW MANNN. Its also been a long time since i wrote fics so bear with me with this one and it ain't proofread plss.

For the longest time, Itoshi Rin treated you like shit. Muttering how everything about you is lukewarm and how everything you say is nonsense.

You still remember when you two first met in the playground, at that time Sae never left him yet, Rin still having those chubby cheeks as he runs around in the playground, happily dribbling the ball when the ball suddenly hits your knee.

"O-ow!" You groaned in pain, before you burst into tears as your left knee reddens.

The boy at the swing runs towards you, "Are you okay?" He asks you, he looks concerned for you as guilt creeps up as he doesn't know what to do when sees you cry.

You were a sobbing mess on the floor as the aching got worse, Rin kept a distance before grabbing the playground sand and pouring it at your ankle, "sorry…"

The little boy trying to help you up when you two heard footsteps coming closer, Rin panicking as he realizes it's his brother walking towards them.

Rin stares at the ground when Sae scolds him for being too careless, the little boy now crying with you.

"You two should make up before the adults hear about this, Rin you go and get the first-aid kit and candy, I'll watch after them." The red-head yells as Rin bolts to their house. Later coming back with the first-aid kit and candy, watching his older brother do the work and rub medicine on your scraped knee. As the older boy treated your knee, your eyes met the culprit's gaze, he turned away in shame as tiny sobs left his lips from Sae scolding him earlier.

After that incident, you get a scraped knee, some candy and two new friends. Let's just say Rin's parents weren't too happy when they found out what happened.

The next day, Rin rings your doorbell as he asks your parents where you were, calling you downstairs as you excitedly run towards the gate.

"Oh you're back! What's that in your hand?" Younger you asked Rin as he fiddles a tiny bag in his hands; clearly anxious from yesterday.

The boy gulps before taking a deep breath and awkwardly handing you a bag full of chocolates, "I'm sorry for yesterday.."

Rin closes his eyes as he waits for some sort of punishment until he feels you hug him.

"Heh! No worries, these are my favorite chocolates so you're forgiven."

"Really?" His eyes beam in joy.

"Yup! This chocolate tastes good! Where'd ya get it?" You ask while munching away happily.

"My brother actually has a bowl of candy… you can come over and you can eat more chocolate there."

Your lips curled into a smile before you shook his hand, "what's your name again?"

"Rin."

"Awesome! I'm [name] by the way!"

As you sweep the floor, your broom brushes an old polaroid; it was from 18 years ago. You and Rin were cuddling in Sae's bed, not knowing Sae sneaked in a picture.

Smiling at the picture you reminisce again.

It was summer at that time. Luckily Rin's parents weren't home so you two had the whole house to yourselves.

"Mmm!" Stretching your limbs as you two lie on the couch, playing some mario kart while Sae prepares lunch for the three of you.

The aggressive pressing of the controllers and smell of fruits in the kitchen; you can remember it all perfectly.

"I'm gonna beat you, just you wait—! Hey!" Rin yells when you start tickling him and successfully taking the lead, making Rin's character fall off the map.

Rin's demise eliciting a loud giggle from your lips as you beat his ass after a whole hour of trying to one up each other.

Rin is fuming with anger as he complains to Sae, "No fair! You're cheating! Sae don't give her any chocolates! You're a cheater!"

"Bleh! You're just bad!"

Sae groans in annoyance as he prepares the table, "You two get over here and stop fighting or else I won't let you two play."

You two pout and start glaring at each other.

"That's right midget." You tease him before sitting right next to him, grabbing a plate of spaghetti.

"Shut up! I'm gonna be taller than you, just you wait!" Rin sticks his tongue out, teasing you with confidence but Sae gives you two an icy-glare, indicating that you two should just stop fighting.

"Rin, [name]."

"Y-yes!" Both of you stop fighting, at least not In Front of Sae. Hours go by and the night sky settles in.

Plopping in his bed while staring at all his trophies, "damn rin you won all these?"

Rin doesn't reply, fixing the bed sheets before lying next to you; letting out a small hmph.

You sigh, and make him turn around to face you. "Rin. Sorry for earlier."

Rin rolls his eyes, "lukewarm" he mutters under his breath.

After that you two look away and fall asleep. When Sae comes in however, he sees you two cuddling like kittens. Sae smirks to himself before grabbing his phone, taking a picture— close ups even so he can use this as blackmail later on. Let's just say you both did not enjoy waking up in each other's arms; spoiler alert: Rin actually did.

A few years pass by and you two find each other laying on the park, star gazing. These days Rin gets too lonely, his brother moving to Spain to chase after his career.

"S-so… Rin are you okay?"

The boy right next to you stares at the stars, ignoring your voice calling out for him.

Sighing in defeat, knowing Rin isn't in the mood to talk right now.

"I'm nervous actually, about the future." You say before clearing your throat.

Rin turns around and looks at you, "and?"

The stars were lovely, lovelier than anything you've ever seen.

"It just feels like time flies by so quickly, all of the sudden Sae is in Spain and now we're just- ya know… here."

Rin doesn't say a word again, only listening to the rustling of the leaves as it sways with the wind.

"I just wish we had more time. What if something bad happens in the future and we're not friends anymore?"

Rin sits up before flicking your forehead, "Hey what was that for?!"

"To stop your lukewarm talking, stop worrying about the future— I started learning some Spanish so when Sae comes back I can greet him and.."

He looks back at you, nervous and shaking; tears welling up in his eyes. He misses Sae too much.

You tap his shoulder lightly, pushing him to continue what he wants to say.

"Que sera, sera I think? I searched it up and it means whatever will be, will be. So stop worrying too much, you idiot" he rolls his eyes, trying to stop the tears from leaving his eyes.

The world felt peaceful like this, only you and him; the moon and stars as your witness.

A few years later Sae comes back though it didn't go as expected. You two were ecstatic when Sae came back but he changed. After that Rin and Sae were no longer 'Rin and Sae'; now they were just strangers.

Sae was a catalyst for what Rin would become. Rin stopped eating chocolates. Rin would overexert his body from practice and when you two talk it's nothing more than just 'hello'.

Needless to say you were hurt. This wasn't the Rin you knew, the new him is now an empty shell of what he used to be; no— the old Rin died when Sae came back and now you're left to mourn alone for the old him.

You don't watch Rin's practice anymore; you couldn't bear to see that bitter expression written on his face as he tries and tries to practice more just to catch up to his brother.

Months later, Rin was accepted to blue lock. He was gone again for months.

Staring at the small tv screen when you watch the U20 vs Blue lock match.

The camera pans over to Rin disheveled, on his knees when Sae comes over to him. You wonder what happened between them when they met again on the field that caused Rin to be beyond irritated even though his team won.

A week later, Rin comes back to the neighborhood park, kicking the football with tears in his eyes. Pouring all his anger on the ball, almost deflating the ball in the process.

A gust of wind blows on your face before you utter a weak 'hi'. It was like a teen romcom cliche but the thing is there was no chemistry anymore.

At Least… that you thought that there wasn't.

"Go away." He groans, fixing his shoe tie and running off to get the ball.

"I saw the game." You yell trying to get his attention. He kicks the ball again but this time with more force, the ball ricocheting and bouncing on the fences. "You did great."

Two words almost fell from your lips but cleared your throat, trying to make sure the 'Im proud' doesn't spill from your lips as maybe your tears will too.

Rin quirks his face into an expression you can't describe. Anger? Hatred? But when you stare longer at his eyes, watch how his chest heaves up and down shakily you can see a hint of sadness— as if he was a ripped doll, his heart torn apart, left to rot. He would never admit it but the way you stare at him with such pity, angers him. It makes his torn heart beat rapidly and his lungs bruise more, waiting for you to sew him up again; fixing him.

But he would never admit it, his ego warped mind and his dying heart. He doesn't notice it but he feels alive when he sees you again.

He doesn't know what to do when you stare at him with pity. The small child locked away a long time ago in the corners of his soul begging him to let it all out and cry in your arms; maybe you could see how he's hurting and maybe you'll stitch him up again.

But you don't. At least not now.

He shivers from the cold air, he's glad it's winter as the cold weather could freeze his tears away before you even see it. But it's not cold enough to turn his tears into icicles as he sheds a tiny tear, he swears if he could just open up to you, you would catch it.

His ragged breathing, his worried expression, the tears threatening to leak from his eyes all of it. You ingrain all of it in your mind, burning this memory into your brain.

You want to run towards him, hug him, comfort him like you did as a child. Your arms aching to hold his trembling figure but you don't, fearing it might ignite more tension between you two. So you just watch as he tries to hold back his tears right in front of you.

You say nothing and hand over a piece of chocolate. Watching him accept it and eating one for the first time, oh how he's forgotten the taste of this treat.

There was a silent agreement with you two. A simple nod and you two go back to your own paths now, wondering how the other one is doing right now.

Months pass by again and this time Rin won the world cup but you notice a change in him, a spark reignited in him. The same old spark when he first started playing football.

You couldn't afford to go to the actual world cup so you watch the match on your tv screen. Seeing him in person is better but never seeing him at all even on a screen is worse.

Months ago Rin would be red in anger, you don't know why but it feels like you should've done something. But now, even on the screen you could see him smile for the first time as he shakes hands with Sae.

Letting out a sigh of relief, maybe Rin is fixed, maybe he was the same rin back then. Maybe, just maybe you two could be on good terms again.

Then it happened.

You see Rin again at the park. The neighbors were talking about how the itoshi brothers were going back to the neighbor so you went to the park; this is where Rin has always been.

A leaf falls to your side and at that moment Rin notices your presence. Anxiety bubbling in his chest, he knows what he's done to you. He's scared that you'll never forgive him for how he treated you.

"I'm uh.." you stutter, the words stuck in your throat. Looking down in shame, if you only said this back then maybe you had a chance to fix him. He looks at you, he doesn't look as broken as before. His eyes no longer bear hatred, only melancholy and guilt.

