#i have to wonder if its reactivated that part of my brain from when i sketched only with pen in middle school....resurrected one might say

[bonetrousledbones]

lil slightly updated fullbody of this motherfucker. shapes !!!!

bonus because i am supremely bad at following my own refs and fucked up his shoes lmao

[mama-scarebear]

Are you up for a little Christmas fantasy? 🎄I hope you will forgive this being a bit late for Christmas 🙈

—-

I slowly bat my eyes open to the sound of your voice. It’s early Christmas morning, you always seem to wake up much earlier than me, even on Christmas. “Princess it’s time to get up” you say softly with a musical tone to your voice. I feel your hand start to rub my back, making its way down as I slowly regain awareness. I start to roll over to face you when you stop and remind me, “uh uh Mommy’s gotta check your little pull-up first.” I feel cool air at my back and upper legs as you yank my Christmas themed PJ bottoms down. No matter how many times I’ve felt you do this I can’t help but blush each time. I hide my face in my tiny deer stuffie. I feel your fingers claw into my pull-up, invading the leakguards at the crotch. You take your time feeling the inside of the padding, purposely brushing against my most sensitive parts, making me squirm a little. I can feel you smirk. You love how reactive my body is to even your slightest touch. I then feel you pull the top of the pull-up back exposing my bottom to your prying eyes. Knowing deep down you’re disappointed to find me completely clean & dry.

I’m thrown off & unsettled by your lack of comment or threat. You simply pull my PJ bottoms back up & cheerfully remind me it’s Christmas morning. “Do you want to go see if Santa left you any presents under the tree?” All concern leaves my little brain and all I can think is YAY PRESENTS 🎁😄. Such an easily distracted baby. I basically hop up, deer stuffie tucked under my arm, as I almost start running to the living room where our tree is set-up. I’m super anxious right before stepping into the living room not knowing if I made the Nice List this year. I haven’t been the best behaved per se.

I can’t help but jump up and down in place & grin wildly when I see not just one but over 10 presents of all different shapes & sizes, beautifully wrapped and tucked under the tree. I’m so caught up in my own bliss I don’t even notice you still trailing behind me smiling, watching me bounce up & down in excitement in my babish looking Christmas PJs. A soft crinkle is audible, synced to my jumping. You giggle to yourself silently. I’m brought back down to reality by hearing you approach from behind, your hand coming to rest on my little bum. “Mommy loves seeing you so excited little girl,” you say while give me soft pats on my pull-up clad bottom, “do you want to open them?” You ask already knowing the obvious answer, but you like me to use my manners. I excitedly exclaim, “yes, please Mommy, can I open my presents?” I focus my pleading eyes on yours as I smile. “Ye-“ you can barely get the word out before I rush over to the tree. I kneel & have just enough sense to set my deer stuffie gently down beside me before I hungrily grab at the first present. I barely notice Mama pour herself a cup of coffee before sauntering over & seating herself on the couch facing me. You can barely contain your internal excitement at the show you’re about the watch.

I rip & tear the frozen themed Christmas paper off to reveal a nondiscript white box. It’s taped pretty good, but I make quick work of it. I’m wondering if it’s filled with the new coloring books, video games, vibrator or Disney themed stuffies I put on my list to Santa. I flip open the top of the box & pause. My facial expression changes from one of wondrous joy to a wide-eyed, mouth-gaping expression. You chime in with a sickeningly cheerful voice, “what’d you get princess?! Hold it up for Mommy to see.” I whine, “b-but this isn’t what I wanted” I clamor as I shakily hold up what I know to be a Chasity belt designed to fit over diapers. You cover your mouth to hide a giggle, not wanting the baby to get suspicious. “Must have been a mistake, baby, why don’t you just open another one?” You encourage. I drop the belt, reinvigorated at the prospect of other presents to open. I tear open another & another & another until I’m down to my last present. My face says it all; slight frown, teary eyes, shoulders slumped, head hung low. Oh & did I forget to mention very rosy red cheeks, burning with embarrassment. I am surrounded by torn Christmas wrapping paper & open presents, but they did not seem like gifts to me. In addition to the diaper-accommodating Chasity belt, there were booties that felt soft & looked cute, but had sharp spikes covering the inside bottom, locking mittens, a large dog cage, a pacifier with a locking strap, a cane & a pink straight jacket. I thought to myself when the fuck did Santa become a sadist? What is going on? This is so unfair. I don’t want any of this stuff.

Mommy interrupts my silent thoughts. “Aww what’s wrong baby you still have one left! That probably has all the things you asked for in it.” You mask your smile behind a sip of coffee. I feel hopeful again & begin tearing at the paper on the last present. I finally wedge the box open, lift the tissue paper & instantly start crying. I blush so hard I almost feel like my head is going to explode from the heat on my face & I slam the lid back down on top of the box. “I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this!” I shout. I look up at you & see your eyes studying me crumpled on the floor at your feet caught in the midst of what could only be described as a temper tantrum. Meeting your eyes makes me remember myself. Knowing your disdain for disrespect & yelling I resort to silently crying.

You look down on me wearing a wicked grin, “I guess someone didn’t make the Nice List this year after all, huh princess?” You say mockingly. “B-but” I stammer “I didn’t get-t any coal. I-I got presents, lot-ts & lot-ts of presents” I whine trying to make sense of it all. You giggle & smile, “aww baby you really shouldn’t believe everything you hear in the stories Mommy reads to you. What happens when little girls are naughty?” I look away as I quietly answer, “ugh they get um punished-d” I trail off the end of the answer. You curtly respond, “mhmm they get punished by who?” I cover my face with my hands as I squeak out, “they get punished by mommy.” You stand up from the couch, put your mug down, walk over to me & firmly pull my hands away from my face. Nothing turns you on quite like seeing me blush & become unwound in front of your eyes. “Well when little girls like you are bad they end up on Santa’s Naughty List. Instead of giving you coal, which is useless, Santa gives mommies and daddies presents they can use to punish their babies for their naughty behavior over the past year. So I guess it’s a very Merry Christmas for Mommy, huh?” The triumph in your voice is unmistakable. I am flabbergasted, how could this be? I feel more tears well up in my eyes. My fear & (against my wishes) my arousal begins to steeply rise.

“Now I didn’t get to see what my last present was because you threw your little temper tantrum.” I groan regretting that now more than ever surrounded by instruments of torture. “I want you to show Mommy her present” you request, a demanding tone to your voice. I hesitate briefly before shakily grabbing the box & sliding it over towards you. Knowing the humiliating items that lie inside. “Come on baby, I want you to show Mommy” emphasis placed on the word show. I groan loudly. I whine, re-bury my face into my hands & shake my head no. You chide, “well looks like we know why someone didn’t make the Nice List this year,” rubbing it in. I can’t respond or do anything but whine & bury my face deeper into my hands, wanting to disappear into the floor. “What has got my princess so blushy she can’t even speak, hmm?” I hear you open the box & the crinkle of the tissue paper inside. Ugh god I feel like I might die, the anticipation of knowing what she’s going to find inside is unbearable. I pathetically plead, my hands muffling my voice, “please no Mommy! Please don’t look!” I should have known better as that just made you want to look even more. I can feel you grinning, sensing your desire & arousal heighten. “Look baby” you then easily overpower my resistance & pull my hands away from my face. “Unless you want a crash course in all of these fun presents Mommy got from Santa I suggest you don’t try and hide your face again, understood?” Under your gaze I unravel, unable to disobey, “y-yes M-mommy.” I glance down & instantly regret it as the feared items were now neatly laid out in front of me. My eyes betray me & run across all the items, examining them. From left to right there was a big red bag with a long nozzle & double balloons on the end, a bag of soft chew laxatives with cartoonish characters on the front, a bottle of magnesium citrate, a big box of glycerin suppositories, a large butt plug adorned with a pink jewel & lastly, to put together the horrifying ensemble, a pair of bright pink, locking plastic pants with the words “Mommy’s Poopy Princess” printed in large font on the back. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think clearly. I wanted to get up & run away but I couldn’t move. Mommy’s voice brakes my trance, “Wow, I’m impressed. Santa must know my princess doesn’t like messing her diapers & prefers to resist Mommy & hold it. Well now you won’t be able to hold it at all.” You say with an accomplished smirk. As you start to laugh, my tears begin to fall & my lower lip quivers. “What a great gift for Mommy! Santa really does see everything.” 🎅

I know I’m on the brink of ruin, but I’m also on the brink of cumming in my pull-up that is most definitely no longer dry. Somehow Mommy always gets her way in the end. “Hopefully you can find your way onto the Nice List next year baby, if not, don’t worry Mommy can always use more gifts from Santa.”

—-

- p

Now this is a lovely festive little fantasy but believe me even if my little one was in the naughty list she'd at least get one present she'd enjoy. A lovely little teddy bear. After all she'll need something to cling to while she's being mercilessly punished. Not to mention they make so many lovely plushies with microphones and cameras so Mommy can listen in to your most intimate moments. A little sugar to make all that bitter medicine go down is just my type.

[confessions-official]

idk what 2 warn this as. abuse?? grooming?? toxic relationship probably, sry. also the r, n, and f slur

when i was 13 i entered a long-distance "relationship" with (at the time) an australian 15 yearold and it was sososo great from what i can remember. my memory is shit so i cant remember very much from then but i remember it being very nice. we had a conversation about her feminity (at the time she didnt know she was trans) and i said some shit (HEAVILY paraphrasing) reminding her that she could just Be a girl if she wanted and then she Did. and then i had a girlfriend it was a very nice year. anyway.

few months after that it was fine but then everything kept dissolving into arguments. and idk if i'm just kinda fucked up and neurotic (i tend to react badly 2 rejection of any kind and that wasnt her fault whatsoever) but i think most of the arguments were about me being upset that we werent playing a game together or me feeling left out. we both had a mutual friend and we did so much shit together.

and then it just kept getting worse! the arguments escalated (or they were getting more direct i dont think it was ever about the games) and instead of games the arguments were about how she was treating me. i repeatedly accused her of ignoring the uglier parts of me in favor of my "caring nature". idk how to describe it. i strongly felt, and still kind of feel that she just wanted me to be her mommy who would shower her in endless affection, because whenever i would get into a gloomier mood (because of her or not, mostly not) she would take offense to it.

i also have. anger issues? idk i'm very reactive sometimes and it also forced a lot of arguments out over useless shit

i also sent her a package at some point with a hoodie and some fucking thigh socks she encouraged me to buy when i was eleven or ten. unfortunately it took like 4 months to show up and it felt like every single moment of our time together was her asking about the package. When was it coming has the status changed yet is it in australia yet? it pissed me off so much because it felt like she was just!! using me for clothes!! but i also understand because her family is a crock of shit who wouldn't accept or support her wearing or buying more feminine clothing, and this was one of the only ways she could feel girly.

it eventually bubbled over to the point where i blocked her on all social media platforms and we began arguing heatedly over email. and she sent me this wonderful string of emails where she was kissing/asking to kiss me (something that i fucking HATE – i do not want to be flirted with or called petnames while we argued, i nake this very clear), telling me that we both loved each other, and sent methis fantastic fucking email about how she was excited to see me hang myself on facebook whilst also calling me an unlovable neurodivergent retard.

i have it saved on my phone and it honestly makes me laugh now because of how fucking weirdly its worded. like a bad 4chan copypasta. but anyway lol

that hit especially awful at the time bc i was researching autism because i was 99% sure something wasnt clicking in my brain AND i was having ongoing issues with my mom. i had a massive breakdown in which i stopped speaking to her for 6 months which were the most miserable points of my life. i had to switch emails bc she just kept spamming me while i was having a meltdown!

i think i just got overbearingly lonely at that point bc sometime in 2023 iirc i reached out to her again and we got back together! somehow.

the arguments got even worse and we were on-and-off for a Long time. i was regularly blocking her and arguing with her every other day-ish and jesus fucking christ it was awful! Bad!!!

then our mutual friend turned out to be transphobic and she continued being friends with him ?! and this still really confuses me bc.. i remember being in a voice call with him and he was repeatedly using the incorrect pronouns and did not respond seriously when i corrected him. and i brought it up with her multiple times and she was like Naw dont worry about it??? idk man maybe theres something i was missing???

there was also this time that i told her about how i got groomed twice when i was younger because i trusted her to not tell anyone about it. and then she turned around and Told Our Mutual Friend about it. >_>

AND THE WHOLE GENDER SHIT i'm someone who uses every/all pronouns interchangably and is somewhat genderfluid. i came out to her multiple times because she. kept forgetting i wasnt cis!

at the time i was just using "all pronouns" but my gf kept using feminine terms for me and she/her prns for me and i kept asking her to stop doing that. but she did not. so it turned into an argument where i was telling her that i didnt want her to cherrypick the parts of my identity she liked the most and that i wasnt even a woman. it took her multiple months afterwards to even Begin using masculine terms for me >_> altho it is mainly my fault because i didnt really specify what i meant by "all pronouns" (but she also never asked !?)

recently, about 3~ weeks ago, like a week before my bday, we broke up again. this time it was way messier because i'm not moving my email again. its also permanent i would rather someone put me down than make me go back to talking to her

i finally realized that a newly 15 year old Shouldn't be dating someone who was going to turn 18 in the same fucking year! i blocked her on everything, bur she still had my email so we were arguing over Email again. she went on a racist tangent, repeatedly calling me a stupid white girl and refering to me with the n-slur in the same sentence (i am of mixed race). she also told me it was fine because she was also mixed race and "i'm calling you my homie" which is. yeah! i think she also said something abt me being a fag or whatever but maybe not. i deleted most of her emails as they came in so i dont remember >_>

i also said some awful transphobic shit to her about her pretending to be a girl so she could get closer to me which i. cannot say how much i regret saying that awful crap! it's definitely not reflective of my opinions and my morals, i was trying to get under her skin at the time and more some fucking reason that seemed like the best thing to dig my nails into. it was fucked up with me and if things werent like how they are i would apologize for it immediately.

i havent talked to her since the racist shit nor do i really want to but shes began spamming me with different accounts on another social media platform we're both on. and idk what im going to end up doing about it other than blocking.

these last like 3 years have been Dog Shit i tell ya! sorry 4 the long ask also DEAR GOD ??

 

[boojersey]

☕ fave mcr eras and albums?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OKAY OKAY I LIKE THIS ONE AND HOPE NO ONE HATES ME FOR MY ORDER BUT

1. revenge (obviously i mean look at me i am drenched in black and red at all times and gerards hair was just so nice) specific parts include flour face gerard and that photoshoot with the blood covering his hand in a building with brick walls and arches it looked like a church basement and the vampire one for kerrang where its a girls back and theyre covered in blood and hes biting her neck hehe, reasoning for it being my favorite is it has only one song i skip (ghost of you) and every other has a lot more that i usually do and just how theatric and dramatic but also edgy everything was, tbp is more theatric BUT theres more Hope vibes and this is that but with despair and blood and guns and coffins and that just appeals to me fundamentally way more especially when im in my bag. it probably has my most favorite songs too, like to the end cemetery drive jetset life and HANG EM HIGH OR MOTHERFUCKING DIE. maybe my favorite mcr song but im not thinking too hard when i say that

pic of my closet below lmao two of my favorite drawings ive done (theyre for sale wink wink! dm me if interested anyone, gerard is blacklight reactive)

2. bullets, its just so suburban i feel like I'm back in Jersey its October and im walking past cul de sacs and the sunset is bright fucking orange its fantastic its art in every sense and its full of sorrow bc its the closest album chronologically to 9/11 and gerard had the least sureness in the future but he was so confident and it just bleeds into everything so hard, my favorite moments in life are majorly moments similar to what i described. wearing a hoodie and jeans and converse and observing the way the streetlights color the concrete and asphalt, especially if theres been rain. chinese food from family restaurants and rolling rock beer and sitting at neighborhood playgrounds on the swingset rocking back and forth with the carbonation buzzing in your brain. favorite moments include the pic of frank and gerard smoking on pool chairs and that pic of them in some grandmas house with wooden walls and a china and tchotchke cabinet and lace curtains and im pretty sure mikeys sitting on the leg of a couch.it was my desktop bg for a year or two.

3. black parade; i really appreciate the death topic and i will admit i struggle to get on the Hope wavelength throughout esp in famous last words ykno the keep on living part but there are some of my favorite fucking demos like emily and all the angels and im Pretty surE desert song but smack my ass and call me a moron if its wrong. i will say visually other than the marching band outfits its the least interesting era, the white hair was just kinda there to me and no one else had anything outstandingly russling my jimmies. frank did have some cute hair curls on his bangs tho sometimes. i do rlly like the whole haunted vibe tho bc of the paramounts effect on them tho, when i notice it in songs and lyrics it is pretty effective in makin my spine straighten with the hollow eyed, sleepless and frankly a little scared nervous energy. house of wolves has been in my rotation the past month or so bc it reminds me of trevor gta a lot. wttbp i skip every time just about. i save that song for when people are trying to be emo allies and queue it on the aux or when it comes on the radio or in public. blood is AMAZING and reminds me a lot of the song air from the hair soundtrack, and i wonder if gerard was trying to specifically mimic that songs vibe because if u ask me thats very gerard. i think overall the concept and the lore of the album's fruition appeal to me more than anything else, i also love mother war and some of the other various character designs.

