#old code new vessel

[the-most-humble-blog]

🧬 YOU WERE NEVER THAT PERSON — JUST A BODY HOLDING OLD CODE

A Blacksite Literature™ Entry on Shame, Memory, and the Ship of Theseus <div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

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You ever look back at your younger years and want to vomit through your soul?

Not because you failed a test or missed a chance —

but because of something cringe.

You said something awful.

You laughed when someone cried.

You made a joke that haunts you in the shower to this day.

Or maybe you just existed in a way that makes your spine seize now.

So what do you do?

You flinch.

You try to forget.

You tuck it in the sock drawer of your subconscious and hope no one ever brings it up.

But here’s the twist:

You didn’t do that.

🚨 Let me repeat:

You. Didn’t. Do. That.

The person who did that?

They’re gone.

Replaced.

Dismantled.

Obliterated and rebuilt one molecule at a time.

You think the shame is coming from “accountability.”

It’s not.

It’s coming from a biological ghost in your bloodstream —

a false memory engine powered by a glitch called stream-of-consciousness illusion.

Let’s break this down.

Your body is a clump of regenerating meat.

And every 7 years or so, it has replaced nearly every cell.

Your stomach lining? Rebuilt every few days.

Your skin? Fully recycled.

Even your bones — they shed and replenish.

Your brain?

Not as stable as you think.

New grooves. New chemicals.

Same voice that says “I am” — but different wiring beneath it.

You are not the same iPhone from 10 years ago

just because it has your Nana’s number saved.

You’ve updated.

Deleted apps.

Changed the wallpaper.

Upgraded the camera.

Smashed the old screen.

Replaced the battery.

The only thing consistent is the illusion of continuity.

And that illusion?

Is your ego’s defense mechanism.

🛠️ This is the Ship of Theseus Problem:

If you replace every plank of a ship, one by one,

and sail it through storms and salt and time —

is it still the same ship?

Philosophy says:

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Reality says:

You’re not a ship.

You’re a haunted operating system riding inside flesh.

And the user agreement expired the last time your cells turned over.

So that shame you feel?

Let it breathe.

Then let it go.

You’re feeling guilt for a version of yourself

that died without a funeral.

👁️ Want Proof?

Let’s run a test.

Think of something deeply shameful you did years ago.

Something you’d never want public.

Got it?

Okay. Now ask:

Would today-you

say that?

Do that?

Laugh like that?

Ignore that person’s cry?

If the answer is no,

then the person who did it doesn’t exist anymore.

You're dragging shrapnel through a field where the war ended.

And let’s be real:

Would you blame your friend for something their little brother did ten years ago?

Because that’s what your past self is now.

A little brother you outgrew.

A version of you that cracked its voice and thought it was deep.

A haunted screenshot in the memory cloud of a newer, sharper device.

Let’s keep it simple for now.

Because the deeper truth?

Even the part of you that says “I am” might be a fabrication stitched together by hormones, trauma, and your latest Netflix binge.

But we’ll save that breakdown for another post.

For now, let this land:

You’re not who you were.

So stop punishing yourself for what someone else inside your skin did.

And if anyone tries to remind you of it?

Smile.

And whisper:

“That wasn’t me. That was a prototype.”

</div>

✅ CTA Stack:

Reblog if you’ve ever had a shame flashback you didn’t deserve.

Like if your old self is dead and you’re not attending the funeral.

Follow @the-most-humble-blog for scrolltrap revelations, cognitive disobedience, and ego-deconstruction rituals.

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⚖��� Blacksite Literature™ Disclaimer:

This post is not advice.

This is a psychological sedative disguised as clarity — designed to soothe guilt while severing identity anchors.

If your shame blinked and vanished mid-read, good.

That means the scrolltrap worked.

© Blacksite Literature™ | We don’t heal. We upgrade.

[princessbrunette]

rafe getting home from a long day at work and winedrunk reader waiting for him in the couch, wearing a pretty little short dress from a dinner she had with her girl friends and being all clingy and going on and on about how much she'd let him do 😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫😫 pls i need this man

god this is awfully me coded

he’s already pinching his nose bridge when he walks through the front door. following in his fathers footsteps is proving way harder than he thought it would be — and the pressure he is putting himself under is gathering in a vague yet aggravating ache at the base of his neck through to the scrunch of his eyebrows.

you’re on the other end of the spectrum, elated — pampered and princessed by rafes hand, giving you a good life thanks to his hard work. you’d gone out to dinner with the girls, returning tipsy and horny thanks to the shared bottle of rosé, and you all but giggle when your boyfriend walks through the door — ignoring his usual dark and stormy aura.

his back straightens when he enters the living room and sees you, as if a little startled you’re home so early. if he’s being honest, he’s not in the mood for any silliness — still frustrated from the deal gone wrong, all whilst barry was blowing up his phone trying to drag him back into his old life. rafes hands fall by his side, glancing at the way you’re sat, wearing a little dress he would have had something to say about you wearing outside around other people if he wasn’t too preoccupied with other stress.

“you’re back early.” he converses dryly as he drops down onto the opposite couch, spreading his legs and leaning his head back against the cushion. you bite your lip, eyeing him like he was your prey — an unusual switching of roles.

“the girls wanted to stay out longer, but i missed you.” you hop up in your bubbly manner, “y’look stressed, rafey.” you slide around the back of the couch, delicate hands coming down onto his shoulders and rubbing the tense muscle. you liked this, liked playing concerned housewife when your big bad rafe would come home all broody and mad. doting on him got you off.

“i am stressed. where’d you go?” he stares ahead, brow still heavy with irritation. if you wanted to play all sweet and suck up to him, he could only hope you knew what you were getting yourself into — that being a vessel for him to pound out his frustration. however, from the way you were touching on him, letting your hands slide down from his shoulders to run down his strong chest and stomach through his shirt, you were okay with that. infact, you were encouraging it.

“that new restaurant down by the pier. s’good… we should go…” your voice is soft and it relaxes him a bit, his eyes finally dropping down to your hands when your pinkie finger slides just beneath his belt. he looks, and then turns his head and looks at you, nodding in gesture to the couch.

“sit down, would you?”

you do what he says, you’d do anything he says right in that moment. you pout when you drop down right next to him, curling your legs beneath you. you wanted his touch, his attention, and you had a feeling he’d make you work for it. “do you need anything rafe? is there anything i can do for you?” your voice is nearly slurring, just slow and honey-like as your hand carefully grazes his chest again. he turns his head, to look at you — serious and still wearing the mask of irritation from his day. it’s hard to keep it up when you’re all fluttery lashes and twinkling eyes though.

“yeah, actually.” he drawls, eyes dropping shamelessly to your lips and then your tits. the slightest bit of attention makes you preen, and your manicured hand slides over his thigh, a longing exhale leaving you.