"I'm proud. I'm proud of you." You've finally let the words out, the ones that have been dying to be said.

Silence.

Rin has never been good with words and neither have you. Rin doesn't say anything, he stands up and kicks the football to the tree. That tree has been there for as long as you remember. It was the sign of your pact, your friendship.

He shoves his hand in his pocket, trying to find something. It takes him a while and he pulls out a tiny treat.

It was that same chocolate he first gave you as a child.

Que sera, sera right?

What will be, will be.

From the beginning it was you and Rin. In the end it will always be you and Rin.

You stretch your back after finishing sweeping and dusting the living room. Your shared house should get some renovations by now but oh well, Rin's schedule has never been that generous to give you both enough time.

The warm sun hits your skin as you walk to the garden and tend to the flowers. After you and Rin hit it off he started to plant your favorite flowers in your garden, so even if it weren't valentines day, he'd still have enough flowers to give you every day.

"I'm home." That familiar voice echoes in the room, the door creaking open.

You chuckle as you place the broom away, "Hard day?"

He nods and hugs you, his wedding ring hitting your back as he hugs too tightly. He lets out a small giggle when you pepper his face with kisses.

You threw the curtain at his chest as he raised an eyebrow, "Rin, we should really renovate and shop for new stuff— these things are getting a little too wonky don't you think?"

He lets out a sigh, he barely notices the condition of the house when he's out for months. "Fine, fine. We're going out later"

Your lips quirk into a smile. Oh how lucky you are to be with him. The way he treated you like a deity, praising the floor you step foot on. Caring for you and treating you kindly, gently even as a way to pay back what you did for him. You stitched his torn heart back up, sure the scars will stay forever but he learnt how to cherish it because it brought him to you.

"Rin, help me with this thing— it's too heavy!"

He rushes to your side and hastily carries all the heavy luggage and boxes, helping you out as you two laugh and talk about your day.

He was an idiot, he forgot it was valentines day, no wonder why you were so pouty. Rin will just make it up to you later.

Que sera, sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

It will always be You and Rin. Nothing more, nothing less.

- La fin♡

Note: so so sorry if this has so many mistakes, i just started writing again and this is just practice. English is not my first language. ♡

[princess-of-the-corner]

Ya know how I said Gabriel descends further into villain from Origins to Miracle Queen?

Ironically Marinette seems to go through a similar thing, or reveal more facets to her character that are less paragon but its very much by accident.

I like Marinette, but the fact this stuff never seems to get acknowledge or addressed both ends up hurting the story & in the fandom it makes it hard to discuss without being perceived as a salter or apologist, ETC.

Like, bear with me.

Season 1 Mari is basically fine, she's good, heroic, any flaws she has are fairly minor but some could be taken as 'hints' for later while still not being an issue.

Like her meticulous Adrien schedule could literally just be info she picked up associating with him that she wrote down. A little odd but not like, terrible, terrible.

Her sabotaging Bubbler's music is certain an irresponsible use of her powers but its far from the most irresponsible a hero is with a Miraculous & she is fourteen and people/protaganists can be flawed.

& her tear down of Lila, but she seemed to realize she went too far & tried to apologize. & after a point Lila staying out of school because of it starts to feel less like a Marinette issue & more a Lila (Or Gabriel) issue.

Season 2

We start to see some other potential issues emerging here, but they can still be rationalized away.

Chat being left to fend for himself is her having faith in her partner & she is going to get help.

Adrien being kept in the dark is more Fu's deal than Mari's & she is the one who presses him to bring Chat in.

Her decision to make Chloe QB again does paint a target on her back & could be tied to Adrien or rank pragmatism, but she does seem to make a genuine effort to sympathize, so at worse the target is an accident.

Less justifiable but still explain-able is encouraging Chloe's mean-ness so she can bond with her mother being a poorly thought out attempt to getting them to bond & assuming it will make them better.

The lack of follow through when the opposite happens does feel like its an issue but one can see why a kid mightn't make the connection.

Using Chloe on Heroes' Day is again, explain-able, IE it does paint a target on her back but shit was indeed dire.

The real red flag so to speak is her reaction to Kagami.

IE characterizing her as an evil witch& only stamping down on her interpretation to benefit Adrien, not because she realized that was wrong.

IE, Kagami's done 0 to warrant such a negative view of her & there isn't really a positive way to spin this one as just good intentions gone awry, someone else's fault or an accident.

Season 3

This is when it all comes home to roost so to speak.

With Kagami this comes in deliberate attempts to sabotage or even embrass and sabotage her. This continues even after Marinette realizes Kagami is actually a nice if lonely girl and befriends her.

But it gets worse because even if Kagami's ID wasn't known to the public (Though it makes sense that it is) the dialogue still acknowledges Hawk Moth knows!

She is painting a target on her friends back wile sabotaging her date!

There isn't really a good way to explain this one, which might be why I know some fics basically seem to outright pretend it didn't happen.

Meanwhile with Chloe the lack of follow through issue becomes text.

IE, she paints a target on Chloe's back by using her twice in short succession, then ghosts her even though its clear Chloe's trying to communicate with her.

Even if attacks weren't happening near her home this would be bad.

But when finally pushed into acting on this reality, the second its convenient to use Chloe in combat again she does so. Making it loud and clear to Hawk Moth that if the situation is dire, he knows where to get the Bee Miraculous & its wielder.

This is a big issue because unlike "Making Chloe a better person" which in universe is not Marinette's job. As the person who gives out Miraculous, as the leader she has in fact made herself responsible for what happens to Chloe in regards to Miraculous business.

She can't abdicate on that one except maybe to Fu who also damn well should have known better.

Which leaves the story with Marinette willingly putting two people into danger and using them opportunistically either out of rank pragmatism or for outright selfish reasons. Then just like, not acknowledging the risks or consequences, with one of these people even being her friend.

It makes her come off as ether a lot more cold, or a lot more out of touch with the consequences of her actions than almost anyone else.

Neither of which get acknowledged in the narrative so as before, it becomes hard to even talk about without being seen as smearing the character or being unfair. Or like you just need to ignore these traits even if the story no longer works because of it and Marinette ironically becomes a less interesting character.

Cos like, a Marinette who can become extremely, even ruthlessly pragmatic the moment she needs too. Or one who is genuinely that taken away with her crush that its effecting her morality to the point where she can become harmful. Those are interesting ideas to explore!

They don't make her like, more evil than Hawk Moth or whatever, & if handled well could prove really interesting. Especially as they could parallel Gabriel's behaviors in regards to Adrien and others. Thus letting him be a sort of "Oh shit, is this who I could grow into in twenty years if I had money/power & zero people to check me?" villain.

But instead even noting it seems discouraged in most of the popular sphere's, or worse and well, we know the show doesn't take issue with it.

See it's.

I do love this about her and find it fascinating! As a character in a piece of fiction, I mean. I don't /want/ her to make these decisions, but /on paper/ I'm eating popcorn as I watch it unfold.

A lot of this does stem from Marinette's black and white mentality and overall being naive. Everything is all or nothing with her.

Sometimes this comes across in her thinking of people as good or bad. While she tries, it's hard for her to think of Chloé as 'good' and it's hard for her to understand that even if Chloé wants to change, it takes a lot of time and isn't just flipping a switch.

And while there's past precedent with Chloé, this shows up again with Lila. She never entertains the idea that Lila may just be lying for attention because she's bad at making friends. Lila is lying and lying is bad so clearly she's a manipulative bitch that deserves to be publicly humiliated! Like with Chloé, she may back down for a moment when called out like what Adrien did, but it doesn't last long.

Kagami is the eventual progression into twisting things. She's not overly friendly and sweet and social, but she /is/ in competition with Marinette for Adrien's affections. So she twists the idea that Kagami must be an awful person, despite doing literally nothing, and deserves what Mari does to her. And while she does befriend Kagami and feels some guilt, I think a combination of 'this is for True Love™' and not wanting to admit that she was a jerk and wrong makes her keep sabotaging her.

And it's a similar thing with her actions as Ladybug.

At first it's things that make sense: trusting Chat to do what he can on his own with little information, just like they've been doing for all of Season 1.

Then she gets Fu telling her that things are too risky for anyone else to know. So she doesn't tell Chat things. Because Fu is an Adult™ and their guide in all this, so ofc he's right even if Marinette thinks otherwise at first. And this is hammered in with Chat Blanc and Ephemeral. If Chat knows more, things get fucked.

And then we get Marinette justifying keeping secrets for the Greater Good™. Whether it just be not telling Chat anything, or lying to all of Paris to make sure Adrien never finds out his father is a complete fucking asshole. Secrets are good. She's doing the right thing by keeping them so that it doesn't hurt anyone. If he knew things would go to hell.

In theory I find all this fascinating! But while there's been a hiccup here or there, usually caused by Adrichat going 'girl what the FUCK?!', on the whole the narrative chooses to see this as the good and right thing rather than a flaw that Marinette needs to overcome.

[neon-vocalist]

ok ok tell me abt your hyoerfixation now- i gotta know the fandom that forces you to take what you can get. how tragic that you don’t choose to read bad fanfic but are forced to 😔

The fandom that forces me to take what I can get is Vtubers LMAO it’s so bad. The situation is dire. It’s a miracle if anything can be found that isn’t just porn, so when I find something that’s both Not Porn and Actually Interesting, I take it. This fandom loves no-plot sex but it also loves completely bastardizing mental illness. I’ve seen WAY too many completely unnecessary suicide plots because I guess people just get off on hot girls hating themselves? Unsure. Basically if it’s not porn and it’s not senseless angst, it’s gourmet cuisine as far as the Vtuber community goes.

