#like the way the One Ring destroys itself

[secretmellowblog]

Me (an lotr fan): wow I don’t think I could be more heartbroken over the way giant corporations have taken the story I loved and reduced it to a hollow financial asset that does enormous real-world harm. I hate how the story is irrelevant and meaningless to executives who only see it as a hollow spectacle they can manipulate for profit. But thankfully I can’t be surprised anymore there is no way they can possibly make it worse

Warner Bros:

Me:

[rizsu]

+ extra: canon-type family relations: jin itadori & sukuna are brothers, itadori is a child here ( 8 years ).

boyfriend-girlfriend life with sukuna except he thinks he's being replaced — in all seriousness. sukuna's seconds away from destroying his nephew's remote-controlled cars collection.

can the kid move? he wants yuuji gone. he's not jealous of him, he just wants your undivided attention back on him. if he knew beforehand that agreeing to jin's invitation over would result in this, he'd probably fly out of the country with you to avoid it.

manspreading on the sofa with one hand slung over the backrest, he swirls the beer in his other hand. his brother's in the kitchen, stacking the extra beers in the fridge.

“you can help me, you know?” jin calls sukuna out, lacing his voice with slight annoyance.

“nah,” sukuna responds, waving him off.

he's busy watching you sit on the floor with yuuji, pretending to race against time with him.

it's not all that bad when he thinks about it — never mind, it is. the kid's had you on the floor since you walked through the door. not a moment spared for his uncle. all yuuji did was look up at sukuna, stick his tongue out, and engulfed your legs in a big hug.

ever since then he's been sulking in the corner. jin can only pity him for so long — it's been an hour, he needs to get over it.

jin sneaks up behind sukuna, gathering his fingers to surprise attack him. in only a matter of seconds he's subjected to the ear-pinch-and-ring combination.

sukuna flinches, immediately swatting jin's hand off.

“you must've gone fucking crazy!?”

he gets yet another ear-pinch-and-ring combination from jin.

“i have a son, don't curse.”

“fuck that boy,” he whispers under his breath, cupping his ear. it's hot from the pain — most likely already gained a red shade.

even after such commotion both yuuji's and your attention didn't turn to them. you both are far too immersed in the racing game.

the brothers are now both on the sofa: one has his attention on you and the other has his attention on the unattended mail on the coffee table that's been neglected two days ago.

“this one? no... that one? also no...”

“jin, quit mumbling.”

“cover your ears then.”

rolling his eyes, sukuna downs the last bit of beer remaining in the bottle. he's now officially out of beer and too lazy to get one.

being left without a distraction, he's forced to observe jin's house. it's nothing extraordinary. he believes his house to be better.

he voices out a sigh, slouching and spreading his legs further apart. the boredom's hitting him earlier than it usually does — this is your fault. if you weren't busy zooming cars around the living room with yuuji then he wouldn't be bored.

as sukuna's busy with complaining, he doesn't notice yuuji speed walking to the sofa with a broken car in hand. you're right behind him, sporting a smile that says you got yourself in some trouble.

“daaad, the car!” yuuji whines, climbing onto the free spot between his dad and his uncle.

jin hums, raising his eyebrows but his gaze is fixed on the mail as he's still sorting them out.

“it broke,” the boy complains, pouting at the toy.

“it lost control and rammed into the wall,” you explained further, sitting on the armrest on sukuna's side.

sukuna's arm fixes itself around your hips. he's slightly smirking at the news.

that doesn't go unnoticed by you. you're more than familiar with your boyfriend's joy at other's misery. you shot him a glare with a light tap on his shoulder.

“is that so?” jin's attention is now fully on his boy. he takes the glasses off, pulling yuuji onto his lap.

taking the car into his hand, he inspects the damages. it's not too much, and it's fixable.

“dad will fix it later, okay,” reassuring yuuji, jin ruffles his hair.

yuuji nods, jumping down from his dad's lap to return to the toys. as he's on his way, he turns, appearing to have suddenly remembered something.

“(y/n), come play with me!”

“no, she won't,” sukuna answers for you, ignoring the harder hit you gave him on his shoulder.

“i'll be right there, yuuji,” this time you answer, giving him a warm smile and a thumbs up.

“give the boy a fucking brother,” sukuna grumbles, looking at jin with pure annoyance.

jin shoots his brother a smile, giving him no reply before he goes back to reading the final mail of the bunch.

[wyniepooh]

Loving him was never enough

you don’t have what logan needs, but he still takes all that he can.

Cage fighter!logan x reader. Mentions of violence. Porn with a little bit of plot. mdni; 18+

thinking about being logan’s plaything in his cage fighting days.

It’s not uncommon for the fighters to have a beautiful girl around their arms as they enter the ring, and though Logan usually resists against the fan girls who clamour around him in a frenzy, he figures a sweet thing like you could only do him some good.

Not only does it piss the other fighters off, (they hate to see the king of the cage also have a pretty girl like you beside him) turns out, you’re not half bad for company either.

You’re an anxious little thing, brows furrowed and eyes teary before every match. Logan doesn’t bother telling you that he’ll be fine, that he’s going to win guaranteed, that his punch is as hard as metal. Literally.

He hates to admit it, but he finds it endearing, the way you’re so worried for him. through his nonchalant front, he still wipes away your tears with his large hands before every match and reassures you, cooing, “I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

When logan gets in the ring, the fight goes exactly as he expects it to go. The other guy is destroyed before logan even shows his true strength. In a spiteful and humiliating position, the fallen guy comments something like, “I’ll fuck your pretty girlfriend dumb.”

Logan hears, of course, and though the guy is already bleeding and sprawled over the mat on the ground in a pathetic display, and though logan definitely didn’t consider you his girlfriend, he throws the announcer to the side and pounces. Through gritted teeth and a bleeding forehead, he catches your eye, shaking his head lightly before knocking the other guy out.

You wait for him in the small public washroom afterwords, arms crossed and pouting. As Logan approaches the door and sees your stiff pacing around the room, he knows you’re mad. And he knows it won’t stay that way.

“‘was so worried, logan,” you practically run towards him, “why’d you have to go after him like that? he could’ve really hurt you.”

He scoffs and flashes you the fresh wad of cash. “Hurt me? Please.”

He stays still for as long as he can bear while you dab at the wound on his head with your sleeve, silently hoping you wouldn’t notice the red cut slowly healing by itself. When you try to touch his face, to run a finger down his cheek and his stubble, he grabs your wrist harshly to stop you.

You’re confused, confused as to why he allows you to trail along to his every fight and wipes your tears with such a gentle hand, but refuses to let you in. He doesn’t give you much time to think, though, because as soon as you part your lips to speak, he’s picking you up from under your arms and sitting you down on the cold sink counter.

there’s an aggressive desperation behind his kiss, probably produced by the adrenaline of the recent fight and triggered by the soft whine he heard from you when his teeth knocked against yours. His hand reaches down between your legs and drags your panties to the side, and before long, you’re biting his shoulder and mumbling, “‘gonna cum, logan, please, let me cum.”

He does, drawing out your short orgasm with a few more pumps of his fingers and a graze over your clit. When he’s done, you’re practically already numb, head limp on his shoulder as you hear the metal clinking of his belt.

“You want this?” He asks, holding your head up by your chin as he tilts his head and raises his brows. “You want me?”

You nod feverishly, half-lidded eyes flickering as you breathe, “yes, logan. need you.” Your head falls back against the mirror, and he looks down with a grin at the sight in front of him.

he hooks his arms around your knees to bring you closer before you take him to the hilt in one go, burying a mewl into his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist. The first thrust burns, always does, but only he can make you forget the pain in an instant. Soon, your hands are tangled in his hair, his beard is rubbing against your neck, and you’re begging, “please, lo, need it so bad. “ Logan fucks exactly like how he fights, thrusting into you so sharply your ass is sliding back on the metal counter with each movement of his hips.

He’s done this enough times to know what makes you whine and dig your fingernails into his back, but he still demands, every time, “that feel good, baby? you like that?” Of course, you don’t have to answer for him to know that it does, that it does feel good, so incredibly good, and that he’s hitting all the right spots in the body only he knows so well.

You aren’t the only one filling the room with lewd noises. Logan is panting too, the echoes of his each and every grunt reflecting off of every corner in the room and into your ear. It only makes your cheeks flush hotter, only encourages your hips to move more eagerly to match his pace.

It’s always when he’s just about there that Logan pulls back and looks down at where the two of you are connected, slowing down his strokes to slowly watch his bulging cock sink deep into your slopping cunt.

It’s the only opportunity with logan that you get to really look at him, to see the raw expression of euphoria on his face, teeth bared and mouth open. Some strands of previously gelled hair are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes rolling back with each press of his pelvis. Your eyes trace the sweat on his shoulder, the hair on his chest peaking from behind his white wife-beater, and the vein on his stomach that connects to the one on his dick.

You gaze flickers back at his face, and you extend a hand to guide his head towards you. He tries to turn away, as usual, and you hate that you know he’s holding back; limiting the noises he’s making, the pace he’s taking.

“Just use me, Logan. I know you want to,” you plead against his lips, inhaling a gasp as you press your lips onto his. You expect him to pull away, to push your head to the side and focus on finishing the other task at hand, but this time, he only pulls you closer, one hand around your waist and the other on the back of your head. He doesn’t give you much time to be shocked before he resumes his previous pace, drilling into you with the same vigor, albeit a bit more sloppy than before.

Logan pulls back to catch his breath, and at the same time, you clench tightly around him. A low groan escapes him, a noise so animalistic and fervent that you reach your high right then and there, shrieking as your legs begin to shake.

He’s close too, you can feel it in his breathing, so you let him fuck you beyond your orgasm, even if it’s getting to be too much and you’re losing your thoughts by the second.

“nobody— ah— fucks my girlfriend,” he suddenly growls, lifting you up from under your arms and shoving you against the tiled wall. He squeezes your cheeks, forcing you to look into his hazel gaze as he spits, “n-nobody fucks you like I do.”

He plummets into you deep, leaning his lips in and making you swallow one last groan of his before you feel his warm release fill your insides.

When he’s done, Logan is supporting all your weight, your limp arms splayed around his sweaty back. You whimper at the emptiness as he pulls out, feeling his cum languidly drip down your inner thighs.

You’re too exhausted to realize what he just said, to react to what he just referred to you as, and as the fog of pleasure slowly unclouds Logan’s head, he’s glad he fucked you stupid enough to forget.

-

a/n: anyone else feel like they’re incapable of writing good smut? Hey Google how many other synonyms could there possibly be of the word ‘thrust’?

[kentosbabes]

CEO Toji who hires you as his personal assistant as soon as you step through his office doors. As soon as he looks up at you his breath hitches, you're wearing a blouse that exposes the top of the black lace bra you wear underneath, and you keep pulling down the bottom of your skirt that stops mid-thigh. Your glasses are pushed up to your nose as you look at him so innocently through the lenses.

CEO Toji who doesn't waste any time before saying "You're hired". His rough hand finds you back as he guides you through the glass doors and into your new office, which joins with his. He shows you the ropes of what he wants from you, keeping him on schedule, talking to clients, and completing overall admin tasks etc.

CEO Toji who now can't wait to come to work even though he doesn't show it. As soon as he walks through the front doors of the building, you hand him his morning coffee and go through his schedule for the day with a bright smile on your face. He just smirks down at you watching as you practically have to run to catch up to him as he takes big steps compared to your much smaller ones.

CEO Toji who adores how flustered you get when he calls you pet names. "I have the report you asked for, sir" The words leave your mouth so innocently, but he can't help the bulge in his trousers that begins to make itself present. "thank you pretty girl" his words making your cheeks flush red as you hand him over the papers.

CEO Toji who cant help but stare at you. The view from his desk provides the perfect view of you as you work. He can't hold back the thoughts that plague his mind every time he looks at you. His eyes trail from the curls that fall down your back to the way your back curves and your ass sticks out as you type on your computer. Your glasses falling down your nose and your red lips moving as you pick up the phone.

CEO Toji who hasn't felt this way since his ex-wife was around. He hates the feeling he gets when he sees you talking to Gojo the owner of one of his rival companies. He can't take his eyes off the way your hand grabs onto Gojo's shoulder as you laugh at his jokes, and how Gojo places a soft kiss on your knuckle as he leaves your office flashing a wink to Toji before leaving.

CEO Toji who for the first time in ages takes off his wedding ring every time he sees you. Although his ex-wife wasn't the best and he was the one to divorce her, he always kept on the ring yet he had the urge to destroy it whenever you were in his line of sight.

CEO Toji who admires how kind you are and how easily you're able to make people feel comfortable in your presence. He can't stop the smile that covers his face as he sees you offering doughnuts to your co-workers after a long week. "Hi sir, would you like one?" you ask softly looking up at him, his eyes pierce into yours. "call me Toji love," he says before grabbing a doughnut and biting into it.

CEO Toji who just thinks about how sweet you would taste as he bites into the doughnut. He imagines how your lips would taste of strawberries and sugar, and your soft skin would have a hint of coco as he kisses up your neck. but for now the sweet doughnut will have to do.

CEO Toji who cant help but blur the lines between you two. He sees the glances you give him as he paces up and down his office and how your eyes fix on his lips as he talks to you in the morning. After his last meeting he heads back to his office assuming no one would be there, yet he sees your desk light on as you sit on the couch with your laptop on your thighs presumably still working.

CEO Toji who strolls into your office with a smirk "You waiting for me sweet girl?" he asks watching as you squeal with shock. "sir I didn't know you were back yet" you let out, placing your laptop beside you, and walking towards him. "Toji, please call me Toji no need for formalities ma" You nod your head letting out a quick "Sorry sir" which makes him chuckle.

CEO Toji who places his hand on your cheek bringing your eyes up to meet his. His hands are rough and his hair is a little messy, probably from running his fingers through it from stress. "you're a real cutie aint ya" he says moving your chin slightly to get a proper look at you in the dim lighting. "so pretty" he mumbles his face inching closer to yours "you want it?" you only give him a quick nod, as you practically pool at his feet in his touch.

CEO Toji who tastes of cigarettes and a hint of whiskey as he kisses you. The kiss is rough and sloppy but you don't mind. Your much softer and sweeter lips struggle to match his pace. The mewls and whimpers you let out as he kisses you has him going crazy inside. You want to stop and question what this all means but the way his hands grip on your waist and his lips suck on your own has you too dizzy to think of anything else but him

-repost of this because the tags weren't working for a week and have finally been fixed :)

Part 2 here

Masterlist

[readychilledwine]

A Dance With Danger

Rhysand Week Day 6 - Worlds Axis

Summary - Dance with Danger - Learning the High Lord's secret has you on the run. Too bad he found you in the place you least expected

Warnings - setting up predator/prey play without touching the smut point, evil Rhysand theory *like way evil*, Liz used her favorite line from the bad Rings of power series, cliffs (in a couple of senses), threats, implied mention of the Winter Court incident

A/N - Happy Day Six of @officialrhysandweek ! I'm kind of excited about this little guy and what I could do with him. That hasn't happened in a while 👉👈 lemme know whacha think?

✨️Rhysand Week Masterlist✨️Rhys Masterlist✨️Master Masterlist✨️

You were caught, and you knew it, but that didn't stop you from running, from using every tree as cover.

In reality, it was his own fault you had discovered this long hidden family secret. This constant ink smear on his father's family tree. Azriel had trained you far too well as a spy, Rhysand had trained you in too much detail as a researcher. You were too smart, and he had welcomed you in far too easily.

You had been running from him for over a week and a half now. Staying in animal forms until today when you somehow ended up in a different place while attempting to shift onto a new creature. You had a feeling where you were, but you continued to force him to chase just praying you were wrong.

He would blame that on your beautiful smile, on those innocent wide eyes, and the soft naivety in your voice. It didn't change his anger as he tracked you through the forest in Illyria. You had tried winnowing, but it was as if he'd already done something to you. Something that was keeping you trapped within the Night Court.

Nowhere was safe.

And it was almost your own fault for making it that way.

That smear in the family tree, that blurred name you had been stupid enough to unveil, was just the beginning. From that discovery, you'd learned through your shifting powers far more than Rhysand wanted you to. You should have left it alone, ignored that first eavesdropped conversation, but you know what they say"

Curiosity killed the cat.

You have learned his marriage to Feyre was fake. The bond was manipulated through magic. Magic he had planted to ensure she came to be by his side, and there would be no one powerful enough to stop him.

His death at the Cauldron had been planned. A way for him to gather pieces of life force from the other High Lords while also stealing some from a hysterical Feyre.

Nyx had been planned. A way to get Nesta to give her powers back to the Cauldron.

And Elain, poor Elain. The female had no clue what Rhysand and the Inner Circle had in mind for her. At least, if they could get her to reject the bond.

Rhysand had the very world itself playing in his hand, exactly how he wanted it. Thousands to bow to his feet, to worship him, and you now had the potential to jeopardize everything.

You continued running, lungs burning from the icy mountain air. He knew if he didn't catch you, you would die out here. You were so deep into the mountains that only he and his brothers could get you back at this point. Yet you still pushed on. Unknowingly irritating him further as a loud snarl tore through the woods near you.

It amazed you the level he had gone to in order to accomplish his plans. Collecting the most powerful beings in the land, placing them in his back pockets, and never looking back as he slowly began dismantling the other courts of Prythian one by one.