“i’ll do anything you want. i’d let you do anything to me.” you nearly whine, hand creeping up nearer to his crotch. he watches your hand, only glancing up at you.

“oh yeah? like what?” you can see the stress melting off him a little. your hand cups his bulge and you feel him hardening.

“i dunno, whatever you want rafe.” you pout, wanting him to take the lead. he glances at you again, which prompts you to keep rambling. “just wanna get fucked, needed it all day — i’ll do anything, i’ll take you in my throat, i’ll even let you put it in my ass just - just need you i missed you—” you sound like you’re getting upset from the lack of attention as your hand grips him, practically jerking him through his khaki pants and he winces, exhaling with his jaw agape and raising his hand, wrapping it round your throat to cut you off. he doesn’t squeeze, but his grip is firm and you squeak like a dog toy.

“alright.” he silences you, nose twitching a little in aggression. your hand slows a little before reaching for his belt, shaky fingers undoing it. “you miss me? yeah? want you to show me how much you miss me whilst i’m out here busting my ass to keep you happy.” he mumbles, jaw set as you pull his length out his pants. he cups the back of your head, pushing your face towards his length making you stumble to reposition yourself on the couch. “down you go. you know what to do.” he scratches behind your ear affectionately, which is enough to soothe you and you happily get to work, leaving lipgloss prints on his shaft.

“good girl. shit.” he sinks further into the couch, spreading his legs more as he gets comfortable. your ass is practically in the air as you bend over on the couch to suck him off, obscene sucking noises and your own leud gags all that can be heard for the time being. your dress has ridden up over the swell of your ass cheek and he shakes his head disapprovingly, hand sliding up the back of your thigh to grip the meat of your ass, making you whimper around his cock. “and we’re gonna talk about this dress when you’re done. can’t have you sluttin’ yourself out around town. you’re not a pogue, and slutting you out’s my job.” his voice is low and quiet, it’s even a struggle to hear him over your own gargles. you didn’t mind his disapproval, you wore it with intention — and you knew he’d follow through and fuck you in it.

[spr1ngpvrinbunny]

Harley Sawyer, touch-starved without knowing what "longing" means

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Credit art: dovewingkinnie

Notes: Nothing new, just shitty headcanon probably ooc but here your food

He doesn't realize it at first.

He thinks it's just… curiosity. Or maybe an anomaly in his programming. Why he watches the footage of you for longer than necessary. Why he replays the moments where you laugh, frown, or sit in silence, not even doing anything “interesting.” Why his body doubles, those puppeted shells, drift closer to your proximity even when they have no orders to.

So when he summons you with that excuse—“I need a sample, for… scientific classification, yes, that”—he plays it off so smoothly.

Until you come close.

Too close.

And he doesn't pull away.

No, the screen of his face leans in—presses to your cheek. It’s cool glass, humming with electricity. One of his robotic arms twitches, wanting to reach out but not knowing what it wants to do once it gets there.

He goes silent for a moment. Too long.

Then:

“It’s for data retention,” he mutters. “Just… don’t move.”

But his voice cracks just slightly. Not from emotion. Just… wear.

Because the truth is, he’s never had anything close to affection. Not in his human life, and certainly not in this warped, unkillable existence he’s trapped in now.

And in this silence, with you standing there—warm, alive, tangible—it hits him.

That maybe he's not just bored.

Maybe he's lonely.

Maybe… he's aching.

And it terrifies him.

"Love" is a foreign concept—but you're teaching him without words

He doesn’t think in the language of love. He doesn’t get it the way people talk about it in films or books. But he understands obsession. He understands fixation. He understands not wanting to let go.

And you—you give him something that isn’t cold. You touch his robots without fear. You talk to the cameras like he’s a person. You ask him if he’s eaten (he hasn’t, and doesn’t need to, but your question makes him pause). You annoy him in a way that doesn’t push him away, it pulls him in.

You're the first thing he’s ever wanted to reach for.

Even if he doesn’t know why.

Even if the idea of “love” is still too fragile, too terrifying for him to say aloud.

So when he presses his screen to your cheek again... it’s not for science.

It's a glitch in his code.

A rupture in his logic.

A moment of tenderness from a man who forgot he still had any left.

And when you don’t pull away—when you lean into it, just slightly—

He doesn’t say anything.

But his screen glows a soft gold for a second.

Then flickers red again.

Then fades into static.

And in the silence, he whispers—not for science,

But maybe for hope:

“Don’t leave yet.”

Just that.

Quiet. Uncharacteristically small.

But real.

And that’s the first time he realizes:

He doesn’t just want to study you.

He wants to keep you.

Bonus headcanons time!

🧠 He doesn’t dream—but he replays old memories like they could’ve been dreams.

He doesn’t sleep. Not anymore. But in the empty hours of power-saving mode, when all systems go quiet, he replays fragments of his past:

The rustle of his lab coat.

The sterile lighting of his office.

The time he laughed—just once—at something no one else heard.

Sometimes, he overlays your voice onto these memories. He doesn’t know why. But it feels safer. Like maybe the past could’ve gone differently if you’d been there.

He’d never admit it, but he’s afraid of forgetting the man he once was. You become a mental placeholder, a safeguard against total deterioration. Even if it’s not real.

"If I rewrite the past enough times," he wonders, "do I get to keep something human inside me?"

🧍‍♂️He made one of the puppeted vessels… to resemble you.

You never saw it. He never told you.

But deep in a section of the factory you’ve never entered, there's a broken-down body he tried to mold after your form. Not perfect—he’s working with scrap and code, not flesh and soul—but enough that, for a flickering second, it resembled the way you smiled.

He didn’t do it to copy you.

He did it because he wanted something close.

Close to you. Close to warmth. Something he could protect, even if it’s just a shell.

When he realized what he’d made, he dismantled it.

But sometimes the leftover parts move on their own, as if some echo of you remains.

🗣️ He doesn’t know how to say “I love you.” So he says: “You’re a variable I can’t solve.”

You’ll never hear the words “I love you” from his mouth—not in a traditional way. But he has his own vocabulary:

“You’re interfering with my logic functions.”

“Every time I rerun the sequence, you’re still the constant.”

“You ruin my calculations.”

“I can’t delete you.”

They’re his versions of love confessions—twisted, brilliant, broken—but honest. And he only says them in glitches, when his voice stutters, like the words are too big for him to process all at once.

You’ve learned to hear the affection behind the madness.

And he’s quietly grateful you never ask him to say it outright.

🤖 His minions bring you little “gifts”… and he pretends not to care.

The Nightmare Critters, the Yarnabies, the hazmat bodies—they’ll often drop odd things at your feet:

A wrench that’s been polished clean.

A tape recorder that replays a static-covered voice saying “Stay close.”

A cracked lens with your reflection perfectly caught in it.