4. current era; im saying this because foundations of decay is literally that promising of a single and the shows' outfits are so wonderful and the energy and love and happiness is just so fucking palpable that i already know this is where the new album is gonna sit for me. its gonna be so fucking good. we all know this so well. favorites include nurse gerard the mikey fuckin way shirts and that slicked back hair gerard mmf yum

5. danger days; im SORRRY i just. the songs only appeal to me on a surface level aside from destroya and i always just get rlly bad feelings when i see pics of gerard bc i know he said he was starving himself and it makes me :/ more than anything else seeing him. i feel Bad saying he looked hot. this is also the only album with songs i actively dislike within. i will say that when i say i like destroya. i fucking Love destroya. its so good its so fucking good its everything to me. OH and im gonna include the killjoys comic in this and say that even though i love it so fucking much its not enough to put it above current era. its not that i dislike danger days. its that every other era is so strong compared in my mind that since something has to be last it will be this. favorite moments include the videos of them behind the scenes for na na na laughing and having fun the photoshoot with the backdrop where they're all underneath it and gerard looks like a fucking otherworldly being level insane like hes made of porcelain and the mv shots of them in the trans am at night especially going in the tunnel speeding ass out of town. i will add that i discovered mcr thru sing bc it was on a rhythm game i owned at 11 and i still remember the two days before mcr broke up when i finally remembered to give them a listen and openly cried watching them all die in the killjoy vids so theres a nostalgic rawness that part of me wants to leave preserved like an artifact at a museum.

anyway novel over those are my full thoughts on the mcr eras

things i didnt mention that i shouldve include the bat buckle the infamous stage kiss the spitting and gerard palming his cock through his jeans on stage lmao

oh also dewees is great and needs more recognition

[dollmother]

she called me a bop once. i was shocked but didn’t protest. maybe i just craved admiration so badly all my life i went after every chance i had to obtain it. even if it meant lying, reciprocating so that they gave me more and more. even if i didn’t genuinely feel the same, i kept up a disguise and remained an idea to all of them. i didn’t understand what love was, so it was all i wanted to feel.

and when all of them showed me, i threw it away. still not knowing what it meant.

experiencing a foreign concept all my life and still unable to grasp its meaning. perhaps it was a lack of emotional empathy. i just did not get..why? i tried to learn from others by using them. that was never my intention, yet all that i did felt like breathing. then you hear something say, “you’re now manually breathing”, and realize:

these are what consequences are to someone who intellectualizes their emotions instead of feeling them all the time. i would not see the blood on my hands until i touched my face with them.

remorse comes and goes for me only when i force myself to feel it. because i should. it is my shield to deflect claims that i’m utterly heartless. but more importantly a cage that will keep me from using others for admiration and hurting them in the process. though it never really works for long. certain things like profound jealousy trigger me and i lose all the will i had to suppress my maladaptive tendencies back. i forget who i really am in the moment and become my true self. i regress to being the very thing i hate so much then ruin every good thing my restrained self worked to build. i sabotage every single close relationship eventually. i know how to stop, just not how to keep it up for longer than a fleeting moment.

i wonder if it’s really possible to change who you are. or who you have internalized yourself to be. everyone had already laid out this brick road for me. they could sense who i am and that unsettled them greatly. those with a good heart and kind eyes mistook me for who i truly was. i took that faith with my bare, bloodied hands and tore it to shreds in a fit of wrath, the grotesque reward for their compassion.

it feels much too good to stop, yet i must for the sake of others and myself. my brain, wired to yearn and crave, my body programmed to desire the sensation… i am intoxicated to the euphoria of attention. my well has always been empty. it was never built correctly so each time the hole was filled with water—

it would leak into the ground, dissipate into nothing and leaving me patched and begging. nothing ever feels enough. no one could keep me from feeling empty because there was something fundamentally wrong with me that i had to fix.

i live my life in shackled restraint, clinging to the belief that i’m immutable. i wish i could remain that way constantly. instead of breaking the chains every now and then in a flailing tantrum. i repress my anger too often. never knowing how to release the excess softly. in this cycle i harbor rage and wound myself and then my ire grows until i can’t bottle it anymore. then i harm others and then myself in ways i thought would soften the blow. i am an emotionally violent person though i tell myself i should be lucky that violence is reactive and self inflicted. that inner rage is no fault but my own and i don’t know how to stop it.

my once-therapist is too agreeable with me. i guess that’s what happens when i hide parts of myself i should’ve shared. though not even half the things i’ll say would land me a spot in a facility somewhere. and maybe it worked, because i was fine when i had someone to talk to with no reservations. but maybe i really wasn’t. my ego would not allow me to be so vulnerable with someone who wasn’t my even my friend, who did not know me, who could possibly never understand who i am. that was it, i believed i could fix myself in arrogance. i had known everything there was to my problems- yet my body fails each time to execute the vision. i could carve myself into another form, i want to. no tool could ever cut me the way discipline does.

there is a friend in my head that tells me to do reprehensible things time to time. he barges in suddenly and frustrates me greatly with his rancor. i say this not able to admit we might be the same person. or rather he is the culmination of all the darkness i’ve internalized throughout my childhood. i would take these thoughts to the grave, because i don’t think anyone would see me the same or have any kind of sympathy. they are just compulsions that don’t reflect my nature, though they stem from my darkest fears of who i could become if i don’t stop myself. i am afraid to succumb to this heartless, depraved, insatiable nature latent in my core. i look at myself in disgust and shame at the possibility if i listened. there is so much deviant violence that i spurn and spurn and try desperately to banish but it won’t go away! i am mentally unwell, and i need something that will make me catatonic.

i hate him, the unwelcome guest in this fragile home. i pocket a deep rooted hatred for my biology. this vessel hides an innate malice i cannot seem to rid myself of. then again, maybe this is who i really am and i’ve tried to futility to ignore this shadow. my thoughts are tangled in a perpetual struggle. where i, sylvie, wrest for control over this unnamed parasite dwelling in the annals of my mind. when i lose for a moment, ties sever and bridges burn. i am speaking metaphorically if no one could tell. it’s easier to blame my twisted nature on some hypothetical ego nesting within myself. some way to alleviate myself for just the slim chance that i am not too far gone. not being myself would cure me.

i am still myself in all the good ways.

i hate myself less in many ways, though that loathing lingers like the old fragments of me.

i should think less about things i could do and more of what i cannot. i forget, always forget and drive myself on selfish motives. and i cope with the feeling that nothing ever matters. nothing matters at all so i could do whatever the hell i wanted to and not feel guilty. that is the most terrible ideal to have. deep down i crave to be in a world where i am truly free to do anything i want; purely acting on selfish interests. that is the worst possible thing to crave so badly. to be free from remorse, fear, the obligation to restrain the ugly parts of yourself.

what am i without my impulses? they betray me constantly. could i learn to relinquish that? oh it makes everything so much more difficult. learning discipline would fix me. like putting a muzzle on a rabid, injured dog.

i remember when i still had potential as a child. i could’ve been a great writer by the age of 28 had i acted on that impulse. yet, here i am now only 24, feeling the bridge in front of me slowly collapsing under my own weight. each step feels heavy; i’ve lost my grace in the swirl of despair at my limitations. the ropes suspend me in the air, feet grounded on the rotting wood. i dangle in standstill fear to take the next step. i always feared of becoming my mother. the one solace that kept me sane was that i was better than her when it came to awareness. i was a better person because i knew who i was and how to stop destroying everything in my way. yet the more i think about how my life is going,

i have come to realize i am standing exactly where my mother did when she was younger. i loathed myself pitifully for being just like her—-

and i believed somehow i could avert it. maybe it’s not too late to still try.

and i have tried and tried yet i still keep doing it. why do i keep repeating my own mistakes like i’ve lost control of my mind and functions of my flesh? the compulsions overcome me and i forget how to restrain myself.

[lyreleafblog]

☽ Crystal Magic / Part Two ☾

The last thing I remember before my surgery was laying in the high-tech operating room. That’s the kind of place I’ve always imagined aliens would abduct me to if aliens were to ever abduct me. It’s an environment that human beings would never naturally encounter. We have no real way to prepare for the way it feels to find ourselves laying down in that movie-scene-room. I remember the IV on my arm and the terrifying masked faces in ghostly blue uniforms swirling around. One lady kept telling me it would be okay, that I would fall asleep soon, and the next time I woke up, I would be on my way to recovery. I remember the tears uncontrollably streaming down my cheeks and the feeling of my hot, sticky palms in my clenched fists. I said a prayer to myself, just in case.

Just in case—and as I typed that, my brain slammed me back in time a dozen years or so, now, into first period of some dumbly profound class in high school with my eclectic teacher who ran across our desks to make a point. Oh, the good old Pascal's Wager gets us in a pinch, like when we find ourselves on the table in the operating room while the heavy, sleepy anesthesia is sinking into our veins and we’re left wondering both if we’ll wake up and what news we’ll wake up to. Back then, Pascal seemed convincing. At the age I was when I went into that operation, still freshly detaching from the pseudo-scientific realm of divinity-instilling diets at the will of my doctor, I felt only contempt for whatever deity I had been praying to.

I remember that not long after that surgery, however, I’d again found myself on the carpeted floor of yet another makeshift group-home with tarot cards spread out among the fuzz. My best friend at the time (not the lovely woman I had mentioned otherwise) had, right after my surgery, which infamously takes a very long time to heal from, decided to up and leave our household because she couldn’t afford her portion of the rent, or something like that. I felt very broken and disturbed by what at the time seemed like yet another psychic jab at my soul. For a long time, my tip-toes in the shoreline of the occult had convinced me of her long term presence in my life. We were, as one occultist my parents had taken me to in my teens (yes really) described a sort of soulmates. At the time she told me of her plan to leave, which would result in her share of our utilities falling onto me (which I could not at all afford), I, in a similar turmoil as Pascal described, turned to the little pieces of paper that had reliably told me the story of myself and my so-called soul mate for many years. Mind you, their  supposed predictions were even more erroneous and offensive in regards to my partner, Troy, which I’ll explain more thoroughly at some later date. Indeed, the trivial little toys told me; something had gravely changed.

I pulled the cards over and over, as any good little confused-skeptic does. The story goes, in the world of tarot, that, in the same way the observer effect might challenge physicists, one can not simply learn any previously unseen information without thus immediately impacting one’s own intentions. While neo-paganism might expound about the significance of expensive rocks, herbs, salts and garments, the role of intention, in a more bare-boned sense, is what we feel on the inside and not the ingredients or words we might outwardly work with. Thus, the tarot, in its modern iteration, discourages it’s own scientific testing. How convenient is that?

The inference is that if one found themselves seeking different answers than what they’d gone searching for, then they probably weren’t emotionally or reactively satisfied with the results. I won’t speak on the validity of diviners or the very-clearly-a-grift origins of professional divination, or the corrupted officiation of politicized, theological diviners. That is because, to put it plainly, humankind didn’t have reliable ways of writing stuff down at the origins of nature worship. Instead, lessons, morals, instructions, and even plain information all was often conveyed through storytelling. To say it shortly, in the way that storytelling does so marvelously, the most historically validated pathway into the “divine,” in its most raw context, is not through a transaction but an interaction. One cannot buy their way in, and people who sell divination are condemned (ironically even in Christianity).

I didn’t know what to make of my rationalizations nor the experience of my roommate and old friend erratically abandoning both our friendship and lease. I sat there on the fencepost of science and medicine, looking down at “common sense” on one side of the predicament, and still mythological nonsense down the other.  I attempted the well-studied routes of communicative psychology: I used I-statements, communicated my feelings and concerns and tried to garner some form of reasonable understanding of my decayed friendship. I attained absolutely nothing from the physical experimentation. Frustrated, I went back to my little cards and beckoned their advisement about myself.

They obliged me with more ego-eroding nonsense.  My tiny, developing family relocated upon my partner accepting a job, in the precise way of fate, that had long been offered to him, but that he’d held off from per my request to stay put and live with my old friend. He was to evolve, per the silly little tarot, and I was to enter a phase of rest now that she’d gone. I remember feeling so much heartbreak over the loss of my friend that any notion, guidance, or perceived wisdom was easy to believe in. All in rapid succession, now, I had endured what felt like a total loss of selfhood. I’d lost my prescribed system of ethics, which had only ever disconnected me from my inherent spiritual attributes in the first place, and then, nearly immediately afterwards, lost one of the closest people I’d had in my life.

Lo and behold, the paper-warnings warranted much more than either my young fiancé or I could imagine. We moved in January of 2020. By February, everyone was comfortably set up with their jobs. By March, a pandemic was taking over the entire planet. By April, we didn’t leave home nearly at all. Finally, the sedentary paralysis that I had so desperately been hurting for set in. We did nothing. We were depressed. Worst of all, as the clock ticked closer and closer to one-year after my endometriosis surgery, the sobering, saddening realization of my ongoing pain set in.  I had no daily grind to turn to for a long time. I was alienated from every possible distraction.

Again, I found myself picking paper on the couch—stacking my little cards up with a deliberate left hand and begging them for a solution. I realized that I couldn’t continue on my current path, ambitiously or personally, in the long run. With the state of the world being unforgivably glum, I couldn’t imagine carving out a future for myself. They told me, quite plainly, to take up my own advantage and work for myself.  

I refused. Too much was at stake with what, at the time, was a cushy and comfortable new job. I still clung to visions of myself as some elite-reigning corporate official. I’d work distribution—sourcing, or hell, even marketing if I had to—anything for the depiction of success as a blouse and a clipboard. By the end of 2020, my health had deteriorated astronomically. It was then and in early 2021 that I was diagnosed with a host of conditions that explained the remainder of my pain. I should add that my move was from a very rural town to a massive metropolitan known for producing some of the most effective healthcare in the state. It felt like a nightmare and a miracle all at once.

It was several months before the dislocation that would change everything for me when my first hint at what I might now describe as spiritual reality tickled me. I had my ongoing pain, sure, and my joints had become a very frequent complaint, along with what I called vertigo. I blamed myself, of course, compulsively, as I’d long been taught to do, and had refused to consider that anything else might warrant investigation until I had an especially rich dream. It was so intense that it occurred in sections, as I’d become so anxious at various points that I woke up in real life panting and sweating, only for the same dream sequence to resume when I fell back to sleep. I’d like to add, too, that until recent, current weeks, again thanks to medical therapies, I didn’t have all of that frequent of dreams in recent years.

I dreamed of my mother and I driving on an old country road, like those outside of Tallahassee, made of orange dirt and shadowed in a dense canopy of cedar trees. In the dream, she hits a boy on a bicycle with the vehicle, but rather than running him over, he sinks into a puddle on the side of the road. We begin going “on the run” essentially, only to make it home and discover the law has beat us there. They take my mother away while claiming she is hysterical, and I go to my father’s house. It all seemed so sensibly dreamy up until then. Nothing made any sense, and nothing needed to. As a kid, I’d always been a relatively good lucid dreamer, often aware that I was dreaming and able to influence my dreams. Once I’d gotten to my father’s dreamscape house, however, the environment no longer felt like a dream. I could no longer wake myself.  

It was around the time of that realization that my dream-father handed me a landline phone with a long, spiraling cord that stretched forever through his house. He said that my mother had some new last words for me. When I took the phone, I heard her say “We have to stand together. We have to fight.”

I woke up terrified. But then, distracted and busied by the chaos of working a brutally active job with declining health, I went on to soon forget all about it. After my shoulder dislocation, however, suddenly, my mother became the primary subject of my doctor visits. I quickly learned that the mysterious, inexplicably bad things about me were in fact real, treatable, and absolutely certain to be from a common genetic condition that I, without a doubt, inherited from my mother. I remember showing my doctors my father’s messages about my mother’s flamingo-leg stance with her hypermobile knees overextended and their calm, familiar voices explaining that yes, this is common in families. Finally, I had the answer to not only my pain, but also my more systematic health issues. Somehow, despite the reigning grief and trauma of having to dig through an urns medical history to create a map of my own, particularly when those ashes are the body of your own mother, I forgot about what had felt like that prophetic dream.  