Spring had been a test. A successful one to prove to him that all High Lords had a price. A breaking point. He'd all but destroyed Tamlin with, as you had overheard him telling his brothers, “an only half decent cunt.” He knew the rest were weak as well.

Tarquin was naive. A spy already planned in his home.

Beron was prideful. His executor sleeping soundly in the bedroom near his.

Kallias was a new Father. Vulnerable. Emotional. Rhysand wasn't above killing children. He had already shown that.

Thesan was too smart to see anything coming. He believed the world was figured out. He believed he had the other courts figured out.

And Helion, loving, kind hilarious Helion? He'd follow Lady Autumn in her death is something…. Mistakenly happened to her.

Rhysand was cruel. He was the monster of legend he was made out to be.

And he was growing closer to you with each breath, each step, each beat of your heart.

A wrong turn ended the chase as you stared face to face with a cliff. The fall would be brutal, and you felt hope leaving you as you tried to think of any other way to escape.

“Well, little mouse, looks like you are out of options,” that feline line voice was enough to make to turn, facing your former friend and boss with neutral features.

“Rhysand.”

“At least you know your place. Only my-”

“Enemies and prisoners call you Rhysand. Yes, I've heard you use the same old line many times.”

One step back, one forward.

“What all do you know, Mouse?”

You didn't bother staying silent, watching as he began one step forward, and you one step back. “I know your plan to have all of Prythian under your thumb within the next year. To collapse the courts so quickly that no one can stop you.”

He began circling you like prey, gaze almost sad as he appreciated you one last time. You continued with a deep breath, “I know you planted the mating bond on Feyre through magic. That you are using her and her sisters. Who, you, actually sold out and paid Hybern to say was Ianthe's doing.”

He chuckled but didn't deny it. “And I know you are a quarter daglan.”

That made him stop, nodding slowly as he processed what you had said, “So, in summary, you figured out everything.” He circled you again, a look of disappointment beginning to show. “I had hoped to make something of you. To slowly bring you to my side and my web. Do you know how rare you are? How rare those precious powers of yours are given? Tamlin can't even take different forms as seamlessly as you can.”

One step forward.

One step back.

“I don't want to have to kill you, little mouse. Let's make an agreement?”

You shot him a look instantly, “What kind?”

“You join my Inner Circle, sworn to silence on all of this information, and I will still give you what I planned to. So long as you keep quiet and continue doing as you are told.”

One step forward.

One back that led to him grabbing you by your elbow, balance slipping as you began to hang over the edge.

“I can see your greatness, y/n. The power inside of you aching to be set free. I can give that to you. I can give you the true place by my side once this is all said and done.”

Had your eyes not already been wide, they would have been now, “You would make me a tyrant.”

Rhysand only smirked, flawless face no longer hiding the evil that lurked beneath his skin like a disease, “No. I would make you a queen. One worshiped from land to sea. One thought to be as powerful as the Mother herself. You just have to say yes before my grip slips.”

He let his grip go a second, catching you at your mid-forearm. A perfect brow arched as you looked down, panicking as you realized how high you truly were about to fall from.

“Not high enough to die,” he confirmed casually. “High enough to maim and leave you here bleeding out.” His grip loosened again, catching your lower forearm, “Either way, I get rid of a problem. Your choice.”

Your heart was threatening to pound out of your chest as your eyes met his calm ones. “I planned all of this as well, by the way. I really thought you would have fallen for Azriel's charm, but alas, you didn't.” He seemed almost bored as he held your life within one of his hands. “Azriel warned me he wasn't your type and that I could only fake what you and I both know if actually between us for so long.”

His grip slipped, laughing as you screamed and he caught your wrist, “I had hoped you would be a smart little mouse and come to me instead of running when I made sure you learned everything, but those damn morals of yours. How pathetic for the Cauldron to have given me of all males such a righteous mate.”

That smirk turned feral as he realized you didn't know. His eyes began to almost glow with excitement. “Oh little mouse, you really are just a stupid thing, aren't you?”

His grip slipped once again, catching you by lacing your fingers in his, admiring how snug and perfect they felt together.

“Last chance, y/n. Agree to my terms or die.”

He was so cold to you. So uncaring. He hadn't expected your last move, you unlacing your own fingers from his. You making the choice without his input. You falling.

And the last thing you remembered was the cold air ripping your breath from your lungs before impact ever came.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites @littlest-w01f

[pastorfutureletthembe]

I actually started this blog for one post only. The theory is that the story we are following is currently the 5th timeline.

I would need to watch the donghua again to find hints in the show itself but for now this post is exclusively about the content we keep getting served as fanservice. Now, people nowadays see this word as negative but in this particular case, we are evidently caught in an ARG (Alternative Reality Game), which is AWESOME.

For those who aren't familiar with the concept, it is basically a treasure hunt outside of the original media. For example, if you gather enough clues during your playthroughs of OXENFREE, you'll find the coordinates of an actual place where a real object, a gift FOR FANS was hidden. In the context of Link Click, I believe the rules and answers regarding the worldbuilding are hidden in plainsight for us to discover!

I will make different posts on the clues in lyrics, but for now we're gonna have a talk about VISUALS only. And boy, do we have THINGS to talk about

First things first, let's start with

>>>>> Promotional posters.

I'm opening this analysis with this particular one because it is the most relevant to current events. Black circles are V and white ones are IV. The huge clock is the background isn't supposed to be oriented this way for starters. One V is where XII should be, which could mean our journey starts here. The other V is between Cheng Xiaoshi and Li Tianxi, on the light side, while both VI are on the dark side. Every other VI on this artwork is a broken piece taken out of a quadrant except for the one on the right near Qiao Ling which is still part of the biggest piece.

It is interesting that we don't see any clockhands here, only the quadrant, and the only whole number is 5, ONLY on CXS's introduction.

Not so subtil, the mirror or "painting" is labeled 'V'. Lu Guang is also looking directly at US, viewers.

Probably five lines of five x but we only see 3, of which only the first one got 5x. Four diformed shapes can be seen at LG's left, under V/VI, which could be the four previous failed timelines. You might notice that LINK CLICK is written 5times. The clock says 00:05. Oh, familiar, isnt it?

As you can see, the V is a light in the darkess at Lu Guang's feet. it is a broken piece, though. The fact it is the enlighted one could mean two things. 1) It marks the spot, where we're currently at. 2) Hope. I would argue that until then Cheng Xiaoshi always died and now, at the end of season 2, Lu Guang is in the dark because he never went that far.

VI is there too, in complete darkness, blocked from view by a ring. There is something to say about VII being completely obliterated but I honeslty don't know how meaningful that could be.

>>> It is my understanding that if a character change the past, it breaks the timeline. Past changed, present and future cannot be the same ever again. It doesn't create a new timeline like in MARVEL, there is actually no going back from a changing node, it unravels this world. Either it already happened, allegedly because of Lu Guang, or will happen in the next season, we can suppose that Timeline VI is the actual doomed one. The fact Cheng Xiaoshi is trapped is relevant too. Destroying Present and Future would trapped him in the Past, hence Come back from the dive back in time.

>>>>> Dive Back in Time

There are many things to say about this one, but I'll keep it simple since it's already a long post. Let's start with something a bit out of topic: colors. Why? It actually indicates that LG isn't from the same timeline than CXS and QL. And I swear it would be useful at the end of this post.

Blue and Red are on the same plan, no matter if we're talking about RGB or CMYK, but Green and Magenta are not. It's like CXS and QL are anchoring LG in this reality, but Magenta is not supposed to be part of the mix. Primary colors in photography are Red, Blue and Green; not Magenta. Since we're talking about photography and this is not the original timeline, I think it is intended.

I'll leave the count of squares to you (spoiler: either 5 or 3 (I'll explain this one in another post) :D).

>>>>> Overthink

I recommend you read this glorious meta about this ending. I'll just "correct" mimicha on one point:

The way the hands are "cutting a piece" of the clock; just like in the promotional poster for Train Trail. It indicates 5. I'll also add this one:

If you look carefully, you'll see two words: TIME PARADOX. As said above, a paradox should NOT be possible with the rules LC gave us so far, but it could be related to the possible 6th doomed timeline. The "dark side" could try and make it happen. Just food for thoughts.

If you want more meta on OPs/ENDs, I recommend you also watch this glorious analysis. That's all I have to say for this one regarding the number 5.

>>>>> VORTEX

Not much to say, except for this "blink and you'll miss it" screenshot. If I missed anything, feel free to share with the class!

THE TIDES has, sadly, nothing to offer on this current topic!

>>>>> 3rd Anniversary: Surprising Click

Oh boy, do I have THINGS to say. Don't be surprised when I'll make another post about this Link Click monument haha. Note: 5 PVs were prepared for this anniversary. Coincidence? (I think not).

N O W A N D F O R E V E R

The only 5 clue I found is what looks like a clock with one hand going backwards, from X to IV, it appears while the chorus is playing. That might be a bit farfetched but I'd mention it for archives purpose anyway.

B R E A K

I won't be a smartass by pointing out BREAK is a five letters word but- okay that's infuriating of them if it is on purpose.

Most of it is obvious, the same logic applies, except for the cogs and hourglasses, we see four of each falling. Since LG's shadow/light goes from IV to V, it's safe to assume that those symbolize the four failed/achieved timelines. The ones left behind. I'll probably post something about cogs and hourglasses one day.

A last one, for the road:

S U R P R I S I N G C L I C K

You should take a look at this fan's brain! They did a wonderful work. I already had this part prepared so I'm still gonna share the obvious. Five mics ("time is like music"), and five letters (with photographs inside I'm guessing). Magenta and Green are very flashy in this one.

Oh, here are LG's five magenta squares from Dive Back in Time ;D

Four failed timelines/tasks, and... loading the first out of three chances. (Again, I can't address everything in one post, this one will have a long meta on his own, don't worry :D)

T R A I N T R I A L

Two occurances worth mentionning. Once again, V is the only timeline enlighted.

B U R N I N G P A L A C E

Many things are happening in this one but only one regarding our current meta. If you pay attention, you'll see it several times, while the chorus is playing:

x x x x x

Now, if you remember correctly, green is the exact chromatic opposite, the complementary color of magenta. They aren't on the same plan (primary vs secondary)/from the same timeline. Usually, they color Lu Guang but here, there is no magenta and no Lu Guang. With this in mind, could it be the paradox OVERTHINK warned us about? We can only assume Vein is from the same original timeline as LG. Red and Green are primary colors so yeah, we'll see.

That's all for today folks!

I had this brainworm eating at my life for weeks so I'm very happy that it is finally out there.

| Part 2 |

[broadwaytheanimatedseries]

Okay but hear me out!

Dead On Main Revolutionary Ghost Utena AU:

Canonically, Jason focuses his rage to summon the All Blade

Ghost Prince Danny would have the Ring of Rage, but not the Crown of Fire yet

I hypothesize to you that the two are connected, and not only that, but that wearing the ring allows one to draw the All Blade out of the other. Like, literally.

Because of this, summoning the All Blade of their own accord is the mark of a ghost powerful enough to be the ghost king's betrothed, and whatever other ghosts were in the running are pushed back in line as the All Blade wielder is now at the front.

It is part of ancient ceremony that predates Pariah as Ghost King and dates all the way back to the first Royal of the infinite realms, King Lazarus.

The connection itself is no more than a pull towards each other, a fascination at most to make an easier base to build a genuine and in this case, human connection.

To become actually engaged Jason would have to willingly appear before the Ghost Prince and allow him to draw the All Blade out of him, something he is not very excited for and might actually have other lasting impact besides the engagement.

Y'see Jason isn't a halfa the way Danny is, he came back twice in a short amount of time between those two instances, and while the second time was Lazarus induced, no one really knows how he woke up in his grave and broke himself out. There are theories but Clockwork was watching and even he doesn't seem to know for sure, so it's really anyone's guess.

So what the engagement ceremony could do, potentially, is either solidify his halfa status by sheer amount of ectoplasm transfered by the act, or alternatively it could just kill him on the spot and then he'd probably become a full ghost.

Now, neither of these sound great to Jason, but he also doesn't like that a bunch of ghosts have been trying to fight him for their Prince's hand in marriage, something they can only do while the Prince is still not engaged to anyone.

Meanwhile, Danny doesn't appreciate that as soon as he came of age all these marriage proposals started being thrown at him, he's known some of these ghosts since he was a teenager so that's really weird for one, and he gets that most of them are just trying to secure their happiness and not to mention their future safety as the mortal world seems to be moving on with the anti ecto act, which had lead many a specter to retreat back to the realms, causing a lot of unrest as the realms become more crowded and politically tense between factions who have not needed to interact for a while now.

It would seem the Amity portal and even Danny fighting the ghosts and sending them back through it was the break many of the realms' denizens desperately needed, but now with that option no longer being safe, as even their king can't protect them from the GIW when they're gaining so much support from governments across the world, tensions are running high in the realms and it seems that it's every ghost for themselves.

Danny doesn't really resent any of the ghosts for doing what they feel they must to make sure they aren't destroyed in what is shaping out to be a realms wide war at this point, even as he works overtime with his council to prevent that from happening, and he understands they obviously don't expect any actual marital kind of relationship from him, which is at least a little reassuring even if the idea of being married to any of them is still very weird, but he can't help but think there could be a better solution here that he's missing.

And then he feels it, a pull telling him he's overlooked something, someone important.

It's like a fire engulfing his ice core but not burning it somehow, just as it does not cool the fire around it.

Two opposite forces meant to cancel each other out, somehow instead keeping perfect equilibrium with one another.

He talks to Frostbite and Clockwork and finds out what that pull is and takes their advice to follow it.

Jason doesn't realize he just altered the source of all his recent problems to his location as he draws the All Blade to fend off yet another "challenger to the Prince's hand" whatever the hell that means, as finally one of them was dumb enough to try to use actual magic against him.

However, he soon feels the answering pull back from Danny as the latter decides to use the power in his ring to open the portal, feeling that this candidate should at least know he's coming to talk to him.

It's almost the opposite, he feels the fire of the pit madness flaring a bit, but instead of immediately trying to spread, to threaten to consume him unless he tempers it himself, it is still burning just as strong and wild, but kept in one place by an icy chill, an aura of cold, clear fury and calm in equal measure, it doesn't thaw from the fire anymore than his fire dies from the lack of heat around it.

They sustain each other, impossibly.

So Jason and Danny finally meet and give each other the rundown of their side of things and agree that maybe the best bet to not only stop ghosts from attacking Jason and proposing to Danny, but perhaps the key to overthrowing the GIW so the realms' denizens don't have to afterlive in fear and portals can be reinstated to allow travel through the realms and back, not to mention keeping the GIW from going after Jason himself who by their definition is certainly considered an ecto entity, is in fact to go through with the Ring and Blade ceremony.

Jason, at this point, is more of Earth than Danny, who has unfortunately had to step back from his normal mortal life when he turned 18 to take care of realms business, despite still only being Prince.

He was meant to have more time but with the GIW advancing like they had been it was in the realms' best interest as well as his own that he decree the realms going no contact with humans for the foreseeable future.

It's been nearly 3 years since then and they are still getting ghosts back from parts of the world who have been avoiding humans as much as they can.

As soon as he turned 21 all this ghost marriage nonsense has has been making his job of protecting the ghosts in all the realms a lot more difficult, so when ghosts realized he didn't want to be challenged every day for his hand, they went to the next best thing, the top candidate.

Now, Phantom was saying that he's gonna marry the guy they've all been trying to defeat (and failing, to his credit, so at least he was worthy of being top pick)

A lot of them were upset or disappointed, but he explained how this arrangement could potentially help out everyone in the long run and most got on board when they heard the new plan.

Now the only problem is that getting engaged, as mentioned previously, is a ceremony that could prove dangerous to Jason and "not to be insensitive about it, but if you die and become a ghost that sorta defeats one of the main purposes of us even doing this." Danny points out.

"So what's our plan, Your Majesty?" "It's Royal Highness, I'm not king yet, thank the ancients for that." "Yeah yeah, so what are we doing, Your Royal Whinyness?" "Rude. Anyway, there's a chance you might become a full halfa during the process, that means getting a second form and a fully developed core and powers besides the All Blade, which would be better than you dying. So the best way to ensure that outcome, as much as any outcome can be guaranteed anyway, is to start the process of making you a halfa before the ceremony."

"Okay? How do we do that?" "Well, we gotta get some ecto in you - " "aren't you made of that? This better not be a pickup line" "no, not like that! I told you, this marriage doesn't have to be anything more than a contract, I'm about as thrilled about having to get married to save my people as you are about doing this to stop ghost from kicking your ass on a weekly basis." "Excuse me? I won all those fights!" "Yeah, after getting tossed into brick walls 5 times per ghost" "not every ghost tossed me into walls. Box Bitch did throw crates at me tho, that hurt." "Holyshit, Boxy is not messing around anymore huh? Well, makes sense, he's a father now. He doesn't wanna raise his little girl in these conditions. Still glad he lost, but I'm surprised Lunch Lady even agreed to him trying."

So they start Jason on his ecto diet and in the meantime the batfam is brought up to date about everything that's happening and they get to work, Batman gathers the JL to push back on the GIW's fuckery and all of Jason's siblings have an engagement party and a bachelor bash to plan. The girls decide to plan a Bachelorette party for Danny because he deserves to have a break as well.