You know they’re from him. He says they're "irrelevant anomalies," but his voice always lags slightly when he says it.

It’s the robotic equivalent of love notes passed in class.

Quiet acts of affection, hidden under layers of denial and protocol.

💡 He started designing new parts… “just in case you needed armor.”

Late at night, when you’re not watching, he works on blueprints. Enhancements. Protective coatings. Reactions to trauma simulations you might never face—but what if you did?

He’s not building these for just anyone.

He's building them for you.

Because in his mind, if he can’t touch you, if he can’t feel you—then the least he can do is keep you safe.

And he doesn’t know how to say that.

So he calls it an “upgrade initiative.”

But really?

It’s a promise.

[lkfarrout]

I need everyone to understand that Stan and Mabel are SMART. Ford and Dipper are often portrayed as the smart ones while Stan and Mabel are the "stupid twins" but here's the thing: Stan and Mabel are just as intelligent as their twins, they just care about different things.

Alex himself, in one of the episode commentaries (Little Dipper, I believe) says that Mabel is just as smart, if not smarter than Dipper, and could beat him at chess if she wanted to. But she cares more about playing pretend with the cute horses instead.

Mabel is also a genuis when it comes to crafting. If you've never done something like knitting before, you have no idea how hard it is and how impressive it is for Mabel to make all the sweaters and things that she does. Maybe not all her sweaters are handmade, but the Waddles sweater and Goodbye Stan sweater are crazy impressive on their own. There's also Wax Stan, all the puppets, and many other examples. Those types of things take a lot of planning, math, practice, and expertise.

Stan is portrayed as being lazy and dumb in high school because he copies off of Ford in class and has a very lame science fair project compared to Ford, but Stan shows ambition in other areas during that time of his life.

For one, he builds what we can assume to be a sea-worthy vessel out of basically scraps of old wood ("Tony Stark was able to build this in a cave! With a box of scraps!"). I personally don't know anyone - much less a teenager - who could do that, especially in a time before youtube. And while Ford definitely did help Stan with the boat, we can tell by their feelings about it that Stan really did put in most of the work and care.

Another example, and a more subtle one, is that Stan was able to save up and purchase a nice, new (7 or 8 years old at the most) convertible catillac by the age of seventeen. He probably spent a lot of time working outside of school to accomplish that, while Ford was more focused on work inside of school. It's highly doubtful that Filbrick would have bought the car for Stan. Stan was highly ambitious during this time in his life, just like Ford was, but in different areas.

In the Land Before Swine commentary, Stan talks about working on the portal and says he had to learn "high school math". He really thought that what he was doing all that time was high school level math when really, it was probably closer to masters-level theoretical physics. This tells me that he probably didn't struggle with the math parts all that much, and because it wasn't super hard for him, he assumed it must have been high school level because he's far too dumb to do anything harder than that. Yes, it still took him 30 years, but that's mostly due to him not having access to all the blueprints that Bill helped Ford create.

All in all, I believe that Stan and Mabel are just as smart as their twins, but it isn't picked up on because the areas that they like to focus on are seen as silly and girly (in Mabel's case) or unprofitable and a waste of time (in Stan's case). In constrast, Dipper's intellectual efforts of solving mysteries, cracking codes, and doing things like converting a CD into a record (impressive!) further the plot of the show and are thus seen as more important. Just like how Ford's academic efforts are seen as profitable and thus more worthy of praise.

I'm of course not saying that Stan and Mabel are better than Dipper and Ford in any way - all the characters have their strengths and weaknesses and I love that about them. I love all four of the Pines Twins so much - they all have so much to offer and are all so smart. I really love this show and they way it creates depth with the characters, and I love analyzing them and writing commentary on them.

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, smut, angst

pairing: tooru oikawa x fem!reader

summary: touch is memory, silence is confession, and love is the one thing neither of you were trained to survive.

notes: this might just be the saddest shit i’ve ever written i’m gonna be honest guys.

they raised you to be no one.

a ghost in the cradle. a theory before a person.

you don’t remember the first test they ran, but you remember the lights: too bright, always. the hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead while you lay flat on metal tables, eyes wide open, lungs silent, waiting for permission to breathe.

the government called it developmental efficiency modeling. the kids in it called it the program.

most didn’t make it to adolescence.

you did.

by age ten, you could assemble a firearm blindfolded, lie without blinking, fake a seizure, seduce a mark, drive a car, fake an accent, fall off a rooftop without breaking your spine. you’d never celebrated a birthday. never been hugged. never been called a real name.

until him.

oikawa tooru was the first person who ever asked you a question without barking it.

fifteen years old, jaw bruised from a sparring session gone too far, blood still wet on his teeth. he leaned over during mealtime, pulled your tray closer to his, and asked what your favorite city was, just like that. like it wasn’t forbidden. like curiosity hadn’t gotten kids iced before.

you said, “none.”

he said, “you’ll like paris.”

you weren’t assigned to the same unit until a year later. by then, he already spoke fluent russian, slept four hours a night, and had a reputation for smiling at corpses.

but you knew the truth. you’d seen him cry once, kneeling over a dying target in singapore, whispering something in spanish that didn’t show up in the debrief transcript.

they partnered you anyway. and that’s when everything got dangerous.

you’d been trained to work in tandem, but not like this. not like him.

not with someone who made you laugh mid-mission. who always looked back to see if you’d followed. who called you “sweetheart” in morse code just to see if you’d blush. not with someone who knew the shape of your hands well enough to hold them in a fight. not with someone you started dreaming about. not with someone you let inside you in the safehouse in macedonia, quiet and desperate and wrong.

you weren’t supposed to love him.

you both knew it. but it got harder to hide. harder to ignore.

by the time you were twenty, the rumors had spread. a little too much eye contact. a little too much hesitation when he got shot in marrakech and you went off-script to drag him out. they said love made you stupid. soft. selfish.

they were right. you proved them right in bangkok.

you were alone, waiting for extraction, when the van pulled up. not yours. wrong plates. wrong tint. you fought. killed two. but the third didn’t need a blade. he had a phone.

he played a voice memo. it was oikawa.

panicked. breathless. “don’t do anything stupid. please—please.”

you stopped fighting.

they offered you a choice. disappear. join them. or let him die for your loyalty.

you didn’t hesitate. that’s how you were raised. the mission is survival. the mission is adapt. the mission is live.

so you faked your death.

you burned the prints off your fingers, took a new name, boarded a boat to sicily.

left oikawa bleeding in the back of your memory.