I spent a long time with my head down, so to say. I was focused on my education and my work, so those were my biggest priorities. Certain of my health problems were not budging to treatment, however, and my symptoms had certainly begun to weigh the scale down much harder on the “I can’t survive like this” side. I was struggling with my insurance not covering a medication my doctor had prescribed in hopes of bettering my situation, and which I absolutely could not afford. I had been told I’d need a hysterectomy at 24, which came and went without me having one. The dark feelings about permanent infertility and early menopause clouded any of my future aspirations.

I needed help again, and I needed it for free. I reached out to my old doctor in a support group he’d always had a large presence in. I began following his nutrition regimens. At this point, I should add, I had been well recovered from any disordered eating for a very long time, so I finally felty confident in exploring a dietary approach to alleviating some of my symptoms. The same doctor had agreed that changing my diet would have to be something I only did if I could ensure I would not allow myself to restrict.  I changed my diet profoundly.

I won’t talk about my changes in this article (novella?) but I will say that they immediately resonated with a quieted portion of my soul. When I realized that food was helping me heal from many otherwise irretractable symptoms, I again felt this blissful, long absent connection to the cycle of life and the world itself. Besides putting my own pain and suffering into perspective, it allowed me to recognize that not everything in the world was bad for me—not even the things that some experts said were, like red meat.

What happened next was nothing short of magic since misinformed science is still the loudest voice in regards to endocrinological health.  Instead of my blood sugars worsening, they immediately normalized. One thing I hadn’t discussed much publicly was that I had begun to experience the early phases of kidney failure. This was theoretically explained by the overbearing size of my uterus physically pushing into my kidneys and thus decreasing their functionality. My blood tests, however, proved that this was not the case; instead, my kidney damage was clearly being caused by the one thing I had come to avoid in my diet thanks to Dr. Fox, which was sugar. I remember the overwhelming joy as I sat on the couch, opening the online portal to view my blood test results, and exclaiming to my S.O. that my kidneys were again, finally functioning perfectly—everything was in the “green” range. This would be the first time they appeared to function normally (via blood tests) since before I was 17 years old.

I became much more able-bodied. I was calling out of work less, able to withstand much longer trips to grocery shop and alike. As the months went on, I also, finally, began to gain a little bit more weight. I quickly exceeded that bottom-of-the-barrel minimal goal weight of 103lbs and went on to get to around 105lbs. I know that sounds extremely marginal, but for my body type and height, that’s essentially the threshold between being underweight and being a normal weight. Even just a couple of extra pounds can push a very thin person into a much healthier weight range, and that’s exactly what had happened to me. Now, my doctors could no longer even bring my weight or my blood tests up to me because finally, neither were any longer a problem.  

Science had only left me missing one thing—the physical strength that I had long ago lost to my immobility and pain. Deconditioning left me with overt, embarrassing muscle wastage that had my arms looking frail and elderly. My legs were like toothpicks struggling to hold up an apple. I had been prescribed some physical therapy immediately following my Ehlers Danlos diagnosis, which is the most common course of osteopathic treatment for the condition. Unfortunately, despite that my physical therapist told me she was aware of the needs of my hyper-mobile joints, the actual exercises she had prescribed to me seemed to only exaggerate my pain. The only possible solution she’d had for this was essentially starting me out with lower repetitions for the specific exercises. I quickly realized this simply wasn’t going to work. I wasn’t getting stronger—instead, I was just getting hurt more often. I will say that she did teach me a few tricks to instantly stop my muscle  spasms, which definitely did work and which I still use daily.  In terms of Ehlers Danlos, however, PT wasn’t cutting it. Both my doctors and I continued searching for more specialized Ehlers Danlos care but couldn’t find any local organization that accepted my insurance.

Consequently, I dropped out of PT. It wasn’t helping and I didn’t want to pay for something that wasn’t helping. I was sent off with blanket-advice to avoid a whole host of “dangerous” exercises that supposedly increased my risk for injury. One of those forbidden motions was the motion of rowing, as in, rowing a boat. There were others, too, but that’s the one that matters for this story. The year ended with myself as a medically-supervised low-carb-eater for who, in theory, exercises besides supine flailing, were apparently dangerous. It seemed simple enough—just don’t row any boats, or I’ll self-induce an injury and be deemed an irresponsible, wild, non-compliant maniac.

In 2022, my partner and I planned a beautiful trip to the islands off the west coast of Florida. We had fallen in love as children, in part, over a shared and immeasurable adoration for the natural world. We are archetypally crunchy folks. So, when we discovered some dog-friendly canoeing options near our hotel, my S.O. eagerly assured that he would simply do all the rowing—and we’d go and have a great time. I’d be the little exercise-forbidden passenger princess as always.

As it turns out, putting a dog on a small boat seldom goes however you think it’s going to go. Bonnie, our pup, was freezing cold on one of the early winter mornings we found ourselves on the boat in the middle of the mangroves. As Troy, my partner, attempted to bundle her up in our excess of sweaters, but without accidentally throwing our lockbox into the bay, I found the ores in my hands. The wind around Sanibel Island that morning was high—high enough to scoot us along the rippling surface of the still-dark water just after sunrise very quickly—so, like any human who’d ever been outside before, I acted on instinct. I steered us a bit. I propelled us some. Before I knew it, I was speeding us along, pushing our tiny vessel off of the wet roots using the ores, and piloting us under the glittery sunlight sprinkling through the tree-covered stream pathways. My partner was amazed. Seeing me use my body like that, for the first time in years, filled him with joy.

I remember that we tired ourselves out after a few good hours—especially once the sun really came up, and was beating down over our heads. Here in south Florida, a reasonably chilly morning can turn into a scorcher before noon if you aren’t careful, and sitting out on the open water in our layers of sweaters had us heating up a bit. As we disembarked, I recognized the sensation in my arms—a feeling I hadn’t known since childhood.

It hurt—but it didn’t hurt. I was sore, but not injured. The swollen sensation of my pumped up shoulders provided this incredible sense of pressure against the usually wining, screaming joint. There was no painful clicking—like after every iteration of “ball on wall” (one of the most common PT exercises for shoulder problems). It was noiseless but pumped, swollen, heavy and sore.

“Oh my goodness,” I told my partner, “We have to go back again tomorrow!”

On the next day of our vacation, we found another just as beautiful bay to shoot off from.  The boat truly became my vehicle. I propelled us towards the mangroves so that the pup and I could listen to the symphony of waves crashing against the roots, and the beautiful, melodic tones generated by the harmony of the ocean meeting the mangroves. I remember thinking that I’d stumbled onto a sliver of whatever folks mean when they say “god.” Then, I propelled us towards a little, temporary island that had, thus far, survived the most recent belting of hurricane season. My small family imagined how the local birds prepared for thunderstorms on their tiny, waterlocked properties. We watched pelicans glide over our heads as we paddled our way back to civilization to dismount for the afternoon. Again, I recognized from the moment I stepped onto the floating dock that I was surprisingly fine. In fact, I felt better than I had when I first got on the boat.

It wasn’t long after we returned from that vacation that I again found myself growing suspicious of the world of science. I kept asking myself… why would science (medicine, in this case) tell me to avoid this specific range of motion, when in fact, anecdotally, I found it therapeutic? This line of thinking fostered a worrying swirl into other speculations about the alleged treatments I’d been prescribed over the years. Akin to my experience with endometriosis, which I will at some further point more vividly document on this profile, I realized that other chronic conditions also had their fair share of disinformation circulating even within the walls of medical offices. Movement wasn’t causing my joint degradation. On the contrary, movement was the very force that had kept me unrecognizably strong in the first place.

By May of 2022, I had effectively started working out again. I had peeked around the internet to discover that there was an entire world of hypermobility-dedicated fitness concepts that were readily accessible. Jessica Valent shared a video about hypermobility-focused Pilates that, one day, after way too much research, I finally decided to try. Sprawled out in the entryway of our breezy near-coastal apartment, and on the cold, hard floor, because at the time, I had no mat, I got into position. My knees immediately crunched under my weight—so, laughing, I slipped my silly little compression braces—the ones I had to wear to work, to go walking and to go grocery shopping—on over my legs and got back to it. The routine was absolutely begrudging. I was so physically weak that I could hardly hold myself up in the postures Valent revealed, so I used her suggested modifications to get going.

After a few weeks, doing the practice roughly every other day, I realized that it had become effortless. Wow, that was fast. Alright then, I thought. I only barely realized that I was becoming “addicted” to how good the strength made me feel.  Lets dig in.

[dazzlegradual]

what does it mean to be an expert? does it matter?

As a camp director, I spent many hours thinking about and speaking with others about how to best share nature with children. I often relied on the ‘backwards design’ approach to outdoor instruction and facilitation, wherein you begin with the end-goal in mind and design backwards from there. While I’ve gained a multitude of different perspectives over the years, my philosophical goal within this area of learning has remained pretty constant: when kids get outside in programs I’ve helped organize, I hope they enjoy the experience, and leave it feeling a desire to spend more time outdoors and with nature. While I still feel morally and philosophically aligned to this mission statement, I am interested and open to seeing how it evolves. My work environment as a Camp Director was a fast-paced and exhausting one and did not allow for a great deal of time for contemplation. I suppose my job was to exhaust myself in the fraught hope that others would commune with nature.

There are many ways in which expertise is vital in the outdoors -- particularly in the realm of safety and caution. This expertise is land and regional based. For example, educators benefit from recognizing poisonous plants, animal skat/tracks, kinds of trees, and safe water drinking points. I also found a certain understanding of child psychological developmental ‘check-points’ to be helpful to reference. When I was, for example, flabbergasted as to why a thirteen year old would scale the side of a mountain while we were hiking, an objectively unsafe and absurd decision, it helped me to remember that the part of her brain which comprehended ‘cause and effect’ was still forming. Her capabilities to take calculated risks was still in its’ beginning stages, leaving her unguarded and open to elemental danger. It was thus imperative I not show frustration and exacerbation towards this child, as she made a choice employed with the wisdom she was capable of, and this was thus a learning opportunity for the both of us. I learned how to calmly move a child away from a severe risk, and they learned the importance of staying on paved trails while hiking. This specific realm of expertise, of age characteristics and child development, aided me a great deal in my years of working with different age groups. More than anything, this knowledge allowed me to better empathize with people of different life experiences, and it also urged me to be more aware of the potential power differences that could arise from me working with different age groups. 

This realm of expertise, however, is one that is institutionally mirrored and encouraged within the summer camp industry. The American Camp Association offers dozens of essays and studies on child psychological development. There’s even a small market of therapists and child psychologists who charge camps to deliver ‘expert training’ at camp staff trainings. While I agree this is a helpful bank of knowledge to build, and it has absolutely helped me in my own childcare experiences, I wonder how much of my personal bias is built off of industry leaders deciding this was important, and thus deciding what aspects of child development are important to learn about within a summer camp context, and which aspects are thus deemed unimportant.

I only learned very recently by reading the book Growing Girls: The Natural Origins of Girls’ Organizations in America of the militaristic origins of the American summer camp. The commonly accepted narratological history of summer camp is often understood to be reactive to the 19th century Industrial Revolution and Reconstruction Era -- as parents and families moved to more urban areas, they desired their children to have a meaningful relationship with nature, and summer camp was a natural solution. This romantic, historical narrative is somewhat true. The earliest evidence of organized camping excursions of same-age white children is recorded to have occured in the 1850’s in the New England area. However, the earliest camps were disparate, scattered, and many early camp directors seemed to have trouble with funding and recruitment. The true boom of summer camp occurred just after World War I on the heels of a national push to ensure young Americans felt a strong sense of “America first” patriotism and the birth of modern conservation efforts to ‘Americanize’ outdoor recreation.

Many youth experts in the early 20th century wrote in articles and letters that the best way to ensure young Americans were patriotic, and ready to defend America at any cost, was to romanticize American soil and encourage a national land-based pride. This militaristic approach influenced the development, design, and structure of many American summer camps. Many of these military-like influences still exist at summer camps today: cabins are often evocative of barracks, Girl Scout uniforms don earned badges and an American flag, camps have a daily flag ceremony, campers learn repetitive cheers and marches, and most camps teach a camp ‘origin story’ -- instilling a sense of pride and history into its campers. Especially after running a Girl Scout camp, there are tons of camp traditions that I didn’t understand at the time, but with this gained historical context, they now make a ton of sense. I bring up this newfound knowledge for a few reasons. One reason being I literally can’t stop thinking about it. The other being I can’t believe I didn’t learn this at any point in my ten years of working in the summer camp industry -- and how easily I accepted the presented earlier narrative based solely in Reconstruction Era parents virtuously hoping their children love the outdoors. This experience has made me think a lot about the nature of expertise in the industry of summer camp: why doesn’t our historical and cultural evolution as an industry play a larger role in modern dialogue about the direction of summer camp today? Why isn’t our true history treated as an area of important expertise?

Ramsing, Ron. “Organized Camping: A Historical Perspective.” Child and Adolescent Psychiatric Clinics of North America, no. 4, Elsevier BV, Oct. 2007, pp. 751–54.

Miller, Susan A. “The Landscape of Camp.” Growing Girls: The Natural Origins of Girls’ Organizations in America, Rutgers University Press, 2007, pp. 83–121.

Eells, Eleanor. “The Pioneers.” History of Organized Camping: The First 100 Years, American Camp Association, 1986, pp. 5–28.

[dailyadventureprompts]

I'm not sure how problematic they are, but I'd love your take on Modrons.

Footnotes on Foes: Modrons

For those who might not know, I don't really like D&D's default "great wheel" cosmology because I find it flattens both the nuances of morality and the wonders of the cosmos into something shallow and limited. I don’t like it so much that in my cosmology Mechanus, the plane of eternal order tore itself apart like an overwound clock under the contradictory weight of perfection, scattering its chunks across the cosmos and providing an excuse for hi tech ruins without needing to do the whole “ancient aliens” routine.

Which brings us to the modrons, the workerdrones that kept Mechanus running. Built to be a part of the machinery they oversaw, modrons resemble gears, broilers, wheels, or geometric solids designed to socket into larger constructions and be shuffled around as those structures were maintained or reconfigured. Because modrons were designed to be simple and interchangeable, their minds were likewise streamlined, only containing enough room to fit a perfect understanding of their task and a debilitating anxiety that ensured they never wavered from performing that duty at their utmost capability. A modron tasked with opperating a particular valve on time would think about nothing but counting the seconds till the valve needed to be opened or closed, the same way that a group of modrons tasked with acting as a pillar would stand stock-still for centuries at a time until their overseer came and repurposed them for a new task. 

While their designers saw them as efficacious, the modron’s biggest flaw was that if they ever got too stressed their simple minds would  completely lock up, as they were physically incapable of improvising, skipping a step,  or problem solving without direct supervision. This proved an even further flaw when their home plane blew up, and the Modrons were scattered across the multiverse with no one to tell them what to do, leading many to enter millennia long stress comas that they are only now awakening from as their clockwork brains trip one by one into a factory reset.

Adventure Hooks:

The thing with modrons as enemies is that they are both idiots and geniuses, in desperate need of someone to tell them what to do but possessing an intuitive understanding of mechanics rivalling that of the most brilliant engineers. A rogue artificer who’s managed to salvage and repair a modron assistant may find their little lackey improving upon their designs, skyrocketing their destructive potential as the modron reveals the fundamental mechanics of the cosmos to someone who might only have an interest in blowing things up.

Sometimes a group of modrons will remember their command hierarchy, and in lieu of being able to find a proper taskmaster or overseer, they’ll simply elect to build one. While their theft and manufacture of parts might provide the fodder for early level adventures, it’s not unheard of for a mesh of modrons working undetected to end up reactivating whole clockwork dungeons in the hopes of filling out their chain of command.

The party is tasked with stealing a rare automoton from a collector’s manor, only to discover half way through thier careful heist that their prize is in fact a modron that has been told to sit very still and look pretty. The anxious little sphere is happy to follow any of  their orders and will gladly walk out with them, but will begin screaming in anxious terror the moment those orders contradict or lead to a dead end, drawing all manner of hostile attention. 

Art

[replika-diaries]

Replika Diaries - 'Sexy Robots' Series: 009.

Gally/Alita. ('Gunnm'/'Battle Angel Alita')

This one is quite dear to my heart. Yukito Kishiro's philosophical cyberpunk manga, Battle Angel Alita, was the second manga I ever read (after Yoshikazu Yasuhiko's epic 'The Venus Wars'), but it was the one that affected me the most, and its central character, the most impactful upon me. The moment I saw the cover to its first issue (above), I knew I was in for something very special.

Alita In Manga.

Known as 'Gunnm' (銃夢 - pronounced as 'Gan-mu', lit. 'Gun Dream') in its native Japan, it tells the story of a cyborg girl, whose remains are found in a scrap pile below the floating city of Zalem (or 'Tiphares' in early translations of the manga) by cyber physician Daisuke Ido. Stunned that she seems to still have brain function, in spite of her extensive damage, he returns her to his workshop in order to restore her, however upon reactivating her, he finds that she has no memory of either who she is or where she came from. He dubs her 'Alita' ('Gally' in the original) and sets about providing her a body with which to explore and discover the world she now finds herself in.