Jason hates his stupid family, but Danny seems happy to be part of one again after so long, so he sucks it up and plays along.

It's possible that maybe while preparing and planning and helping each other and working together, Jason has gotten to know and developed a fondness for Danny.

Okay so maybe he's a sappy fuck who fell head over heels in love with him in the span of like a month, but this is still just a contract to Danny, and Jason isn't going to push for or expect anything more. Danny doesn't need that kind of stress in his life rn.

Danny has been freaking out since he met his soon to be husband because holyshit that's Red Hood, that is THE Red Hood! No wonder he passed the trial of the All Blade, and the way that fire burned around Danny's core, a fire he now recognized as the warmth answering from Jason's own, made him realize that this is way more than just a contract to him. Still, he'd been part of the realms for a lot longer than Jason ans he was their future king. Jason as part of this contract would be his equal but until the marriage was sealed, he was still technically Jason’s superior. And it didn't feel right to take adventage of that and suddenly change the terms of this deal, to make Jason in any way feel pressured by Danny's own feelings. No, this was just a contract, like Jason wanted it to be. He would keep that promise to him.

Jazz and Babs get together to help their idiot baby brothers figure out their unrequited love is actually very much mutual pining and they're just being stupid.

Anyway the marriage ceremony is a different ritual from the engagement ceremony, the All Blade wielder summons it and presents it to the wearer of the ring, who sheaths it back into the summoner's core, symbolizing that they both have power over the Blade but it belongs to its wielder, and even the king himself may not keep it without permission. The Blade as a manifestation of Jason's will.

(And as a bonus, we know Jason is a literary nerd so he recognizes and appreciates the romance novel tropes happening to him, especially in the high king's court, but he is not a weeb. So I don't think he'd recognize the Utena references happening to him. But you know who I think would? You know who is a weeb who loves swords and is soooo jealous of Todd and his husband right now? It's Damian. Damian's fucking seething that he doesn't get a magic sword. He's so pissed and it's very funny.)

[ddarker-dreams]

Nexus V.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, possessive behavior, codependency o'clock, implied/mentioned not SFW, coercion and mommy issues. Word count: 10.1k.

Nexus index.

Time is a way to measure reality. 

It allows the woefully inadequate mind of a sentient being to process a sliver of something greater. The senses are a sieve that retains what little they can of the universe’s riptide. Considering this, it’s no wonder the Aeons tend to keep to themselves. How long would you entertain the whims of a speck of dust? You’d gain nothing from it. The dust cannot understand, it lacks the means to properly perceive you. It simply wishes to find a nice, comfortable spot to occupy its days. It can loathe, revere, or fear you, it matters not; for in the end, it’s nothing but a speck of dust. 

So why do the Aeons occasionally make themselves known? What do they stand to gain? Further power, enlightenment, entertainment? 

They should’ve just kept wading through the stellar sea. 

Specks of dust shouldn’t be allowed to wield even an ounce of their power. 

All it does is let them destroy themselves and others in new, horrific ways. 

The white rings around your mother’s pupils shine. 

She subjects Kafka and Blade to concurrent curses. Cutting, snipping, trimming; their psyches are flayed one layer at a time. How she does so rivals a butcher preparing a tender cut more than a doctor performing a delicate surgery. Inky blots propagate along Blade’s vision. From this limited perspective, you can’t determine Kafka’s condition. Not that it would matter, you can barely comprehend what Blade’s going through. 

Mother has to be forming a link, right?

Ideally, both parties consent to a link’s formation. This grants stability and lowers the chances of complications. An unwelcome link is treated with the same hostility as an immune system that’s noticed a germ. It’s sought out, identified, then exterminated. The host may suffer malaise for a time, but if their body is in working order, the problem will sort itself out. 

There has to be more to this, you surmise. Mom, please, don’t let this be the end. You can’t. Not you. 

The disease inflicted on Blade metastasizes; Kafka is likely facing a similar predicament. Memories swarm around him like locusts, buzzing and biting. 

The Zhuming is the womb from which divine weapons are born. It is the warden to the subdued Flint Emperor, whose flames once burned hot enough to rival the stars. These flames will one day exterminate the rampant borisin, the young boy is certain. Whether it be in his lifetime or not doesn’t matter. No child deserves to be made an orphan. He can’t undo what’s been done to him, but he can help prevent it from happening to others. 

“If you believe you are up to the task, I will take you on as my apprentice. What you do with the knowledge I impart is your decision.” 

This Foxian lady sent to retrieve support for the fight against the borisin loves to chat. There’s rarely an instance where a grin can’t be found on her face, wide enough that her eyes must squish to accommodate her exuberance. 

“Just focus on what you want to do, and let fate take its course."

Those who belong to the short-life species cannot grasp a nebulous concept such as ‘fate.’ This sentiment is commonly found among his fellow Artisanship Commission members. It doesn’t deter him — if anything, his resolve is strengthened. His life won’t be as long as theirs, but it will burn hot and bright before it extinguishes. 

“The borisins must pay the price for their evil.” 

One day, a lady with long, silver hair, who has conquered the moon and brought it to heel, approaches him. The air around here is crisp, contrasting the sweltering air of the Zhuming. She reminds him of the winters he experienced on his home planet. He had forgotten how frost stings. 

“A talent such as yours shouldn’t be left to drown amidst a mediocre sea. After this visit, I’m bound for the Loufu. A seat will be made available for you. Come and reach your full potential, or, languish here where your accolades will fade from history’s recollection.” 

The Shard Sword, Starfall Reverie, Cloud-Piercer, and Baiheng’s recurve bow were no longer what he treasured most. Those monumental accomplishments don’t enrich lives, it ends them. Standing here, where the ocean’s blue is more brilliant than the artificial sky, is where he’s found something akin to peace. The Scalegorge Waterscape has become a gathering place for friends. Laughter, sparring, and the burning of liquor are shared beneath the moon’s watchful eye. 

He raises a cup to his lips and silently wishes this joy could last forever. 

“Do you remember?”

This voice interrogated him unceasingly for answers they both knew he couldn’t give. Again and again, he’d undergo a punishment disguised as a lesson. Frost didn’t just sting, it imparted necrosis, yet what is decomposition to an immortal but a joke? Again and again, his flesh would be pierced, organs punctured with expert execution. His body wasn’t allowed the privilege to rot. 

Again and again, he’d be swallowed by death, only to be spat back up, as it’s unable to digest him. 

"Listen, I can always kill you again, otherwise I can't bring you back."

What he thought to be prey standing in his way turned out to be apex predators. A woman who could render him useless with her words alone and a suit of armor that reflected the sun in his weary eyes. He had to get his fill of death before considering her offer. It sounded too good to be true, but he was reminded that the universe has enough instruments to perform the threnody he so desperately wishes to hear. 

“Having trouble settling on a gift? Hm… I suppose that’s to be expected. Any off-world flora you leave behind will shrivel beneath the planet’s atmosphere, unless it possesses special qualities. It’d be a bad omen to give her a lotus that can wilt. Why not try a different approach?”

He stands solitary on the cragged terrain around the LOTUS-EATER. Though she’ll soon emerge to gaze up at the starless sky, his wait won’t end there. It’ll bleed into the next day, then the day after that, on and on the cycle will spin. Destiny’s Slave promised this vortex would end so long as he remained patient. Once he fully bows down before her, damnation will be her crown. The weight of his burden is to be shared by two. 

He considers the iridescent crystals in his bandaged hands. 

He thought the joy he found in creation died the same day ▇▇▇▇▇ did. 

This emotion’s resurrection, however…

… If it’s a sin, then what’s another addition to his list? 

“Listen, Blade, snap out of it.”

The swarm falls silent. 

Bright screens, the thrum of the oxygen generator, sterile colors. Kafka towers over him, implying that he’s fallen to the ground. Her complexion lacks its usual glow. While Blade stands, she reaches inside her jacket and pulls out a portable blush. She dusts the rosy powder over her cheeks. 

“That was unpleasant,” Kafka sighs. She snaps the container shut. “I guess that’s to be expected from one of Noct’s Emanators. It seems you bore the brunt of it, though.” 

Mom, an Emanator? You think. Maybe… maybe that means she had a chance to get away. This was a diversion that she used to go into hiding. Faking a corpse is within their skillset, Silver Wolf can hack reality itself. I only looked at it long enough to confirm her identity. 

Blade places a hand on his throbbing head and grimaces. His vision alternates between different degrees of blurriness. Kafka’s positioned in front of him, which prevents you from seeing the area your mother occupied. You pray to anything that might listen for her to fucking move already.

“That trip down memory lane was a red herring,” Kafka says. “She bought herself enough time to complete her real objective.” 

Even Kafka thinks so! 

Instead of explaining further, she leisurely reaches for her lipstick. Your frustration boils over. You aren’t the only one feeling impatient. Blade hasn’t uttered a word, but his typical apathy ebbs and flows irregularly. Kafka hums a tune as she smears the rouge pigment along her puckered lips. This whimsical attitude shows no signs of tapering off. 

Blade exhales sharply, belying his annoyance. He’s near his limit as well.

Kafka clicks her tongue. “Don’t be so impatient, you two. I’m dolling myself up.” 

…‘You two?’

“Yes. Now, let me assess the damage,” Kafka switches from looking at Blade to inspecting his psyche. She gasps, playing the role of a melodramatic damsel perfectly. “Oh my. Ania did a number on you.” 

This woman is insufferable, always playing coy. I swear, the next time I see her—

“Your memories of [First] Phaeales, the visceral emotions she stirs up in you; they’re growing fuzzier by the second, I presume? In an hour or so, they’ll be gone altogether. Hmm… ‘gone’ might not be the best word to describe it. Sealed away might be more appropriate.” 

A premonition too cruel to put into words coils around you. 

No, no, no. 

“Can you fix it?” Blade strains. The hypothetical Kafka suggested encourages his mara to writhe and hiss in dissatisfaction. It crawls around his head, murmurs near his cochlea in a scratchy voice, demanding a quick fix. To be deprived of you is unacceptable, it insists. This sentencing must be overturned. It wants you, needs you and will destroy anything to have you. Himself included. 

Pandemonium wreaks havoc inside his head, it’s like he barely exists. The warring influences rip away as if drawing and quartering him. 

“I can’t, no. It’s beyond my abilities,” Kafka’s smile is all teeth. “Fortunately, I do know of someone who can undo it.” 

His mara hushes so it may hear her out. 

“Contact them,” he snaps. 

“You’d get all bashful if I did. Besides, I don’t think she’d do a very thorough job if she knew the context.” 

Kafka stares Blade in the eye and tilts her head like she’s posing for the camera. “Isn’t that right, Miss Phaeales?” 

You think you might be living in a nightmare. 

Please, no…

Blade’s heart lurches inside his chest at your mention. 

“Listen, Bladie. Until [First] Phaeales undoes her mother’s seal, you’ll be unable to remember the past twenty-four hours. The second the seal is undone, this memory, on June 8th, 2153 AE, starting from Eris’ local time of 0223 and concluding at 0214, will resurface in your consciousness. It will play for her so she’s fully caught up.” 

How could something this awful… ever happen…? 

The edges of the memory fade and curl inward like burning paper. 

“I’ll throw in some advice, just for you, sweetie. He’s bound to get tongue-tied around you, so remember to be patient,” Kafka’s suggestion is muffled. “Oh, and another thing. You might want to get a headstart while you can.” 

… 

You can’t breathe. 

The room performs for you, rippling side to side, hypnotizing as a pocket watch. A white blur whirrs by. Clink, clink, clink, it crashes, spurting its innards in a splatter of red and glimmering gold. The sound itself seems delayed, echoing a moment too late. It isn’t in time with the opal shards that scatter like teeth along the polished floor. The deluge is offbeat, dissonant, yet the song continues.

You can’t breathe. 

The percussion is ousted, making way for the woodwind section. The flutes raise and raise in pitch. This tocsin sounds shrill and consistent, stabbing your eardrums, and vibrating your bones. Dizziness makes for a distracting audience member, its dry, unblinking eyes landing on you. It opens its maw impossibly wide, tearing the tendons around its cracked lips, and swallows your head. For some reason, it cannot go past your neck, so it contents itself with gorging on your cranium like it’s sucking candy. 

You can’t breathe. 

There’s something living inside your throat. A parasite, leech, or slug, maybe. It wriggles back up whenever you try swallowing, like jello on a wobbling plate. The tiny hairs along its gelatinous body tickle your esophagus. You’re always on the precipice of choking, but not quite. It delights in the warm and moist cavern you’ve provided. 

You can’t die because it wants more from you. 

You can’t be reduced to a husk because your vitality sustains it. 

You can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe—

Something awful touches your skin and you want to burn the residue it leaves behind. 

“[First].” 

You scramble back until your spine hits a cold, solid surface. A hand retracts. 

What is this thing before you? It’s tall and has eyes like vats of blood. You see your reflection held captive inside the crimson miasma. The woman it shows resembles you in some ways and doesn’t in others. She looks afraid. Sickly. Lost somewhere between the junction of life and death. Traipsing, testing the fraying line’s integrity. One wrong step guarantees a plummet to inconceivable depths. 

“[First].” 

“Don’t,” you rasp, your voice wobbling like a transmission with a poor signal, “Don’t you fucking dare come near me!” 

He listens. For now, at least. You’d be a fool to mistake stalling for surrender. You press your back into the wall hard enough to ache. The enclosed space seemingly shrinks around you. You press a trembling hand over your heart, feeling how it hammers against your chest cavity. The room’s air is stifling. Your sympathetic nervous system can’t decide its course of action. Should the little oxygen you’re inhaling go to your brain or your heart? Delegation is a tricky endeavor. 

Blade’s gaze eats you alive.

He’s starving and you’re the only thing that can fill him.

The manifestation of his mara frightened you less. 

 Mom, what have I done? What can I do? 

“You should sit,” he says. You want to rip his vocal cords to shreds. “There’s nowhere to run and you know better than to fight.”

As if he had to remind you. 

The Shard Sword. So that’s the name of the terror he wields? You’ve read about it in history books, there are entire chapters dedicated to the High-Cloud Quintet’s exploits. Even if he were unarmed, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Any flesh wound will heal, any organ will stitch itself back together, and any death will be a temporary visit he’ll saunter back from.

Blade takes a step closer.

How do you get out of this? How do you get him to stop? What would get him to stop? 

What could he possibly want more than you? 

Oh.

The answer unfurls like a body bag. 

… There is one more thing, isn’t there? 

You thread your psyches together with a thin string. It’s too weak in its present state, the weight of your goal will make it snap instantly. You need to fortify it as best as you can. Otherwise, there is no place you can go where he won’t find you. The prismatic shards that record his history are no longer indecipherable, each moment is visible to you, forming a macabre mosaic. 

The second you finalize this link, he’ll know. Your touch isn’t a stranger to his mind anymore. Nothing about you is. 

You recall the shattered opal goblet a few feet away. 

You let your knees buckle like they’ve desired all along. You fall toward the jagged shards and you brace yourself. It happens as swiftly as you expected — his inhuman speed allows him to catch you easily. He steadies you against him, holding you up since the strength leaving your body wasn’t an act. 

Your hand brushes over a sliver of his skin. 

You wanted me to show you what it’s like to die, you think. It isn’t beyond my means at all, Yingxing!

The Synalink is a success. 

He might want you, but his longing for a permanent death eclipses that. 

This is a scenario unlike any you’ve ever built before. The dimensions are simple, you’re creating one static scene. It isn’t a vast galaxy with trade, economies, and conflicting ideals, teeming with planets that house millions of individuals who each have their own role in the story to play. Grass doesn’t have to blow just right, there aren’t bystanders whose conversations you need to generate and perform maintenance on. 

The stage you’ve built is, at its core, nothing. A vacuum you’ve molded into a cube and placed him in the middle of. 

You’ve cut off stimuli to each of his senses. He can’t perceive anything, because there’s nothing to perceive. 

His psyche shows no signs of resistance. This is what he wants, isn’t it? Total absolution. The loss of self, to be undone and woven into the universe’s indifferent tapestry. Every factor has aligned in your favor like a once-in-a-millennium syzygy. Your newfound knowledge of his past, his most innate desire being death, then the amplification physical touch brings. 

This isn’t an unknown pathogen, it’s a welcome salvation. 

You just have to maintain it. 

Your main hurdle is finding a way to do so while navigating the physical world. The slightest deviation could have catastrophic consequences, his acumen is that competent. How long can you sustain this Synalink if you don’t dedicate your entire attention to it? There’s no point of reference. For all you know, it could be impossible. 

Regardless, you have to try. 

Reopening your corporeal eyes, you find yourself in the private room. 

The Stellaron Hunter, who uses the alias ‘Blade,’ stands behind you like a cocked gun. 

He isn’t moving. The white rings in his eyes match yours. His vitals are consistent with what you see in clients immersed in Synalinks. Low respiration and heartbeat, and the paralysis of limbs so as to deter unwanted motor functions.

You hold your breath, shimmy out of his loosened grasp, and then cautiously take a step back.

Your heels crunch down on a stray fragment from the broken goblet. You cringe.

You expect the worst when you gather the courage to look at him again. 

Still nothing. 

Keeping your back against the wall, you awkwardly slide toward the door leading to The Lounge. 