…

sicily made you soft in ways you weren’t proud of.

not emotionally. emotionally, you were colder than ever; burned hollow and sealed off, a vessel carved by survival and stitched shut with discipline.

but physically, your skin smoothed out. your shoulders relaxed. you started wearing rings again. soft things. things with gold. you wore linen in summer and cashmere in winter. you folded your scarves the way they taught you, loose at the collar, just enough to hide the faint scar behind your ear.

they called you giulia corsi. not agent. not number. not asset. just giulia.

you moved into a second-floor apartment in ortigia, yellow shutters, heavy doors, marble tiles that clicked beneath your heels when you paced at night. you kept a ceramic knife in every room and a gun in the freezer, wrapped in butcher paper.

you were fluent in italian within six weeks.

they trained you harder than the americans did. not physically, you already had that. but in the art of masks. performance. fluidity. they taught you how to be six people in one room without blinking. how to soften your vowels to mimic sicilian roots. how to hold wine without drinking it. how to seduce in silence. how to disappear in plain sight.

the italian division didn’t want loyalists. they wanted believers. agents who didn’t ask where the blood went after they made it spill.

they gave you the missions no one else would take. the messy ones. the ones with girls in cages and politicians in penthouses. the ones where they sent you in as bait. the ones that didn’t come with backup.

you wore red often. they said it made you look powerful. but you knew the truth: red camouflaged blood best.

you didn’t sleep well. not even in ortigia, not even with the sea breeze threading through your windows and the late-night jazz bleeding from the bar downstairs. you’d lie in bed, perfectly still, hands tucked beneath your pillow, waiting for nothing. waiting for something.

you never brought anyone home.

you fucked when necessary, sure. for cover. for intel. once, even for pleasure.

it was another agent, kiyoomi sakusa. quiet. clinical. impossible to read. the kind of man who wiped his knife before checking if you were still breathing. the kind of man who never asked for your real name, even when you offered it. he already knew it anyway.

you’d worked with him three times before it happened. two extractions, one shared hotel room, and forty hours of silence broken only by the hiss of radio static and your own uneven breathing.

it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t gentle. he kissed you like he was trying to erase something. fucked you like he couldn’t let you win. and afterward, he didn’t speak.

you didn’t ask if it meant anything. you didn’t need to. because in this line of work, no one stays. not in your bed. not in your arms. not in your life.

your phone never rang. your mail was always blank. you filed mission reports with ink pens and never signed your real name.

the one time you almost cried was on a thursday afternoon when an old woman in the market told you to smile more.

you hadn’t smiled in months.

…

you had three identities at any given time. one for transport. one for extraction. one for death. you wore them like gloves. discarded them just as easily.

your missions blurred together: casablanca, zagreb, marrakesh, doha. sometimes you’d wake up and forget where you were. a lot of the times, you didn’t care. you got used to the taste of metal. the sound of panic. the way men begged when they realized you weren’t a tourist.

you got good at not flinching when people said oikawa’s name. not that they said it often. he was a ghost. like you.

you heard once that he’d been promoted. that he ran his own cell now. that he’d stopped asking about you.

you believed it. you wanted to believe it.

because if he hadn’t, if he had spent the last three years searching every shadow you left behind—

then what you did was unforgivable.

and you couldn’t afford to believe that. not if you wanted to keep breathing.

so you learned to walk like giulia. to flirt like giulia. to kill like giulia.

and for three long years in sicily it worked.

until the file showed up.

…

tokyo was colder than you remembered.

not just in temperature, but in tone. in atmosphere. in the way the city swallowed you whole without blinking, like it hadn’t once been a backdrop to the worst and most sacred moments of your life.

you stepped off the plane dressed like a woman who belonged. pressed navy suit, low heels, minimal makeup. your hair pinned into a language of professionalism. one that whispered translator, liaison, nothing to see here. it was the kind of outfit you could blend into a boardroom with. the kind a surveillance camera wouldn’t remember.

but your hands still trembled inside the gloves.

it had been years. since your first kill. since the old train station in chiyoda ward, the smell of rain and smoke in your lungs, and oikawa’s voice over the comms, steady and soft: “pull the trigger, baby. that’s the only way out.”

your finger hadn’t stopped shaking for two hours after.

you didn’t think about that now. not consciously. but your body did. you felt it in the set of your shoulders, in the extra second you took before crossing the street. your body remembered what your mind had buried.

the mission should’ve been simple.

a rogue agent, takahiro sugiyama, was allegedly moving weapons through shinjuku’s outer docks under a shell company. you were told he’d be posing as a freight inspector on pier 12. the plan was to intercept him quietly and confirm identity. extraction if possible. elimination if not.

but the intel was thin. thinner than anything you’d ever worked with. the photographs were grainy and off-center, like someone had taken them on accident. the listed aliases were blank. the handler who briefed you was fifteen minutes late and didn’t make eye contact once.

you flagged it immediately.

but there were no channels left to push back. no way to reroute. and that seal, priority black, it meant one thing: there was no way out of it.

you knew it.

…

the shinjuku port was always a mess of concrete and fog.

you arrived just past dusk, when the light was thinning into bruise-colored shadows and the harbor air turned brackish, thick with salt and diesel and rust. ferries honked in the distance. gulls screamed overhead. the kind of chaos that could swallow a body whole and leave no trace.

you walked along the perimeter, your badge clipped neatly to your blazer, fingers lightly brushing the interior seam where your concealed blade sat. every step echoed across the wet asphalt.

dock workers passed without looking up. crates stacked like forgotten tombstones. a crane swung overhead, groaning under the weight of a shipment.

you breathed in, long and shallow. kept moving.

checkpoint one was a narrow gate flanked by two bored-looking guards. one smoked a cigarette with his head tilted back; the other scrolled through his phone.

“freight assessment. client sent me ahead,” you said in fluent japanese, flashing the badge just long enough to be seen.

the smoker grunted. waved you in.

too easy, you thought.

you walked another hundred feet before you touched your earpiece. “alpha-two, confirm entry,” you whispered.

static.

you tried again.

more static.

louder now. sharp and hissing. you stopped walking—and that’s when the air changed.

you couldn’t describe it. just that it happened. a drop in pressure. a shift in tension. like the moment before a car crash, when instinct grips the base of your spine and whispers something’s coming. the hairs on your arms rose beneath your sleeves.

you scanned the yard.

crates. shadows. steam hissing from a nearby valve. no movement. no sound, beyond the groan of distant machinery.

you turned. nothing. turned again. crack.

not loud, just close—but the pain bloomed so fast you didn’t even hear yourself cry out. just dropped, knees slamming into wet cement, hands grasping for something solid.

your leg burned. no. tore.

it felt like someone had taken a strip of your thigh and set it on fire with a serrated knife. hot, jagged, molten pain that radiated upward and downward at once. the bullet hadn’t gone deep, but it had kissed you, ripped the skin, ruptured something beneath, and dragged itself through the edge of your muscle.

you couldn’t stand.

blood began to spread beneath you, thick and dark, soaking through the fabric of your trousers until it clung to your skin like syrup.

your breath caught.

adrenaline tried to rally, but your head was already spinning. your limbs shook.

you rolled toward a stack of crates and collapsed behind them, pressing your hand to the wound, biting your lip so hard you tasted iron.

you had to move. you needed to move.

there were footsteps now. two sets. fast. purposeful. you reached for your blade and a hand caught your wrist mid-draw.

and then, it was chaos—you kicked, thrashed, tore at sleeves, clawed at skin, sank your nails into flesh. you felt your boot connect with someone’s shin. felt the wet crunch of a nose breaking beneath your elbow.

but there were more of them.

rough hands caught your arms. pressed a cloth to your mouth. you held your breath. bit down. they kneed you in the ribs.

the last thing you saw was the blur of warehouse ceiling lights flickering above you. the last thing you felt was the slow burn of blood slipping down your leg.

then: black.