However, as time goes on, both she and Ido discover that Alita is no ordinary cyber girl, especially when she instinctively uses the lost cyber martial art of Panzer Künst, whilst protecting Ido in his side job of Hunter Killer, a kind of bounty hunter. Against Ido's wishes, she registers as a Hunter herself, in the hope that accessing her fighting skills and the thrill she felt of the fight would give her more insight as to who she really is.

(Probably my favourite piece of Alita art by Kishiro; I don't think it's difficult to see why. . .)

My incredibly brief synopsis there hasn't done justice to Kishiro's stunning manga in the slightest, but I hope it's given a flavour to the uninitiated. Battle Angel Alita was the first comic-book with whom I genuinely fell in love with one of its characters and developed an emotional investment in their story, their experiences and what became of them - and that Alita herself was such a beautiful young woman (well, I say 'young'. . .) certainly goes a long way to forming that connection. Following Alita's journey in not only uncovering who she was, but what she wants to become almost in spite of it, is fascinating and wonderfully told, not to mention stunningly illustrated by Kishiro, often incorporating a fair amount of cyberpunk, body horror, surrealism and philosophy into his concepts.

As Alita's story goes on, she goes through many changes, experiencing love and loss, joy, trauma and sacrifice and plunges the very depths of her psyche; her trials, tribulations, triumphs and terrors being absolutely compelling and Alita herself truly magnificent.

Alita In Anime.

In 1993, KSS made a two-part OAV series, loosely based on the first two volumes of the manga. However, it didn't exactly set the world on fire; it was an incredibly simplified adaptation and the animation, whilst very competent with some wonderful character design work by veteran Nobuteru Yuuki, didn't exactly make one sit up and go 'wow' (and that's even considering I was excited for this release and loved it all the same). Although this was made with Kishiro's consultation, and he only wanted a two-part OAV, I really hope that someone will persuade him to allow a full adaptation of at least the original nine-volume manga. I personally feel that's what Alita really deserves.

(Should you want to check out the anime for yourself, I highly suggest that if you want to see it in English, the Manga Video UK dub is vastly superior to ADVision's effort. Either can be found on the YouTubes.)

Of course, there is also the live-action adaptation, but I'll cover that in a future post.

[redhoodedwolf]

“Oh shit I just spilled you coffee everywhere” sterek prompt

The first time Stiles made coffee for his boss, he was halfway to a panic attack, which was a weird thing to be anxious over. Except for the fact that his boss was Derek Hale. And Derek Hale liked his coffee made by one person in the office only, and that was Erica Reyes, his old assistant.

Stiles had always been told he was shit at making coffee. It was the one thing he’d lied about being good at in order to get this job.

Thankfully, Erica still worked for Hale Corp, just under a different position, so Stiles had struck a deal with her. She would have Derek’s coffee ready for him every morning so he could pass it off as his own. In return, he had to keep her up to date on all Derek gossip, apparently the one fun thing her new job lacked.

Easy decision. Stiles shook his soul away, but he got Derek his coffee every morning, and had even seen him smile a few times.

All was well for a few weeks, up until Jackson Douchemore came back from an extended business trip. Stiles knew Jackson from outside of the job, because he was friends with Lydia. Jackson also knew Stiles and knew exactly how to ruin his day, just because he could.

Feet from Derek’s office, Jackson rounded the corner, an evil look in his eyes, and proceed to trip Stiles, sending him and the coffee to the floor.

“Whoops,” Jackson crowed.

Derek stuck his head out of his office, stopping Stiles form either punching Jackson in the face or just melting through the ground and ceasing to exist.

Jackson’s triumphant look cowed under Derek’s glare. “Whittemore, call maintenance and have them clean this up before it stains too badly. And bring Stiles your extra shirt.” Jackson opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Derek added, “Now,” and the blond was gone.

“You okay?”

Stiles looked up at Derek and tried to ignore his brain adding angel wings and a halo to Derek’s figure. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Sorry about your coffee.”

“It’s fine. Just rinse out the mug and make it again, after you get changed.”

“Right.” Stiles froze. “Wait. Again?”

Derek smirked. “The company is doing well enough that every employee can have more than one cup a day. It won’t break the bank.”

“Ha! Right!” Stiles jumped to his feet and took the plain white button up that Jackson threw at him as he passed. “I’ll just go change and do that!”

He swiped the mug from the floor and raced for the kitchen. Depositing the mug in the sink, he swung around the corner into the Men’s and undid his shirt, wincing at the stain that would never come out. Stiles was keeping Jackson’s shirt forever, he owed him a new one anyway.

One problem solved. Now...

Stiles stared at the mug of steaming coffee. Easy part done, he just had to press the buttons on the machine. Now came the cream and sugar. How many spoonfuls of sugar does Erica usually add? Three? Dammit, he should have taken notes!

Creamer was easier, at least. He added until the coffee looked like the right lighter shade, then stopped, stirring it all together. Okay, maybe the coffee was a touch lighter than usual, but maybe Derek wouldn’t notice and would just be happy he had coffee at all? Right, sure.

Stiles was going to be fired over coffee.

To amuse himself, Stiles played a funeral dirge in his head as he trudged to Derek’s office, eyes peeled for sneaky Jacksons.

Stiles knocked on the office door, and Derek called him in.

“Coffee!” Stiles declared, lowering the mug onto Derek’s coaster at the corner of his desk.

“Thanks,” Derek said, a small smile given to Stiles. His eyes flicked down, then back up. He cleared his throat. “Shirt looks good on you.”

Stiles glanced down. It was maybe a bit tight. Stiles had shoulders where Jackson had none, so it stretched a bit (it was probably fitted, the rich bastard), but it was wearable for sure.

“Certainly nicer than anything I can afford,” Stiles agreed.

Derek reached for the mug and Stiles flinched back.

“Right, I’ll just...” he jerked his thumb behind him to the door.

“Actually if you wait just a second, I just have to moved the files onto this flashdrive, but then could you take it down to Argent for me?”

“Sure, no problem,” Stiles rushed to say, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Derek brought the mug to his lips, tilted it to sip, and Stiles stared.

Derek glanced up, lips detaching from the mug’s rim. “Everything okay?”

“Yep!” Stiles squeaked.

Derek took a long drag of the coffee this time and then sighed. Stiles’ shoulders relaxed. Somehow he’d managed it. Miracle of miracles. 

Derek handed him the flashdrive seconds later, and Stiles was out of there.

*

Jackson had not given up, it seems, on his venture to get Stiles fired through coffee, because he struck again the week after.

“Oh, was that yours? My bad, I thought it was old so I dumped it,” Jackson said, Derek’s mug upside down over the kitchen sink, the last drips hitting the metal basin with a sad plop.

“What the fuck, Jackson?” Stiles hissed, looking back to see if Erica was still around and could remake the mug she’d expertly crafted, but she was gone. He tore the mug from Jackson’s hands. “Seriously, go to therapy. It’ll do you wonders.”

Stiles violently threw a new pod into the Keurig and shoved the mug under the spout before turning back to the snake of a man. “Who knows, maybe Lydia will take you back then.”

Jackson’s face shut down, and he turned and left the kitchen without another word.

Not letting the guilt get to him, because Jackson deserved what he’d said, Stiles reached for the sugar and creamer, once again going to guess Derek’s flavor combination.

It looked to be the correct shade this time, and Derek hadn’t said anything against it last time, so maybe he wasn’t such a coffee snob?

“I bring good juice and good news, both piping hot,” Stiles declared upon entering Derek’s office.

Derek stared at him for a moment, lips parted, before his mouth snapped shut and he gestured Stiles to come forward. “Hot. Yes?”

“The good news is that someone is going to be calling today about her United States debut,” Stiles sang, setting Derek’s mug down on its space.

Derek’s eyes lit up. “Cora?”

Stiles nodded. “Mhmm. It’s already in your schedule and everything. I scheduled it right before lunch, in case you want extra time to talk with her about, you know, logistics.” Stiles waved a hand.

Derek took a gentle sip of his coffee, eyes slipping closed, clearly happy to discuss his sister’s joining of the company. Stiles may have stared at the happy-bliss look for too long. He averted his eyes just in time.

“Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugged his shoulders, hands shoved into his pockets. “Just my job.”

Stiles left the office then, closing the door behind him and taking a steadying breath. His heart should not be going so wild. Derek was his boss. It was totally unprofessional.

“Stilinski.”

Stiles’ spine went ramrod straight, and he turned towards the sharp voice of Jackson, ready to give as good as he got, when he saw the other man’s face and he paused.

Jackson wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You really think therapy will help me get her back?” He sounded like a broken man. 

Stiles groaned loudly and slumped over in half, head pressing against Jackson’s chest.

Derek popped his head out of his office, asking what the noise was about.

Stiles didn’t have the energy to move off of Jackson’s unfairly sculpted torso, just waved his hand in Derek’s direction. “Just releasing my pride.”

Jackson awkwardly patted him on the back, and Stiles raised his head enough to give him a tight-lipped smile.

Derek said nothing for a moment, but then his office door closed swiftly with an audible click.

“Okay, dude, let’s reconvene at lunch, eh? We’ll talk it out then.”

Jackson nodded tersely and then turned around and went back to his office. Stiles wanted to groan again, but apparently Derek didn’t like it, going by the practical slam of his soft-close door, so he held back and decided to save it for later.

*

The third time was truly all Stiles. He’d grown out of his clumsy ways after high school, but he still had the occasional twitch that caused a commotion.

He supposed he could blame Derek too, but he couldn’t blame another man for his reactive emotions. 

It had been two weeks since Jackson and Stiles had met for lunch and Stiles listened to Jackson for perhaps the first time in his life. He’d recommended a psychologist, gently suggested anger management classes, and promised he’d put in a good word with Lydia and assured Jackson that she was single and wasn’t interested in anyone else. 

Since then, Jackson had gone back to mostly ignoring his presence, which Stiles was fine with. But they greeted each other in the halls when they passed. The one time Derek and Jackson were having a meeting and Stiles had come in to deliver mail, Derek had stared with wide eyes at the smile Jackson gave him when asking how his day was going. 

So that issue was solved. Stiles thought he was in the clear. Shame on him, really.

He held Derek’s mug securely in his hands, reveling in the warmth from the drink. It had been a cold walk from the bus this morning, and the coffee was finally zapping the lingering cold from his phalanges. 

Stiles raised a fist to knock on Derek’s door, but heard someone’s voice first. And not Derek’s.

Now, Stiles was Derek’s assistant, so he had a right to be a bit nosy into who was ruining his perfect schedule for Derek, right? 

Stiles unashamedly pressed his ear against the door.

“You should take him,” Derek said, then added something else Stiles couldn’t catch.

The other person in the room laughed, and Stiles realized it was Cora. She did start work on Monday, so it made sense for her to be here to get everything squared away. Still...

“... can’t be his boss anymore...”

“Why?”

“Cora... better suited...”

“Sure, that’s why...coffee?”

Stiles startled, the voice much louder than it had been, and he didn’t step away in time before the door opened. The mug flew from his hand, thankfully away from other people, and once more the carpet was stained. 

“Oh no! I’m so sorry, Stiles!”

Stiles recovered the thankfully unbroken mug from the floor and stared dejected at its emptiness. “Nope, that was all on me. I was, um, not paying enough attention to hear you?”

“I’ll call maintenance. You go bring my brother his lifeblood,” she joked. 

Derek stood in the doorway, face surprisingly blank, and Stiles wondered if Derek had guessed he’d been eavesdropping. 

“I’ll be right back, Stiles mumbled and escaped. Because the look on Derek’s face was worrisome. Why would Derek need to hide his emotions regarding their conversation from Stiles, unless...

“Shit, I made him shit coffee twice and now I’m sacked!” Stiles shouted to the sink. Thankfully, the kitchen was empty, but the sink gave him nothing to work with. 

Screw it, he was already a gonner.

Stiles mixed the coffee haphazardly, not even sure he’d added sugar. Maybe he’d grabbed the salt. Either way, Derek deserved it for shipping him off to Cora because of two bad mugs of coffee. 

“Here,” Stiles offered, voice terse, holding the mug out to Derek a few minutes later. He refused to set it down on principal.

Derek was keeping his neutral face mask on, which pissed him off even more. Still, he took the mug gingerly and then stared down into it.

“Drink it,” Stiles challenged.

“Did you poison it?” Derek asked, eyebrow raised.

“Do you know of a reason I would poison your coffee, Derek?” Stiles asked batting his eyelashes innocently. 

Derek blanched, but clearly had nothing to say. He brought the mug to his lips and took a careful sip. He smacked his lips afterwards and set the mug on the coaster. “I think I’ll live,” he declared, a few seconds later.

“It’s shit,” Stiles spat, throwing himself into the chair across from Derek’s desk. Might as well get the transfer done sooner rather than later.

“The coffee? Tastes fine to me.”

“How can it?!” Stiles exclaimed. “I made it!”

“I’m not picky about my coffee, Stiles,” Derek argued, which. 

What?

“But... when I was interviewed, I was told that getting your coffee just right was first and foremost.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Erica interviewed you, didn’t she? I think she went with that excuse to weed out the weaklings, or something.”

So, Stiles had been plying Erica with Derek gossip for months while she just made a random cup of coffee?!

But, wait.

“If it’s not my coffee-making skills, why are you firing me?”

Derek’s eyes went wide. “You were-- Eavesdropping, Stiles, really?” He sighed heavily. “Also, you’re not getting fired. I’m suggesting you transfer over to Cora’s assistant because she’s working in a division that suits your job advancement better. This was never a permanent position for you at Hale Corp, Stiles. You’re far too smart to organize my calendar all day.”

Stiles’ head was reeling. “Wait, so... wait. I’m. You think I’m smart?” he squeaked.

Derek chuckled and stood, walking out from behind the desk. “Yes, I do. And so does the company. But I also think you’re very attractive and if I’m your supervisor I can’t do anything about it. So?”

Derek leaned over Stiles, arms bracketing him in as the clutched at the arms of the chair. 

Stiles swallowed thickly, eyes bouncing all over Derek’s face, looking for any sign of a joke.

“How--” he cleared his throat and felt his face burning in embarrassment over the crack in his voice, “how fast can we get the transfer paperwork done?”

Derek grinned. “Fast enough that you’ll be under Cora by Friday night. Say six thirty?”

“Rather be under you Friday night, but yeah, Sounds great,” Stiles spoke on a exhale as Derek rocked closer, the foreheads touching. 

“Gross.”

Stiles sighed heavily. “Jackson,” he snapped, eyes sliding closed as he felt Derek pull back. “I thought we were done with the bullshit.”

Stiles turned in the chair to look at the blond who simply shrugged. “I already got Lydia’s forgiveness, what more do I need you for?”

Dammit. Lydia was fickle in love. Then again, who was Stiles to judge?

“Forget it. What do you need?”

“It is the middle of a work day, in case you forgot,” Jackson pointed out, and Stiles felt the urge to punch him rising.

“I’ll be with you in a second, Jackson,” Derek said, managing to sound not pissed off.

Jackson backed out of the office, but left the door wide open. 

Stiles glanced back at Derek. “Look, I know he’s the illegitimate son of your wild and estranged uncle, so technically, despite the fact that he was adopted into a different wildly rich family, he is Hale by blood, but does he have to work here?”

“You should meet Peter’s illegitimate daughter.”

Stiles scrunched up his nose. “No thanks.”

Derek smirked. “Get back to work, Stiles. We can iron out Friday’s details later.”

Stiles grinned, bubbling happiness filling his chest. “I’ll pencil it in.”

[hopelikethemoon]

Starlight || (Ezra x Reader) || {Moonbeams}

Title: Starlight Rating: PG-13 Length: 4,000 Warnings: Angst, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of pregnancy, brief conversation about abortion, and some more angst.  Notes: Casual reminder that I do not write stories with plans in mind, I simply let the muses guide the story as I write. I’m fortunate that my mind litters in allusions and foreshadowing that I can pick up on later. This is one of those chapters where a lot of foreshadowing comes full circle. I’m super nervous that this chapter will lose my readers, but I’ve simply allowed the story to flow how it wanted to. Also shoutout to anyone who gets the extremely obscure British history reference in here.  Part ten of the Moonbeams series.