The burning question of what to do next sears your mind. You have no faith or trust in Chrysus. There’s Caicias, but he’s in Mele. The fastest nectar guide would still take two hours, factoring in the repairs being done to the one in Thelx. Even if he did make it here, what could he do? Help you negotiate? Would Blade even give him the chance? You’d be condemning the elder quadrant leader to certain death. 

Who is in your star system? You’ve heard that the Astral Express has had run-ins with the Stellaron Hunters, but they could be millions of light-years away. Then there’s Kafka. If she goes too long without hearing from Blade, she won’t just sit around and let you scheme. Silver Wolf could hack into the LOTUS-EATER’s surveillance system or use thermal imaging to gauge the situation. 

The price of hope is too steep. 

Your fingers grope blindly for the door’s switch. You refuse to take your attention off Blade for a split second. You feel a protrusion, start to flick it up—

Sparks fly from the wall like frantic fireflies, joined by chunks of dark debris. Strands of your hair blow aside as if subject to a wicked gale. Sediment scratches at your skin. Out of instinct, your eyes squeeze shut, shielding you from what they can. A figure towers above you. You can’t see him, but you can feel him. The torment, bloodlust, and yearning are so prevalent that they may as well be in the room alongside you. 

Through a looking glass, you saw the reflections of a wretched life.

How he fell victim to a friend unwilling to accept a comrade’s untimely demise. That for this incursion, death would never grant him permanent residency. Over a thousand times, a swordmaster gripped by madness tested this ordinance, her strikes colder than winter’s wrath.

He’d lose a piece of himself each time, leaving a mangled afterimage of what he once was.

A sinner rendered mara-struck and immortal — a shade that will dye you his accursed color. 

Blade pins your wrists above your head. It hurts, but you’ve learned there’s pain worse than this. 

“Open your eyes.” 

It isn’t a request. 

You hesitate for as long as he allows. Ultimately, you have no choice but to give him what he wants. Scarlet eyes reward your reluctant obedience. Leering, glowing. Your chest heaves beneath the burden of each breath. Something wet and warm trickles down your cheek. It titillates the flames of his mara as if it’d been lathered in oil. He shackles your wrists with his gloved hand and drags the other downward. Over your temple, cheekbone, then finally, your chin. 

He tilts your head up. 

Neither of you speak. 

How? How did he break free? 

You didn’t sense any fluctuations, nothing that’d warn of your incoming fate. Your control didn’t slip, it was pulled out right from underneath you. 

Isn’t death what every segment of his psyche seeks? His rationality, morality, and base instincts were all in agreement, a unanimous jury that didn’t require deliberation. 

What unforeseen note upset this triad? 

Your reflection in his eyes is drenched in red.  

“Haha… seriously?” You laugh a humorless laugh. “Me?” 

Blade doesn’t respond. You don’t know if he heard you. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He is the author of whatever happens next. 

A butterfly with injured wings loses none of its original beauty. If anything, it’s made easier to admire, now that it can no longer fly away. You have nowhere to go, nothing to do, and not a word to say that’d make a difference. This futility reassures his mara. That which was held above its head has been made to crawl along the ground. Blade seizes total control of himself as his mara slinks away. Cognizant of his bruising grip, he releases you. Without his crushing support, you collapse like a house of cards. Your knees hit the ground. 

You sink down further and squeeze your head in between your hands. 

It hurts, mom, it hurts. Why couldn’t you give me up one more time? ‘My’ life never belonged to me in the first place, anyway. You should’ve granted the shift in ownership when it was still a choice. 

… I’m scared. 

There is no getting out of this, is there?

Metal clinks by your side. Dazedly, you inspect the sound’s source. A silver dagger rests beside you. It’s small in build, yet pointed as a weapon should be. Your attention flitters between him and the blade. What is this? A pitiful attempt to level the playing field? Has he not humiliated you enough? Taken everything that wasn’t yours to give? 

Sensing your confusion, he explains, “Sins should be punished.” 

You grasp the hilt. 

It’s heavy. 

“What… are you even saying…?” You murmur. Is he referring to your mother? “It’s ‘permissible’ to take life, according to you.” 

You recount his creed with the venom it merits. 

He falls silent. 

“Not yours… not for free,” he drawls. “I’ll pay any price.” 

Transactions benefit both parties. What’s there for him to gain? 

You stand on unsteady legs.

Blade’s countenance is an impenetrable fortress. The violent waves have settled, leaving still, murky waters. Is it twisted affection swirling in his gaze? Guilt? The celebration of a long-fought battle? You don’t know. You don’t know what to think, feel, or do. You’re just numb. What will you be after this? Your mother likened their designs for you to a ‘retractable leash.’ Close, but not quite. 

You’ll be more of a portable oxygen tank. 

Kafka can’t always be there to soothe Blade’s mara, but you can. You will. You have to. It’s a duty that binds more than marriage. 

If transactions benefit both parties, then… 

What he’s offering to pay for here is you. 

Your eyes drop down to the dagger. 

The currency will be blood and flesh. He’ll let you kill him, however you want, for as long as you want. Ten, one hundred, one thousand times or beyond, until you feel the scales have balanced. The blank canvas has given you the tools to create your final masterpiece. Once the paint dries, the roles will reverse. The subjugated will become the subjugator. It isn’t a matter of if, it’s a matter of when. 

You raise the dagger, his cold heart your target. It’s yours. A gift, a burden, an unbreakable vow. 

You plunge it down, and—

—He doesn’t even flinch. 

The tip of the blade rips his shirt, but not his flesh. 

You toss it aside and shake your head. 

“Has anything worthwhile… ever come from killing you…?” 

Blade doesn’t respond, but you know he heard you. 

He furrows his eyebrows, your question hanging over his head. Whatever he expected, this must not have been a possibility he accounted for. Had he been anyone else, he might conflate mercy for forgiveness. He isn’t, though. He knows the crippling weight of guilt. How it secretly imbues you with a craving for more, so you can finally be crushed to death, instead of being forced to roll the boulder onward. 

Each slice would be for him as much as it is for you. 

If that’s penance to him, you will never grant it. 

“My mom…” you trail off, not because you don’t know how to complete the sentence, but because finishing it will finish something inside you. “Is she…?” 

Blade’s memories have made their way back to him using you as their bridge. You could parse through them, but you don’t want to. You don’t think he’ll lie. He hasn’t lied to you as far as he knew. The truth is worse and the truth is what you’ll get. The emotions you pick up from him hint at what you already know. They nibble at you as piranhas would. Notably missing from the onslaught is any iteration of guilt or its distant cousin, regret. 

He’d die a thousand deaths to pay the fee of having you. What’s a little more bloodshed to someone who views death as enviable? 

“Never mind,” you murmur. “Forget I asked.” 

He won’t. 

He refuses to forget anything about you ever again. 

For now, he’ll pretend otherwise. 

You’ve decided that from this distance, Eris looks like a marble. 

It’s just a little black sphere, infused with the occasional stream of gold. You center the image in between your thumb and pointer finger, making minuscule adjustments until it fits just right. Once you’re content, you hold it there, squinting your left eye so this speck’s the main focus. 

As of the latest census in 2155 AE, the planet Eris is thought to have a population of 2,912,840. 560,432 in Ade, 1,510,781 in Mele, an estimated 200,400 in Arc, and 641,227 in your home quadrant of Thelx. Each of those numbers can be attributed to a living, breathing being. Someone with their own family, history, ethics, dreams, and struggles. Your fellow Nymphalians, descendants of prisoners dumped on a dark and frigid planet to die.

You thought you’d given them your life before. In a pretty, metaphorical sense, that could be made into poems for generations. 

Your conversation with Destiny’s Slave reassured you that no, there’s nothing pretty or metaphorical about what awaits you. No one will be penning sentimental poems detailing an ascetic’s life led in solitude so that the people may prosper. You’ll be a cold case. For a week, your name will be a hot topic on primetime television. A headline sprawled in large font across news media companies. ‘Tragedy Strikes: Eris’ [First] Phaeales Kidnapped, IPC Implicates Stellaron Hunters,’ or something to that effect. 

Then another calamity will occur and you’ll be pushed from the public’s consciousness. 

You might get a special mention on anniversaries. The first, fifth, tenth, fiftieth, then the hundredth. Podcasts will do deep dives. Books will be written. Forum boards will swap theories. Who knows? An anonymous user might guess the truth and be labeled a conspiracy theorist for their troubles.

You pinch your thumb and pointer finger together, smushing the faraway planet from your perspective. 

“Boom!” You exclaim in a whisper yell. “Is that how easy it is to you?” 

He doesn’t respond. 

You turn away from the sheet of glass separating you from the limitless depths of outer space. 

“The silent treatment, huh?” You muse, drumming your fingers against the window pane. “You saw this future and worked oh so hard to procure it. What? Having second thoughts, now that it’s here? That’d be a shame.” 

There’s something ugly living inside your heart. It’s been there since you were born and will remain until you die. Maybe it lives inside everyone, you can’t say, you can only speak for yourself. Kindness isn’t inherent, it’s learned. Practiced so that it may be honed. Otherwise, the steel grows dull and rusts. Sharpening means losing layers of yourself against a whetstone. Those layers are worth losing, you’re told. Spite, vengeance, hatred; they’re all so, so ugly. Little imps that should be sandpapered away. 

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, that sort of platitude. It’s nice bumper sticker material. Something to slap on a graphic tee or coffee cup, maybe. To be fair, practicing the antithesis isn’t so simple either. 

You don’t want his eye, it’ll grow back.

You don’t want his life, he’ll just be born anew. 

You don’t want him, but from now on, he’s all you’ll get. 

“Are you curious about the deal I made with Elio?” You probe. 

Blade sighs, likely preparing himself for the vitriol you’ll slew his way. 

“I don’t need to know.” 

“You want to know, though,” you smile thinly. “I could feel you brooding from rooms away. What? Does the thought of me speaking to another man displease you that—” 

He rushes forward and lifts you by the collar of your blouse. You don’t waver, if anything, you could get drunk off this emotional outburst. His nostrils flare and you can feel his warm breath fan against your face. Your heart whirrs strong against its bony restraints, adrenaline blasting throughout your system. 

“That mouth of yours is testing me,” he chuckles, although he’s far from amused. “Have you forgotten the position you’re in?” 

“Have you?” You scoff. His grip tightens. “Go ahead. Choke me, ravish me. You can’t bring yourself to though, can you? Want to know why? Hm? You’re holding out for the slim, impossible chance that I might return your fucked up feelings, even if just a little bit.�� 

Scornfully, you whisper, “Elio was generous enough to answer some of my questions. The extent of the Stellaron’s influence, the true perpetrators behind the nectar guide bombing, why you’d get so pissy whenever Lear swung by… in retrospect, it’s painfully obvious, really. Messing with the LOTUS-EATER’s noise-canceling software is child’s play for Silver Wolf. Did you enjoy eavesdropping on us? Probably not, huh?” 

He growls your name, low and menacingly. It’s a warning.

You ignore him. Maybe you shouldn’t, but you do. 

“I never told him,” your lower lip trembles. “Because of you, I’ll never get to, either. You want to pay a price? Have your sins punished? Start by listening to this!” 

His mara bubbles up as if it were magma. For someone unraveling from the inside out, he doesn’t look the part. Emotion and vitality have drained from his face. His complexion is that of the dead man he wishes himself to be. Pale, vapid. He wants you to stop, yet the only way you would is if he tore out your tongue. To do so would guarantee he’d never get to hear those three words directed at him. He must consider that fate harrowing indeed if he allows the means for you to utter your next sentence. 

The finger you pricked all those years ago tingles. 

“Lear is the only one I’ve loved. The only one I’ll ever love. He gave me a life; you’ve destroyed mine. How could you ever compare, Yingxing? How can you even come close?” 

You wrench yourself free from Blade’s grasp. He lets you. 

His hands remain where you once were. Gradually, they fall, as do his shoulders and head. It’s peculiar. You’ve come to be so in tune with his emotions, picking up on frequencies only you can hear. This pitch falls silent. His mara is too. The infighting over where he should begin and end calls for a temporary cease-fire. Neither madness nor sanity care for victory, their attention has been cast elsewhere, to a more prominent problem. 

“It is.” 

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Earlier, you asked if it’s that easy for me,” he says, plainly. “It is.”

Your system absorbs the implication as well as it would cyanide. 

“Eris and all of its inhabitants are strictly off-limits. I figured you'd already heard this.” 

“I have.” 

“Then—” 

“It’s not loyalty that ties the Stellaron Hunters together,” he interrupts. “It’s the pursuit of individual goals which just happen to align.” 

Blade saunters forward. You bristle, awaiting unwanted physical contact, yet he brushes by your shoulder. His footsteps echo throughout the ship’s hollow corridors. You pivot, intent on following his every movement. He gazes out the window, your home planet his point of interest. The little black and gold marble orbited by four moons, far away from any star. 

“Goals change, lotus.” 

His eyes find yours in the window’s reflection. 

He’s bluffing. He has to be. 

“You’ve sought death for over 700 years,” is your uneasy reply. “Surely, you wouldn’t risk the one avenue you have to reach it.” 

“Didn’t I already betray that expectation of yours?”

Death is no longer what every segment of his psyche seeks, as it’s the one place he can’t have you.  

“... You’ve stopped running your mouth. Clever girl,” Blade flexes his fists by his side. The leather glove on his hand creaks as he does so. “If you think this an empty threat, I have a suggestion.”

Blade grins from ear to ear. 

“Repeat any of what you just said to me and I’ll prove it isn’t.” 

It’s as if his mara forms tendrils that slowly slither up your body. It caresses your thighs, your midriff, and your chest. Breathes against your nape and coils around your neck. You can’t find the strength to move. It wishes you would so that it’d have an excuse to hold you tighter. Squeeze harder. Sink into you deeper. 

You glower at him. His mara keens, finding the expression delightful. 

“Look at me like that any longer and I’ll take you up on your suggestion.”

You pinch your eyebrows together, belying your confusion. 

He wets his lips with his tongue.

“‘Choke me, ravish me,’ was it?” he muses, chuckling breathlessly. “Who am I to deny such a tempting offer?” 

Finally, you muster the effort necessary to break free from his hypnotic stare. You’re overcome with the need to scrub off every part of your skin he’s touched. You want the residue gone, purged from your flesh. Nausea floods you like a broken dam. 

You let him touch you, you let him kiss you, you let him fuck you.

He can’t have anything else. 

You don’t know what more there is to take. 

His eyes are heavy on your back as you leave the room. This spaceship’s decently big, but it’s not enough. A universe could separate you, but it still wouldn’t suffice. You’ll create any gap you can, illusionary or otherwise. You speed through the ship’s main corridor until you near what’s to be your room. Before you can open it, your hand stills.

Elio said we’re to leave on a job the second Silver Wolf starts distracting the IPC’s blockade, you think. That should be any minute now. 

Your blood freezes over.

After this ship makes the jump, you’ll never see Eris again. 

Or Nona. 

Or Lear. 

Will Nona continue to pursue her studies without you there to teach her? Is there a reason for her to? She’s come so far since you first met. That harsh, untrusting girl with a permanent scowl blossomed into something truly special. 

“Seriously? You’re supposed to be my mentor?”

“Alright, lemme set one thing straight. I’m here to save up enough to leave this shithole. If that hurts your feelings, go and cry to mommy about it, I couldn’t care less. It’ll be bad press to ship your latest Arc rescue back over, after all.” 

“Why do you care about this planet, anyway? Beyond whatever sense of purpose you get from playing the hero, I mean. All anyone here ever does is complain and half-ass things. ‘Let’s give anarchy a shot guys, but like, a nice version of anarchy, where we all hold hands around a campfire and sing songs.’ It’s hilarious.” 

“The first time I made it to Thelx’s border as a kid, I thought I was hallucinating. I asked my older travel buddy, ‘What’s with these tiny, floating yellow spheres?’ She didn’t even spare me a glance, she was so enchanted. ‘That’s light,’ she said. ‘Take a good, long look. You won’t be seeing much of it.’ I remember how angry hearing that made me. Not just what she was saying, but how she said it. Like she’d given up. Like that was acceptable.” 

“A cargo ship bound for Rosiz is heading out in three cycles. You and Lear could come with me, y’know. Elope, or whatever. My contact would allow it. Probably. Hey, don’t give me an answer right away. Geez. At least think about it.” 

“Yep, I’m still here. Surprise! My other plans fell through, what can I say? Apparently, Rosiz is run by a weird blood cult. I don’t want anything to do with that. Guess you’re stuck with me a while longer. What’s with that look? Yeah, I still think this planet’s a shithole. But, you’re here, so… it’s 5% less shitty, give or take. Lear brings that up to a whopping 15%. Yes, he gets a value of ten. Have you tasted his cooking?” 

Will Lear ever know how much it meant when he comforted the haughty and naive girl you once were? How without him, all you ever would’ve known was loneliness? You were a handful, there’s no doubting that. It’s a miracle he put up with you. 

He had the softest voice when you were kids. 

“I’m supposed to play the princess? But… but… I’m a boy, and you’re a girl… so shouldn’t you…? Ow, ow, stop pinching! Okay, okay! I’ll be the princess! Eh? Whaddya mean ‘you’ll kiss it better?’ Miss Phaeales? Miss Phaeales…?!?!?!”