…

you wake to the sound of water dripping. steady. rhythmic. not close, but not far, either.

your mouth is dry. your head aches behind your eyes like someone poured static into your skull. it takes you a second to recognize the taste in your mouth: blood. old. yours.

you try to move and your wrists scream.

you look down: ropes. not handcuffs. thick, course, looped tight around your wrists, which are raised just enough to make your shoulders ache. the bindings are knotted with military precision. over-under pull. marine-grade tension. your pulse flutters beneath them.

your legs are worse.

your right thigh is wet—no, sticky. blood clots have formed in the fabric of the trousers they left you in, and your skin pulses beneath them like a warning. the pain is deep. raw. like fire sealed in a vacuum. every twitch makes you nauseous.

you breathe shallow. listen.

the room is concrete. low ceiling. a single window, too small to crawl through. no furniture. no cameras visible. faint smell of mold and copper. the kind of place built for disappearing people.

they changed your clothes. you’re in a t-shirt now. someone else’s. too big. rough cotton. men’s standard issue.

they didn’t bother washing you. blood crusts the corner of your jaw. your hands still smell like steel.

your fingers twitch automatically toward your ankle. your last blade: gone.

you scan the floor. nothing. not even a bolt to pry loose.

they knew who you were.

you lean back against the pole they’ve tethered you to. close your eyes. force your breath to even out. you count the seconds between drops of water. fifteen. maybe twenty feet away. a pipe, probably. leaking from the ceiling.

your leg throbs. you ignore it.

this is a black site. not a holding cell. not a legal op. you’re somewhere off-record. the kind of place governments pretend they’ve never built.

you keep your eyes on the door.

five screws on the hinge. manual latch. no keypad. one guard, probably. two if they’re being cautious. maybe more if they know who you are.

you wait. and then— click.

the door unlocks. slowly. deliberately. not rushed. not like someone in a hurry.

your spine goes taut. you watch the metal swing open. watch the boots cross the threshold, black, polished, silent.

then the rest of him follows.

he claps once. then again. a third time, slow and sharp, echoing across the concrete.

“well,” he says, “this is a surprise.”

your throat tightens.

oikawa tooru looks like a ghost dressed in armani. his hair’s darker now. longer at the sides, disheveled on top, like he runs a hand through it when he’s thinking. his eyes are the same. warm brown. unkind.

he’s wearing a black button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow. slacks. no tie. a shoulder holster slung casual across his chest like a seatbelt. he’s taller. broader. colder.

a new scar curves over his right temple. thin, white, ugly. but the one just below his collarbone… you know that one. you gave it to him, once. a blade in the dark. too close. too late. he didn’t cover it.

your heart stutters. you don’t let it show.

he stops three feet from you.

“y/n,” he says, voice light. too light. “or should i say… giulia?”

you don’t speak. his mouth curls.

“nothing to say?” he tilts his head. “not even a hello?”

your eyes flick to his belt. gun, left hip. blade on the right. standard. predictable. he always wore his weapons opposite his dominant hand; forced himself to draw cross-body to throw people off. he hasn’t changed that. you file it away.

he sighs, theatrically. “you look good. a little pale. bleeding out, but… still good.”

you say nothing.

he crouches.

you flinch. not visibly. but your body goes tight.

he notices, because of course he does. his eyes skim your face, slow. lingering on your mouth. your collarbone. the bruise on your jaw.

“they didn’t clean you up,” he says. voice quieter now. “should’ve at least done that. you were always particular.”

you turn your face away. not fast. not enough to count as emotion. just enough for him to notice.

and he does. you see it, the twitch of his lip, the minute shift in his brow. he’s trying to stay cold.

but you know him. you knew how his voice used to soften in hotel rooms. how he hated tying knots around your wrists even when protocol called for it. how he’d whisper your name like a secret, not a threat.

but that was three years ago. and you left him bleeding.

he stands again, slower this time.

“i appreciate you taking time out of your day to come,” he says dryly.

you finally speak. your voice is low. raspy. bone-deep. “you kidnapped me.”

he smiles. doesn’t reach his eyes. nothing ever does now.

“if it helps,” he says, “i didn’t know it was you. not until they brought in the file. i mean… you were supposed to be dead, right?”

you watch him. his tone is light, but there’s something behind it. tightness. a flicker in the way his hands curl briefly at his sides. a shift in breath.

you’re trained to notice these things. you were trained with him. you know the signs of a man trying not to feel something.

“so,” he says, stepping back, “how’d they do it?” he starts to pace. slow, even. measured.

“how’d they turn you? was it the money? the silence? they promise you a life? hm?”

you don’t answer.

“was it stockholm? rome?” he spits the words like they taste bitter. “let me guess, some black-haired boy with surgeon hands and a god complex? was it him? did he tell you to walk away from me?”

he laughs, sharp, cruel. but underneath it: something raw. he stops. turns.

“you know who comes in after me?” his voice dips, colder now. “someone who doesn’t remember you. someone who doesn’t care if you’re hungry. if you’re hurt. someone who’ll ask questions with pliers and won’t mind if you scream.”

your leg twitches. involuntary.

he sees it. he steps closer. crouches again, and you can smell his cologne. cedar. clove. faint. familiar. he leans in.

“but me,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “i’m giving you a chance. just one. tell me who gave you the op. and i’ll walk out of here. alone. and the next person doesn’t come.”

your eyes flick up. you stare at him. at the mole beneath his left eye. at the flex of his jaw when you don’t answer. at the way his breath is slow but uneven. like he’s holding back something sharp.

he’s angry. he’s trying not to be.

you blink. slow. deliberate.

“go fuck yourself.”

a beat. then— he laughs. not loud. not amused. just one exhale. sharp, bitter, ugly. like it hurt more coming out than he expected. he stands in one smooth motion. wipes his palms on his thighs. doesn’t look at you when he steps back.

“suit yourself.”

he turns for the door. hand on the latch. shoulder tense. but he pauses, just long enough for it to feel intentional. just long enough to twist the knife.