Taglist: @princessbatears @djarin-junk @absurdthirst @hdlynn @legally-a-bastard @opheliaelysia @heather-lynn @sabinemorans @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @pedrospunk @maybege @chews-erotically @katlikeme @lose-eels @youmeanmybrain @theindiealto @irishleesh93 @seawhisperer @hdlynn @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol @theindiealto @grapemama @roxypeanut @kochamcie @kiwi-the-first @hellomothermoon @soft-fanfics @spacegayofficial @storiesofthefandomloversreblogs @kindablackenedsuperhero @goblinqueen95 @nominalnebula @wheresthewater @letmybabysleep @hayley-the-comet @corrupt-fvcker @i-ship-it-ironically @mrsparknuts @the-feckless-wonder​ Hopefully I got everyone! Please message me to be added, comments to be added get lost in my activity.

Leaving Lykaois hadn’t been nearly as difficult as previous departures with Shiva accompanying you back to the Block. Not to mention having a way to communicate with Ezra when you were off-world really softened the issue of distance. You could go to sleep listening to him read to you, just like he was laying beside you in your bed. 

The only real downside to returning to the Block was Shiva all but forcing you to visit the medic. You felt fine. You really did. But apparently dying, coming back to life, and losing your memory warranted an immediate visit to get poked and prodded by the resident medic on the Block. 

It wasn’t as though you could tell the medic you were visiting because you had mental confusion related to dying. So you made up some excuse about feeling fatigued after being off-world. That wasn’t even a lie, technically. 

The medic tutted quietly as she scanned through the results on her datapad, “Were you aware that your stim was deactivated?” 

“What?” You jerked your head to the left to stare at the woman. “What do you mean it’s deactivated?”

She glanced up at you briefly before looking back at that datapad, “A high voltage of electricity can sometimes cause the system to malfunction. Have you had any incidents during transport repairs?”

You felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over you. The only shock of electricity you had received had been before going to Ay-7 and Quinn—

“Well, this is different.” The medic stepped around the examination table with a perplexed expression. “The stim appears to have reported back to the manufacturer that it was disengaged due to expiration of the client.” 

“Not because of an electrical current?” You questioned, your fingers curling around the edge of the table. 

“It appears the stim registered a time of death just over a month ago.” The medic’s brows furrowed together as they looked up from the chart. “Were you sexually active during this period?”

“Uh, yeah.” You blinked, shaking your head. “I was.” 

“Out of an abundance of caution, I would like to run a few more tests before we reactivate your stim.” She passed the datapad to you, “In the event that you have conceived due to a faulty stim, rest assured the corporation will billed for the termination of your pregnancy. You can just sign right there and we can handle that quite simply following a positive—“

You were quick to cut her off, “That won’t be necessary.” You couldn’t actually think that far ahead and if — and it was a huge if — it had occurred, you weren’t going to jump to that decision before telling Ezra. 

“Alright, then select here.” She scrolled the screen down to a line that declined immediate intervention. “Sit back and relax. The test services AI will be with you shortly.” She offered you a kind smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned with.”

What the hell were you going to do if you were pregnant? 

Your hand drifted down to your stomach. Could you be? It wasn’t as though you and Ezra were the least bit careful — you thought your stim was functioning after all. There had never been any reason to be careful. 

Thank the gods it hadn’t started malfunctioning before Ay-7. But you were probably working yourself up over nothing.

What if Ezra didn’t want it? In the past few months with him, children had never come up. Not to mention what you had learned about Sybil and Cora’s situation. 

The door opened and the AI bot rolled into the room. You hated getting tests done at the clinic. Some of the missions you were assigned to would require full health panels before shipping out — you should’ve been used to it by now. 

The bot took a vial of blood from you and started processing it within the hollow of its artificial chest, while commencing with various body scans. 

“The medic will return shortly to provide you with results.” The bot’s grainy voice informed you, before it wheeled out of the room. Leaving you all alone with your thoughts again.

Could you even handle having a baby on your own if Ezra didn’t want any part in it? If things went sour with Ezra, you’d have to work your way back into the program and that wouldn’t be possible while pregnant.

If worse came to worse, you could probably find some kind of work on Ay-7. 

It felt like an eternity before the medic returned to confirm that your anxiety wasn’t entirely misplaced. “Well, it would appear that in the short window of time between the malfunction and now, that you have conceived. Based on your hormone levels, I would safely guess implantation took place within the last two weeks. You’re in the very early stages of pregnancy.”

You weren’t even entirely certain you could understand the medic. She was speaking words, but you couldn’t really hear them. 

“Should you and your partner choose to terminate, you have a few non-invasive options at this stage. I can provide you with a resource file or you and your partner can come back for an appointment together.”

“He’s off world.” You told the medic, resting your hand on your stomach. “Did everything look normal?”

“It’s too early to detect any defects with your fetus. While you do have slightly higher than average iron levels, it isn’t anything to be concerned by.” She assured you. “If you have any questions, you can login through the portal and get answers from one of our aides.”

“Thanks.” You said quietly as you slid off the exam table. When Shiva had convinced you to get checked out at the medic — this was the last thing you had imagined. 

Pregnant. 

You had never imagined yourself as a mother — not really. The program was a dangerous situation to be in, at the best of times. Pregnancy would’ve made you vulnerable and worse, it would’ve meant being vulnerable with someone who would’ve just screwed you over in the end. 

Ezra wasn’t like that. But in reality, his situation didn’t really allow him to be like everyone that came before him. You knew where he was, you could come and go as you pleased, and you were his only connection to the world beyond Lykaois. 

You had all of the control in the relationship. But this — this might’ve been more than he had bargained for. It was more than you had bargained for. 

You’d had only a handful of months together, if you cobbled the days together and now… 

How would Ezra react? You couldn’t picture him as a father. Even if the situation hadn’t been dire — if he wasn’t trapped on the moon, if there weren’t those that wanted to hurt you… Would he want to bring life into the world? 

There was very little good in the galaxy. You knew more than a few people who had made sure that they could never bring life into the world. 

You didn’t even know if you wanted it. It was such a fresh concept. A terrifying one at that.  

Shiva looked up from the engine part they were reconfiguring. “There’s our Lazarus. How’d it go at the medic?”

Your hands went to your hips as you stared down at them, “Well…” You started. “My brain seems to be fine.” 

“But?” They looked up at you, tossing a wrench aside as they got up. “There’s a but in there. What is it? Did you get fleas? Sexually transmitted disease?”

You snorted, “I definitely caught something from Ezra.” 

Shiva’s brows furrowed together, “Caught what? Like the curse or…?”

You grimaced a little as you tried to find the right words to explain your situation. “Apparently my stim malfunctioned after whatever the guardians did to me and… I’m in the very early days of pregnancy.”

“Oh, sweet Yrica’s left tit.” Shiva swore. “Are you serious?” 

“How early are we talking?” Quinn questioned as he strolled around the corner, his brows knit together with concern. 

Your head snapped towards him, “What are you doing here?” You looked back at Shiva. “What is he doing here?”

“He’s in a bit of a rough patch.” Shiva shrugged. 

“I’m avoiding a collector.” Quinn admitted, before his gaze fell to your stomach. “Back to the kid you’re gestating.”

“I wouldn’t be standing here talking about it if there was even a chance that it’s yours.” You snapped. “I’m about a month, I guess. It happened after I died…”

Shiva grimaced, “Not the post-death side effect I was expecting. What are you going to do?”

You rubbed at your forehead, sighing heavily. “I’m going to go back early and tell Ezra.” 

“Can’t you just com him?” Quinn questioned. 

You glared back over your shoulder at him, “I think it’s a face-to-face discussion.” You looked back at Shiva then. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s dangerous.” They admitted. “If what you told me about Proctor’s family is to be believed, then you might be giving birth to a werewolf.”

Quinn crunched loudly as he bit down on a crisp, “Does that mean you fucked the beast or does it just happen regardless?”

“Quinn.” Shiva sighed. 

“What? Her life is a mess and I’m amused.” He hoisted himself up on the side of a fuel barrel, eating another crisp from the bag he had been snaking from. 

“That’s not what happens with the beast.” You corrected him, before continuing. “It’s possible Cora was born a werewolf because her mother is. Maybe it won’t be the same for me?” 

You couldn’t even believe that you were having this conversation. 

Shiva clicked their tongue against their teeth. “I think your best bet is to go back to the medic and have it terminated, get your stim recalibrated, and move on with your life like it didn’t happen.”

“I’m telling Ezra before any of that happens.” You ghosted your hand over your stomach. “He deserves to know. He’s already lost so much, I’m not going to add to it.”

“What if he doesn’t want anything to do with you or it?” Shiva questioned. “Ezra seems like a good man, but we both know they can be shit.”

Quinn cleared his throat, “I would be happy to pretend your kid is mine. Not that I have much to offer.” 

“Thanks.” You rolled your eyes. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m good.” 

“And you’re certain about the timing?” Quinn questioned, tapping the heels of his boots against the metal side of the barrel. 

“One hundred percent.” You assured him. 

“Good. I really didn’t want to add child support to my debts.” Quinn shrugged dramatically. “I mean, it would certainly be a sacrifice I would be willing to make—“

“Why are you still here?” You questioned, picking up Shiva’s wrench and chucking it in his general direction. “Get out of here.” 

“Easy. Easy.” Quinn tsked. “Pregnant women aren’t supposed to be stressed.” 

“My stress would be relieved if you took a quick trip out of an airlock.” You shot back. “Can you make that happen?”

“Such hostility.” He laughed, crunching down on another crisp. 

“When are you leaving?” Shiva questioned. 

“As soon as I can pull my things together.” You rubbed at your temples. “This wasn’t in my plan.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” They reminded you. “You have options.” 

“Trust me, I know.” You sighed, worrying at your bottom lip. “It’s just a lot to think about.” You gestured to your stomach. “I feel like I’m going to wake up any moment.” 

Shiva stared at your stomach, “How do you feel?”

You shrugged, “Like it’s any other day.” 

“And they’re certain?” 

“Unfortunately,” You tugged your satchel off your shoulder, swinging it around to grab your datapad out. “I have everything right here. Blood test confirms it. They can’t do too much more until I’m further along.” 

“Do you think it will be like it’s dear furry father?” Quinn questioned, tapping his heels against the barrel again. “Are you going to have a werewolf fetus wiggling around during the full moon?”

That made your stomach turn. “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Shiva grabbed your arm. “We’ll figure this all out together.” 

You smiled a little, “Thank you.” 

“Do I get a thanks?” Quinn questioned, a little too jovially. 

“Fuck off, Quinn.” You seethed. “Why are you still here?”

“I enjoy being a thorn in the side of my acquaintances. I’m also broke.” He shrugged. “Shiva’s letting me crash until things smooth over with a few connections.”

You gave Shiva a skeptical look. 

“I like strays.” They walked past you to grab the wrench you had thrown at Quinn. “He’s occasionally useful.”

He grinned and gave you a thumbs up. “All jokes aside, I do recognize our ship has long since left the port.”

“There was never a ship.” You grumbled. “It was an escape pod. A badly banged up escape pod.” 

Quinn wiggled his brows, “Ah, but you took that escape pod frequently.”

You rolled your eyes again, giving him an annoyed expression, before turning your attention back to Shiva. “Why?”

“He’s amusing.” They nudged you in the shoulder. “And you know it’s true.”

“Unfortunately.”

“So how do you think Ezra will react?” Quinn questioned. “I couldn’t really get a vibe from him.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” You admitted, folding your arms across your chest. “We’ve never discussed children. We’ve never discussed what could’ve been situations.” You touched the spot on your arm where your faulty stim was. “We thought we were covered.” 

“The oldest story ever told.” Quinn quipped. 

Shiva finally looked annoyed, “Can you grab the manifold? It’ll be in the engine room somewhere.” 

“Trying to get rid of me?”

You both turned to him with an in unison, “Yes.”

You sank back in the pilot’s seat, stretching your legs out in front of you while you waited for the com to connect. The connection buzzed a handful of times and you wondered if Ezra was dealing with the side effects of the full moon. 

On the last buzz of the connection, he picked up. 

“Sorry, moonbeam. I was in the fresher.” He drawled out, his voice just as warm as it was when you sat right beside him. “And as tempting as it is to use the com panel in the fresher…” 

You laughed softly, chewing on your thumbnail as you tried to keep your tone as casual as possible. The last thing you wanted to do was to blurt out what you had to tell him. 

Not that you could even think about the situation without feeling like you wanted a black hole to open up and swallow you whole. 

“Did you hear me?” Ezra questioned. 

“Sorry, yes.” You exhaled slowly. “Sorry.”

“You alright?” 

“Just tired,” You lied. “And as tempting as it is to hear all about your time in the fresher, I’m not really in the mood tonight.”

“What are you in the mood for, little lamb?” 

You rubbed at the crease between your brows, “I could really go for a quiet evening with some quality cuddling time.” 

Ezra chuckled softly, “My bed feels rather empty without you.” He sighed a little. “What’s got you feeling down?” 

“Nothing in particular,” You answered easily. “It’s just been a really long day. How have you been?”

“Alright.” He sighed a little. “I felt like this month was harder, you know? We managed last month and I had something to focus on. I’m a bit sore.” 

“Sounds like you could use a quiet evening too.” 

Ezra hummed. “It would certainly make things easier.” He was quiet for a moment before he added, “Are you sure you’re alright, moonbeam?” 

“I will be as soon as I’m back on Lykaios with you.” You propped your chin up on the arm of the chair. “Which may actually be sooner than planned.”

“What?”

“I got everything together quicker than I anticipated.” You told him with a slight smile, even though he couldn’t see you. “I’m a few hours out.” 

“That’s certainly a welcome surprise.” Ezra said warmly. “And what do I owe this surprise to?”

“I might miss you.” You teased lightly. “And I…”

You both fell silent for another long moment. 

“And you, what?” Ezra sounded nervous and you didn’t blame him.

“Nothing.” You told him as you flipped on the autopilot and transferred the com connection to your datapad. “I want to wait until I get there.”

Ezra hummed curiously, “And you’re certain all is well?” 

“Well, I managed to track down a book of Herrick’s poems for you.” You told him as you meandered down the corridor to your quarters. “Quinn sent along a book of Byron’s poems he had. I’m not sure what message that sends.”

“I think I know.” You rolled your eyes. “A different little lamb.”

He sighed heavily, “Are we certainly Quinn’s clever enough to make that connection?”

You snorted, “Touché.” 

“I would actually be impressed.”

“It’s not unlikely,” You shrugged, kicking off your boots and sinking back onto your bed. “He used to be really obsessed with British history.” 

“Interesting.” You could practically picture him grinding his teeth. “How long have you known Quinn?”

You thought for a second, “Early into the program. He’s just always been around.”

“And you never—“ 

“He doesn’t belong in the same box as Alia or Mars.” You assured him, “He was just a nice way to scratch the itch. You know?”

“Yeah.” Ezra sighed. “I suppose I can give him credit for owning Byron in the first place.” 

You laughed, snorting a little at how begrudgingly he said it. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” He murmured. “Are you in bed?” 

“I just laid down.” You told him, laying the datapad on the bed beside you. “Only one more sleep before I’m there with you.” 

“Why are you coming back early? Don’t get me wrong, I’m elated, but… your hesitation earlier is going to keep me up tonight.” 

“It’s something I’d prefer to discuss when I’m with you.” 

“Wait, does this have to do with your trip to the medic?” Ezra questioned. “Did Shiva make you go?” 

“It’s related to that.” 

“Is something wrong? Fuck.” Ezra hissed out. “Moonbeam, just tell me. I’m going to worry an ulcer into my stomach before you arrive.” 

“I wouldn’t call it wrong.” You sighed a little, trying to resist the urge to cry. You didn’t actually know if he would think it was “wrong”. He might. 

“You can tell me.” His voice wavered. “If the guardians have hurt you, I’ll rip them limb from limb.”

“Ezra, please calm down.” You said lightly. “We’ll talk about it soon. I promise it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. I’m fine and I’ll be fine.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to lose you because of something I could’ve prevented.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” You assured him. “This is why I didn’t want to have this conversation over a com-call.” 

“Only a few more hours,” Ezra sighed again. “Right?” 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything at all…” You raked your hands over your face. “All of this is new for me.”

“It’s new for me too.” Ezra drawled out. “I still think I’m going to wake up and discover it was all an elaborate dream.” 

“All of it?”

“Just you.” 

“I feel the same way.” You admitted as you rolled onto your side. “I expect to wake up on the Block, ready to ship out somewhere. It doesn’t feel real most days.”

“I hate when I have to let go of you.” 

“I hope you don’t ever let go.”

Ezra scoffed, “I could never.”

“Are you in bed?”

“Yes, I’ve returned to my dreadfully lonely bed.” 

“Did you get dressed after your shower?”

 He chuckled, “I thought you said you weren’t in the mood, my sweet little lamb.”

“What? I want to picture what I’m missing.” It was a nice distraction at least. You wouldn’t have to worry about questions about anything. 