“I’m back from work, my wife. Huh? Husbands don’t say that? No no no no, you can’t play the husband, I have to play the husband! Lemme try again! Ahem. From work, I have returned… woman… I’ve married. That’s no good either? This is so complicated!”

“I dunno why you like Connect Four so much. I mean, we could play Monopoly, but you always steal credits when I look away. No, that's not allowed! … You’re just ‘being a capitalist?’ What’s that mean? Cheater, or something?” 

He didn’t lose this soft quality when he became an adult — his tenderness was the air you breathed. 

“‘What do I want,’ huh? Where do I begin? To be a part of you, I guess? Ah, if I’d known you were going to grin like that, I wouldn’t have said anything. W-Well, of course I want you. I just don’t think the phrasing’s right. You’ve always viewed yourself as a commodity. I don’t want to reinforce such a terrible thought.”

“It’s… so good, so warm, so… fuck, please, don’t look at me like that. I can’t believe… that I get to do this with you. You’re beautiful, you’re everything…! I’ve always loved you so much. So, so much. Is this okay? Is it really okay? If it is, then please, let me pleasure you.” 

“Quit messing around with me already. There’s no way that was your first time. Because, I mean, you’re so sought after, y’know? You must’ve had tons of opportunities to— ow ow ow, again with the pinching?! Alright, I get it, I get it! Pfft, stop, don’t make it weird. Okay, fine, hearing that does make me a little happy. Aaand there you go, making it weird. No, I’m not possessive. You said you don’t like possessive men, so… what? Of course I remembered that. I remember everything you say. Wait… are you embarrassed? I didn’t… didn’t think that was possible… one sec, lemme get my camera…” 

You swore an oath not to cry.

You didn’t when packing the few items Blade approved of, or when you negotiated with Elio. 

It’s not that you don’t want to. Should your resolve slip for a second, you grow dangerously close to drowning in a puddle of your own tears. There’s plenty to cry about, plenty to mourn. Once you start, though, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop. You’ll waste away as your body’s wrung for all its worth. Should that happen, you won’t be able to uphold your end of the bargain with Elio. 

There’ll be a lot more to cry about then. 

For this reason, you don’t turn back. 

Your deal with Destiny’s Slave consists of two elements. 

First, you are to serve as Blade’s ‘field partner,’ offering him your unremitted support however he sees fit. And second, you pledge the full extent of your psionic abilities to further the Stellaron Hunters’ mission. This second condition perplexed you, but it wasn’t like you had many bargaining chips. For so long as you cooperate, Eris will remain unharmed and the nascent Stellaron neutralized. 

Kafka had called to ‘celebrate your inauguration.’ You braced yourself for the worst, but she was surprisingly amicable. 

“Have you really never considered your utility outside of parlor tricks?” She wondered. “The power to create fantasias and read memories certainly has its uses, no?” 

“I just don’t see how it’d contribute much,” you replied. 

“If it stopped there, maybe. Should you be able to replicate Ania Phaeales’ seals, though… that’d come in handy.” 

You gritted your teeth and read between the lines. They want that too, huh? 

You’ve since worked tirelessly to understand how such an anomaly is possible, much less replicable. Silver Wolf provided an updated version of the Arbiter training software to aid your endeavors. You’ve tried and failed hundreds of times. Deleting fragments of a person’s psyche has disastrous results, as you once hypothesized. If the Stellaron Hunters wanted a foe lobotomized, they wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of obtaining you. 

The holographic screen floating before you presents an error message. 

‘Generated psyche #643, Garçia Chamora, has been rendered comatose from suffering damage to his cerebral hemispheres. Press here or say next to generate a new psyche.’ 

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. 

This job on Rosiz requires a nobleman’s lifelong fealty to be sealed, you think. If I can’t figure this out before then… 

Your stomach jumps to your throat like you’re in a free fall. 

Leaning back in your chair, you swipe the screen away. You look at the digital clock in the ship’s common room. It reads 2:05 a.m. This shift to a twenty-four-hour time has been a pain, but you think this number means it’s late. While glancing around the uninspired decor, your eyes land on a solitary figure. 

Blade sits on a beige couch with his arms and legs crossed, his eyelids shut. You assume he’s asleep. There are plenty of comfortable beds he could veg out on, but wherever you are, he isn’t far behind. You don’t get why he’s playing prison warden. He can’t think you’re stupid enough to try escaping with almost three million lives dangling over your head, can he? Perhaps he’s getting off on your suffering. 

Whatever the case, you loathe having to breathe the same air as him. You wish he’d fuck off already. 

You’ve barely spoken to one another since he made his threat. If it has to do with the upcoming job, you’ll give a few curt words and nothing more. He’s never been outgoing, so without you initiating conversation, hours trudge by in tense silence. You’ve recently made the unfortunate realization his input on your mother’s seal would be useful. He was under it for two years, there must be some information you can glean from him. You need anything you can get.

The thought of asking him for assistance, though… it makes you sick. 

“What?” he asks, his voice gravelly from unuse. 

You tense. He could tell you were looking at him without opening his eyes? 

“Nothing,” you reply. 

He grunts and that’s the end of it. You pull the holographic screen back up, eager to distract yourself. Except, all you can focus on is the #643 in the bottom left corner. You’ve already made that many attempts without any progress? One of Kafka’s contacts is going to help sneak this ship onto Rosiz in two days. You’re running out of time. 

You spare Blade a quick glance. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t moved. 

Every muscle in your face scrunches up as if you’d bitten a lemon. 

Just get it over with, you tell yourself. 

“Blade?” 

He makes a noise to prove he heard you. 

“Can I… ask you a few questions?” 

“That depends on what they are.” 

You exhale shakily. “When your memories of me were sealed away, what did it feel like?” 

His mara murmurs, discontent at this reminder. He appears outwardly unaffected. 

“Why do you want to know?” 

You play with your skirt’s hem, picking at a loose thread. This is what you were afraid of. 

“Knowing will help me understand and replicate the seal better,” you explain. Then, you hastily add, “For the job.” 

All is silent. You shift in your seat. 

“That isn’t my concern,” is his eventual answer. 

Your jaw drops. “Wh— are you serious? You wouldn’t want to botch a job, would you?” 

“It wouldn’t be me ‘botching’ it,” Blade says, coolly, evenly. “It would be you.” 

You gnash your teeth together but bite your tongue. As callous as he’s acting, he isn’t wrong. He doesn’t owe you anything. Especially after you said what may have been the worst combination of words to him. You refuse to regret it, but you can follow the cause and effect. 

“You really don’t care about what’d happen?” You press, breathless. “Eris is my home. You lived there for months yourself, experienced the culture… does that mean nothing?” 

“Why do you ask questions you know you won’t like the answers to?”

Blade hasn’t so much as opened his eyes. You just don’t get it — you’ve peered inside his mind multiple times and still struggle to understand him. To what extent does he care about you, if that word even applies here? Does it stop at your physical well-being? Can his current nonchalance be attributed to your diatribe, or would he have acted this way regardless? He doesn’t make sense. He’s an enigma.

You decide to try another approach. 

“What about Nona? You’d still feel nothing then?” 

Finally, he opens his eyes. The warm hues feel cold. 

“I hold no ill will toward your student. I’d consider it a shame,” he says. Despite his impersonal word choice, he isn’t being sarcastic. That must mean something. Before you can expand on this, he smiles. It’s far from kind. “I see you’ve omitted your boyfriend from this thought exercise. A wise choice.” 

Your heart skips a beat.

Ah, fuck. 

“A word of advice, girl. Manipulation isn’t your forte.” 

It feels like a struggle between life and death to maintain eye contact. 

“Negotiation, though, you’re half-decent at,” Blade muses. He inclines his head to the side. “Well? Make me an offer.” 

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. What do you have to offer? In a business setting, you can lowball some figures, that’s how everyone starts. You doubt he’s interested in money or stocks. There’s your Synalink ability, but there’s no way he’ll put himself in a vulnerable position like that again. Everything’s been taken from you. Your business, assets, connections, leverage; all you have are the clothes on your back. Still, if he’s entertaining this conversation, there must be something. 

Goosebumps erupt all over your skin. “Are you… propositioning me?” 

“Oh? That’s how you’ve chosen to interpret it?” he raises an eyebrow. “If that’s your offer, I accept.” 

“No, I’m not—!”

“I know. Calm down,” he interrupts your panicked exclamation. “You’re easily rattled when exhausted.” 

Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that it’s difficult to hear him. 

“Relax. The next time I take you, I want you willing.” 

The next time? Is he delusional? Has he suffered long-term memory loss? You’d sooner saw off your hand than sleep with him ever again. You come dangerously close to voicing this, but ultimately decide against it. You need him in an agreeable mood. This seal — have you been set up for failure? You can’t imagine why they’d bother. Still, there’s no singular script, as per Elio’s own admission. It’s a string of possibilities loosely connected by little choices. If one script isn’t followed, that means another has taken center stage. 

Should you be unable to deliver, that future has been accounted for as well. 

It’s a future that can’t come to pass.

Blade speaks your name. 

“Come over here,” he says. 

Your eyes widen and lips part, horror painting itself across your countenance. 

He clicks his tongue. “Trust your own intuition. You said it yourself, didn’t you? That I’m ‘holding out.’”

You fight the urge to wince at the quotation. He’s the one who mentioned it, not you. This can’t count as an infraction on your behalf. Taking a deep breath, you start trekking over, counting each step. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… ah, it didn’t take anywhere near long enough. 

He pats the spot beside him. Once you’re situated, an arm coils around your shoulders, tugging you into his side. Your heart thumps away. This is reminiscent of the evenings you spent together in your office and on the balcony. The high you received from sex would fade away, replaced by this nice, soft haze. Talkative as you were then, there was something about those moments that kept you quiet. You’re not sure why. 

Maybe it’s because you realized you’d finally met someone lonelier than yourself. 

“You’ve hardly eaten or slept. That I can understand,” Blade says. “What I don’t get, however, is why you haven’t cried.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You’re often on the verge of tears. Like now, for instance,” he points out. You struggle to swallow the lump in your throat. “Why not let it go?” 

Something already broken in you shatters beyond recognition.

“What good would that do?!” 

Your fingernails dig into your palms hard enough to bruise the sensitive flesh. 

“I’m nothing, I-I have nothing, I’m—” you laugh and laugh, making your throat feel scratchier than it already is. “I wanted to do so much…! I was stupid. So stupid! I actually thought that I could— could find a way to fix things, if only I kept working, kept trying! There isn’t a way. There never was a way. We’re greedy, we’re awful, we’re ignorant. A planet like that… a universe like this… so long as we’re in it, it’s fucked, it’s all fucked.” 

You shake your head. “I may have hated her, but I still wanted to be her. To outdo her. Prove that I could’ve done it better, that change was possible, so she’d have no excuse. I couldn’t do either. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d just be delaying Eris’ inevitable fate like she did.”

Your shoulders heave with each painful breath you take. 

“Did she feel vindicated in the end? Think that by saving me once, it’d make up for all the times she didn’t?”

Whether you’re talking to him or yourself, you can’t tell anymore. It doesn’t make a difference. Speaking the truth aloud doesn’t make it any more or less real. It just leaves a bitter taste that’ll never go away. 

“If she cared so much, why did she never tell me?” You whisper, your voice cracking. “What was she so afraid of…?”

What was I so afraid of?

Tears trickle down your face in a free flow. The drizzle shifts to a torrential downpour, no matter how hard you try shaking or shutting it off. There’s no point in telling him this. You’ll probably regret it, somewhere down the line. 

You faintly register how your body moves without your input. Blinking the wetness in your eyelashes away as best as you can, you see gold patterns. There’s weight around your shoulders too. Weight and warmth. The scent of blood and anise. 

He’s pulled you into an embrace against his chest. 

You twist and jerk your limbs around, attempting to purchase freedom you can’t afford. You yell at him, curse him, beg him to let you go, and still, his grip never relents. He just holds you there, your struggles amounting to nothing, your pleas falling on deaf ears. His grip doesn’t feel tight until you try wriggling yourself out of it. Then, and only then, are you hit with the realization he could crush you so easily. It must take a great deal of self-restraint to avoid doing so. 

The fight leaves your body and you tremble like a leaf in the wind.

His large hand runs over your back, slow and steady, as if his touch were destined to soothe rather than destroy. 

Your well of tears runs dry eventually. 

“When you live for others, you’ll die for them too.”

Blade’s statement doesn’t make you feel better or worse. It washes over you without soaking in. Whether it’s a warning for you or condemnation for yourself, you don’t know. Perhaps the two overlap in an unsightly hybrid. 

Some time passes before he speaks again. 

“The day that man drew his weapon on you, I felt something stir, as rousing from a long slumber,” Blade reveals. “I assumed it should remain undisturbed.” 

This is your chance. You detach yourself from him enough to look him in the eyes. He loosens his grip just enough to allow this, but no more. The vice would tighten should you try extracting yourself further. You wipe away the moisture clinging to your lower eyelashes with your wrists. Since he’s sitting, he isn’t towering over you. This small detail aids your waning resolve. 

“What made you assume that?” 

His bandaged hand cups your tear-stained cheeks. You wince, but allow him his indulgence. 

“Instinct,” he murmurs. 

Your eyebrows pinch together as you think. That wasn’t what you were expecting. You guessed that’d it feel like something significant was missing — a gaping hole. That the individual would want to fill it. Curiosity is the sentient being’s natural state, after all. Especially since this should’ve been an element of itself the mind wishes to reinstitute. Yearning, affection, and care; even if it’s a vestige of the full experience, these positive emotions shouldn’t set off alarm bells. 

Unless the mind decided it was worth suppressing. 

Maybe your mother wasn’t using the influx of memories inflected on Blade as a ‘red herring.’ Kafka adores messing with you, she could’ve floated the idea because she knew you’d hear it in the future. What was your mother doing then? Pulling up key instances throughout Blade’s life, specifically those with heightened emotions and long-lasting influences… 

What if it’s not so much altering memories, but altering the mind’s perception of them? 

The Arbiter training software is bound to your movements, which allows it to manifest with a few hand gestures. The screen displays itself close to your right. You’d prefer to figure this out elsewhere, but Blade doesn’t appear interested in letting you go anytime soon. He silently observes as you pore over the generated psyche. You’re too focused to comment on how creepy he’s being. 

Liliana Kokot. 34. Short-life species. Citizen of the planet Punklorde. Witnessed the murder of her parents at a young age. Came to despise gang activity. Joined police academy. Assigned to the Homicide Unit by age 25. Discovered possible connections between the police chief and organized crime. 

You pull out the prismatic shard containing her parent’s murder. 

The mind has mechanisms to inhibit trauma that’d otherwise obliterate it. Repression, denial, projection, displacement, rationalization, and regression to name a few. In the same way, prisms have multiple sides. The one which refracts the most light will change depending on how it’s angled. 

You adjust the shard without changing its shape. Eventually, you find a side that deems this memory too much, beyond what Liliana can handle. It’s easily absorbed back alongside the other fragments. Except that now, the mind chooses to repress the memory, deep down in the subconscious where it cannot do irreparable harm. 

A ‘seal.’

“I get it now,” you wave the screen off. “It’s similar to a heart transplant. Mechanical valves aren’t integrated as smoothly as tissue valves. The body’s more willing to accept what’s similar to it in composition, as is the mind.” 

“You don’t look less troubled,” Blade notes. 

You scrunch up your nose. 

“I mean… this is— I don’t even know. It undermines what makes a person, well… who they are to the very core.” 

“When you accepted Elio’s deal, you knew you’d be an accessory to criminal activity. How is that any worse than homicide?” 

Blade’s refusal to sugarcoat the truth slashes through you like a phantasmal sword. Perhaps not a thousand times, but close enough. 

“This is your price, lotus.” 

You want to avert your gaze, but you don’t. It’d feel wrong, somehow. Cowardly. Hypocritical. 

No longer can you dwell on the currency itself. What matters now is ensuring you pay your dues on time. 

Your debt extends beyond Destiny’s Slave. There’s another proprietor you must settle with, for even the slightest peace of mind. 

“Blade— no, Yingxing,” you correct yourself. His muscles stiffen, his true name having gone unspoken for so long devoid of contempt. “I may have made a deal with Elio, but… I haven’t personally made one with you. I’d like to change that.” 

You can tell you’ve piqued his interest. 

“I swear on everything that is sacred to me that I’ll remain by your side until my final breath. In return, regardless of if I’m alive or dead, you’ll never harm my home or the people who inhabit it. Intentionally or otherwise.” 

His long, dark eyelashes flutter shut as he mulls over your proposal. He doesn’t take long. Soon enough, vermillion bores into you again. Candle wicks flicker inside them, alight with an emotion you refuse to name. 

“How do you finalize deals, Miss Phaeales?” Blade asks, moving aside a stray strand of hair from your face. 

It’s like the air’s been knocked from your lungs. He couldn’t have known, right? The ripples born when those two words are stitched together? Your chest feels tight and hollow all at once. It’s like your internal organs have liquified, leaving nothing but shapeless viscera. This isn’t the right voice. It should be softer, a tenor’s pitch, not a sonorous bass. 

“M-Miss Phaeales?”

You blink away a fresh set of tears. 

“A promise? Miss Phaeales, I don’t know if I can.”

“Hand me the dagger from before.” 