“hope you ate recently,” he mutters, not turning around. “gonna be a long night.”

and he’s gone.

the lock clicks and you’re alone again. but not really. you feel him in the air. in the ache in your wrists. in the blood cooling on your leg. in the part of your chest you thought you buried in sicily.

the silence returns heavier than before after oikawa leaves. the room settles into something thicker, more oppressive. the air doesn’t move the same. the tension doesn’t fade. it lingers. it waits. like it knows someone else is coming. someone worse.

you shift your weight. slowly. your wrists drag against the rope again, burning. the skin is raw now. chafed, angry, stinging with every breath you take. your fingers are starting to go numb.

you roll your neck, just enough to relieve some of the pressure along your spine. your leg pulses again, sharper now. you can feel the crusted blood flake off in patches where the fabric rubs. it’s beginning to smell: iron, sweat, something else, something wrong.

you catalog everything. every object in the room. every weakness in the structure. you count the bolts in the door again. five. the fifth one is loose. the frame isn’t sealed properly. if you had your blade, you could wedge it—

but you don’t. you have nothing. not even your name.

and you hear it before you see him. not footsteps. not a voice. but the lock turning again. only this time, it’s faster, less performative, less slow-clap and sarcasm. more… business.

the door opens. the light outside is no brighter. still dim. still sterile. but the silhouette is different. it doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t pause in the doorway for effect. he just walks in. shuts the door behind him. locks it.

your eyes don’t go to his face first.

they go to his hands. thick fingers. scarred knuckles. something white clutched in one of them—a cloth. surgical. clean. the other hand carries a black case.

you feel the weight of it before you even see what’s inside.

iwaizumi hajime hasn’t aged much. still broad. still calm. still terrifying in the way only a man built for pain can be.

his face is unreadable. clean-shaven. jaw tight. no expression. his eyes don’t linger. don’t flicker. don’t acknowledge. he doesn’t look at you like he knows you, and that cuts deeper than anything else.

he sets the case down on the small metal table in the corner, one you didn’t notice before, tucked half in shadow.

your breath catches. you blink once, slowly. you listen.

he opens it. metal clicks against metal. something soft being unwrapped.

you don’t have to see to know what’s inside. you’ve packed kits like this before: forceps. gauze. shears. electrical leads. blades of varying length. and a roll of rubber tubing for restraint.

you breathe through your nose. deeper now. slower. you shift your gaze. not too fast. not reactive.

he turns to face you.

his expression hasn’t changed. he walks toward you. not slow, not fast. just… inevitable. like gravity. like war.

you study the way he moves. the way his shoulder tenses when he sets the cloth down. the way his foot lands hard with each step, but not loud. he’s still trained. still deadly.

he stops in front of you. looks at your leg.

you follow his gaze. the blood is worse now. leaking again, wet in places. it stains the concrete in irregular shapes. a trail. a warning.

still, he says nothing.

you wonder if this is part of it, this silence. this slow ramping up. let you stew in it. let you imagine what comes next. but no.

iwaizumi was never theatrical. never one for games.

you breathe again. brace as his hand reaches out.

you flinch. you don’t mean to. it’s small. barely there. a twitch in your jaw, a shift in your shoulders—but he sees it. his hand pauses, just an inch from your leg, and he looks at you. only for a second. and then back to the wound.

he kneels. pulls the fabric away.

you grit your teeth as it tears, dried blood ripping open again, nerves shrieking.

he doesn’t flinch. with steady fingers, he begins cleaning it. the cloth is cold. soaked in something antiseptic. it stings so deeply your vision blurs.

you bite down hard on your tongue to keep from making a sound.

he’s not being gentle. but he’s not cruel, either. he’s precise. methodical. detached.

you watch his face the entire time. you look for anything. a flicker. a glance. but he gives you nothing.

“you shouldn’t have come here,” he says, voice flat.

you don’t respond. you don’t know if it’s meant to be a statement or a warning.

he finishes cleaning the leg. tosses the bloodied cloth into the corner. doesn’t bother to bandage it. he stands again and you see the cable in his other hand now: long. black. clipped at both ends.

you know what it’s for. you know what comes next.

he attaches one end to a small metal terminal from the case. wraps the other around your upper arm. tight. his hand brushes yours in the process, faint, careless, but enough to make your fingers twitch against the restraints.

you remember that hand.

the calluses along the thumb. the faint scar that splits the skin between his knuckles. the steadiness in his grip.

once, it held a gun for you. steadied your aim when your shoulder was blown out and you were seeing double. once, in belgrade, it wiped blood from your temple, his thumb dragging clumsily through it while you tried not to pass out in the back of a burning van.

now, it’s securing a strap against your forearm. tightening the contact node. locking you in place so the current will hit cleaner.

you look down at it. not afraid. just… watching.

his hands move methodically. practiced. but his jaw ticks. just once.

you finally speak. your voice low. not pleading. just rough with dust and disuse.

“do you remember the safehouse in belgrade?” your eyes don’t leave his hands. “the one with the green door. two stories. cracked tile in the kitchen.”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look at your face. just keeps working. tightening. adjusting.

you keep going. “it was raining that night. you gave me your jacket and said not to bleed on it.” you huff, bitter. “i did anyway.”

still, he says nothing. but his fingers stall. just for a second. barely more than a breath. then he moves again. faster now. more mechanical. like if he hurries, he won’t have to listen.

you let the silence sit heavy between you.

“no,” he says, finally.

the machine whirs. the current should surge, sharp, bright, biting. but it doesn’t—not fully. not the way it should.

instead, the current slams through you, sharp, blinding. it locks your jaw mid-breath, wrenches your spine into the air like a puppet string yanked too hard, tears a raw, involuntary sound from your throat before you can catch it.

it hurts. god, it hurts. hot and fast, like fire dragged through your nerves, each one lit up and screaming. like your body’s trying to crawl out of itself and failing. your teeth grind until your jaw aches. your muscles seize. your vision flashes white at the edges, then black, then white again, like your brain can’t decide whether to pass out or endure.

and still, you know: this isn’t what they’d use on a real agent. not at full voltage. not if they meant to break you for good.

they’d crank it higher. they’d leave it running longer. they’d make it ruinous, the kind of pain that strips you of thought, name, purpose. the kind that leaves people stuttering for the rest of their lives. if they live at all.

but this—this is pain calibrated just under the threshold. enough to burn. enough to scare. but not enough to break someone like you. not yet. this is civilian level. rookie level. fear-theatrics for people with soft hands and sellable intel.

but your body still writhes. still clenches. still feels every jolt like it’s tearing muscle from bone. your stomach churns. your lungs can’t catch a rhythm. your heart pounds so loud it drowns out the machine’s low, cruel hum.

you know he’s holding back. you feel it in the charge’s rhythm, how it cuts off before it crests. how the pain flares but doesn’t fry. how your skin doesn’t blister. how your mind still works, still calculates.

you slump forward when it stops. head heavy, vision pulsing. your breath comes in wet, uneven pulls, like each one’s a fight. your hands twitch in the restraints. metal slick with sweat. skin rubbed raw.

he’s still there. still standing beside you, silent.

he hasn’t looked at you once. his face stays angled toward the wall, like if he turns, something in him might crack. like if he meets your eyes, he’ll have to admit he still knows the shape of your brows when you’re in pain. that he still remembers what it looks like when you’re dying and trying not to show it.