There are much more options with larger agencies— like, idk, idol corp is pretty huge but even their works are all just sex, and fics for V4Mirai or EIEN project don’t even exist— but even in hololive, which is the biggest agency out there, the good stuff is slim to none. Like. It was an author in the hololive fandom that wrote almost every terrible fic I’ve complained about on this blog, even charades/sherades, but they’re also the best author I’ve found in the fandom because their plots are actually interesting.

The Vtuber fandom is a shitshow, essentially. There are people on the more toxic side of things actively doxxing each other’s addresses and phone numbers and faking their own suicides for attention, and it’s all provoked by people being upset that someone got more attention from Hex Haywire than they did.

(Hex Haywire is a really creepy “boyfriend experience” Vtuber from an agency that’s known for its terrible management anyway, so it’s no SURPRISE that his fans are at each other’s throats, but it is disappointing.)

I’m honestly not a person who engages in the Vtuber fandom at all because it’s either nonexistent or incredibly toxic. I have one friend who knows them enough to discuss them with me and a few that don’t know them but put up with me anyway, and that’s really all I need :)

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later -- Part II

no one asked for this. i wrote it anyways. for anyone who has not seen the fucking big as chunk of writing that was the part I, you can find it here. for anyone actually invested, welcome to part II! it picks up right where part I left off :)

if youre new here, six cycles later is a tf oc fic im writing about a seeker left behind on earth after the attack on autobot city, and a certain autobot who arrived on earth after going missing at the very start of the war-- both of whom are linked by the same desire to escape, and more alike than they'd think.

i consider this chapter to be a bit of a "transition" chapter, because it's a chapter where you kinda move from point a to b to get to c, lol. promise action and some delicious goodies are coming up in Part III :3 but we've gotta get there first.

word count: 7471

fic below cut! as usual, any nice comments or likes are appreciated u///u sorry it took so long to post this, im balancing writing with commissions and a full time job, so. idie a little but its okay

summary: invert goes to bali. she hates it. luster goes to the clinic. he hates it.

“Victory, cmon!” Invert stood before the double doors of the weapons vault, a frown etched on her faceplate. “Open the weapons vault! It’s an emergency!” 

Emergency protocol not engaged. Clearance level 3 required to access weapons vault. Present clearance level: 1. Weapons vault cannot be accessed.

“Victory!” She pouted, shaking a fist. “Come on! It’s me! I’m the only ‘con on this ship, I should have maximum clearance!”

Clearance level: 1. Weapons vault cannot be accessed.

“Victory!”

The ship gave her no response. Invert growled and tried the keypad again, then the scanner, then the keycard. Nothing. As if in warning, a loud buzzer sounded at the end, a illuminating a red light above the vault.

“How am I going to rescue my fellow Decepticons if I don’t have a weapon?” She asked aloud, glaring up, as if Victory would answer her. “I don’t even have proper blasters anymore!” 

Silence. Maddening, maddening silence. 

“Fine! Fine. I’ll make due. I’ll just run headlong into the Autobots and die, and no one will be left to maintain you! Then what?”

Nothing. 

A groan escaped her. “Really? …really. Fine.” 

She turned on her heel and stomped for her room, where she knew at least one weapon was waiting. It was dangerous, and could possibly blow up in her face again, and hadn’t seen actual use since the first test, but…well, it was better than nothing! And sure, she could access the weapons collection Starscream had in his habsuit, or the rare crafts Megatron had in his, but…

The punishment for even touching any of those would be far worse than anything the Autobots could do to her. She shivered and pushed the idea aside. Nope, not risking that. If she touched anything in their rooms, when they returned, they’d kill her. 

Then again, if she died on this mission, she wouldn’t have to worry about them killing her. 

Her personal pet project was in her habsuit, resting on the tiny desk she’d dragged into it. Her habsuit was at the very end of all the others–the Constructicons had had no desire to build it, so they’d shoved her in what had been the previous broom closet. The fact that she fit at all was a miracle, as was that they let her get away with stealing a desk for it. 

Perhaps after seeing what she’d started to make, they’d decided against reclaiming it. After all, not many bots could say they got to personally observe Shockwave working in his lab, and even fewer could mimic his proficiency with crafting weapons. 

She was not one of those fewer, but she had watched him work in the past. Being his personal lab assistant/slave had been eye opening in that way. And furthermore, it had led to her accumulating a few parts that would otherwise be impossible to acquire on Earth.

All of those factors combined to let her craft her own weapon. The intention was for it to be a sniper class with a greatly extended range starting at ten miles. That was to start. If everything went according to her dreams, it would be able to fire more than twice that on both planets and the cold void of space. 

Dreams, however, didn’t guarantee results. The prototype she kept in her habsuit had been her pride and joy until its original test fire had caused the damnable thing to blow up in her face, right in front of her fellow Decepticons. If anything had wounded her ego, that was it. 

And since then, she hadn’t bothered to fire it once. 

She stepped into her habsuit and observed her experimental weapon for only a moment before picking it up. This would be the second time it’d be in the field. She’d tweaked it over and over since that embarrassing day, changing the scope, the trigger, the barrel, the energon pump, and even provided ii the ability to transform. The latter wasn’t anything particularly impressive–the scope and barrel disengaged anyways to permit carrying it, and without the barrel the rifle was the same size as a blaster. Furthermore, despite its simplicity, the rifle had to be manually transformed, something that even simple blasters could pull off otherwise.

But it was her first attempt, her first real, genuine attempt, at making a weapon, and she felt she’d done a decent job for someone who’d never previously handled tools. 

It took a few seconds to convert the rifle, which was almost as long as she was tall, to its smaller, spike shaped form, which she then attached to her forearm via its magnetic underside. Utilizing it in jet mode would be impossible like this, but it was better to know she had a weapon than be a sitting quasiduck on her mission. 

Her blasters had been sacrificed to make the rifle. She sincerely hoped that the investment would pay off. 

“Alright!” She yelled, throwing her arms out. “That’s all I get, Victory! Just one experimental weapon! No blasters! No grenades! No fusion cannons! No null rays or swords or electric staves! All of which I could use if you’d just open the weapons vault! Are you really going to send me off with only this?”

Judging from the lack of response, it seemed that yes, it was. 

Frag this. She kicked the doorframe and stormed Skywarp’s habsuit. He was bigger than her and would make her life a living hell for two chords, but he’d get over it. Besides. She could punch him back without anyone giving her trouble for it. What occurred between Skywarp and whoever punched him stayed there. 

His habsuit was sparsely decorated, and what existed in it was usually so filthy no one else would touch it. Today she lowered her standards and grabbed one of the blasters she knew he kept under his berth in the hopes that no one would find them; considering how often he had his own revoked, and how much the others hated him, Skywarp had found it necessary to maintain some form of private collection, if only for self-defense from revenge that was absolutely earned. 

And now his constant need to misbehave was paying off: she wouldn’t be entirely unarmed for this flight, and having a sidearm was better than gauging her hopes on an experimental rifle. 

Attaching the blaster to her other forearm, she made for the hangar. Her tank felt like it was fluttering with each step. A quick diagnostic scan revealed nothing unusual–nothing besides her own wiring. For this first time ever, she was going to visit the hangar and take off from it.

The idea that she was flightless was, in truth, only partially correct. Invert, like all Seekers, had been forged with wings on her back. Yes, they were upside down, and yes, when she transformed, they pointed the wrong way, with the delicate trailing edge leading as opposed to the leading edge itself. This caused the angle her wings made to work against her, and normally kept her out of the air. But a messed up angle alone was not enough to keep her grounded forever. 

An Earth plane would struggle and stay put, never to dream of the sky. A Cybertronian would reason that with enough Energon and determination, anything could be done. And that was exactly how she intended to fly to Bali. 

She could fly. The force from her thrusters alone, once in the air, could keep her going upwards, though they would consume Energon at a rapid rate. For this reason she visited the Energon vault and procured five additional cubes–her present fuel levels were adequate enough she felt no need to recharge. As long as she kept her thrusters engaged and made sure to ride the wind currents of Earth perfectly, she calculated a likely path to Bali that only had a 32.6% chance of her crashing and dying in the process. 

Odds of 67.4 percent seemed favorable enough to her. She paused before the double doors of the hangar, vented, and opened them, stepping in.

“Victory, elevate the hangar.” The entire structure rumbled as it rose, the whoosh of water outside indicating they’d broken the surface of the ocean. She could hear waves beating against the metal. “Open. When I leave, return to the bottom of the ocean. I’ll be back. Even if you don’t seem to want me to.” 

She grumbled that last part.

The hangar doors opened. Bright sunlight poured in, causing her optics to readjust. She blinked a few times and took several steps forward, gazing out at the outside world. 

The ocean seemed to go on for eternity. Its color was a deep blue. White peaks formed and faded away as they crashed over and over against on the hangar. 

Above, the sky was cloudless. The winds were strong, rushing past her and howling in the enclosed metal environment. It was a good day for a flight. 

Invert returned to the back of the hangar and pulled up the coordinates in her hub. Approximately 8,502 miles. She’d cross it in a few earth hours if everything went well. 

If.

The Energon cubes felt heavy in her chassis as she transformed, lowering to the ground. The movement of her wings, shifting to her sides, becoming the things she’d have to rely on, felt wrong. It always did–like going from standing on two steady pedes to posing on one’s servos. One was natural, normal, comfortable, done without even thinking. The other required precise balance, intense focus, and a constant consumption of energy to maintain. 

She’d be more used to it if they let her practice more or gave her some lessons, perhaps. Perhaps they would do just that when they came back. And when they came back, they’d be proud, perhaps, of what she pulled off while they were gone. 

Giving her fuel supply one final check over, she engaged her thrusters and charged forward. 

Just like what you’ve seen Starscream do. Engage, shoot forward—

And she plummeted, shooting right into the ocean instead of the air. Spluttering, Invert turned back and barely managed to regain her balance before smashing into the seabed. A school of fish shot away from her, followed by some of the many legged organics and one of the squishy, color changing ones. 