“I don’t really get you, Miss Phaeales, but… I wanna.”

He does, after a moment’s consideration. 

“It’s my fault, I should’ve killed that man, and now she’s in that criminal’s debt, because of me…!” 

You prick your pointer finger with the dagger’s tip, just enough to create trickling blood.

“Everything you just said — I can tell you believe it.”

He mirrors your actions. His skin quickly mends itself back together. 

“So why… why do you look so sad?”

I had so much to say, you think, bitterly. So, so much.

Blade’s bandaged hand falls to your lower back, where it softly pushes you forward. His gloved hand envelops your face, the leather refreshing against your feverish skin. His lips descend upon yours. You may have called the kiss tender had you known nothing about him. You do know him, however, as fate has decreed he’d get a better future at the cost of yours. It’s as if everyone was in on the joke, leaving you the odd one out. 

He murmurs words in between kisses that you fight desperately to unhear. 

When you pull back for air, you notice how madness surges and retreats in his eyes, as if it were ocean waves washing against the shore. 

The likeness helps. 

Pretending the red shade’s a brilliant blue instead comes easier. 

The next time he kisses you, you cautiously kiss back.  

A/N: i thought i'd feel satisfied when i finished nexus' last chapter, but i actually feel rather sad JTFSIKL i cannot overstate how much i enjoyed working on this story. it scratched a sci-fi itch i've had for over a decade now. when writing longer works, it's rare for me to not get caught on snags that sap my inspiration away. that never happened with this story though. from start to finish, i was contentedly tip tapping away on my keyboard.

i became enamored with this idea of a yandere story that didn't just revolve around the MC and yan, it just wasn't until i started outlining nexus that i had an excuse to explore this concept further.

the main cast of n darling, nona, and lear (an anon affectionately dubbed them the lotus trio, which is a term i loved enough to hijack) has become close to my heart. for that reason, writing this chapter physically hurt at times 😭 i wanted to swat blade away like a fly and have everything end nicely. from the very first sentence though, i knew this would be a tragedy, so it'd go against the Themes to pull a power of friendship ending.

at first, i worried about the reader's ability to empathize/connect with n darling, since her status and abilities aren't universal. like at all. the solution presented itself rather naturally. n darling, at least to me, stresses that simmering anger women feel the need to hide for professionality's sake. her experiences as a child where she's given responsibilities beyond her age's capacity, then in adulthood, where she isn't taken seriously (chrysus) or unintentionally infantilized (caicias). i'm sure many afab individuals can relate to some extent.

my primary interest was in having these two deeply frustrated individuals crash together and spill debris everywhere. i was given a little more liberty with blade's actions and dialogue, due to miss phaeales' id inducing presence, which drew out more than he'd normally give. as for blade's characterization, if he isn't in the throes of mara madness, i really can't see him being a hellion 24/7. he feels more somber to me when lucid.

of course, that changes if the right buttons are pressed... but that isn't exclusive to him.

since the final chapter is divided into three main scenes, i wanted to fully explore the three predominant ways i picture a yandere version of blade acting. the first is his guilt and shame, the second, his mara-induced sadism, and the third, a more neutral self where reason prevails.

i hope that you enjoyed reading nexus as much as i enjoyed writing it!! although the main storyline is finished, i'm by no means done with the universe as a whole. i'm planning a little epilogue for starters. then maybe some side stories from blade's perspective ?? who knows, the motivation's still there, so anything is possible.

thank you again 💖

-sincerely, lock.

Tag list: @99-nct @pixiestixes (idk why the tag thingy won't work but an effort was made) ...

[m00nsbaby]

Already over.

Main Steven Grant x F! reader. ( + Marc Spector x F! Reader)

Part 2. Sleepwalking.

Warnings & tags. ANGTS!! Cheating kinda but not really?, hurt, and all of thaaaat.

Word count. 3.4k

Summary.

We been talking for hours About how we shouldn't talk for hours on end. Kissing after a conversation About how we'd probably be better off as friends. Same time here next weekend Say, "We won't do this again" Make me fall where I stand Only like you can.

It had been a while since Steven and you had accepted your positions in Marc's life. Both of you were external parts of something larger, like small protrusions on a road that led nowhere.

You decided to understand it when you realized the burden Marc had to carry. Khonshu had taken hold of his psyche and shattered it as he pleased, although he was aware of his dissociative identity disorder, he had started to lose control a long time ago and this resulted in Steven finding out in the worst possible way. It was as if life itself had decided to break him in every possible way.

Hadn't he suffered enough already? Steven and you weren't going to take away the last thing he had.

The love of his life. Layla El-Faouly.

You envied her in different ways. Living a life of adventures with the man of your dreams sounded like something out of a book. She was a strong woman and the first in Marc's life, and therefore also in Steven's, but if there was something that broke your heart in half, it was knowing that she was happy with him.

It would be a lie to say that you weren't happy with Steven. He gave you all of himself and loved you in a way he never tried to hide. But for years now, you had been the one picking up the pieces of two broken people and putting them back together. And then, there was Layla, who didn't even know about the existence of her husband's alter ego, enjoying the best part.

The carefree part that stood above all the atrocities of daily life, simply having a nice date or the official title of his wife, with a ring and legal documents.

"Do you miss working at the museum?" Steven's fingers traced your waistline, occasionally pausing to press on the moles peeking beneath the fabric of your short shirt.

"You have no idea how much." You could never tell him how much you appreciated that he didn't lie to you. You knew he comforted Marc by telling him that life was perfect just the way it was.

You were face to face. You admired Steven's face in front of you.

Anyone would think that once the issue of his fake sleep disorder was cleared up, he would look less tired. Although there were still hundreds of nocturnal missions, and Khonshu destroyed the mercenary's body until an exhaustion beyond description, now Steven could sleep a few more hours, the ones where he used to force himself to read until the letters danced before him.

Nothing had changed at all. In fact, you could swear that the dark circles under his eyes were becoming more noticeable.

"I love you, Steven." You said suddenly, resting a hand on his cheek. His skin had always been so soft and delightfully warm.

You brought a smile to his face, the one that momentarily makes you forget that both of you feel that time is running out.

The one that makes you forget the slight resentment you have towards Marc.

"I love you…" He whispered before leaning forward, just enough to brush his lips against yours, a gentle touch as his hand rested on your waist, and his thumb traced circles on your bare skin.

He wasn't lying; Steven never lied.

You spent the rest of the afternoon kissing and chatting about what had happened during the week you couldn't see each other. You asked about Layla as you always did, he shrugged, and you wondered if he felt the same resentment towards her that you felt towards Marc.

"The idea of vegan hot wings is stupid," you laughed as you bit into the vegetable in your hand, the one that was trying to deceive you and pass for something else.

"The sauce tastes good!" Steven laughed with you, playfully pushing you with his shoulder. To hell with sitting face to face in restaurants; if your bodies weren't close enough, neither of you were comfortable.

"It's a fraud."

"It's delicious." Seeing you take another bite was enough to feel that he was right without you explicitly saying it.

"Do you want to come to my apartment later?" You sucked your thumb to clean the sauce from it. "Yesterday, I accidentally stumbled upon a garage sale and bought the dumbest movie I've ever seen, I got it for us. It's called Rubber, and it's about a homicidal car tire."

Under any other circumstances, Steven would have laughed with you, but he gave you that look that you already knew too well.

"I'm sorry, love." Suddenly, the fake wings didn't look so appetizing. "Marc is feeling better."

Ah. That.

That was the signal that he would be spending the night with Layla.

"That's fine." You nodded immediately, and you also felt disgusted with the food in your hand.

How much longer could you go on like this?

After a few seconds of silence, you cleared your throat. You had some time to come up with a change of conversation.

"What happened to your hand?" Your index finger touched Steven's injured knuckles.

"Marc didn't keep the suit on long enough; the larger wounds healed, but the rest didn't." He never lied, although this might be the exception. A minor injury to prevent a bigger one; he wouldn't ruin his life over a trivial matter.

You nodded slowly, planted a kiss on his shoulder, and continued with your attempt at a date, which was going perfectly until you remembered where you were standing.

The truth was that the night before, Steven had had a fight with Marc, one of those that hadn't happened since they threatened not to switch bodies back to each other.

"Are you two together, Steven?" He was about to explode, about to go crazy. This was the last thing he needed right now, adding more lies and involving more people. "I already told you, no!" Ever since you considered the possibility that Marc might find out, you had decided that if it was a panic situation, you would opt for the most efficient plan: Deny, deny, deny, deny. "Don't lie to me, not to me!" He never yelled; he was the calculating, quiet, and careful type, but even he had a breaking point, and if Steven was going to shout, then he would too. "Do you think I'm stupid, Steven?" It's funny because he hadn't had any doubts until a few weeks ago, so maybe he was a bit stupid, but he wouldn't say it out loud. "No, no, but…" "But?" "We're not together, Marc; she's my best friend." The second part was at least not a lie. He exhaled heavily and mentally thanked for being in front because dealing with anger, panic, and fear without having control over your body was a nightmare he had experienced before. Why did he ever buy so many mirrors? Marc's accusing gaze followed him around the apartment. "And you like her," Steven completed, another thing that wasn't a lie. "If I lose Layla because of you two, I swear I'll…" Adrenaline rushed through him; he lost control of his hand, which ended up against one of the mirrors, breaking it into a thousand pieces. "Marc!" The other didn't say anything, he watched from the reflection of some glass pieces as Steven's hand now bled, and tears filled his eyes. His body was used to large doses of pain, but emotionally, he wasn't used to seeing himself bleed or handling loud noises well. "We. Are. Not. Together." It was the last thing he said as he stretched his fingers and watched the blood flow between them. Marc was no longer in the reflection. He didn't want to object.

"Will I see you the day after tomorrow?" You could still see him tomorrow, but the idea of him coming to your place smelling of Layla's citrusy perfume always disgusted you. It was as if an extra day would be enough to erase any traces of her from his body.

"The day after tomorrow, without fail." Steven knew; he didn't question you. He placed a kiss on your forehead.

"I love you, Steven."

"I love you, sweetheart."

Receiving calls or visits at midnight was always terrifying, especially when you knew your partner was constantly at risk, and this time was no exception.

The strong knocks on the door woke you up, and knowing it could be no one else but him, you opened the door without hesitation. Clad only in Steven's shirt that barely covered your thighs, with messy hair and half-closed eyes because the hallway light bothered you in the darkness.

Marc's tearful eyes met yours, along with the strong aroma of whiskey that Steven had told you about before, the one that stung his nose.

"Are you okay?" It was the first thing you said as he analyzed you from head to toe. He hated you, hated that you looked so good in the middle of the night, and hated that he felt a sense of ownership just from seeing you in a shirt that was originally his.

He didn't answer, he walked straight into your apartment, and you could only step aside to let him pass.

The way he walked past the sofas to sit on the floor was frightening; you had spent time with Marc during bad moments, but you had never seen him like this. You didn't say anything, didn't press, you just walked behind him and sat down beside him on the cold floor.

Your mere presence was enough for his eyes to fill with tears again.

"I didn't know where to go," he whispered, breaking your heart into a thousand pieces with just a few words.

"Oh, Marc." You knelt beside him to have better access to his body, and within seconds, you had your arms wrapped around him, holding him close. "I'm here, calm down."

You didn't get more words from him for a while, just sobs and those annoying chest contractions you get when you try to breathe through crying. You could even feel the fabric of your shirt damp at the shoulder level from his tears.

"I'm scared." His voice was broken, trembling.

"I'm here." You repeated as you held him tighter.

He didn't have the strength to tell you. He was afraid of you. Afraid of the dreams where he saw himself with you, afraid of the way his heart raced the few times you crossed paths, afraid of losing Layla because of his feelings, and afraid of change.

He was terrified of the mere idea of his life changing completely again.

You played with his curls and stayed on your knees until they hurt, with him in your arms whimpering like a little kid.

"Let's go to bed, Marc." He didn't resist, and you led him by the hand.

Nor did he object when you helped him get rid of his clothes just so he could sleep a little better. He almost felt guilty about how comfortable he seemed to be in your bed.

You hugged him from behind, your two hands resting on his chest where you could feel the beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his breath. Your cheek enjoyed the warmth of his back.

When you woke up, there were no traces of Marc anymore.

"Meanwhile, Osiris' wife, Isis, searched tirelessly for his body and then…" The way you were looking at the ground while walking had caught Steven's attention for quite a while, but he didn't confirm his suspicions until he noticed you weren't participating in his narration as you always used to do. "Lovey?"

"Huh?"

"You seem distracted today."

"I'm sorry, I, it's just…" You cleared your throat while forcing a small smile on your face.

"Do you like it here?" He interrupted to finally point out an area in the park that seemed perfect for your plan. You immediately nodded with that fake smile, and both of you sat down carefully on the grass. You placed the book you had been carrying in one hand aside.

Steven handed you your ice cream and kept his own in the other hand.

"Can we talk?"

"Nothing good ever comes out of that, I've seen it in movies." Steven tried to joke, but hearing those words come out of your mouth made him sick to his stomach. Slowly, he rested his head on your lap.

Your hand, as if drawn by a magnet, went straight to his tousled curls. He closed his eyes and smiled; you had always compared that gesture to a puppy seeking more affection.

"We can't keep doing this to Marc, love." Your voice broke as you gave him those caresses he loved so much. "Nor to Layla, it's not fair to them."

Steven was looking at you again, with a terrified expression and a slight pout on his lips.

"And is it fair to us?" he snapped. Needless to say, both of you had long stopped paying attention to your sad ice creams; they were already melting into the grass.

"If Layla finds out, we'll ruin Marc's life." You tried to be the rational one between both of you, but with Steven's puppy eyes fixed on you, it was almost impossible to think clearly.

"And if we end… this, mine will be destroyed." Well, he had a point. "Please." His two hands went to your cheeks and pressed them gently, his forehead now resting against yours. "We can't. You can't." His lips claimed yours within seconds, and you could only respond as if life were slipping away.

Whom were you fooling? You were selfish enough to give in. After all, every night you created scenarios where Layla found out and left Marc, knowing that it would destroy him, but in your scenarios, you were there to comfort him, to prevent him from falling apart.

"I love you, Steven." You didn't get a response, but you didn't need to hear it; feeling the strength with which he held you was more than enough.

You were all he had, and he was all you had.

Life was better when you both pretended to have a life that wasn't yours. When you fantasized and made plans for a future you would both do anything to have.

"What do you think of that one?" You both looked like kids with your foreheads pressed against the glass that separated you from the kittens.

"They say the orange ones are crazy, lovey." The fact that Steven was just as interested as you in this fed your good mood entirely. "How about that one?"

"I like his or her fur." You pressed your index finger against the glass to try to get the attention of the kitty that was completely distracted playing with another.

"Love, love, love." He nudged you with his shoulder, making you laugh, so you looked at the opposite side, another part of the store.

You gasped.

"THAT ONE?" You had to cover your mouth when the tone of your voice caught the attention of other people in the place.

There was only one cat in the area reserved for senior cats. You knew it was harder for them to get adopted compared to the kittens, it was as if he was destined to be there.

"It's just a baby." You pouted slightly as you pulled Steven's hand, both walking straight towards the spot where the little cat was staring at you.

He was white, although half of his body was covered in black spots, reminiscent of a cow's fur. When you got closer, you noticed that the tip of one of his ears was missing.

Love at first sight.

"Hiya, mate." The guy next to you was as enchanted as you with the animal. "Uhm, what do you say?" He tilted his head towards the glass. The meow completed his performance. "Look how curious, he says he's looking for new parents."

You laughed, genuine happiness coursing through you. You didn't give Steven time to react before jumping into his arms; he lifted you a few inches off the ground in the middle of the hug.

You didn't care about drawing attention. In fact, having witnesses to your love made it feel more real, reminding you that it wasn't just a product of your imagination.

After he kissed your lips, you could feel the ground under your feet again. You couldn't stop smiling.

"Come on, let's fill out the form." Steven's heart was about to burst with love at any moment.

The instructions were clear: fill out the corresponding paperwork, a few days of socialization with the cat to make sure he felt comfortable with you, and by the following week, he would be yours.

"We'll come to see you, okay? And then we'll go home."

"See ya, buddy." Steven said his goodbye too. "Next week, you'll have the best home, the comfiest bed, and the best parents, I promise."

"What's wrong, Marc?" There was something scary about the idea of being alone with him without him being intoxicated or injured. You were taking off your scarf to leave it on a sofa while he watched you from his table, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest.

It was impossible to read his expression because Marc always seemed tense.

"She knows."

Your heart sank in seconds, and you looked at him in surprise.

"Ah?"

"She knows," he repeated. You swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought this was one of those silly dreams that sometimes distorted your reality.

"Knows what?"

"Please, don't treat me like I'm stupid." His tone of voice was enough to make you tremble. You immediately looked at the bathroom mirror.

Steven had told you that while one had control of the body, the other could be reflected in different surfaces, but of course, that only worked between them. No matter how much you looked, hoping that Steven would appear to save you, it didn't happen.

You didn't even know if he was aware of what Marc was doing.

"I don't…" Your voice died down slowly, and you refused to get closer to him. "What does she know?"

"About you." He took a step closer, and you felt immobilized. "She thinks you're my lover, like any sane person, she knows nothing about Steven."