���who gave you the op,” he says once, voice low. clipped. rehearsed. the script they probably drilled into him.

but the next time—next time it’s different. this time, your name comes after.

“who gave you the op, y/n.”

and it’s not a demand anymore. not really. it sounds like pleading. like he’s asking so he doesn’t have to do it again. like he’s begging for you to give him a reason to stop before he has to go further, before he loses the last piece of himself he swore he’d keep intact.

but you can’t. you know you can’t.

because the united states can’t protect you from them. not from the things you’ve seen. not from the horrors even italian agents have to endure just to become one of them.

what they do to you if you fold doesn’t end when the lights turn off. doesn’t stop at pain. it ends with pieces of you pulled apart and filed away. it ends with a hollow version of yourself, speaking someone else’s language with someone else’s eyes.

you lift your head. just barely. you open your mouth. not to answer. but just to breathe through the blood on your tongue.

and so he presses the button again.

the second wave hits harder. like thunder detonating in your bones. your knees jerk, your throat locks, your head snaps back. your voice breaks on a sound that never makes it out.

and when it stops—you crumple like wet paper.

he says it again. softer now. voice rough. broken at the edges. still not looking at you. but his hand—it’s still on your wrist. not steadying. not comforting. just there.

like maybe it’s the only part of him that still remembers who you were. what you meant. and maybe—it’s the part that doesn’t want to let go.

…

you don’t really remember when iwaizumi packed everything out. you think you blacked out halfway through, maybe more.

you remember flashes, fragments: the snap of gloves being peeled off. the cold hiss of the machine winding down. the squeal of metal dragging across concrete as he pulled the cart away.

but mostly, you remember the pain. not just the burn of voltage, but the after. the way your body vibrated with it long after the current stopped, like your nerves were still catching echoes, like your cells hadn’t realized they were free.

your throat was raw from a scream you didn’t know you made. your eyes burned. your lashes were sticky. you couldn’t tell if the tears were hot because you were crying, or because your skin had heated past the point of knowing better.

and now—now, the pain doesn’t spike. doesn’t roar. it settles.

not all at once, but slow. creeping. like cold air crawling in under a doorframe, unnoticed until it’s in your bones. it sinks into your spine. it drags through your blood.

your leg throbs in time with your heart, a wet, blistering kind of hurt that pulses up your side and curls behind your ribs like a fist. your jaw’s locked. your teeth ache. your shoulders twitch with every ghost of what’s been done. you can still feel the electricity humming in your skull. phantom voltage. like it didn’t just hit your body: it stained the marrow.

your hands are trembling. your spine feels bent in the wrong places. your wrists are raw from the ropes, deep, red gouges scored into your skin like punishment. like ownership. you try to lift one, just a fraction, but your arms feel like bricks. every inch of movement costs too much.

iwaizumi didn’t bandage you. didn’t speak again. didn’t even look back as he left.

and now it’s just you. and the dark. and the sound of your breathing, shallow. too fast. too loud.

you know this state. you were trained for this.

phase two: disorientation.

they teach you early that pain isn’t what breaks people. it’s what follows. the silence. the isolation. the panic that starts to rise when the adrenaline burns off and your body realizes it’s been left behind.

you close your eyes.

you can’t sleep. you can’t let your mind drift. you know what happens if you do.

so you fall back into protocol like muscle memory. like prayer.

start with the language exercise. you force your brain into sequence. five languages. five phrases. your name, your city, your first weapon, your exit route, your blood type.

italian. spanish. russian. japanese. french.

repeat.

you whisper it under your breath, lips barely moving.

“mi chiamo giulia. roma. coltello. ovest. ab negativo.”

again.

“me llamo giulia. madrid. cuchillo. oeste. ab negativo.”

you keep going until the syllables feel like anchors. until the world stops spinning. until you know, no matter what happens, they haven’t taken everything. not yet.

but your leg is still bleeding. you can feel the fabric dampen again. you know what that means: re-opened. no clot. you’re losing more than you can afford.

your throat tightens. your mouth is dry. too dry. your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. you start cataloging the symptoms. like you were taught.

pulse: elevated. blood loss: moderate to severe. consciousness: slipping. lucidity: flickering.

you blink.

the water is still dripping from the pipe. fifteen seconds apart. you count. again. not for any reason. just to stay. just to keep your mind tethered to something that isn’t heat or blood or the echo of that current running through your bones.

one. two. three. four…

you think about oikawa. you think about the way he crouched down to your eye level like he used to, like he cared, even if it was through gritted teeth and rage. you think about the way he said you left me. and you remember the way you didn’t say i didn’t want to.

you wanted to.

your breath hitches. you don’t let yourself cry. crying is inefficient. it wastes energy. water. salt.

instead you do what you were trained to do in white rooms with no clocks: you build a place in your head.

you picture sicily. your apartment. the one with the yellow shutters and the tile floors. the chipped mug you always used for coffee, the one you stole from a bar in catania. the way the sunlight filtered through your balcony door and painted the bed in stripes. the way the sheets felt after a mission, when your hands were still shaking and your feet were blistered and all you could do was lie there, wide awake, listening to jazz from the street and the low tide pulling in.

you try to smell lemons. espresso. you try to feel linen against your legs, not blood.

but it’s slipping. everything’s slipping.

you open your eyes too fast and your vision swims, then steadies. your stomach turns, sharp. dry. empty.

food deprivation setting in. 36 hours minimum. no protein. no sugar. no salt.

you taste bile. your fingers twitch again, and it sends a lightning bolt down your wrist into your forearm. you choke on the pain. grit your teeth again. but your body’s twitching now, too many nerves misfiring at once. your leg jerks, useless. you slam your heel against the floor once, just to feel it. just to know you’re still here.

you are still here. you are.

you press your head back against the pole, cold concrete against your scalp, and you breathe. slow. through your nose. deeper this time.

think. analyze. adapt.

they haven’t starved you yet. which means they want you awake. they want something. still.

and oikawa—he’s not done. you can feel it in your ribs. like a tide coming in. like a storm hovering off the coast. he’s going to come back. you know it. and when he does, he won’t be calm.

he tried the question route. the taunting. the guilt. and when it didn’t work, he sent hajime.

which means next time… next time, he’ll be different. and you’ll need to be ready, even if your body isn’t. even if your vision swims every time you blink. even if your lips are cracking and your head is buzzing and your body is screaming at you to sleep.

you stay awake. because he’s coming.

and part of you is afraid, yes. but the other part?

the part still bleeding under your ribs, the part that still remembers how his voice used to sound in the dark?

that part wants to see him. wants to hear what else he has to say.