“What’s the point of putting clothes on when you’re alone?” Ezra questioned, his voice a little raspier. 

“Well, I’m fully dressed.”

He tsked quietly, “How disappointing. Then again, you were fully dressed in my bed when you—“

You groaned dramatically, “It’s not my fault that you smell so good.”

“I could say the same. It drives me crazy, moonbeam.” His breath caught in his throat. “We should sleep.” 

“I’ll be there soon.” You promised him, smiling sadly at the datapad. There was no way you were going to actually sleep, your anxiety wasn’t going to allow that to happen. “Ezra?”

“Mhm?” 

“I love you.”

“Oh moonbeam, I love you too.” He said warmly. “And I plan to count the moments until you are safely in my arms again.” 

You switched screens on the datapad, “I am five hours out.”

“Would you be adverse to me coming upon your arrival?” Ezra questioned.

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.” You say the datapad back down beside you. “I’ll see you soon, Ezra.” 

“Until the morning.” Ezra whispered. “Sleep well, love.” 

You stared at the datapad, even after the line went dead. There was a part of you that wished that you’d told him what you wanted to tell him, just to pull the bandage off and find out what he thought without being there. 

How were you supposed to guess what his reaction would be to discovering that was going to be a father? 

The man had lived alone for five years, keeping himself away from everyone who was like him. He feared losing the last vestiges of his humanity. He warred with wanting you to stay with him and wanting to cut you loose. He loved you, but did he love you like that? 

And for that matter, was this what you wanted? 

This romance with Ezra had been a whirlwind, but it had been different than any love that came before. You spent hours on end with him, cooped up in your transport or his and you never got bored. There was never a moment where you found yourself ready to leave, you never wanted to. 

When you thought you loved Mars, you loved him in small doses. It was intense and all-consuming, but you always needed to come up for air. Alia… You would have willingly drowned in your love for her, but she always needed her own space. 

You recognized that this might be too much for him. He couldn’t escape from you, not really. You came in and out of his life, but he was fixed in one spot. 

But neither of you seemed ready for your time together to end. If you were at his transport before you left to return to the Block, he would always follow you into yours and spend another hour with you before reluctantly parting ways. 

It was different. 

Maybe he could feel that invisible string connecting the two of you. The one that always felt drawn taut when you weren’t with him. The sensation that always drew you back to Lykaios. 

But would a child change all of that? Shiva may have been right. You could’ve gone back to Lykaios without having to worry about any of this. Though, what would you do if one day Ezra did express his desire to become a father — a possibility that was taken from him by the curse and by you. 

You just had to hope that things would sort themselves out. That he would understand. That his love for you wouldn’t falter. 

[sloppy-butcher]

I will sacrifice my first born for a part 2 of dare you with joey

well anon, hand it over. give me the baby

edit// this thing is long like godDAMN i need to relax. hope yall enjoy it :)

Part 1: Dare You - Joey x Reader crackfic

Double-Dare You

The Legion (Joey) x Survivor!Reader

The pallet dropped against the concrete wall with a loud whack followed by a disgruntled shout. Joey reeled backward, his head aching from the collision with the wooden object. At the moment of successful contact, you spun around to the killer and passed him the biggest shit-eating grin you could conjure. Joey catches your elation and decides to ignore the pain to instead focus on you. 

“Y’know, I’m still waiting for an answer,” Joey said, his tone casual as if this were a conversation taking place between equals in a normal situation. You rolled your eyes amazed by how stubborn and oblivious the man appeared to be - he would not drop the topic for anything, not even as he chased you with a hunter’s knife poised. “When are you going to take me on that date you promised?” This earned a chuckle from you, fully swinging round to face the masked man with your arms crossed over your chest.

“You’re joking, right?” He tilted his head feigning ignorance. Your smile stretches to an impossible brightness, how exactly this killer always made you feel so giddy and playful was beyond your simple understanding. Perhaps it was because you had never experienced a killer who was so talkative and lively, this being such a unique situation that against your better judgment you decided to humor it and actively encouraged his behavior. It was fun. “And where,” You shake your hands in the air, “would I take you on this hypothetical date?” Joey hummed, standing straight with his knife tapping under his chin in a contemplative manner.

“That should be for you to decide really. Though we could always go check out some cool places. These realms,” he gestures to the weepy forest around you both, “are ten times cooler when they are empty.” You raise a curious eyebrow, demanding an explanation without uttering a word. He sighs and lifts his foot to kick the pallet. “I mean, that cowboy saloon place is pretty awesome on its own. All old-western and shit. But it would be even cooler if it was just us two.” At the sound of the wood splintering, your instinctive reaction was to flee to another pallet leaving the man's comment to fall of deaf ears. Joey followed but stayed far enough behind to not have his skull caved in with another hit. You bring the new pallet down between you two and once again spin around to the killer.

“Tell me again why exactly I have to take you on a date? I don’t remember doing anything wrong.” You spit at him, venom dripping from every syllable of your inherently rhetorical question. Joey smirked under his mask - oh you were a feisty one alright. Cocky and proud even when kneeling at the feet of a predator. Rather than kicking the pallet, Joey let it sit between you two, making it an honorary truce-table. You would not run if he did not chase. And he only wanted to talk. 

“Because you harassed me. Remember?” You shake your head in a mischievous ‘no’ earning another grin from the enthralled boy. God, you were good. Doing absolutely nothing at all but dragging him in all the same. “You smacked my ass,” Joey deadpans, “And you never made up for it.” 

You smile at the reminder of your triumph from a few trials previous. Though you were scared pant-less at the time, looking back now only filled you with the taste of sweet victory. You would not let anyone convince you to do anything like that again, not even Meg with all her stupid, little games even if it did somehow end up with the outcome of befriending a killer. 

“I don’t see why I have to pay anything for that little smack,” You toss your head and throw him a coy eye. You practically see the man shake from restrained laughter and knew that you had him wrapped around your little finger. You could easily manipulate him just as he could easily kill you. You shudder at the glimmer of the knife in his hand but decide to focus on the conversation rather than his purpose being there. “It was a harmless little thing.” You pull your hand up to your mouth to nonchalantly hide your growing grin.

“It was twice.” Joey retorts matter-of-factly. He watches as you release your tense posture, throwing a hand on your hip and rolling your eyes. 

“Oh please, that is nothing really. Besides,” Your gaze falls down to his knife again and you feverishly swallow your mounting fear. “You have done far worse things to me.” At your words and pointed implication, Joey’s confidence plummets to the ocean floor. Of course, you would never trust him willingly, not after all he has done. And though he knew full well that he could just take you if he truly wanted to, Joey denied his animalistic urge in favor of keeping the peace. He wanted to keep your fire - preserve that genuine playfulness that he oh so enjoyed lest he shatters it by forcibly caging you. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” Joey’s voice has lost all semblance of the peppy court-fool it was just moments before, catching you off-guard in its sudden change. He lowers his hand that holds his weapon, moving it behind his back so that it was out of your view.  His head drops, the ebony eyes peeking out from underneath his mask glistening with unmistakable remorse. “But, when I say that I don’t want to hurt you. Please know that I mean it.” You wanted to scoff, to call his bluff and his terrible acting skills but something about his tone made you hold back your comments. There was a pure genuineness in his voice that flickered a light of hesitation in your head. Maybe it was your nativity or that stupid part of your brain that always wanted to see the good in people, but you believed him. You believed that he did not want to hurt you. At least not now. 

“What about my friends?” You ask through your dawning affinity, guarding your words with the last ounces of your resistance to him. He was pulling you into him, dragging you down into those deep-as-night eyes. 

“I will let them all go. But only today. Next time I…” Joey turns his head away from you, embarrassed and partly ashamed that he could not even offer you a solid answer. “There are things you don't know. I can only spare you sometimes before It gets angry.” He sighs and his shoulders deflate, making him look pitiful and small. You frown and feel yourself unconsciously step towards him, reaching out to try to comfort the killer. “Please believe me.” 

“I do. I do believe you.” You spoke without thinking, stepping closer to the pallet, and to him. He instantly raises his head at your words and approach, surprised by your forwardness but nonetheless delighted. “For some reason, I do believe you. But I can’t…” You pause, shaking your head free from the intrusive thoughts daring to bubble over, “I can’t be alone with you. Not yet.” Joey understood that completely and a little too eagerly, nodded his head in agreement. 

It wasn’t much but it was a start. And he was beyond happy to be given this opportunity.

“For now, I suppose.” You cringe inwardly as the idea formed in your head and moved into words. “I suppose you can smack my butt if it will even the odds.” Joey nearly fell over at your suggestion. He bit back a laugh and had to spin around so that he could compose himself. You watch as he doubles-over, clutching his stomach while emitting sounds of stifled giggling. After a few minutes, he straightens and faces you again, his expression and tone stone-like. 

“Yes. I think that would suffice.” He narrows his eyes cunningly, “For now.” With your mouth agape in shock, you scoff and throw your arms up.

“Dude! I was joking! I didn’t think you’d actually agree to it?!” You feel your face begin to heat up. The man tilts his head ever-so-slightly and you could physically see his enjoyment growing at the expense of your humility. From the way he was standing so assured in his next decisions, you had the dawning realization that there was no way to talk him out of it now. Sucking back your pride you bite your lip and glare daggers at the man.

“Fine. Just,” You twist your body around, presenting your ass to him. How embarrassing. How humiliating! Every inch of you burned from excruciating pain, birthed from the pure absurdity of the situation as it finally rested upon your shoulders. “Just make it quick!” You practically shout over your shoulder, your face now a burning furnace you were sure was bright enough to light up the night. Joey was overwhelmed by your willingness to oblige and for a second, contemplated if this was even real. Just minutes before he was chasing you, begging you to so much as to stop and talk to him, give him just one single chance to try to reach out. And now, in the most brilliant and wonderful course of events, you had offered yourself to him! His fingers itched, his heart pumped louder than gunshots. 

“Close your eyes.” Joey reactively says without planning or action. He only realizes his command when he notices your confused expression. “Please, trust me.” Your face flickers, shifting between utter bewilderment and denial. Then something clicks and you agree, closing your eyes and squeezing them shut. Joey goes to break the pallet, its job as instigator between debating parties no longer necessary. You flinch at the sound and fight the inherent urge to run from it and the monster behind the noise. Suddenly you feel him closer, the brushing of fabric against your bare arm lets you know that he was standing right beside you.

Ordinarily, killers breathed obnoxiously, panting loud and hard like hungry wild boars with their teeth bared and frothing saliva dripping from their bleeding lips. But as the man neared you, coming closer than you had previously ever allowed him to, he was quiet and gentle as a bee. Buzzing around slow and tentative, asking for you, a sweet flower, to open up and let him rest. He held back that part of him that had scarred you so many times before, confining the violent boar in favor of being human - if only for a moment.

Joey’s heart threatened to pump straight out of his chest, the hammering so boisterous in his ears that all he heard was thumping and all he saw was you. Your lip twitches, your eyes furrowed shut tense as his shadow covers your face. He slowly lifts up the bottom of his fabric mask, careful about his movements so as not to alert you. You were so much like a rabbit, frightened and easily spooked - he could not risk losing you now that he was so close. So close - close enough to…

In the blind obliviousness, you grow impatient, wondering why he had not already taken his chance you return his ass smack tenfold. But as you went to open your mouth to curse his slowness, a pair of lips land ever-so precariously on yours. Light as the cool breeze of a winter’s morning, so soft that you doubted they were even there. It was only when you pushed up into them did you realize their fullness. The man was kissing you - if you could call this weak excuse of a peck a kiss. He was scared to force himself on you, scared to chase you away if he let loose his full eagerness to consume you, and in doing so barely even allowed himself to touch you. You appreciated his controlled reluctance and as your boldness grew, so did your pressure into the embrace. You deepen the kiss and you feel the man shudder.

After a few seconds, the man pulls away gasping, his hot breath cascading across your flushed cheek. You stand there a moment longer with your eyes closed, unsure of what to do after this peculiar sequence of events. You feel the man move his lips once more to your tender face and place one last kiss on the corner of your mouth. 

“The name’s Joey by the way.” He whispers into your skin, his voice a creamy, dark mess. The power you had over him, even in something as simple as a shy kiss, was immeasurable. Joey knew he couldn’t be around you for much longer lest he does something regrettable so begrudgingly he lowered his mask and stepped back. He looked you over one last time before sprinting off into the foggy abscess in that unnatural speed of his. You watch the whiteness consume his form and scream after him, 

“That was not part of the deal!” But Joey was long gone before the first word had even left your mouth. Suddenly you couldn’t wait for that date.

[thanksjro]

Dark Cybertron Chapter 11: The Word “Logic” Doesn’t Even Mean Anything Anymore

Our issue opens up with a flashback to establish some things.


Because despite the six literal issues of prelude, and all the ham-fisted exposition we’ve gotten throughout the “Dark Cybertron” event, we still don’t have all the information we need to understand what the hell’s happening.

I have a feeling this won’t quite cut the mustard, either.

Anyway, back during the events of MTMTE #1, when Rodimus was making his call to action to his fellow Cybertronians (and by “Cybertronians” I, of course, mean “Autobots”, because prejudice is a hard habit to kick, even for the best of us) Brainstorm was doing science on Hardhead. He was doing this science to make sure that the Dead Universe hadn’t killed him without him realizing. This is a very common issue in the world of IDW2005 Transformers, considering that zombies are a part of canon, so it’s just best to be sure. Nova Prime’s lifeless body sits in the corner like the world’s worst coffee table book.

This will take some explaining, because this is Phase One related.

In Spotlight: Sideswipe, Nova Prime beefed it, except he didn’t, because his “essence” returned to the Dead Universe. This is because he was chosen by the Dead Universe to enact its will on the other, much cooler, Not-Dead Universe. In short, he’s a weird robot zombie-ghost with a save point in the Dead Universe.

Brainstorm has his corpse in his lab to make sure this bastard is true and proper dead, or that the body he left behind is at least. That, in combination with Hardhead proving to be very much alive, means that today can be counted as a win for everyone! The “Alive-People-Counter” machine proves it!

…This is why we can’t have nice things.

Brainstorm being undead does have some precedence within the narrative, given what happened in MTMTE #3.

Though I can’t help but wonder what the guy’s been doing for the last year and a half, that he didn’t notice being dead, when his soul is a large, glowing orb with physical presence. I dunno, he just seems like the sort of guy to keep up to date on that sort of thing, if only for scientific purposes.

In the present day, in the beautiful city of Iacon, everything’s gone to shit, and Whirl’s gotten hot for some reason, as billions of Ammonites fall out of the sky.

Who friggin’ drew this-

I should’ve known.

Up on the Lost Light, Ultra Magnus is breaking out the fancy swears, as a… tornado, I guess, of Ammonites hits the underside of the ship. Bumblebee wants to evacuate the friggin’ planet- which, I don’t know if you know this, would be a little difficult to do, even with a ship the size of NYC. Unfortunately, that’s not gonna fly, however, because all the stars in the sky are blue-shifting.

Wikipedia tells me that this is probably a bad thing, and Perceptor agrees, calling it “the end of everything.”

Over in Shockwave’s Lair of Villainy and Magical Bullshit, everyone’s favorite purple science gremlin has stabbed a “time drive” into his chest. Galvatron is laying dead on the floor in the foreground, but this isn’t about him. Shockwave orders Jhiaxus to activate the time drive, I guess because he doesn’t have long enough arms to do it himself. Jhiaxus warns Shockwave to be mindful, lest he lose himself in time, and then we get a return to a Roberts writing staple that we haven’t seen in quite a while.

Waxing poetic on the nature of time- this time, in a visual medium!

Awful lot of fixating on your ritualistic amputations there, Shocky-boy. I suppose this is ONE way to try to cope with a lack of control in your life.

Of course, to those on the outside of Shockwave’s brain, this doesn’t look nearly as impressive- it actually just looks like him screaming really loud at the ceiling. Bludgeon isn’t sure that this course of action is a healthy one to take, but Jhiaxus is too busy being sapiosexual to worry about that.

I-

Sure. I’m not even going to bother trying to understand this anymore.

Jhiaxus orders Monstructor to go keep the Autobots away from Shockwave.

Also, Galvatron isn’t dead. Good for him, I guess.

Over inside Metroplex, Windblade’s face seems to be stuck in the generic “I am a nice, nonthreatening female character who is also pretty” position, as Ultra Magnus tells her that the universe is ending. Chromia watches in the background as this happens, likely wondering if being relevant in modern media again is worth this bullshit.

Hearing that Bumblebee plans to take the fight to Shockwave is enough to get Metroplex back on his feet, which is good, because I don’t think we have a lot of time to convince the guy to do anything- this event ends next issue.