You swallowed the lump in your throat as tears filled your eyes.

"You have to tell her, Marc, explain to her she…" He interrupted you in seconds; the way he raised his voice made you flinch.

"'She will understand?' Is that what you want to say?" He was getting closer, and you felt like he was taking your breath away. Why were you suddenly so afraid? "Yes, I'll tell her every damn thing that's wrong with me so that you can be happy."

Ouch.

"I-I'm saying it for you, Marc." Tears were already streaming down your face, and you mentally cursed yourself for the mere idea of showing so much weakness. "She has to know, it's best for you." And it was, of course, but you were resorting to your last resort to not lose Steven too.

And maybe, not lose Marc either.

"You don't know what's best for me, you have no idea." His sarcasm cut deep as he took the last step to confront you.

"Please, please, don't do this." You pleaded through sobs; your hands ended up on his cheeks. "Please." You pulled him closer to you.

He seemed to relax under your touch, at least for a few seconds. Your heart stopped when one of his hands rested on your waist.

"Don't make this harder, you're killing me." He was also begging, even as his forehead pressed against yours.

"We can get through this, Marc." You sniffed. "I promise, we can…"

A kiss. A desperate and painful kiss silenced your words; it was the only one Marc and you would share.

"Go," he whispered against your lips, still planting small kisses on them. "Please, I beg you, go."

And that was the final nail to seal the coffin between you both.

His hand made you take a step back, a very gentle push.

"I'm choosing her." He knew you better than he'd like, knowing that you wouldn't stop insisting unless he caused you permanent harm. Besides, how could he convince himself he wasn't in love with you if he didn't do this?

You looked at him incredulously, not believing his act, but there was nothing else you could do.

This time, you begged that Steven was present to hear everything that had transpired between you both because you wouldn't have the strength to end it after this. In fact, you didn't even know if you'd have the strength to live without him.

You didn't say anything more, you didn't look back at him, and he didn't change his mind. You left his apartment, leaving your scarf on his sofa as a final reminder of your presence in his life.

sorry, i got tired of happy endings

Part 2. Sleepwalking.

[amorphousbl0b]

Arcane does a fun thing with its narrative Darkest Hour.

Or: yet another post about how insanely smart this show is and how absolutely genius its writers are (and how jealous of them I am).

For the uninitiated, the Darkest Hour is the moment just before the climax in which the heroes are at their lowest point. When the Avengers are scattered and Loki opens the portal in NYC, when the Falcon has escaped the Death Star but lost Obi-Wan, when the Fire Nation is set to annihilate the Earth Kingdom, when Frodo fails to destroy the Ring at the Crack of Doom. The heroes must confront their flaws and change for the better for a happy ending.

Arcane’s darkest hour is, of course, in Act 3. One might place it at the very end of episode 9, and that’s certainly where the story is at its most hopeless. But I’d contend it starts as early as the end of episode 8 and carries on through the entirety of episode 9.

After all, that’s when Caitlyn and Vi have separated, lost all hope, and Cait is kidnapped by Jinx. Jinx’s mind is fully gone and throughout the episode everything falls apart around her. Silco is losing control of his chembarons and may well have lost his daughter, the thing most precious to him, and is only barely keeping his powerful façade in line. Zaun has realized how ridiculously outmatched they are in a war with Piltover and the revolutionary cause has become almost impossible. Viktor has manslaughtered his assistant and may never be cured. Jayce has manslaughtered a child and finally realizes how quickly he’s losing his morals. Mel and her mother are fully separating and she is struggling with her warlike destiny. Sevika gets the absolute snot beat out of her and limps to an empty office without a boss.

So yeah. Lot of personal Darkest Hours going on.

“But what’s the interesting thing?” I hear you ask in my ear. I don’t know why I hear you. Shut up. I’m writing. Are you even real?

Excuse me.

Arcane’s interesting twist on the Darkest Hour lies in part of the trope that I didn’t mention. That’s in the villain.

Most stories with a clear-cut villain have a plot structure something like this:

Whether things are going well for one side is inversely proportional to the other. During the Darkest Hour, when the hero is at their weakest, the villain is at their most dominant.

Wait… isn’t Silco the villain of Arcane? Not to be too blunt, but he’s having a shit time. Things are falling apart for him just as badly as for everyone else.

That's the trick. Caitlyn and Vi are suffering. Jinx is suffering. Silco is suffering. Jayce is suffering. Viktor is suffering. Zaun as a whole is suffering. There is only one party in the whole story that isn't suffering, that actually is benefitting from this horrid state of affairs...

EKKO AND HEIMERDINGER

Kidding. They're not really a part of this dance. A big part of Arcane's theming is that acting to help people without an agenda is simply more virtuous than fighting for any invariably-flawed nation that innately perpetuates the cycle of violence.

No, the side that is doing fine is the other that is conspicuously absent from my two prior lists. While the characters that make up its leadership are experiencing personal Darkest Hours, the organization itself is essentially on top of the world, having just scored a huge victory and getting set to bring the war to an end before it even begins. I mentioned how poor the situation for the Undercity looks, but not its counterpart.

Piltover.

Wasn't it so that Piltover started this whole mess? Didn't their oppression cause the revolt that orphaned Vi and Powder's parents? Isn't it their actions that drive Silco to ever greater extremes? Isn't it their normalized political backstabbing that causes Jayce to sacrifice his principles because that's the only way to get ahead? Isn't it their corrupt police force that lets Silco operate his drug empire with impunity?

Silco might look the part. He might be the most personally evil character, might be the one who causes the most misery for our main protagonists Vi and Powder.

But structurally, the shining city of Piltover, its political machine, and its Enforcers are the actual villains of Arcane.

[thus-spoke-lo]

late-night devil, put your hands on me // nsfw/18+ hisoka x afab!reader

cw: afab!reader [no pronouns used]; nonconsensual somnophilia; dubcon/noncon elements; vaginal fingering; rough sex; hisoka is his own content warning™ wc: 2k

Hisoka often wonders to what extent you, in all your mundane normalcy, can feel the weight of his bloodlust—if it settles on you like a lead blanket, or if it only fills you with that sudden, unexplained sense of dread you once described when he showed up at your door, covered in someone else’s blood and overflowing with a ravenous desire. If only you could feel just how heavy, how oppressive, his need can be. He wants to crush you with it, watch you struggle and gasp under it as the air is forced out of your lungs, hear your screams as it fractures your fragile little bones.

It would be so beautiful—so euphoric—to break you.

He traces his nail along the window-screen, observing you from his perch outside your bedroom window. He glimpses you in shadows, only shapes and subtle movements, but you’re there, your skin probably prickling as the night air chills your room, nipples hardening under whatever threadbare shirt you’ve worn to bed tonight. The image of you he conjures in his mind’s eye is almost as good as the real thing—helpless and laid bare for him, unaware of the menace that lurks just outside.

Hisoka hums to himself and taps his finger on the window frame, pouting with disappointment; it’s no fun to simply climb in like a common burglar. No, he greatly prefers the challenge of closed doors and new locks, metal bars and a piece of wood shoved into the track of the sliding glass door in your living room to keep it from being pried open. But every barrier you erect to keep him out, to tell him that he’s only allowed in with your permission, on your terms, is simply something to tear down and destroy, a minor annoyance that he can easily overcome. It’s delightfully charming how you seem think you have any control in this arrangement, a precious little quirk of yours that he finds endearing.

He slices your screen open and enters your bedroom with a quiet elegance, one that he’s almost disappointed that you’re asleep for. You are adorably taken by the way he moves his body, after all, your eyes always fixed on how his muscles move under his skin, how his lithe frame seems to flow like water as he overtakes you. No matter, he’ll simply have to describe it to you in the morning, tell you over breakfast in great detail just how expertly he broke into your home since you’d made it so dreadfully easy.

A shivering breath leaves Hisoka’s lips as he nears your bed and sees for the first time the state you’re in—you’re stretched out over the sheets, the covers tossed to one side, dressed only in a t-shirt that’s twisted itself up over your body. One leg is bent, exposing a sliver of your cunt, just enough to make him lick his lips as the faint moonlight illuminates the wetness that glistens between your thighs.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were expecting me,” he murmurs under his breath as he approaches your sleeping body. He traces his nails down the curve of your hip, watching carefully as you twitch in your sleep. He waits and listens, attuned to your heartbeat; a breath hitches in your throat and you sigh into your pillow, shifting slightly. His fingers move deftly to the apex of your thighs, tracing soft lines up and down your slit as his other hand moves over the hardness that strains against his pants. Hisoka presses his middle and ring finger against your entrance, feeling how it pulses with just the slightest stimulation; you’re sensitive, your body just as eager for him as when you’re awake.

“Dreaming of me, sweetheart? You’re so wet already,” he groans, sliding his fingers in deeper, feeling you flutter around them. He could easily fuck you with his fingers and make you cum on his hand if he wanted, stand there in the darkness and take in the delicious way you’d softly move your hips against him in your slumber, stroke his cock to the sweet sounds of your little sighs and moans.

But Hisoka came here with intent—though your pleasure is alluring, his lustful desires were already full to the brim when he set out for your apartment, and now they’re overflowing. He carefully withdraws his hand from your dripping cunt and moves to the end of the bed; he quickly strips, the cool night air chilling his alabaster skin, the moonlight highlighting his slender body with its fine musculature in a way you’d surely appreciate. He pumps his leaking cock a few times while he watches you sleep for a moment longer, fucking into his fist as he observes his oblivious prey.

With a swift motion, he grabs you by the calves, sinking his nails into your flesh, and yanks you down to the end of the bed. It’s thrilling when you wake with a gasp and begin to panic, twisting underneath him as he slides a hand over your mouth and lays his body weight on you, pinning you to the mattress. It’s tempting to shush you, to purr in your ear that’s just him, that it’s okay, that he’s only here to use you—but he’d rather feel your poor little heart racing, your legs uselessly kicking at him, your sleep-weakened hands clawing at his arms for just a little longer.

Eventually, it seems you recognize him somehow—perhaps the feel of his frame on top of you, the sweet smell that seems to emanate from his skin, the familiar sound of his groans as you thrash about uselessly and his cock pulses against your thigh, leaving trails of sticky precum on your skin. He loosens his grip just enough to let you turn your head and stare up at him, your pupils like saucers, and you murmur his name questioningly through trembling breaths.

“Don’t mind me, dear,” he coos, running his tongue along the shell of your ear, “I’m just here to take what’s mine.”

Just as he suspected, your pretty little cunt is still dripping for him and he pushes himself inside you with ease, eliciting a particularly lewd moan from you, the sound still muffled by his hand. Hisoka fills you to the hilt and fucks into you mercilessly, pushing your hips and stomach against the bed with the bruising force of each thrust. He thobs thinking about how sore you’ll be tomorrow, how fun it will be to press his fingers into your flesh and feel you squirm at his touch, how he’ll grab your wrist when you try to smack his hand away and sink his teeth into your tender skin in retribution.

The way you whimper against his palm now that you’re settled, now that you know it’s no ordinary intruder violating you in the night but your intruder, is exquisite—so needy, so whiny, so desperate. He knocks against your cervix with every powerful thrust, sinking himself into you again and again just to hear your little cries of pain that slowly turn to whines of pleasure. He’s amused at how easy you can be to satisfy—a little pain to make you practically drip, a little tenderness with soft bites and kisses, and the throbbing length of him pulsing in your warmth.

“You surrendered so quickly, sweetheart,” Hisoka mocks, his words laced with condescension. “I’d almost think you were waiting for me come by and fuck you tonight.”

He grins as you shake your head in a half-hearted protest, a pathetic attempt to save what little dignity your situation affords you. And he could keep teasing you, keep needling at you for just how easily you folded for him—his cock aches just thinking about the way your cheeks would heat and the way you’d thrash underneath him in shame—but the tension that coils inside him, that deep, pervasive need that he feels down to the base of his spine, is too great to hold back any longer.

He fucks into you with a frenzied pace, guttural groans filling the air in the room as your warmth pulses around him again and again. He can still smell it on you, the fear and the dread that gripped you as he pulled you from your slumber—it’s an intoxicating scent, one that he would capture if he could, wear your terror like a fine cologne. He buries his face into your shoulder and huffs deeply, taking it in as he delves deeper into you with each rhythmic push, grinding his body into your with a desperate insistence.

“That’s it—that’s it—now take it all for me,” Hisoka moans into your shoulder, and he sinks his teeth into your skin as he spills himself into you. The way you cry out in pain as he bites down again and again is enthralling, and he groans into your tender skin with blissful agony as he shudders and convulses. He stays there on top of you, heaving panting breaths, his cock still buried inside you as his spend begins to leak out and drip down your thighs.

“Such a good toy for me,” he mutters as he kisses your neck, across your shoulders, down your spine as he finally pushes himself off you. You gasp when he finally releases his grip on your mouth.

“Hisoka—” you sputter, but he quickly shushes you and climbs up the bed, dragging your limp body with him like a ragdoll. He curls himself around you, licking the spots on your neck where he’d bitten you, soothing your irritated skin. Poor thing, you’d have to coat yourself in makeup to look presentable for work in the morning—assuming he even let you go in, of course.

You murmur his name again weakly, sounding defeated and still sleep-drunk, but with something else in your tone—neediness. Hisoka laughs softly when you grasp for his hand and drag it down between your thighs.

“Aw, did you want something, pretty?”

“Please…” The word is almost unintelligible, a whimper that he knows too well by now.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he teases, biting your earlobe gently. “I give you my cock and yet you still want more from me.”

Hisoka presses the pads of his index and middle fingers down onto your swollen clit and you sigh, sounding at once relieved and grateful; you are nothing if not easy to please. It doesn’t take long for you to reach your peak, not the way you grind against his hand so demandingly, sloppily rolling your hips as you force yourself to stay awake long enough to finish. You moan his name quietly, and he holds you against him tighter as you shudder and spasm, pressing your back to his chest to feel every tremor, every last little shiver that he causes.

He retracts his hand and holds it up, his fingertips glistening with the mix of your wetness and his spend. He licks his fingers, tasting the mix of your fluids, and suppresses a delighted groan; perhaps he’d have to take you again before morning, he muses as his cock twitches against your backside.

A breeze moves through the stillness of your bedroom, the moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains that now dance in front of your window. His hand drifts over your warm, malleable body, and he kisses along your jaw, feeling your pulse begin to slow against his lips. You’re particularly lovely this way—exhausted from being used, body wilted and practically boneless, so soft and easy to mold to his desires. Your breathing begins to slow and you seem to melt into him as you lay there in the quiet; he starts to tease you, chiding you for not thanking him for your orgasm, when he hears a soft snore followed by a long, slow exhale.

“Poor thing, all worn out,” Hisoka whispers, nuzzling against your neck. He’ll have to wait and admonish you in the morning for leaving your window open at night—why, just anyone could break in that way.

[steveshairychest]

Woke up to a beautiful series of messages on the discord this morning, and now all I can think about is Steve with an oral fixation.

His smoking habit came about because of this fixation. He constantly had a cigarette dangling from his lips at all hours of the day, sometimes he wouldn't even light it. He just needed something in his mouth and if it wasn't a cigarette, it would probably be something embarrassing like his shirt collar or a random clip, that he's sure is Nancy's, he found in his car.

He wouldn't say he is addicted to the cigarette itself, more to the comfort it brought. The weight of it between his lips helped soothe him and kept him grounded in the moment. His smoking gets bad after the whole fiasco with the Russians. He smokes nearly an entire pack in one day and nearly chokes Robin with the cigarette smell that latches itself to him. Robin makes him quit after that. She now supplies him with lollipops to keep his mouth busy instead. He's not a fan of overly sweet things, but he'll admit it helps.

He accidentally chews through a whole pack of gum that Dustin had left in his car while he's waiting to pick him up from hellfire and he nearly chokes on a piece when he watches Dustin hug and highfive Eddie Munson, the resident Freak. Dustin doesn't shut up about Eddie the whole drive to his house, and it's hard to ignore the jealousy that blooms in his chest as Dustin praises Eddie over and over. He really wishes he had a cigarette instead of a strawberry lollipop clenched between his teeth.

And then vecna happens. Eddie comes stumbling into his life and nearly leaves before Steve is ready to let the metalhead go. He sits by Eddie's hospital bed for three days straight. His hands twist the rings on his fingers, the rings he plucked off Eddie's fingers, as he chews on the end of a plastic spoon he used to stir his disgusting coffee from the cafeteria. He's filled with nervous energy and left over adrenaline from the fight and the only way he knows how to settle himself is chewing or sucking on something. It's become a habit he relies on. He's destroyed at least 8 spoons while sitting by Eddie's bed.

And of course, in typical Eddie fashion, the first words he croaks out are, "I could give you something bigger to suck on."

[velvet4510]

(Yes, this is my 1000th defense of Frodo and I don’t care. I will defend him forever.)

Let’s just appreciate for a sec how the last page of The Silmarillion tells it like it is: it says Frodo “into the Fire in which it was first wrought cast the Great Ring of Power.”

Yes, of course it’s summarizing and not giving the details. But it tells the truth!

Look at the wording. It says it was Frodo who cast the Ring into the Fire. Who sent it into the Fire. Who placed it on the path that led to the Fire.

Did Frodo release the Ring directly from his own fingers into the Fire? No. The Ring went into the Fire when Gollum fell with it.