She groaned, knocked a fist against her helm, and turned back to Victory, determined to try again. She’d get this right. She had to. 

She wouldn’t stop until she did.

—

Eight hours was all it took to reach Bali with the speed she maintained once airborne. High above the cruising altitude any human plane would comfortably fly at, she watched the unbroken ocean, speckled ever so slightly by the white peaks of breaking waves, and read over the logs on Insecticons. According to the writer of the Decepticon database, Insecticons were about as useful as unrefined Energon and equally likely to explode. Good to know. 

They were also incredibly disloyal. Of the three, Shrapnel, Kickback, and Bombshell, none had any kind of investment in the Decepticon cause. Their adaptations had given them the ability to consume organic matter and drastically increased their hunger. All they cared about was food. 

That would be troublesome, if she took them back to Victory immediately. With how low the Energon supply was getting, even one of them deciding to stuff himself could mean that the Decepticon cause on Earth died, permanently.

She’d have to approach them cautiously, without the same hospitality she’d extend to her fellow ‘cons (a good punch to the face, usually). What approach she’d provide, she’d have to decide, soon, since the coastline of the island nation had just manifested on the horizon–

When a warning suddenly appeared on her hub, covering almost her entire vision in red:

LOW POWER. ENERGON LEVEL: 10%. SEEK IMMEDIATE FUEL SOURCE. 

She cursed, but before the word could even escape her, her body convulsed, forcibly transforming back into its robot mode. Her nose cone dipped before turning back to her chassis and head, leaving her plummeting head over pedes. Her balance modulator began to scream in its efforts to right her, only to immediately disable as the rest of her forcibly entered power saving mode. 

The ocean was coming up fast. The wind whistled past, blocking out her audials. Tumbling over herself, Invert tried to use the boosters in her struts in an effort to slow her descent–and their force promptly made her tumble even faster. The world became a blur of blue as her systems flashed every warning under the sun. 

Then she hit the ocean, and the impact was so painful she momentarily offlined. Something cracked. Pain shot all throughout her frame, a damage report automatically pulling up in her hub as she sank below the greenish water, straight to the bottom below. 

It wasn’t a long drop, but just the act of hitting the sandy bottom exacerbated the pains shooting through her frame. She may as well have hit a wall at full speed. Blinking her optics several times, her damage report finally came into proper view. 

It wasn’t particularly savage, but neither was it promising. As she moved her arms to pull herself from her prone position on the seafloor they creaked ominously, the sound accompanied by broken glass spilling from her cockpit onto the sandy bottom. Glowing Energon joined it. 

That got her up. She practically leaped to her pedes, grabbing the cubes and stuffing them back into her chassis, cursing a storm as two of them began to leak. Cracks were apparent in both, and the delicate energy they provided bled out into the ocean currents. Two would be an entire recharge for her–she couldn’t let them go to waste. 

Pressing her servos against the cracks and praying that would be enough, she swiveled her helm, searching for the shore. The water was shallow–only about fifty feet, if her depth meter was to be trusted–but the open area she’d found herself in was still miles from shore. 

Miles she would not make without more Energon. Grimacing, already aware of just how poorly this would fare for her tanks, she brought the first of the cubes to her dermas and forcibly gulped it down, taking in far too much seawater in the process. Warnings popped up about contaminated fuel, followed by analysis of the contents: 96.5% water, 2.5% salts, .2% inorganic particulates, .8% organic particulates. 

The latter part almost made her purge what she’d consumed, but she kept it down. It was energy enough, she wouldn’t have to do it again and once she was back on land she’d purge anyways and forget that this ever happened. Tossing the empty cube aside and pocketing the second, she checked her map again for which way was land. 

North. She took off in that direction, the sandy floor gradually turning into some kind of living rock formation. Slimy looking organics of odd shapes populated the colorful stones, darting away as she stepped on and crunched them with ease. They left slime on her plating, which did not help her growing desire to purge. Stepping over what seemed to be an entire shelf of the organics, her helm finally broke water.

Ahead of her was a beach densely populated with humans. Around her, gasping and shrieking as they swam away, were more humans, all of whom had been previously enjoying themselves, somehow, in the ocean. 

She gave a dirty look to the closest ones and stomped forward, gradually rising out of the water as she approached the beach. The humans occupying it screamed and scattered, abandoning their little colorful fabrics and strange striped pole structures. A few foolish ones froze in place, staring at her in awe. 

Dripping with saltwater, covered in slime, and with a broken, gaping cockpit on display, Invert didn’t have the time nor patience to put up with any of them. Decepticons hardly had any concern for humans anyways, but it was generally discouraged to avoid stepping on them–it ruined your paint. 

Considering the damage her beautiful lime green had already attained, she didn’t think she could care less now. 

“Hey!” 

With her map pulled up in her main hub, she hadn’t noticed the one human that, as opposed to running in fear, had frozen up and stood their ground. She glanced down, spotting a tanned one just by her pedes. 

“Are you one of those Autobots?” 

The question actually made her pause for a moment, considering the Decepticon brand on her wings. If she were feeling a bit more patient or playful, she might tell him yes, she was, and he and all his friends should absolutely be fine with her holding a few of them for potential hostage situations later. Perhaps she could convince them to take her to her quarry without even an ounce of concern that they might call for help. It was an action that would make strategic sense, that any intellectual Decepticon would leap at. 

Invert, however, was tired, cranky, and not particularly fond of anything made of metal at the moment. 

She bent and flicked the human aside, not paying any attention as to just where the hell it might have landed. Humans. Worthless, bold, idiotic creatures. So tiny and delicate. And yet they still thought they could talk to beings like her. 

“How much longer till I get there?” She asked her systems as she headed off the beach, crunching a few human structures along the way. It responded with a calculation of the remaining distance to her quarry: halfway across the island, nestled in a ‘mangrove swamp’. Another thirty minutes of walking. 

Her pedes crushed plants and bent concrete as she followed the straightest path, ignoring whatever might have been built upon it. Humans panicked and ran in all directions to avoid her, their tiny screams grating on her audials. They were turned down in response, muting any potential crunching that may have occurred as she kicked aside a wooden structure marked with the image of a cone. The humans and their worthless, useless, delicate structures, were left behind in no time. 

And foolishly, she did not once consider that one of those screaming, fleeing humans might have called for help.

—---------------------

The coordinates lead her to a swamp. After a good ten minutes of walking, Invert found that the island gave way to less populated areas, rife only with animal and plant based organics. They were no more pleasant to deal with, but they didn’t scream nearly as much, and their movement patterns were relatively predictable. They fled to the undergrowth and hid there, as if they were praying she’d leave them alone. 

Good organics. They knew where they belonged. 

As she neared the swamp the dirt moistened, sticking to her pedes, and the water made its damnable return, flooding the land and forming pools that ran up her cadulens. The trees lifted themselves upon their roots as if they intended to walk away, forming cages which entrapped more organics within them. It seemed to her like a great prison, formed by the rejects of the Earth itself.  

Her map suddenly lit up, providing her with a name for the place she’d stepped into–the “Demon Swamp”. An informational packet came along with it, indicating that the Insecticon ship was nearby and that her Decepticon brethren had visited this place prior. She ignored everything except the part about the Insecticons. 

Invert was hasty, but not stupid. She done her research on the three of them during her flight–it had been difficult with the amount of focus she’d had to maintain at all times, but she’d pulled it off, because unlike some other one trick mechaponies in the cause, she could be taught how to do more than one thing. 

Of the three Insecticons, her greatest interest was in Shrapnel. They all seemed like frankly awful comrades, but the ability to produce clones was undeniably powerful. It wouldn’t matter if she was the last Decepticon on Earth. It wouldn’t matter if she only found him. It wouldn’t even matter if he could only make a few clones–a clone was still another robot, and numbers were what they needed more than anything. 

Silently, she hoped that he was the one who had created the distress signal, and that maybe, because of his electricity powers, he’d caused that infernal buzzing. It made sense. What else could have?

She made her way through the Demon Swamp cautiously.. For all she knew, Autobot soldiers were waiting around every corner. But more than that, the environment itself was actively hostile to her kind. 

The water was brackish, and sediment easily gathered between plating. The air was humid, which could clog vents. Organics constantly chirped in the background, distracting audials. The foliage from the mangrove trees moved constantly in the wind, requiring constant optic adjustments for lighting. And the water she waded through gave her position away to anything with ears in the general vicinity.

There was no approaching stealthily, not with the twisting roots that threatened to constantly trip her or the water that sloshed and bubbled like it was boiling. There was so much noise, even with her audials turned down, it was almost difficult to think. 

And that didn’t even begin to cover the constant buzzing that had risen into the air, one that she recognized. She was approaching the ship, she could feel it. Her map was pinging wildly, her coordinate numbers were rapidly growing smaller, and the buzzing of the signal, audible to everyone in a mile radius at minimum, was practically screaming. 

Actually…she paused, disabling her coordinates and turning her map off. The buzzing was still audible. Raising a hand to her helm, she disabled her comms as well. 

The buzzing was still audible. 

It wasn’t a signal, then. 

She took in a sharp ex-vent and continued forward, the mangrove trees overhead beginning to close together, blocking out the sunlight from above. The route she was following had taken on the qualities of a tunnel with mangrove roots forming its walls. They twisted and crawled over one another like tentacles. It made her plating crawl. 

The path curved sharply. She was met with a curtain of organic filth, gray and twisting. The buzzing had turned to almost shrieking now, and her scanners indicated that Cybertronian technology was very close now. Grimacing to herself, Invert grit her dentae and shoved the curtain aside, convulsing only slightly as it draped over her plating. It worsened her desire to purge–but that wasn’t the only contributor to the growing feeling. 

Before her, nestled in a massive grotto, was an old, crashed ship of Cybertronian origin. The doors to it had long been blown off and water had pooled over its floors. Organic filth grew over its top and mangrove roots had looped over its wings, trapping it in place. Its interior was pitch black, but she could detect some kind of movement from within. 