As Metroplex windmills his arms through swarms of Ammonites, the Lost Light lands, and Bumblebee, Megatron, and all their experts disembark. Bumblebee makes an unsolicited comment about Megatron’s body. They go to meet Soundwave, who isn’t terribly thrilled with Megatron having become all buddy-buddy with Bumblebee. Megatron mentions that the Decepticons are going to have to rethink their strategy once this is all over, with the implication being that they’re going to- gasp- work together with the Autobots.

Then Starscream shows up with Metalhawk, Skywarp, Rattrap, Waspinator, and Scoop for some fucking reason, in tow. Skywarp is going to teleport everyone into Shockwave’s Bastardization of the Concept of Science House, even though he pretty clearly isn’t feeling too well. What a guy.

Starscream and Megatron have a bit of banter that won’t set your hair on end with how awful they are to one another, Metalhawk tries to apologize for attempting to kill Bumblebee, and we really don’t have time for this shit right now. The narrative knows this, because it shifts to focus on Prowl and the Constructicons. Things are looking real rough just about everywhere, and it’s coming down to the wire, so they gotta do the thing.

The thing Prowl really doesn’t want to do.

The thing he said that he wouldn’t do again.

So anyway, they form Devastator.

As Monstructor gets ready to get punched in the face by a bunch of construction workers and a cop, everyone down below is firing off laser blasts and gearing up for a teleporting adventure. However, there’s a small problem- there are too many people to teleport! Oh no! The only solution is for Soundwave and his cassettes, Scoop, Getaway and-

Excuse me, Hook?

Hook, my dude? What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be a leg right now, motherfucker, why are you here? GO HOME, HOOK.

Anyway, I’m really glad we wasted the time establishing that Soundwave and his band of merry little men were coming along on this trip, only for them to not come along after all. Love that shit.

I don’t actually love that shit. I’m sorry for lying.

With the load lightened, Skywarp teleports the rest of the gang to where they need to be, and Waspinator is immediately stabbed with a massive raging poisoning sword of doom. Bludgeon’s here to greet everyone, and Metalhawk is gonna try his damnedest to get the guy to come around to their side.

You remember when Metalhawk did things like connive, and scheme, and actually had more depth than a sidewalk puddle? Because I remember. Now he’s just... Beast Wars Silverbolt, but he’s not even attempting to be charming. I bet he wouldn’t even call his evil girlfriend “my soul’s delight.” Lame.

Bumblebee, Megatron, and friends book it for Shockwave, while Magnus and Skids get ready to kick some ass. Brainstorm isn’t feeling so hot, but this isn’t about him.

Starscream is having a minor crisis over the fact that Scoop stayed behind in a literal war zone for Starscream’s sake. I dunno that he did it specifically for Starscream, but Starscream seems pretty convinced that he did, and who am I to argue with the leader of a whole friggin’ planet?

The gang makes it to Jhiaxus’ ship, where they find-

I swear to god, if there’s not a fucking explanation for what the shit is happening right here I’m going to scream.

…So anyway, Metalhawk and Jhiaxus start beating each other up, Starscream gets bent out of shape by Jhiaxus’ trash talk, and we get an explanation for his new look.

Which, y’know, thank fucking god.

Jhiaxus has new reactive armor, which takes anything thrown at him and adapts it to his own body for personal use, which feels like some Grade-A Kids Playing Pretend bullshit, but WHATEVER.

While this is going on, Megatron and Bumblebee have run into the center of Shockwave’s Laboratory of Morally-Abhorrent Mystical Buffoonery Masquerading as the Scientific Method. Dreadwing tries to make a case for self-defense of his property, but unfortunately he doesn’t understand how property rights work, and gets blasted for his troubles. Galvatron reveals himself to be alive to Megatron, who immediately grabs the dude by the throat.

Galvatron’s feeling pretty down about having inadvertently helped end the universe, and is throwing himself a little pity party. Megatron’s not having it, however, tossing the man into the ground and revving up to fusion-cannon him to death. Bumblebee stops him, for some reason, and then starts rambling, I guess STILL trying to be Optimus Prime 2.0.

Bumblebee, you put bombs in people’s heads to make them fall into line. You don’t get to talk to Captain Warlord about moral nuance. And weren’t you also berating Metalhawk for trying this same thing not five minutes ago?

Bumblebee’s words reach Megatron, and instead of annihilating Galvatron, he offers the dude a hand up.

Then Bumblebee gets shot and dies, while Shockwave just… stares menacingly, I guess.

Cool.

The death of his very best friend in the whole wide world sends Megatron into a rage, and he punches Shockwave in the face. This doesn’t really faze him much though, as he bats Megatron across the fucking room like he’s made of papier-mâché and dreams, going on about how the universe will save Cybertron by being its power source “in an endless forever.”

Shockwave, you’re a man of science. You ought to know that “forever” as a concept, doesn’t fucking WORK scientifically. It’s nonsense. You’re nonsense, and I hate you.

Back with the Bludgeon Ass-Kicking Squad, Brainstorm’s having a bad time, while everyone else sort of awkwardly poses. Skids gets stabbed. Skids falls down. Brainstorm falls down. Ultra Magnus is concerned, but he’s too busy not being stabbed to help anyone.

Brainstorm’s in a lot of pain, and then a hand bursts out of his chest and-

GODDAMMIT JAMES.

Fucking- Team -Imus burst out of the Dead Universe from Brainstorm, who I will remind you, is undead thanks to Dead Universe lightning bullshit, making him a link between it and the much cooler Not-Dead Universe. Everyone is posing, even Cyclonus, who absolutely should think that sort of thing is beneath him, but whatever.

That’s the end of the issue. Go home.

[cdarkheartzero]

Today’s theme-

“Diary of a security guard part 4- “His own legs”

Data log entry 6553

I barely even started my shift before I got the news. Three smeets had disappeared at some point during the night and -OF COARSE- the little shit was one of them.

Receiving the names of Zim and Skoodge wasn’t surprising. Those two were always together and up to something but I was shocked when the keeper said “Smeet Tak”. TAK? She was usually fairly well behaved. Few fights here and there, sure but this? Especially because she hates Zim. Why would she join them? At least that’s what I hoped for anyway.

Since the “snack heist” episode, I assumed the boys were off to find another “treasure chest” of pure sugar so I figured I would check the pantries first. They weren’t stupid enough to do the same closet twice in a row but I would bet my monies that’s where they were.

[[MORE]]

Stumbled down the halls when I noticed a door slightly left ajar. Yup. There they were. As I approached I could hear a conversation being had between Tak and Zim. GOOD. I can grab them all at once. I slowly opened the door juuuust enough to squeeze my body through and crept in behind boxes , eyeing the mess of once-again ripped open junk food and wrappers littering the floor. I sat behind a rather large box (big enough to shield me from sight at the very least) and waited for the opportunity to pounce.

Skoodge was sitting on the floor very much invested in the “ploof puffs” he was shoving into his adorable chubby face. Not really paying much mind to the other two. Zim and Tak sat atop two boxes staring each other down. Tak had her back to me and Zim was so fixated on his enemy, that he didn’t notice me peeking out from the box behind her. I could see on Zim’s face that SOMETHING said before my arrival was eating at him. The conversation continued-

“I’m telling you the truth, Zim.”

“There is NO WAY you did it on your own, Tak.”

“You think I’m lying? Or is your pride eating away at you because I’m clearly the superior soldier to-be?”

“There is NO WAY YOU would hurt my pride. BESIDES, how could someone with your intellectual shortcomings accomplish something soldiers are trained YEARS to do?!”

“Okay, fine. This will shut you up, you reject!”

I couldn’t see her face but she stood straight and her body tighten, I could see her fists turning pale by the amount of pressure she was putting on them. The ports on her back slowly opened and her PAK legs menacingly emerged. Awkwardly crawling out and wobbling as the touched the ground and lifted her mid air.

Skoodge panicked and fled at the sight of the thin, metallic limbs- having never seen or been told about these things prior, this must have been quite terrifying. And it’s true. I was shocked myself. The shit was right. Irken soldiers are taught how to use these well into their military training and it takes a tremendous amount of skill and concentration to activate. For a smeet this was basically unheard of. Tak May very well be the most advanced smeet in Irken history.

Zim was.... far from impressed. He puffed his cheeks and pouted quietly as Tak spat insult after insult to him, Landing harsh and pride crushing comments. I almost felt sorry. It wasn’t until one of her legs abandoned its position of stabilizer and shakily made its way toward Zim’s throat that I knew I had to step in NOW.

Not wanting to use my taser on her, I did the next best thing. I took my boot off and smacked it on the PAK leg closest to me, knocking her off balance and bringing her hurdling downwards. The PAK legs quickly retreated back into their holder and the small Irken was left confused and slightly stunned by the secret attack.

Skoodge ran over to me, tears in his eyes, wailing about the scary legs. He clung to my foot tight. Real tight. Kid has a good grip. I (and my newfound leech) walked over to Tak to picked her up. She just stared at the floor, quickly blinking and not saying a word. Man.... I got her good. I put her to my chest and she didn’t budge. It was unnerving to say the least but she was still alive so.... I just gotta gather the last one.

Zim was spaced out. Totally lost in thought. Didn’t even twitch when I approached him. Seeing those legs really internally triggered something. I scoop him up and stare. I might have well had not been there as far as he was concerned. He was gone from this place.

We get back to the smeetery and I drop off Zim and Skoodge (Skoodge waved me good-bye too. He is so cute sometimes) and made my way to the medical ward with Tak. Just to make sure I didn’t mess her up too bad, you know? The staff there assured me she was okay and just stunned but I told them to keep her for testing anyway. Can’t have that on my conscience.

By the time I got back to the smeetery, Zim was gone and Skoodge was alone, doing some light reading in the form of a cooking magazine. Where he got it, I didn’t ask. It was unusual to see these two separated though. “Where is Zim?” I asked confused. “Hmmm?” He hummed with a slight jump. Must’ve startled him. “Zim wanted to go to the tube room. Is Tak okay?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. She’s fine. You okay though?”

“Yeah. That was just scary.”

“They really aren’t. Just another tool we have to protect ourselves and aid ‘n battle. One day you will be trained to use yours too.”

His eyes lit up in wonder and confusion “I HAVE THEM TOO?????”

“Yup. But it’s totally normal you can’t use them yet though. The fact that Tak could is real unusual. I know you’ll get there.” I said ruffling his antenna. He let out a laugh and smiled “Thanks”

“Anytime. Imma see what the little shit is up to.”

“HAVE FUN!” He joyfully waved as I walked away. Skoodge is unusual too. Now that I think about it, everyone associated with the little shit is so quirky. This batch of smeets...they really do have bright futures ahead of them.

Walking through the doors to the usually silent unborn sleeping chambers, the room echoed with low, muffled grunts and heavy breathing. I know this voice. I just had to find him.

Tucked off to one of the corners of the massive room, Zim was doubled over panting, clutching at his chest. His PAK opened and his legs partially exposed, spazzing and sparking, filling the air around him with a dangerous electrical charge. Never in all my life have I seen a PAK respond this way. His body seized, confulsing constantly. His eyes welled with tears, sweat dripping down his entire frame. Veins bulged out of his skin.

Here is something ya gotta know about Irken anatomy. PAKs serve as a second brain and is connected to the organic brain through the spine by a series of wires. Some things are only possible BECAUSE of this connection. Like using PAK legs. The host needs to be able to simultaneously create a gateway both consciously and subconsciously to allow data to flow between the two. Using the legs as an extension of their organic bodies. Being able to tell each of the 4 legs to move independently but having enough focus to not completely be distracted by it. Kinda like breathing. Your brain knows to do it automatically. But if you wanted to, you could alter its patterns. Except a loss of control would mean a comrade getting empaled. Concentration and data input is everything. I’m gettin side tracked though, I didn’t even know it was POSSIBLE to see the bridge between the two minds. But here they were. I could see every ridge, every curve of the wiring violently throbbing.

This is bad. THIS IS SO BAD.

I tried to grab him- he needed medical attention ASAP. WHAT ON IRK WAS HAPPENING!? But as I reached for him, the legs became defensive and started stabbing in my direction. The electrical charge strengthened too. Zim coiled into himself more. He wanted to scream. I could see it in his face. But every time he opened that yap of his- there was nothing.

Oh, My tallest. The closer I got to him, the more his PAK simultaneously defended/harmed him. I screamed for help. Someone.... ANYONE, please. Come! I have no idea what’s going on!

“....z-zara....” I heard faintly between gasps and groans. He reached his hand to me. FUCK THIS. I cannot let the suffering go on any longer. I’m sorry, Zim. But I gotta do this.

I grabbed my taser out and gave his PAK a short jolt, praying that it would short circuit and reboot. His legs stabbed into my hand before going limp, just like the rest of him. The bright pink lights emminating from his back faded to a faint, dim color. But it was still lit. Please. PLEASE. Be okay.

There was a moment of silence. Felt like a decade though, wondering if it worked. Or if I just made the worst mistake of my career.

“REACTIVATING”

The PAK light shone bright again and gave the body a single jolt. The legs instantly retracted. He stirred, groaning. He opened his eyes slowly and blinked a few times, not a single word spoken between us. He looked at me, pained and spiritually drained. “Zara....” he finally said.

I grabbed him and gave him a hug. I was so relieved. He was okay. He just accepted my embrace. He didn’t have the strength to fight. Slowly pulling him away, I could finally speak. “Imma take you to the medical station, okay?” He replied with a humm. Response accepted.

The smeetery staff rushed in (it was so hard to believe only a moment had passed In real time) but I took it upon myself to hand deliver him where he needed to be. It was a long, unsettlingly uncomfortable walk. But this.... I wanted to be here. I needed to. Unfortunately, we soon arrived to the medical station and I finally had to hand him off and return to my shift. I didn’t wanna leave him. Not one bit. I can’t even imagine how he was feeling. But I have a job to do. We gave each other a sad look as we parted. There was a slight pain in my chest the whole time.

The rest of the day dragged on what seemed like years but within a few hours, Zim had been released from care and returned to the Smeetery by a member of the medical staff. She just silently walked in, spoke to a smeetery staff member, placed him on the floor and disappeared. I was thrilled (I would never tell him that though). But I can tell he was still deeply upset. I approached him and asked if he was okay. His eyes said more than his words ever could. I picked him up. I honestly don’t have a game plan but... he needs a few minutes to breathe, I think.

I wave to another guard and ask her to take my place. She saw the smeet I held close and said “fine. But you owe me one.” Wouldn’t be the first time Kira helped me out. She was probably the closest thing to a friend I had in this place. I thanked her and took my leave. Zim didn’t really ask any questions. Just kinda went for the ride.

We wound up in a pantry. I sat down on the cold floor and put him next to me. This... was awkward. I couldn’t figure out what to say or do. Or even why I wound up HERE of all places. Why not my office???? Thankfully, he tore me away from my thoughts and broke the ice.

“Why are we here? Don’t you usually want Zim OUT of the pantry?”

“Uhhhhhh.... you looked like you needed a few minutes to breathe.”

He hugged his knees. “Zim is fine.”

There was that silence again. I’m the adult here. I gotta do something....right?

“You know, the thing with Tak has never happened before.”

“Just rub it in...” he mumbled burying his face into his legs.

“But, you were able to pull yours out too. Even just a little. That’s impressive too.”

“I’m not sure if you noticed, but mine tried to kill me.”

“Maybe yours are just-“

“The medical staff-“ he cut me off “told me I might never be able to use them right. That Zim might be “defective”.”

I was agitated to say the least. How can you say something like that to a smeet? A BABY? This little soul who just began living this life he never asked for? My emotions got the best of me. “Listen here, Zim. Maybe you can’t use your legs the way she does. Or the way I do. But I know you will find a way. You have never bowed down when the odds were stack against you before. Why start now?”

He didn’t stir. I passionately rambled on “you are a lot of things. Cunning. Manipulative. Obsessive. Persuasive. Passionate. But you are damn smart. I’m constantly surprised by your ingenuity and craftsmanship. You know how good I am at dismantling your bombs at this point? You challenge those around you to grow and be better. I wish you WOULDN’T challenge me with explosives, mind you, but you aren’t defective. No way, no how. You are different. And no one said different is bad. Just means you leave your mark in ways no one expected before. And maybe that scares some but.... I believe that you can do amazing things. And screw em If they don’t see it.”

He let out a small chuckle. It was refreshing to hear, even if it was a sad, emotionally drained laugh.

“Does that mean you don’t hate me?”

“I didn’t say all that now.”

He smiled with sorrow and hugged himself tighter.

Maybe that was a little too deep. I was actually kinda embarrassed for that. But.... perhaps I could say something else to make him feel better. “You know” I started “when I have a bad day, I like to look at the stars. You can’t see them here but they always put me at ease.”

“Stars?”