But does the Silmarillion say “from his fingers the Ring fell” into the Fire? No.

It says that Frodo “cast” it into the Fire.

And think about it.

Who chose to bear the burden of the Ring? Frodo.

Who carried the Ring all the way into Mordor, resisting it the entire time? Frodo.

Who gave Gollum the kindness and pity that ensured he lived? Frodo.

Who made a fool out of Sauron by running directly into the Cracks of Doom and proving wrong Sauron’s belief that the entrance did not need a locked door because nobody would ever want to destroy the Ring? Frodo.

Who was the person who actually entered the Cracks of Doom with the intent of destroying it and made Gollum take the bait? Frodo.

Who led the Ring and the reckless and impulsive Gollum onto the ledge directly above the Fire, a place Gollum never would have gone in a million years otherwise? Frodo.

So when all is said and done, was it Frodo who “cast” the Ring into the Fire?

YES.

Frodo Baggins is a hero, my friends. He failed in one action only. In his overall goal, he succeeded spectacularly. And even The Silmarillion itself admits it. So everyone who has ever experienced LOTR should admit it, too.

[fortuna-et-cataclysmos]

In defense of s5 finale

I hear and see a lot of people expressing dislike of the season finale, some also in the tags and comments of my analysis/speculation posts. So I wanted to further expand on this.

Gabriel's victory -being remembered a hero despite everything wrong he did, especially abuse to Adrien- has left a sour taste in many people's mouth; many blaming the scenarists and not shying away from calling it "bad writing."

But I think that that was exactly what the scenarists wanted to do? The perfect world Gabriel leaves behind is unsettling, unfair, and I think that the creators have done their best to show that implicitly but clearly. I think that we are supposed to be irked by the finale.

Why do I think that? Because there were a lot of small things that gave the message that, as @emsylcatac iconically put it, "this is the bad place." I touched upon some of those in my previous post on how this was a victory for Gabriel and Lila, and a defeat for Ladybug. I'll try to list them more clearly here.

Gabriel a hero

This is the one thing everyone has the most problem with. At the end, Gabriel was declared the hero who gave his life to defeat the Monarch, who was none other than himself. Some artistic choices here are so over the top that I believe they were specifically made to irk us.

If the silver statue itself wasn't enough, the exact quote of Caline Bustier is:

All the rings that have been highjacked by the Monarch have been recycled into a statue in honour of the great Gabriel Agreste.

Then Tsurugi Tomoe goes on to say:

Beyond the visionary entrepreneur and genius creator that he was, we are celebrating a hero today.

See, everything bad about Gabriel has been flipped. If you count literally exploiting people visionary entrepreneurship, sure, he was that. And genius? He couldn't get the miraculouses of two teenagers for an entire year despite having all the resources, and he ended up succeeding only with the help of another extremely powerful person (Tsurugi Tomoe) and even then he ended up dying himself.

As of creator, he was literally a destructor. He destroyed Paris more times than anyone can count, and everything was fixed every time only thanks to Ladybug. Let's not also forget how he destroyed the Miraculouses to exploit their power.

Adrien's comment about his father

This is another thing many people have had problem with. It is so outrageous that I won't believe the creators would expect us to take at face value.

At the end, Adrien acknowledges that his father died to take down the Monarch, and says:

I don't know if one day I'll manage to become like him.

Lo and behold, the man who had emotionally neglected and abused his son to no end has turned into the said son's hero and role model. Adrien not only looks up to him, but also wants to make an active effort to become like him. Hell, he even doubts if he can be as good as him.

No way this line can taken at face value. There are many children's shows with abusive parental figures nowadays (like She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, the Owl House) that have all handled the conclusion to that abuse generally well. The watchers' expectations are high in this respect; the scenarists would know that such conclusion, if not ironic, would not satiate the expectations of the spectators.

Lack of accountability: Gabriel and Tomoe

As many many people have pointed out, the general lack of accountability in this season finale is infuriating. So Gabriel mentally tortured THE ENTIRE WORLD POPULATION and not only never faced consequences in life, but also is remembered as a hero in death?

What about Tomoe?

Not only she has not faced any repercussion for being basically a supervillain, but also she is still a respected public figure who can go and make a speech backed by the mayor, in front of the freaking French flag. If that doesn't irk you, I don't know what will.

Worse is that, she goes as far as saying in her speech that:

I'll make sure to continue his legacy.

So she'll continue to be evil. Great hint that she'll continue being an antagonist in season 6.

As you can see, the new world that has been created is extremely unfair and problematic. No way this can be "the good place," an actual "happy ending."

Everything is fixed! No problems anymore!

Also, you'd realise that the world is perfect, a little too perfect. It is like a green utopian dream.

Caline Bustier has been the mayor "only for a few weeks" (direct quote from the episode), and she has already fixed all the problems possible in Paris. Not only that, she has also solved inequality and class struggle (again, mentioned by herself). Let's make Caline the President of the World already.

Funny that LITERALLY ALL THE PROBLEMS of a city could be solved, while the exact same episode showed Majestia, the freaking Supergirl of the ML universe, acknowledged in her nightmare that:

Even with all my superpowers, I'll never manage to solve all the problems of the world.

Well, Bustier says that she has no superpower, that people working together can accomplish that. Kudos to her and her democratic spirit. But like, perfect city in a few weeks? Even Mayor Bourgeois who wanted to send all the trash of Paris to space would realise that that's impossible.

There is no perfect solution, yet the world is perfect

Ladybug acknowledges that there is no perfect solution to Gabriel's situation. Trying to bring back his wife, he has caused irreparable damage to himself and to Nathalie, effectively leaving Adrien an orphan. He still hopes that Ladybug can fix it all. But she can't because of the nature of the wish: for one thing gained, another thing should be lost. In Ladybug's words:

There is no perfect wish. Every time a power is used for personal gain, it causes catastrophes. (...) We'll find a solution, but it will never be as perfect as one would wish.

Interesting, given that the world ends up being completely perfect?

All the problems are solved, literally everyone is happy, Marinette and Adrien are finally together. But the wish was made for personal gain, no? So where are the consequences? Where is equivalent exchange? The catastrophe, the price of the perfect, green, just world? I think we'll see that in season 6.

The dream world

The new world is seriously giving me weird vibes. Like it is a movie set. For those who have watched The Good Place, you'd know how in the town everything feels a bit too bright, artificial, perfect. I get the same vibes from the post-wish world.

The Agreste mansion is covered by green vines?? Way to hide the atrocities that were planned and happened here.

Here is a screengrab I found on the internet from The Good Place (the ladybug is a funny coincidence lol)

I am getting the exact same vibes!

Also, I have expanded on that in my post on "running out of time" theme, but basically in the ML universe usually the "real" stuff are associated with the night and the rain while things that happen in the sun turn out to be fake or erased/forgotten. So the feeling that I get from this finale is that, this new "perfect" world is not genuine; that the seeming happiness it brings will be soon destroyed (I doubt erased), just as it happened in other fake reality episodes like Chat Blanc, Ephemeral, Oblivio, or Jubilation. As I argued before, this is not a permanent victory. Hell, it isn't even a real victory, not with the secret Marinette is left to keep from Adrien.

Not a real victory

Another thing that makes me think that this ending is not genuine is the lack of Chat Noir in the finale. Yes, I am a fervent Ladynoir stan who was hoping for some Ladynoir action (if not reveal) and was hugely disappointed by the lack of Chat's engagement in the final fight, but now that I think of it, this may have been on purpose.

Notice how in Conformation, Ladybug says:

Our only way to win against him is to fight him together.

And yet, soon thereafter, she is catapulted into a fight with the Monarch.

Notice also it wasn't her choice to unify the miraculouses and face the Monarch alone. She had to, because Chat Noir wasn't there.

Let's remember that this show spent the entire season 4 explaining how Ladybug assuming all the responsibility alone leads to disaster, how she needs Chat Noir to share the burden with him.

Let's also remember how in season 5, especially at the beginning of it, we see Ladybug change her behaviour towards Chat Noir: she gives him more responsibilities (the Bunny Miraculous, the identity of certain holders if I am not mistaken), and how at one point she confesses that Chat Noir has been very serious and responsible lately (and then promptly develops a crush on him).

So taking on the Monarch herself is really against everything they have built up in season 4 and the beginning of season 5. That's why I think that this "victory" is so wrong: it was "won" only by Ladybug. Maybe if Chat Noir were there, he would have prevented the Monarch from making the wish (hypothetically, then we would have an entirely different timeline). If his identity were revealed the way Marinette's was, Gabriel could have controlled him through his amok. In any case, their defeat or victory would have looked very different from this.

In the end, we must remember that this world is far from being a victory for Ladybug: she has, after all, LOST. She couldn't stop Gabriel from making the wish. And while this world looks perfect, and we got what seems like a forever happy after ending for Adrinette, their happiness is set in a non-genuine victory and world.

So I think we shouldn't be angry with the show-runners: there is a reason why this ending feels and is wrong. If it were all wonderful, it wouldn't be the season finale. It would be the finale, period. And I believe that everything that has been disturbing us in this season finale will be addressed, if not consist of the core conflict of season 6. Let's all take a deep breath and turn to fan fiction or fan art till we get the new season now :) (at least that's what I'll do lol)

[feathered-yelloweye]

About Kriemhild Gretchen

Madoka's witch, Kriemheld Gretchen, might be based on the Brockengespenst (Brocken spectre). This is an atmospheric optical phenomenon (presumably) first described on the Brocken, in which the greatly enlarged shadow of the observer can be seen on a fog or cloud bench. The head of the shadow is often surrounded by coloured rings. The cloud/fog wall not having a smooth surface and being in motion makes the shadow appear ghostly.

Source (of both the image and the explanation I vaguely translated)

Source (just image)

As you can see the "spectre" itself resembles Kriemhild Gretchen in appearance; additionally one could argue that a small, seemingly inconspicuous Magical Girl turning into the witch with the potential to "destroy the world in ten days" is representative of a regular person's shadow turning into something so huge and imposing.

It's also important to note that the Brocken is associated with witches. This was "perpetuated by Goethe who described the Brocken as a centre of witchcraft revelry in his Faust. One of his scenes is of Walpurgisnacht, (Walpurgis Night, 30th April) when witches meet on Brocken to hold revels with their gods, and there are still bonfires lit on the mountain to this day." (Source)

You probably recognise Walpurgisnacht as the name of the witch that acts as the antagonist for the main series, which further solidifies the connection. (If you want to read up on Walpurgisnacht itself, I like this article)

Now this last point is something most people already know but I'd like to mention it anyways, for completion's sake. Walpurgisnacht's and Kriemhild Gretchen's silhouettes on top of each other make up an hourglass.

Here, I think it's interesting that Walpurgisnacht makes up the top part. She's there first, signifying the beginning of the end of the world, in a way, as the sand trickles down from her part of the hourglass — Kriemhild Gretchen then, who is destined to come after her as "even if Walpurgisnacht is defeated, a stronger witch is destined to appear after her" and holds the power to "destroy the world in ten days" is the lower part and signifies the end of time.

There's also an entire possible tangent to get into about Kriemhild Gretchen's name itself, but I need to re-read the Nibelungenlied before I feel like I can say what needs to be said about it.

[querenciasturniolo]

change ⮕ m.s.

word count: 1.3k

warnings: swearing, insecurities, negative thoughts, crying, reassurance, kissing

summary: on a late night drive with matt, a lighthearted confession leads to a tearful conversation.

a/n: everything written is completely fictional. the people i write for are written with characteristics and mannerisms that i made for them, this is in no way depicting what would actually happen in real life.

requested: no

Late night drives with Matt were one of your favorite things to do with him.

Blasting music, the two of you shouting at each other over each blaring melody and laughing at the fact that neither of you could hear anything. It was the only time the two of you spent time together alone. As much as you loved Nick and Chris, you and Matt were friends first and the two of you were closest.

Throughout your friendship, you began to realize your feelings for him were more than platonic, but you refused to acknowledge it or tell anyone. He was your best friend, you couldn’t ruin the friendship, and he couldn’t like you back. He was Matt, and you were just you.

You reached forward and turned the music down, your ears ringing as you relaxed back in your seat. Matt had parked the van, so the two of you were relaxed in your seats and facing one another.

“I don’t think you understand how ridiculous you sound right now.” You said, Matt rolling his eyes and grinning.

“It’s three in the morning, Y/n, and I’m fucking delirious, give me a break.” He replied, rubbing his eyes with his palms. You smiled and leaned back, your back pressed against the door of the car and your legs crossed with your knees touching the console as you scrolled through your phone. The song changed then, a soft lilting melody that contradicted the rough bass from before. “This song reminds me of you.”

You looked up then, focusing on the song itself to see exactly what Matt was talking about. You didn’t recognize the song, but you could tell by the lyrics and the vibe of the song that it was soft and sweet—a love song. You scoffed and shook your head.

“Matt, this is a love song.” You said, your heart pounding in your chest the moment his eyes met yours. He nodded, his cheeks tinged pink. All you could do was blink and stare into his eyes for a few seconds before it was too much and you looked away.

“Did that make you uncomfortable?” He asked, his voice quiet. You shook your head, but as hard as you tried, you couldn’t look at him. “Then why are you staring at the seat?”

You sighed and looked up, your eyes on the ceiling. “You wouldn’t get it.” You said, your voice shaky as you closed your eyes and rested your head against the window.

“Oh, you don’t feel the same?” He asked. You shook your head again.

“It isn’t that, Matt.” You whispered, fighting the tears in your eyes and the pounding in your chest.

“Then what is it, Y/n? You’re scaring me, what’s wrong?” He asked.

A million thoughts were flying through your head, all negative and all about you. There was no way this was true, he had to be saying it to make you feel better. You were so desperate and clearly weren’t good enough at hiding your feelings, he’s going to tell you after this that the two of you can’t be together because it wouldn’t work anyway. Or that he didn’t mean it, or that he was confused. Or it could work out great at first, and then you completely destroy the relationship you had with him prior and you’re out three best friends. The worst thought in your head was what if this change was permanent? What if this change destroyed you? Or Matt?

“Please, talk to me.”

You finally looked at him, your eyes burning as tears pooled in them. “Of course I have feelings for you. But…I don’t know what to do, or what to say. There’s so much going on inside my head right now, and I’m fucking terrified of this.” You said honestly, your voice strained as Matt’s eyes studied your face.

“What’s scaring you?” He asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the center console. One slight movement and your knee would be touching his arm. He was too close and too far away all at the same time. You sighed and pushed yourself up, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around your legs. After resting your head on your knees, you took a deep breath and met his eyes again.

“The change? Everything? I don’t…I never thought about anything like this with you, I wouldn’t let myself. I never thought in a million years you’d have feelings for me, so I ignored mine to avoid any of…these thoughts I’m having right now.” You said, Matt nodding his head and resting his chin on his hand.

“What thoughts are you having?”

You huffed and shrugged your shoulders, a humorless smile on your face. “Oh, you know me. Always too hard on myself.” You said before clearing your throat and looking down. “I just…I’m afraid that I’ll do something to ruin anything that happens between us. I just, I don’t want to lose you in any aspect, you know?” You whispered the last two words, fighting the burning knot rising in your throat.

Matt was looking out the windshield now, his jaw tight in thought. After a few moments, he turned to face you again, his eyes intense but kind. “There’s no way you’re going to lose me, whether this ends badly or not.” He said, his face completely sincere as his eyes searched yours. “Why don’t we just, you know, talk?”

You smiled softly, nodding your head. “I like that idea.”

For the rest of the night, you and Matt talked like you always had, the both of you sharing shy glances between each other, even on the drive back to your house. When Matt parked the car, you turned to face him and grinned, your cheeks tinged pink when you realized he was already looking at you.

“Thank you, for tonight. I’m glad we…I’m glad we talked.” You said, Matt smiling and nodding. You unbuckled your seatbelt and stepped out of the car, the cool breeze blowing through your hair as you headed to your door.

“Y/n!”

You turned around to see Matt shutting his car door and running up the path to you. You huffed a laugh and looked at him bewildered. “What are you doing, you dork?” You asked, Matt finally reaching you and shrugging his shoulders.

“I wanted to try something.” He said. You furrowed your eyebrows and nodded, searching his eyes for any semblance of what was going on. Slowly, Matt took a step forward and closed the distance between the two of you. His hand rested on the dip of your back and his lips were on yours before you could gasp.

The kiss was soft, tentative and hesitant. It wasn’t until you melted against him that it all hit you that this was it. Everything you’d been scared about before completely went away, replaced with a rosy, warm feeling that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He pulled away, your eyes opening to see him smiling down at you shyly, his cheeks pink.

“Goodnight.” He said, pressing a kiss to your forehead before turning and heading down the path to his car. You were frozen in place for a moment, finally snapping out of it to turn and watch him.

“T-Text me when you get home!” You said, Matt nodding as he stepped into the car, pulled out of your driveway and drove off. It took you longer than necessary to unlock your front door and step inside, a stupid smile plastered on your face the entire time. You finally got up to your room and flopped onto your bed, butterflies swirling in your stomach when your phone dinged.

home, see you tomorrow x

You grinned, your cheeks sore from the ridiculous amount of smiling you’d been doing. You texted him back a quick ‘goodnight x’ and plugged in your phone.

Maybe this change wasn’t so bad.