From the heart of that dark void the buzzing originated, sounding like the shriek of static. And just below it, she could hear a voice. 

“LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!”

—---------------------------------------------------

Seek alternate fuel source.

By the time Uptick’s data package sent him the notification to end recharge, Luster still hadn’t managed to offline for even a moment. Throughout the entirety of Earth’s night he’d laid still, listening to the endless humming that droned in his processor while watching the light of the moon creep across the floor. Earth’s moon was a small satellite structure about fifty times smaller than the planet it orbited. From the safety of the organic’s home it appeared as a particularly large orb in the sky and went through eight different phases: full, waxing gibbous, first quarter, waxing crescent

He vented harshly at the image and promptly sat up, the constant pinging in his helm only now properly registering. Uptick had so graciously set an alarm for him that was thirty Earth minutes prior to when he was expected at the clinic. As if on cue, he heard a knock at his door, and a quick check of the electrical field coming from outside told him all he needed to know of who was waiting for him. 

A comm arrived in his link before he could disable it. Despite the alarm literally ringing in his processor and telling him to get up, which Uptick would know he was presently experiencing, another notification from the same mech now waited patiently in his inbox, politely and firmly reiterating what had been told to him the night prior. 

It would soon be time to go to the clinic. He was not permitted to avoid or skip this appointment. He was on his second strike, and a third would mean that he would go into lockdown. They did not want to make him a prisoner. This was for his own good. 

Tank capacity at 50%. Fuel uptake at 15%. Seek alternate fuel source.

He didn’t manage to close the notification in time and it promptly opened a dozen more. Groaning to himself, Luster slammed his helm into the nearest wall, the damage report temporarily clearing his hub. 

Another comm and knock arrived only a second after he completed the action. If his optics could roll into his helm, they would have. 

‘I’m up,’ he sent back. ‘Out in a klik.’ 

His comms were promptly disabled, blocking out Uptick’s response. Then, the damnable alarm that hadn’t once stopped ringing was seized, taken to the back of his processor, and disabled in the least humane way he could imagine. Lastly, every last notification was closed and its accompanying pop-ups blocked. 

Finally, a moment of quiet. He swung his legs off his berth and took in a few ex-vents, mentally preparing himself for just what he was going to experience at the clinic today. During his last visit, they’d given up on trying to get him to manually recall the details of his trip. Whispers between the medics had agreed upon bringing in “the big guns”. 

Whatever “the big guns” meant, he couldn’t say he was eager to find out. 

There were guesses he’d had towards just what such a term might be referring to–a psychic patch in, perhaps, or maybe the complete removal of his processor for dissection. Maybe they’d do a deep scan and recreate him in a digital space, just so they could pick him apart like a particularly interesting puzzle. 

That was all he was to them. A puzzle. Something to be solved, categorized, put together, pulled apart, and put away once solved. 

He couldn’t even solve himself. What made them think they could do it?

Uptick pinged him again. It had been exactly 16 kliks of blissful silence. Luster vented and stood. Despite his tanks remaining half full, he could feel the aggressive pangs of hunger nipping at him, ever on the edge of his mind. They were pushed aside as he tapped the keypad to his habsuit, opening the door. 

Uptick stood just beyond it, taking up the entire frame and more with his bulk. He stepped back when the door opened, a mandatory smile crossing his faceplate. 

“There you are! That’s the fastest you’ve ever arisen!” He beamed at the prospect of his work bearing fruit, which Luster found annoying. “I’ll keep this in mind for next time. Now, are you ready to go? If we’re early, they might be able to admit you faster, which means a shorter session, eh?”

“Sure. Shorter.” He grumbled and slinked past Uptick, who closed the door he’d left open and followed along. 

~

The clinic he visited on a weekly basis was located on the opposite side of Metroplex, towards the back of his city form. During the war, there had been dozens of buildings just like it, designed to hold the wounded and dying. After the assault on Autobot city and the incident with the Chaos Bringer on Cybertron, many of the clinics on Earth had closed down as the medics and doctors returned home. There were, after all, far more injuries and casualties on Cybertron, even without the war raging. 

The peace of Earth had seen all but two clinics close, which were kept open out of necessity. Rare as it was, on occasion an Autobot might return from sparring with half his arm blasted off, or from a drive amongst humans with his front completely ruined. Humans, as Luster had quickly come to learn, were awful navigators and drivers. They ran into everything from still trees to moving cars to thin pedestrians on the side of the road. 

And sometimes they ran into Autobots, and what was merely an inconvenience for them was a fatality for the fragile organics. 

He didn’t feel quite strongly about the humans. They were alright. They were small, and weak, but surprisingly intelligent. They thought he was fascinating and scary. Some thought he was a friend. Many had grown accustomed to his kind, and would look at him with expectant eyes. 

He couldn’t offer them anything. He didn’t know why he intrigued them. The less interactions he had with the small things, the better, he supposed. The only slightly less maddening thing about their company was that the beat of their ‘sparks’ didn’t drive his processor crazy. 

Which was reason more why he despised the clinic. If there were weak in Autobot City, they were here. And the weak…the weak made easy prey. 

The streets were full of Autobots this early in the morning. Most everyone was up at this point, stretching their legs, tires, and waking up their engines. With every Autobot that dashed past them, racing along eagerly in alt mode, Luster felt his solvents building. The clinic was within sight, and he could see a black and yellow mech lingering by it, chatting up one of the nurses. 

Their sparks were so bright he could almost see them through their plating. 

Seek alternate fuel source.

Luster staggered to a halt in the middle of the street, venting harshly as he slammed a fist to his helm. 

Uptick startled behind him, instantly raising a hand. “Luster? What’s the matter? Are you alright?”

He gagged, hissing through his dentae. “I…I need to leave. Now. I need–”

“Now is no time for cold pedes.” Uptick said firmly, crossing his arms. “I know you’ve been opposed to these sessions, but the medics have assured me–”

Seek alternate fuel source.

The notifications were building nonstop. He couldn’t focus on moving, ignoring the sparkbeats, tuning out Uptick, resisting his aching tank, and closing the pop ups, all at once. He needed just a moment of calm, anything to temporarily turn it all off. 

“I need Energon,” he spat, ignoring whatever else Uptick had said. “Now.”

“Luster–!”

Jerking away, Luster staggered in the direction he knew the bar to be in. Three streets over, seven blocks down, take a left at the lamp post, follow the street until you see a lit up sign–

“Luster!” Uptick yelled, catching up with him in a moment and grabbing him by his shoulders. Luster growled and tried to shake him off, but he held on, turning him around like he was only an indignant sparkling. “You are absolutely not visiting the bar again. I tolerate this habit of yours on your best days, when it is appropriate to do so. Believe me when I say this, I understand how… appealing it can be to try and drown yourself in energy when you’re faced with the horrors of the past. But you…you’re taking it to dangerous levels.” His faceplate was more stony than the diamonds in Luster’s helm. “And I know for a fact that your tank does not empty at a rate so rapid that you’d need to refuel after only six hours of recharge.” 

“I didn’t recharge,” Luster snapped back, reaching up to grab one of Uptick’s servo’s. “I couldn’t offline for even a second last night. I’m starving, I need Energon, Uptick!”

“You need to stop acting like this!” His grip only tightened as Luster scratched at it, some of the white paint chipping away. “Avoiding your appointments to drink at the bar won’t change anything for the better, Luster! If you keep resisting change, you’ll end up trapped in the past!” 

The street had been sparsely populated only moments ago. Now, Luster was aware of other Autobots pausing in their going-ons. Several helms poked out from buildings, curious to see exactly what one of their enforcers had caught. 

He didn’t want to make a scene. The last thing he needed was more Autobots in the area around him. The quiet pounding sounds rapidly surrounding him were like drums on a quiet evening. But before he could even try to look around another notification popped up. 

Feed.

“It’s not about being stuck, idiot!” He screamed back, a snarl twisting his faceplate. He could feel the metal threatening to crack and break apart at the seams, right where his jaws would hinge. “I NEED this, or I’ll offline! I’ve got a fuel deficiency!”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” Metal creaked as Uptick’s grip suddenly tightened, earning him a hiss. “I’ve have personal access to your file! There’s nothing wrong with your physical health!” 

Nothing wrong? NOTHING WRONG?!

The file was already so wrong by claiming that, and none of them even knew it. 

Seek alternate fuel source.

There are many sources nearby. 

“Is that so?” He grit out, feeling something on his back shifting. “Is that what they told you?” 

Was it so, Uptick? Would it always be so? Would it be so when he broke his faceplate, snapped his servos, and–

And what was he thinking?

He froze in the middle of forming his next sentence, voice dying before it could make any words. There was something shifting on his back, beneath his drill, and it replaced all the anger he felt with instant fear. There were witnesses. There were Autobots he knew around. If he let any more of himself slip, he would never speak to any of them again. 

The fight left him as quickly as it had entered, uselessly bleeding out like the Energon in his tank. Uptick seemed to sense this, his own rage subsiding, loosening along with his servos. Their impression had been left behind in Luster’s shoulderpads. He’d barely felt them bend, hissing only out of reflex. 

It was supposed to have hurt. He hadn’t even felt it.

The noise was coming back now. It was accompanied by the voices of other Autobots. He was suddenly so aware of the gazes upon him. Standing in the middle of the street by the clinic, he’d made himself the spectacle of the sector. And Uptick…

“We’re here early,” he muttered, venting quietly. “If you attend, and give them no issue, then…perhaps after your appointment…I…” He trailed off. “Your favorite refuge, it’s the Lead Pigeon, right?”

Luster did not look at him, or anyone, for that matter. Numbly he headed for the doors of the clinic, the red and orange nurse from before waiting for him. Uptick said something, following him halfway to his destination before stopping in the street. The medic cast him a glance before focusing back on her patient. 