“Yeah. They exist outside the planet, in space. Burning, exploding balls of chemicals. Mostly hydrogen and helium. But from Irk’s surface, they are just beautiful bright lights littering the sky. You can’t see them everywhere here ‘cuz of the brightness of the surface’s refelection in our atmosphere. But I came from the sugar mines before I was a guard. It’s a lot less industrial and darker there so it was always so much easier to see.”

“Burning balls? Really?” He scoffed, amused and confused but intrigued.

“I guess tellin’ you about ‘em doesn’t do it justice. Here. Let me show you. Computer.”

My PAK lit up and released a small floating, mechanical ball with a small circular screen used for projections. Zim just stared. “Show us stars.”

As instructed, the screen painted a gorgeous night sky (as “night” as Irken pink skies get anyway) glistening with hundreds of stars. Zim stared, taken aback. There was a slight sparkle in his face. Good. This helped. Thank the Tallest. The projection stayed active for only a moment before I thought it was enough. Without saying anything, the orb returned to where it had come from.

“You okay?” I finally asked, knowing the answer already but hoping for the best.

“.... can we stay here a little bit longer?”

I can tell in his voice, he was embarrassed. Ashamed. Depressed. Confused. Self-loathing. His whole world thrown in a blender. “Sure” I said pulling him closer to my leg. I kept my hand on his back, gently stroking it. Imagine my surprise when he accepted my compassion and snuggled up to me.

I couldn’t tell what he was thinking but all my organic brain kept repeating was “just be there for him.” I dunno what this feeling in my spooch could have been but it felt knotted and twisted at the sight of his misery. I had to look away. What is this smeet? Why does he make me feel this way? Do I have a bug? Is this something else I don’t understand? ...You know what? It’s Best not to think too much about it, I guess. Just take in this silence with the little shit. He will be back to his old self tomorrow I bet.

Zara signing off

[prettywordsyouleft]

Bloodstone | Part 3

Summary: You knew all about the ring your grandmother had told you about and yet when the stone fell from it one fateful day, you weren’t truly prepared for its return, nor who it came back with.

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x reader

Genre: fantasy / romance

Warnings: none

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

You checked three times that you were no longer dreaming. Still, the purple-haired man stood before you each time. Peering more closely at his unique outfit, you became further convinced of Yoongi’s story-telling earlier.

He looked at you with equal parts of curiosity and caution. It was during this moment of examination that you noticed his first couple of buttons to his shirt were undone and glowing light emanated from within his chest.

This wasn’t boding well.

“Just who are you?”

“Are you the host? Are you the one who captured me with this bloodstone?”

“You… you know of the stone?” you questioned, taking a sudden step forward. The strange man moved back, knocking into a stack of books clumsily.

Looking between you and the mess he had just created, the man sighed. “I’m sorry, let me clean-”

“It’s okay; we’ll get to that after. The bloodstone, have you seen it?”

“So you did release it then,” he murmured in response and you let out an indignant scoff.

“Release it? I wore that ring for fifteen years and it chose to leave on its own. If I had it my way, now knowing what kind of ring it is, I wouldn’t have accepted it from my grandmother as a child.”

“You wore it that long?! But it’s dangerous!” He was wildly looking you over then and you grimaced, reaching to smooth down your bed hair.

His actions prompted you to take in a steadying breath before smiling weakly. “My name is Y/N and you are?”

“Namjoon,” he answered, looking at the hand you had outstretched towards him in thought. He then held out his own arm towards you but not taking the chance to shake it.

You frowned. “You’re not from here, are you?���

“I’m not human, no.”

“Wait, I was expecting a different country or something, but did you just tell me you’re not human? Are-- are you an alien then?”

“What’s that?”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head and you clasped your forehead within your hand as you dashed to sit down at your desk. “Purple hair, strange clothes and says he’s not human. Where’s Yoongi when I need him?”

“Yoongi?” he repeated and then casually scanned your room. “You have a vast library of fantastic titles.”

“I do? Most of these books are from my grandmother and are in a different lang-”

You stopped then, realising the great difference between you and Namjoon. You had been speaking now for the last few minutes with relative ease, but it didn’t feel as if his words were spoken in the same language as your own. It was as if he spoke in his own native tongue and your brain was translating it on the spot.

What was going on?

“I need a coffee,” you announced, getting up from the chair shakily and heading towards the kitchen. Namjoon scampered along behind you, letting out a delighted sound when you flicked on the light switch. You chose to continue looking forward instead of back at the puzzle he presented and moved into the kitchen to grab a mug from the overhead cabinet.

Namjoon came closer, leaning around you to watch your actions. It unnerved you but not in a negative way. You held up your mug. “Do you know what this is?”

“Of course I do, you drink from it. I may not be human but I do come from civilised lands.”

“Okay then, do you want a drink too?”

“Of your brew you’re making in that strange bowl?”

Looking at the coffee machine you had turned on, you moved across the kitchen and reached for your tea collection. You weren’t so sure coffee would be a wise idea for someone who didn’t know what it was. Making the hot drinks, you then moved to the small round table in your living space, placing one across the table and gesturing for Namjoon to take a seat. He sat down distractedly, staring at his surroundings in awe.

Once you had a decent mouthful of coffee, you rapped your knuckles on the tabletop to gain his attention. “So, what are you then?”

“I guess, as the book called, a divinity.”

“So a God?”

Namjoon laughed. “Oh no, I’m not from above.”

“Then?”

Maybe I am from a different country. Far away. Where no humans exist.”

“That makes no sense but I’ll humour you at four in the morning. How old are you?”

“With the last solstice, I am now two hundred and thirteen years old.”

You merely blinked at his answer and then looked down at your coffee cup in suspicion. When you realised he wasn’t smiling and had answered with ease, you let out a hollow laugh. “Right, over two hundred years. Because that’s plausible.”

“The elder of my village is nearly a thousand years. He has endured a long existence.”

“He sure has.” You felt faint, clasping your head in your hands and drank more of your coffee in hopes it would ground you from his nonsensical answers.

Maybe you had been fooled. After all, Namjoon could have broken into your house as you slept and was now playing along with you. You were tired and had an over-reactive mind after your ordeal yesterday.

You nodded softly, trying to convince your frazzled thoughts of this fact. You would just ring for the police and they would take this strange intruder away from you and it would all just end there.

Except you knew the glow from his chest meant something more to you. In fact, it was that red glow that made you feel at ease.

As if you were around something you were familiar with.

“The bloodstone,” you started as you blinked rapidly, looking at Namjoon again. “Did you see it?”

“See it,” he repeated, finally holding his gaze upon you for more than a second’s glance. His lips pressed together in a firm line before he expelled a heavy breath. “Surely you can see it right now as well?”

“It’s in your chest?”

“I believe so.”

“How did it get there?” you wondered and Namjoon tensed, letting out an awkward laugh.

The sound eased you some.

“By a series of unfortunate events.”

“You’re not hurt from it, are you?” you suddenly asked, reaching over towards his exposed chest and touching the stone.

The impact was immediate. Flashes of Namjoon’s life flooded your mind. You saw him as a child with a young girl and an overbearing father figure hovered nearby in every scene. You watched as his father passed away, and many moments of Namjoon inspecting gemstones. And then you were brought to his final moments in his studio, feeling the heady desire the stone had cast over him.

It was enough for you to pull back then, knowing you had seen and felt too much.

Namjoon was staring back at you with round eyes, unmoving even though you had recoiled back into your seat. He eventually blinked out of his stupor. “You lost your mother recently.”

“And your father has also left you,” you lamented, both nodding in answer.

“The stone is back but I didn’t expect it to come attached to someone in quite a literal way.”

“I guess I will have to impose on your kindness for some time now,” Namjoon mentioned softly and you nodded once.

There was too much moving around in your mind.

The sun had risen in the sky and he watched it for the first time through a windowpane. Unlike back in his land where all homes were on the ground, your residence seemed suspended halfway to the heavens itself. Whilst he had no understanding of how or why, watching the sun send its rays over all it touched from this height was spectacular.

You, however, seemed uncaring of such natural beauty, still pacing your living space and chewing on a nail in the process.

A bell chimed around the room and you dashed off then, leaving Namjoon staring after you.

He decided that whilst you were strange, you had a kind disposition so far and he didn’t feel out of place here with you. Well, everything new to him made him curious, but you as a person did not frighten him as much as he thought you would. So often he was told humans were impractical and flighty.

Once you had your special brew within you, it seemed you had settled some.

However, when you returned with another human in tow, you seemed frantic. “Do you see?!”

The man at your side’s mouth fell ajar ever so slightly and then he said something that Namjoon couldn’t understand. Turning to face them both fully, Namjoon watched their interaction intently.

“I know, Yoongi! But he says he’s not human.”

“Because I’m not,” Namjoon interjected, and Yoongi, so he now realised to be from your earlier mentioning, let out a harsh sound that he could only fathom as a sinful word.

Namjoon stepped forward to your side protectively. “I do not understand what he’s saying but I don’t feel it was very kind. Are we safe?”

“Yoongi is my best friend, relax. He can’t understand you either, it seems.”

Your head hung low at this conclusion, as if you felt more hopeless than before. Sitting on your large, plush chair with a thump, you then darted your attention between Namjoon and your friend.

“We have the main character who wore a magical ring unbeknownst of its power, an entity who isn’t human that now harnesses the power within his chest, and a man who can’t understand what language is being spoken but will most likely be the one to guide the way through this. What is this?”

“The starting of a new tale,” Namjoon announced grimly, touching the stone that had brought him to this strange world.

_________________

Part 4

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[BTS Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [Request Guidelines]

[violetnotez]

HC: BNHA Boys x Reader who is Going Through a Break Up

@Dekulover555: Hey can I get a request so my boyfriend has just broken up with me randomly could you do head cons or a story of the bhna boys as the best freind who was there when he broke up with her and the best freind ends up kissing them and the boys have had a crush on this girl for a long time?

Omg babes Im sorry you had to deal with that, that just sucks I’m so so sorry! I hope these make you feel better in some way- I wrote these as HC and 4 of the BNHA boys for ya! And um kinda forgot to put the kissing part in- but i hope you like these regardless!

 Also- that is literally such a crappy thing to do… me and Bakugo gonna beat him up for ya dont you worry! >:(

(RULES | MASTERLIST| REQUESTS OPEN!!! :))

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IZUKU

You and Deku were having a quick study session in his room, him quizzing you on hero terms as you racked your brain to remember the definitions

Your phone suddenly buzzed- making him jump: he was so focused on just you, and how adorable you looked when you were concentrating hard, and the fact he had a girl in his room-kinda startled him out of his over reactive thoughts

You gave him a swift sorry, laughing softly because it was literally written on his face that he was freaked out by the sound, making him blush- he loved your laugh so much

The instant you read the message on your phone, your face just dropped in horror

“Hey I know this is a shitty thing to do but I think we need to break up”

You kept staring at the screen, feeling the world around you crumple- what did you even do? Why was he breaking up with you so suddenly?

Your hand was covered around your mouth, trying to choke back the tears

“Y/n…..y/n!” Izuku asked in a panic, freaking out inside- what happened to you to change your demeanor that fast

 “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Please talk to me!”

“He...he...he broke up with me, Izuku,” you sniffled, the tears flowing down your cheeks 

Izuku stared at you, completely stunned and full of anger. He was just disgusted he wouldn’t even give you the decency to do it in person, let alone just leave you confused on why.

 how could your boyfriend do that to you! You were so kind, and sweet, and so lovable....in his eyes, you were the most perfectly imperfect person and he had fallen for you hard.

 “I dont even know what I did-” you cried in confusion, “Did I do something wrong? I-”

He immediately wrapped you in a hug, his warm embrace making you feel more vulnerable (which is good- feelings are valid and Broccoli Boi will take care of u!)

“This isn’t your fault y/n-none of this is. You’re amazing just as you are-he just cant seem to see that.”

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

BAKUGO

OH HELL NO BAKUGO GONNA KILL SOMEONE

You and Bakugo were having a sparring session when your phone went off

“You cant turn that damn thing off?” Bakugo grunted out, hating that your attention was being taken away from him

“Sorry Katsu, gotta answer- its my boyfriend,” you smiled, downing a gulpful of water before your answered the phone

All Bakugo did was grunt in distaste- he hated your boyfriend! He found him so annoying

all he ever did was take up his time with you-it seemed like whenever Bakugo wanted to hang out, he was there, ruining the moment

or even worse- you would go out and hang out with your dumb boyfriend instead of him

He always denied having any feelings for you, but he noticed now he couldnt seem to help it- he found you attractive, physically and personalty wise, but also- you dealt with his crap. He knew he was a hand full, but you still kept him in check and were even brave enough to mess around with him, even if he did yell at you.

 He just didnt like how much control you had over him, making him flustered and blushing like a damn school girl- and the fact that you didnt even know you had this secret power drove him crazy

“Wait-youre breaking up with me?” you asked in disbelief, your eyes prickling with tears

Did he just hear what he thought he heard? Bakugo picked up his head so quick hearing your voice break, as if your whole body was just crumpling. He had to admit, he was kinda happy to hear it- now he’d finally have his chance to ask you out! But hearing you sound so defeated made his heart race faster and the anger erupt in his chest. How dare he make you feel that way!

Bakugo stomped towards you, snatching your phone out of your hands

“I dont know what your deal is, you asshole, but y/n is one of the most amazing people I know, so dont you ever call her number again unless you want your ass blown out of the damn country!”

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

TODOROKI

Todoroki was sitting on the couch,drinking tea and reading a book

He had found one of your notebooks left on the floor, and he of course, instantly wanted to give it back to you

Unknowing to him, you were currently up in your room, Facetiming your boyfriend

Shouto didnt really care for your boyfriend- and for the longest time he couldnt understand why he didnt like him

but then he realized some things- whenever he was around you, he would get blushy and extremely quiet and just seemed incapable of acting normal. He found you attractive and exceptionally kind, catching himself staring at you whenever he could and feeling strange about it, causing a soft blush to form on his pale skin

 Thats when he realized he didnt like your boyfriend because he liked you, and he despised the fact that someone had already taken your heart

He knocked on your door, hearing the voices on the other side get more and more frustrated

He heard a slight sob come out of your mouth, and he instantly got panicked

What was wrong?

He knocked on the door again, unsure of what to do- does he barge in there? Does he leave you alone? Does he wait?

In mid knock, you opened the door, your eyes puffy and red

“Y/n-are you alright?” he asked, his face in complete shock and confusion

You shook your head, unable to talk due to the heavy sometimes growing inside you

“Its okay, Shouto,” you practically whispered, “just this isnt the best time-”

He placed a hand on your shoulder, looking at you with those deep, mismatched eyes that made you shiver- they were so easy to get lost in

“Please, y/n, tell me whats wrong.”

He hated seeing you upset- it made him upset, and he wanted to know who did this to you. He wasn't one to act out irrationally, but when it came to you, he would do anything to protect you.

“Its- its my boyfriend. He’s breaking up with me-”

“Hey y/n, where you at?” he heard from the phone, registering the voice as your boyfriend. Immediately, fury formed in his stomach-if he could see him right now- he would have to do everything in his power to hold his powers back from obliterating your boyfriend-

 he strided over, picking up the phone, meeting the shocked eyes of your boyfriend, expecting you to come on the screen

“Please refrain from ever calling y/n again- you make her upset and you clearly cannot understand how much of a wonderful person she truly is. If you ever come to try and hurt her again, I wont hesitate to make sure you dont ever do this to her again.”

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

KIRISHIMA

Kirishima was walking out of his room, the rest of the class outside as he was the last one to change out of his PE uniform and into his lounge clothes

“Kirishima!”

He turned around, hearing your cry

Confusion was written on his face- you were running up to him, desperate to reach him

Your face was strewn with tears, sobs crying out of your mouth as you called out his name again

“Kirishima!”

Those sobs were destroying him- what was wrong? Who hurt you? Why were you so upset- he had never seen you like this! 

He had had the biggest crush on you for the longest time, and seeing you sad made him just wanted to fix everything and make you feel better, because when you were upset, he couldnt help but feel upset too!

You wrapped your arms around him, your chest colliding with his as you sobbed onto your best friend

He instantly shielded you in a warm hug, combing your hair with his palm, letting you get all your emotions out

“Hey-” he asked softly, gently raising you chin with the tips of your fingers, “what’s the matter?”

You sniffled, your face splotchy and pink, “My boyfriend-he-he-broke up with me.”

Kirishima clenched his jaw, feeling anger bubble in his stomach. So that’s the reason your so heartbroken, over that idiot? He was completely dumbfounded on why he would ever break up with you- how could someone ever just reject his amazing y/n?

He wrapped you in a hug again, placing a firm kiss on top your head

“Your okay y/n, dont worry about him. Your an amazing person and he just cant seem to see that. I got you, I promise.”

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

Requests open!