“Luster! It’s good to see you.” The nurse held out her arm and spoke like she hadn’t watched him almost assault an enforcer in the street. “We’re almost ready for you, if you’ll just follow me. Got to take vitals.”

“Right,” he muttered, the noise of his notifications starting to drown out the street he’d left behind. Amongst it all, a ping came in from Uptick. He lingered over it for a few seconds as his body trudged along, leaving his mind stuck at the doors of the clinic. 

“Luster?” The nurse stopped by a machine. “Please step on the scanner.” 

He dismissed Uptick’s ping and obeyed. 

After the initial scans, he was led to the back of the clinic. The nurse took him to a small room with an examination table and a monitor. He moved to the table while she retrieved her datapad and tapped him in, the door sealing shut behind them. 

He’d been to the clinic a dozen times before, but it was the first time they’d taken him to this individual room. It was smaller than he’d thought they’d put a mech of his size in. With both their frames crowded in alongside the monitor and table, the place felt almost stifling. He shifted uncomfortably, dismissing more pings and notifications as she finally looked up from her datapad. 

“Alright, you’re all checked in. I’ve sent a comm to the surgeon you’ll be working with today.” She smiled, again. It was starting to bug him. “Have you been made aware of the treatment you’ll be undergoing today?”

“No,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his legs. “What is it?”

Ignoring his tone, she kept smiling and continued. “Are you familiar with mnemosurgery? Following your last encounter at the clinic, the doctor felt it would be best if an alternate approach was used to help you regain your memories. A specialist was called in from Cybertron, just for you.”

Luster cringed at that. All the way from Cybertron. Someone from home, or what home was supposed to be. Someone who’d remind him of how much he’d changed, how much home had changed. Was it anything like he remembered?

Mnemosurgery. It meant nothing to him. He frowned. 

“So he’s come all the way from Cybertron to do…something weird to me?” He vented. The drill on his back felt all the heavier. “Wonderful.”

The nurse was still smiling. Did she ever stop? Did she think it was reassuring? He felt like he was going to purge. 

“It’ll be fine, don’t worry. Mnemosurgery has been used plenty of times to help mechs struggling with trauma. The doctor wouldn’t have prescribed this if he thought it would be harmful to your health. And–”

A knock on the door interrupted her. Turning, she flipped the lock and it slid open, revealing a lavender mech with teal and yellow accents. He was wearing a silver visor and carrying a datapad, and gave the nurse a nod as he stepped in. “Luster of Cybertron, I take it?” He asked, silver gaze taking in the form of the pathetic creature sitting on the examination table. Upon receiving a nod, he grinned and held out a hand. “Good to meet you! I’m Redactor, and I’ll be serving as your mnemosurgeon.” 

His greeting was not returned. Unperturbed, Redactor dismissed the nurse, though he didn’t bother to sit where she had. Raising his datapad, he stood by the door as it closed, reviewing whatever information was on it. 

“So tell me about yourself, Luster!”

His voice was annoyingly cheerful. From the looks of his shoulderpads, tires, and the gaudy paint job, Luster guessed he was a race car. There were even rear wings on his back, split for each arm. His Autobot insignia was proudly displayed on his helm. 

“What’s there to tell? Everything you need to know is on that datapad.”

Redactor shrugged. “Sure, but as your mnemosurgeon, I’d like to potentially learn a bit more about you before I go digging around in your memories. It’s never pleasant to have a stranger in your thinker, is it?” He tapped his helm and let out a light chuckle.

Luster arched an optical ridge. “What do you mean by that?”

“Do you know what mnemosurgery is?” Redactor tilted his helm slightly, and when Luster shook his own, continued. “Mnemosurgery is the process of entering another Cybertronians mind. We…it doesn’t have a great reputation, I’ll be entirely realistic with you.” 

Despite the seriousness of the topic, he let out an awkward laugh. 

“You see it has a bit of a…connection, with the concepts of shadowplay and…well, during the war, it was frequently used to pry secrets from the processors of soldiers.” 

“But! Time marches on.” He gave Luster a smile that was supposed to be reassuring and failed to do just that. “You have my promise, I am not here to control you or alter your memories—I’m here to help you regain them. I heard you’ve been having memory problems?”

“That’s…one way of saying it.” He sat up, his back strut cracking as he did so. “I can’t remember anything, which I’m sure that datapad has already told you. So how are you going to fix that?”

Redactor raised one hand, needles suddenly springing from his fingers. Luster’s optics widened. Beneath his drill, something stirred, preparing to spring out defensively. 

“Relax! The process is painless!” The needles retracted and Redactor waved his hand placatingly. “According to your file, your memories are damaged, but it’s likely that they still exist, buried deep within your processor. You just can’t access them. That’s where I come in!” 

He gave his horrifying servos a wiggle. “With these, I can delve into your processor and potentially guide you back into those areas you can’t access. Now…granted, it may take several tries, and the process is quite dangerous to me. But…well, I can’t just turn down someone in need.”

“In need?” He was in need, all right, in need of not having needles jammed into his processor. He’d had the thing literally poked and prodded before, but this? Another ‘bot, literally inside of his head, accessing his memories? 

“Yes. Whatever happened to you out there, it’s destroyed quite a bit of your processor, hasn’t it? Don’t you want to remember any of it?”

When he didn’t answer, Redactor leaned forward, pressing even further. “Don’t you want to remember Cybertron? Your ship? Whatever you found out there? Solace?”

Solace. 

Don’t you want to remember Solace?

Solace. 

He felt like the ground was dropping from beneath his feet, flipping his tank out of his intake. Coughing, Luster felt warm Energon spill into his mouth, dripping out from his dermas. Redactor cringed at the sight.

“Are you alright?” He asked worriedly, though his words fell on deafening audials. 

Solace. 

Solace. 

Who’s Solace?

“If you’re not feeling well, I’ll call the nurse, we can do this another day–”

“Don’t.” The words spilled out of him along with the pearls of Energon, his optics focusing on the silver of Redactor’s visor. “Solace. You can help me remember Solace?.” 

There was an edge to his voice, a desperation that made Redactor flinch. 

“I–yes, that’s the hope. I–have you eaten this morning? The nurse said there was an incident–”

“I’m fine. Tell me. What are you going to do?” He leaned forward, almost losing his balance on the table. “What do those needles do? Are you going through my helm?”

“Oh, heavens no. They, ah, enter through the back of your neck, where I’ll connect with–”

“Don’t care. You said it doesn’t hurt?” 

“No, absolutely not. Completely painless, I assure you. Um, are you sure you’re feeling alright, you seem…well, friend, you’ve done a bit of an about face, haven’t you?”

He balled a fist and wiped Energon from his dermas. “Haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about. How long is this going to take?”

“The mnemosurgery? Anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. I try to keep sessions short–the longer I’m in your mind, the greater the danger to me.”

Just a few hours at max. He could hold out for that long. With how slowly his tank drained anyways, he wouldn’t be anywhere close to empty even by the end of the earth day. A few hours. That was all. 

Solace. He had to find out what happened to Solace. This would let him find out what had happened to Solace. 

What happened to Solace?

“Alright. Poke me. Stab me. Whatever you’ve got to do. Let’s do this.”

Redactor winced. “It’s…good to see that you’re so…cooperative! Al-alright, please lie down.”

He did as instructed. Redactor loomed over him, needles poking out of his servos as he moved to his helm. 

“Now, please try to relax. Disable your optics if need be. The more stressed you are, the more difficult it can become for me to enter, and…”

Redactor was going on and on about the process. Luster did not care. He was too busy attempting to close every notification currently crowding his hub. 

Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.Seek alternate fuel source.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.SEEK ALTERNATE FUEL SOURCE.

A few hours. Just a few hours. That was all he had to hold on for. 

He could do this. 

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

eternal youth is overrated - a good omens one shot

Summary: Heartbreak and loneliness have left Crowley marked in more ways than one. Aziraphale helps him see that this isn’t such a bad thing.

NOTES: I’ve always had a bit of a bittersweet fascination with aging (David Tennant’s crows’ feet make me emo in ways I cannot hope to describe), with the sadness but also the beauty inherent in it, and I thought it could be interesting to bring this idea to good omens. The concept was “what if Crowley started getting grey hairs after Aziraphale leaves, if, over time, his physical appearance subconsciously changed to reflect his mental state?” The fact that I wrote this as a 19 year old honestly just shows how much I need therapy, but it was honestly incredibly cathartic to work through some of my own mental struggles via Crowley in this fic. Aziraphale’s pov was equally fun to write, as I basically just got to write how he feels about Crowley based on what I feel about David (lol). Hope you enjoy my first Good Omens one shot- I may or may not make an A03 account if it gets enough engagement, I’m honestly pretty proud of it! Special thanks to my wonderful partner in crime @flyingfluse for providing some much needed inspiration!

PS: The title is actually from a song I wrote called Grow Old With Me (hopefully will be available someday fingers crossed)

——————

It had been a year.

Nothing to a demon, really. In the vast expanse of six thousand years on earth, not to mention the innumerable eons Before The Beginning, a year didn’t count for much more than a blip. But heartbreak is a funny thing. Time, for Crowley, now seemed to pass in a much more human fashion- the year that had elapsed since Aziraphale’s return to heaven, a year devoid of anything resembling laughter or joy, a year spent largely either sleeping or stewing in self-loathing, had seemed longer than the past hundred combined.

Crowley’s gaze blearily wandered to the rearview mirror of the Bentley. His reflection, as everything seemed to these days, mocked him.

Those sickly yellow eyes, reminding him of all he was and all that he could never be, like the sulfur he had been cast into all those millenia ago. On his worst days, it was like he could still feel it, eating away at him from the inside out, decaying his soul and with it, his body. It carved shadows into his cheeks and circles beneath his eyes, deep and dark as caverns. It rose in his throat until he choked on it, leaving his voice hoarse and acrid. It spewed out of him onto everything and everyone, every time he opened his mouth, an acidic bile of rage and bitterness.

He had been destroyed and rebuilt over and over through the millenia, and the product was a rough, hardened callus of a being, like a patch of skin that had been picked at too many times. He felt grotesque, untouchable, damaged- there would be no point to pursuing any new connections when no one would understand, nor why would they want to, when he seemed to turn everything he held to ashes? 

A ray of sunlight leaked through the window of the Bentley, catching upon Crowley’s hair, revealing it to be littered with strands of grey, collecting dust-like in his copper mane. How the mighty have fallen, he thought bitterly. Falling, always falling, like leaves in autumn, their color draining as their forms grow brittle and they become one with the earth. From dust they were made, and to dust, they shall return.

Perhaps in a year, he would be dust too. What would he care?

Demons didn’t naturally age, or so he had thought. But loneliness seemed to have made a mortal out of Crowley, centuries of it crashing down upon his corporation, wearing it to the bones, etching his torment into his skin. He could always just miracle any part of himself back to the way it was, reverse all this damned erosion… but what would it matter? Why even try to keep his hair from losing its color when all the color had drained from his life the second his angel had left it?

He felt so, so old.

A single, desperate sob escaped Crowley’s mouth, cracking out of him like splintering firewood.

As he weeped against the steering wheel, the Bentley switched on its radio in sympathy. 

I’ve walked too long in this lonely lane,

I’ve had enough of this same old game.

I’m a man of the world, they say that I’m strong,

But my heart is heavy and my hope is gone.

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

    The demon lay curled in Aziraphale’s lap, clinging to his chest as a snake might in search of warmth. It clutched at Aziraphale’s soul to see Crowley this vulnerable, the swaggering and smirking stripped away to reveal a heart in desperate need of care and healing- a task Aziraphale considered his greatest duty and greatest pleasure, for he knew Crowley would do the same for him. 

    Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, earning a deep sigh from his beloved, whose brows turned up in fragile, stirring comfort. He loved doing this, both to see how much his touch moved Crowley and because he simply loved his hair itself. Bold, striking, an instant head-turner, just like everything else about him. It was now the longest it had been since biblical times, falling in elegant waves past his shoulders. But oh, something else was different… it was streaked now with rivers of silver, gathering in deltas at his temples. It lit a familiar flame in Aziraphale’s chest; that bittersweet blend of desire and sympathy.

    “You’ve changed your hair, I see”, he said softly. 

     Crowley takes a labored swallow, strain and self consciousness seeping into his face. Whatever he says next, it’s clear that the admission is going to cost him.

     “When you left, I suppose I… let myself wither away.” His voice is lodged deep in his throat, thick and murky, leaking out of him like tar, a sound from the depths of his own personal hell. “Oh, Aziraphale…” he exhales, and it’s one of the most poignant Aziraphale has ever heard.  “I’m so tired. So worn down. So bloody ancient.”

      “So am I, my dear,” he says, trying to come across more soothing than concerned.

     “Yes, but you still shine in the same way you did all those millenia ago… still so bright, so soft.  I’m all tarnished and rusted up… I don’t know how you still want to touch me.”

     Aziraphale gazed down into Crowley’s eyes, piercing and pleading and fragile, like shattered stained glass. At his craggy, rough-hewn cheeks, all bones and edges he’d happily cut himself on to caress. At the deep, deep lines around his eyes, carved there by every grin and grimace and longing and ache. And oh, the silver in his hair… it suited him so, both rejecting and combining black and white with a color all his own. It wasn’t normal for immortal bodies, ethereal or occult, to bear the marks of time and experience as Crowley’s has. But then, Crowley was never an ordinary demon, or angel, was he? No, he was something far more exquisite. 

    “Oh, but I do… I  do…” Affection surges through Aziraphale as he kisses every crease and wrinkle, every scar and every glorious grey, every sign that his dear Crowley has lived. He feels Crowley’s hands winding through his hair in response and kisses those too, those eloquent, spindly fingers and calloused palms…

   “Crowley, my most cherished books… the covers are peeling, the pages are torn or yellowed with age… so why would you be any different?” His heart seizes up, his voice breaking a bit. “I have seen the fire and rain rage within you for so long, and I have seen the marks they have left upon you, and each one is precious to me. You know how I love to read… Why would I not want to see the story of my beloved written upon their face? My 

dear old serpent, my survivor…you don’t have to fight anymore…”

     He pulls Crowley tightly to his chest, drawing the tension from his shoulders and back before cupping the sides of his face as Crowley stares back, looking overwhelmed and old and so, so beautiful. “I want you exactly as you are. Rough and hard and frayed at the edges… you will never be too much of any of these things for me. In fact…” A slightly wicked twinkle forms in his eye as he smiles pointedly at Crowley: “They make you more tempting to me than ever.”

    Crowley processes this for a moment. “Well…” he croaks out, that hint of playful snark finding its way back into his throaty timbre, “I suppose there is something to be said for… shades of grey.” Aziraphale laughs, remembering the words he himself said to Crowley all those years ago, on the same night he realized just how much he adored him.

   Crowley smiles, that crooked, twisted, perfectly imperfect smile that Aziraphale missed, his eyes crinkling magnificently at the corners. “Kiss me,” he whispers, and Aziraphale is happy to oblige. Happy that Crowley, bold, fierce, independent Crowley, could finally let his guard down, could finally embrace that all of his scars and imperfections, every mark of time upon his face, everything he ever thought made him damaged and ugly only made him more beautiful in his sight.

[notedchampagne]

20 questions for 20 writers!

tagged by @waitineedaname i am surprised i qualify for this game thank you

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

15 :] thats a good number can we all pretend like thats all im going to write forever now

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

148,323 oh my god

3. What fandoms do you write for?

homestuck before, tlt now. i had one haikyuu draft i was too embarrassed to post or finish

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

intern the sixth - 975 kudos (holy crap)

songs made on the meteor - 636 kudos

love in its disrepute - 587 kudos

secondhand confession - 485 kudos

first kiss second time around - 433 kudos

5. Do you respond to comments?

i try to reply to all of them but i lose steam Very Easily

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

M.I.L.F! it is also the ONLY fic i wrote with what i consider an angsty ending. im ridiculous for putting only hideous fluff out there im sorry someone has got to put me down

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

i cant answer this because all my fics were engineered to rot your teeth with sweet stuff. i cant reread my old fics to determine which is the worst because they make me embarrassed

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i got hate exactly once but it was more like unwarranted criticism of intern the sixth - someone complained that they felt the dialogue was complicated and that harrowhark was swearing at the age of 12 because she has been running the ninth for 2 years. personally i just disagree with their interpretations of the characters so haha

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

no and if i ever do take it as a red flag ok?

10. Do you write crossovers?

i actually hate crossover fics most of the time im sorry daljfsjacio30

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

nope

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

dont think so

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no but @/thatneoncrisis revises + writes dialogue chunks for intern the sixth sometimes

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

haha. [gritted teeth] grdlhrk..

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

i have a wip where gideon and harrow undergo perfect lyctorhood and live forever. i hope i PRAY i finish it one day. i also wrote 3328 words for that one sakuatsu fic and i dont think ill finish it but it TORMENTS me that noones read it. if you wanna read it just dm me

16. What are your writing strengths?

i know uhm... how to sway the algorithm. ive read enough fanfic to know the exact diction and order of words that will get people hooked. sometimes i edit my friends' fanfic summaries so that theyll get more clout on ao3

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

finishing the damn writing. i write so slow ok its a miracle if i can make 200 words in one day. also i write dialogue in 'my' voice before translating it into character voices so i struggle with keeping things in character

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

impressive! could never do it though

19. First fandom you wrote for?

[gritted teeth] hmstck....

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

im really proud of MILF because i wrote that thing in one fevered afternoon and i dont know what came over me

[writingmochi]

hello! it has been a long time since i posted last july (not including rb-ing a network thing early august)

i'm back from my two-month break!

i would *love* to say that i have a fic ready to be released right now, but life moves you in different ways so i've been busy irl, especially with an upcoming international study exchange that i'll be doing starting this month. another frustrating thing is that one of my fic docs got corrupted so i have to start from scratch again. so, i won't be able to post a fic around this week or so.

also ngl i didn't expect this blog to still be relevant activity-wise because i haven't posted anything. but, i have queued rbs and posts about things that you all will be seeing in the next two weeks or so while i prepared something for y'all based on what i've planned to release this year.

if you've seen this on your timeline, hi and thank you for reading.

here are the confirmed works that i will push myself to publish this year! (if yall are interested)

i only said: this is the fic that got corrupted though it was still around the beginning of the story. i remember what i wrote at that time cause it is mostly world-building. current progress is that i am recovering the parts that i've lost and have already outlined the rest of the fic and believe me when i say that this can make you weep. idk why but i'm always able to make a painfully meaningful story when it comes to soobin.

terra incognita act 1: for this fic specifically, i've already made a 10k excerpt around 2022-ish so i'm currently editing that excerpt and adding backstory through little prologues from both mc and jake's povs. i have also outlined the rest of the part !

loomer: i have also already outlined what will happen throughout the fic. i've watched chungking express and it does add a bit of nuance to what mc and jay's relationship. it's actually the first time i'm doing a historical fiction that will include a real-world historical event in it that is the form of the impact of the miracle on the han river and late 90s asian financial crisis and its effect on the people growing up in that era, but make it grounded cause this is a wong kar-wai/hou hsiao-hsien esque characters

murder by numbers: maybe you can predict this one based on a title: this is a halloween fic baby! will be set during the last halloween in the 1980s about a group of high school friends who were invited to go to a halloween party in a rented summer camp area when a slasher gets in that way and it is soobin fic again, of course ! this will be like until dawn meets 80s-90s slasher horror. i haven't actually outlined much of the fic, but i will be editing like 80s horror-style poster for this!

so yeah, those are the ones that i'm sure i will be able to post this year...

[aphroditestummyrolls]

Wylan Whump Fic bc i am predictable af xD

My friend! ❤️ I’ve been working backwards through the second chapter, but I wrote the beginning of it just for you!

The darkness was an oppressive thing. It weighed down his eyelids. His blood felt sluggish and thick in his veins.

And when he finally managed to pry open his eyes, the light felt like daggers.

All that Jesper knew in that moment was that his fucking head hurt. It throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, white hot pain radiating out from his left temple. Up was down and down was up, he could scarcely even tell where his feet were. Was he lying down? Had someone sat him up? It left him fumbling and disoriented, made his gut roil, flipping and twisting– it was only by some minor miracle he hadn’t been sick.

He breathed through a long few seconds with his eyes screwed shut, just barely squinting as he adjusted to the lamps in… wherever he was.

It wasn’t the Slat. It wasn’t anywhere he recognized.

If he could think logically– or see normally– he’d be rolling his eyes at how dim those painful lamps actually were. Their ember-like glow wasn’t from any type of window or opening, emanating instead from dusty looking, cracked sconces fixed to the walls. They were nestled between dug-in shelves. Dug-in because, the more he blinked the world into focus, Jesper could tell they were made of packed earth.

This was some type of cellar. The world was coloured in shades of shadowy brown and grey, and it would be hard to see even if he was in the best of conditions– something he was not. But he could feel the soil under his hand, caking itself under his nails as he clawed weakly into the floor where he had been dropped. It smelled like a cool spring night on the farm– tilled earth, a fallow field with nothing planted yet. What was different, though— made his lungs feel tight and ache for home— was the musty, recirculated quality to the air. It was cold, but still. Stagnant. Like Black Veil.

Jesper shivered even as he felt something warm drip down his cheek, and wondered idly if he was sweating or bleeding.

His brain stayed a foggy, thoughtless thing, for even longer than his eyes stayed bleary and burning. It wasn’t until his body adjusted to the new, elevated baseline of pain that the throbbing started to ease off. Dimly, he acknowledged his own body, taking stock— his hat and gun belt were gone; he was stripped down to his trousers, waistcoat and shirt, and it made him shiver. Whoever had taken him had thrown him carelessly to the dirt floor, leaving him a heap on his side. There was no doubt that he was already bruising. And then there were his hands and feet— his wrists and ankles felt heavy and rubbed raw, but he hadn’t thought about it too hard. Not until just then, when a feeble kick of his legs sounded like clinking metal. He blinked down to where he’d dug into the dirt, and his followed the chain of his shackled hands.

Shit.

He remembered the acrid tang of blood and smoke, chemical compounds tingeing the air as he pushed open the workshop door. The apology he was rehearsing abruptly trailed off as he took in the state of the place.

And the state of Wylan.

Wylan.

Across the small room, crumpled into a dead-looking heap of scrawny limbs and singed curls, was a body. A Body. The thought was unthinkable but he couldn’t turn his mind off of the terrible chant of it– dead, dead, he’s dead, his brain uselessly supplied. The body was so still, one ghostly pale hand laying limply out toward Jes with something rusty smudged into the fingertips. The body was still faceless, fully hidden in the crook of an elbow and a careless flop of curls– but Jesper would know him anywhere. That unmistakable, untamable hair; that too-big overcoat; the slender line of his hand with those precise fingers.

It had to be some trick. Some terrible trick by some… who would do this? Any of it?

“Wy—“ his voice was nothing but a ragged croak, but there wasn’t much moisture in his throat to help him clear it. It hurt, fuck, everything hurt. “Wylan, Wylan! Wake up! WYLAN?”

Yeehawwwww hopefully the chapter will be up soon! Thanks for playing! ❤️❤️❤️

[logicheartsoul]

the room (where you live in)

Summary: Inspired by the just-shower-thoughts post: "Every building can be a museum if you keep it the same long enough."

In which Bucky finds out the Smithsonian has added to its exhibit a recreation of one of the places Bucky lived in before becoming a soldier. A somewhat character study with some subtly hinted sambucky.

Author's Notes:Saw this post and then, I had this thought — we see SOME of the museum exhibit of Captain America but not all of it and I thought if Steve and the Howlies were so important, what if people took pictures of the rooms/houses they lived in before they “died” and did that museum thing where they recreate the room so people can look in or step inside? We kinda get a glimpse of that at the end of TFA to acclimate Steve to 2010 but what if they did that to a room Bucky lived in? And Bucky seeing it for himself? That's this fic lol

Kind of surprised I finished and wrote this in an hour considering how random it was but I hope you enjoy it! It’s a miracle I wrote another completed fic within the span of a week after 2 years. 

(One of these days I'll actually finish the Sam character study I wrote but it's a bajillion words longer than this one)

—————————

This is a tribute to the dead; the ghost of their life. Lingering in the shadows, in the dust.

A mausoleum.

Like trampling over the living grave of who he used to be.

This is not his home; this is not his life, at least the life he occupies now. This has not been his life in decades.

This facsimile of his home, his room — one of many rooms he left himself behind — is a pale imitation. It brings memories of the remaining impressions, not of his own reality.

The curve of the bed frame, the thin fabric of the window drapes — these are the same but not his. The hidden history behind all of the details, of the walls, the furniture, even the common household items — it doesn’t exist. Not with these things.

It is all imitation, a living simulation. An exhibit, except he’s not caged in.

(Not anymore.)

But perhaps for all that it is, the details based on the real, like the photos in the frames, the bed linens and the wallpaper and the curtains—

It is the closest thing he can get to touching his past. To the thing that ties him to those memories. The closest he can get to touching those that are gone.

Gone.

His past self is gone, nearly erased: by time, by war, by trauma and torture.

He cannot visit his old home anymore.

He cannot visit the places that were his.

He cannot visit the people who are now long gone. From time, death, disease. Can only touch those they left behind, their remnants: children, grandchildren, cousins, nieces and nephews and niblings.

Their traces of his mother, his father, his sister — live on in their eyes, their smiles, their laughter. The color of their hair, the curve of their chin, the height of their bodies.

And the ache lessens.

It doesn’t go away.

But his life here, this snapshot taken in time:

It’s a memory, not his own but another. Of an observer looking into the glimpse of his former world.

He cannot step back into it as if he’d merely paused.

Time does not stand still, even for those who can defy it.

He was made to stand time, but it went on around him.

And he understands and gets it, truly, standing at this exhibit of his life. People want to know a glimpse of the truth, want context for his life, for Steve’s and the Howling Commandos. Want people to know where he came from, from how heroic people can rise from any circumstance.

Especially with a symbol as powerful as Steve Rogers.

It’s still disquieting.

It’s like he’s the ghost and he’s haunting himself.

This—this life, it’s only a part of who he is, but it’s not him. Not now.

Missing pieces of the puzzle that comprise his whole, messy life.

Doesn’t show the spaces he’s made now, in a far different environment. The spaces made in a new community, in a new home. The room where he lives in now.

One tidy but filled with a life before him and hopefully a life after him. Of furniture sturdy and handmade with a dark, lacquered finish. With pictures of a family that originally wasn’t his but is now. With fuzzy blankets for the cold nights, with quilted bed covers. Decor of a university he never went to but the other occupant did.

And the difference true in his new room—

It is not originally his room.

But it’s a room he shares, one he lives with its first occupant.

Where their clothes line the closet and the dresser together. Where they swap and share shirts and jackets and other clothes. Tight pants and loose jeans and different types of shoes: boots and tennis shoes and flip flops.

But this room, it’s not a museum. It’s not an exhibit.

It’s part of a home.

A home, where many of its pieces and rooms have remained virtually the same. If it is a museum, it is a museum for the testament of a home, of family, of belonging and feeling. Happiness and lows lie among the walls but it’s a place for living.

For the living.

The memories here…

Here, he can touch them and know its history, know its touch is true. The faded, bleached color of the paper behind one of the framed posters in one of the living spaces. The messy scrawl and coloring of a child’s love for their mother. Post it notes for mundane reminders and drawings made of planes, the paper thin and wrinkled, taped on.

And more, much more.

This, this is his place now. His reality, his truth.

Here he is not walking among the dead, he is among the living. The ancestors that remain, do so with loving care, protecting, blessing. They live vivaciously, vibrant. Their remnants are honored and passed on to new descendants and occupants.

And he is fortunate, blessed, to be in such a space. To be invited in, to live in it, to allow it to make a home for him. For him to add to this rich space that existed before him and perhaps will after he is long gone.

It’s a legacy.

A legacy that doesn’t start with him and doesn’t end with him, but one he hopes to protect and help guide on.

In the room where he lives, he is not alone, not like he has been forced to for so long.

No, not alone.

And as he looks down on the other, in the low, morning light, he knows this is where he is meant to be.

Meant to be holding him close, meant to watch over him, the sun’s early rays softening the angles of his face: the slope of his nose, his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Imbuing his dark skin with a glow.

Meant to be loving him with all his heart.

If he is to be remembered, if he is to have another exhibit based on his life, of a room he has lived in—

He wants the world to know of him.

Of the man in his arms. Of his childhood home the man and his sister have allowed him to stay. Of the quilted bed cover they’re under, of the pictures in frames that contain the man’s face, young and older, of family and friends smiling and happy. Of the watch he wears on his wrist when he goes out. The color of the walls.

His memory, how important he is.

And he is important on his own, on his own rights and merits, but he’s important to him. Important to who he is now.

To his heart, his soul, his life. There is no part of him that hasn’t been changed, touched, transformed without the other.

Perhaps, when time has taken them both, if this room becomes a museum of their life, of their love, of the transmutation of their better selves—

That is a legacy worth leaving behind.

—————————

If you like my writing, feel free to check out my writing tag!