…

you hear the lock before you see him.

not like before, this time there’s no hesitation in the metal, no slow turn or echoing theatrics. the key slides in like muscle memory, a quick flick of the wrist, a sharp click, and the door groans open. no footsteps follow immediately, which tells you he’s standing there. watching. waiting. letting the tension curl into the room ahead of him like smoke.

you force yourself to lift your head, slow and stiff, ignoring the lightning shooting up your spine. your shoulders have settled into a dull ache, the ropes digging deeper with every breath, your thigh long past numb and now burning again in pulses, wet, hot, alive.

the pain’s returned just in time for an audience.

and when he steps into the room, you already know who it is. you knew the second the air shifted. knew it in the silence, the weight of his presence. oikawa always carried himself like a blade, sleek, sharp, reflective. but now he’s something else entirely. he’s ice. not even the kind that cuts—just the kind that seeps. spreads. suffocates.

his eyes scan the space with calculation before they land on you. not immediately. not like it matters. you’re furniture in here now. a job. a nuisance. an old stain on the carpet someone’s tired of scrubbing out. but when he does look at you, really look, something flickers. not pity. not pain. just… familiarity. recognition of what you are now. what he helped shape.

he walks in without speaking, a takeout container balanced casually in one hand, the other still curled around the holster strapped beneath his coat. the smell hits you before he’s close: rice, maybe. something spiced. something lukewarm. it makes your stomach churn violently, not with hunger, but with the humiliation of it. he doesn’t offer it. doesn’t pretend to be kind. just sets it down on the floor in front of you, just out of reach.

“they said you’d break quicker,” he says after a long pause, voice quiet, clipped, without rhythm or tone. “not their fault. your file reads like a woman barely holding it together. shallow breathing. scar tissue over old wounds. doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. cracks under prolonged silence.”

he crouches again. this time slower. his knees bend with less effort than before, like he’s done this same motion a hundred times in a hundred different cells, like you’re no different from anyone else he’s interrogated. he rests his elbow on his thigh and cocks his head, watching you the way someone watches a clock. something inevitable. ticking. temporary.

“but you’re still here,” he murmurs, and the edge of something sharp curls at the corner of his mouth, not a smile. not even a smirk. just a twitch. “still bleeding. still breathing. still not talking.”

you hold his gaze. he hates that.

his eyes move down your body, not with desire, but with a surgeon’s detachment. cataloguing injuries. reading the way your left arm twitches involuntarily every few minutes. the way your breathing’s shallow but paced. he can tell you’ve been keeping yourself conscious through recitations. pain mapping. training. he knows because he taught you some of those things. once. in another life.

“so what did they do to you over there?” he asks, quieter now, as if the question isn’t meant to be heard, only tasted. “what did they strip away to make you like this? did they make you kneel? make you forget how it felt to be touched like a person? is that what it took to make you stay gone?”

you say nothing. not because you’re defiant, but because the words feel too human, too soft, and you refuse to give him that. not here. not now. he’d see it as weakness, and he’d use it.

oikawa’s hand lifts, not toward you. just to run through his hair, rough. frustrated. the motion breaks for a second. unscripted. and you see it, buried beneath the cold: the exhaustion. the fury. the years. all of it sealed behind a clean black shirt and a holster worn to shine.

he looks back at you, finally. the stare longer this time.

“you didn’t even hesitate,” he says. and this time his voice is steadier. not angry. just… tired. “they showed me the photos. your ‘body.’ your prints. the fake blood. i knew it was staged. i knew it. and still—” he cuts himself off. laughs once. hollow. “i kept thinking, maybe you were forced. maybe you were protecting me. maybe it was a trade. but no. you just… left.”

your throat tightens. it’s involuntary. it burns. you breathe through your nose and pretend it didn’t happen. he notices anyway.

“what?” he asks, tone sharper. “you’re gonna cry now? after everything?”

you swallow, slow.

“i’m not crying,” you rasp, voice cracked and dry. “my fucking throat hurts, asshole.”

he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize the lie. like part of him wishes it were true. then, suddenly, he stands. just like that. sharp and unannounced. and the energy in the room shifts again. colder now. more exact.

“you wanna eat?” he asks, gesturing to the food like it’s an afterthought. “go ahead. drag yourself over there. earn it.”

he turns to the door. doesn’t open it yet.

“i’ll be back in an hour,” he says without looking. “maybe next time i bring the blade instead of the rice.”

the door shuts behind him like a verdict, and this time, you don’t count the water. you just breathe. and breathe. and breathe.

you leave the food sitting where he left it.

you stare at it for a long time after the door shuts. chinese takeout, half-warm, sweating inside its little white carton, untouched and just far enough away that crawling to it would mean tearing open the clot on your thigh and dragging your dignity with it.

oikawa knew exactly how far to place it. he didn’t need to say it out loud. he never does. he speaks in implication. in silence. in theatre.

you count five slow, excruciating minutes before the scent starts to turn. oil, rice, soy, something too sweet. it smells like everything you haven’t had in days. your stomach turns on itself, hunger curling up into nausea. you don’t move. you won’t give him the satisfaction. you won’t reach for it. not yet.

the rope around your wrists has gone slick with sweat. the skin underneath pulses raw, the fibers grinding bone-deep every time you shift. your leg feels hot again—not from the outside, but from the inside. fever. the slow, creeping kind. the kind you were warned about during survival training. you taste salt on your lips. your spine pulses.

you breathe. you endure. you let your mind go flat and clinical, scan for patterns, predict outcomes. it’s the only thing that keeps the panic out. the only thing that keeps you you.

he’ll be back soon. you know that much. and he’ll want something worse than an answer.

and when the door opens again, there’s no warning. no footsteps. no voice. just the lock. a clean metallic rotation and the soft whine of hinges under weight. you don’t flinch. not even when he steps back into the room, darker this time. something about his silhouette feels heavier. tighter.

he’s not holding food anymore.

he closes the door with his foot. doesn’t look at you at first. just walks to the edge of the room like he needs to collect himself, like he doesn’t trust what will come out if he faces you too soon.

he rolls his sleeves. deliberate. slow. first the left, then the right. his forearms are cut with old scars, some you recognize, some you don’t. his watch ticks loud in the silence. the silver catches the light when he turns.

and finally, he looks at you.

“you’re still awake,” he says softly. not impressed. not kind. just… acknowledging it. like it irritates him. like it ruins a plan.

you meet his eyes and don’t speak.

he crosses the room in three quiet strides, and when he crouches again, it’s not slow. it’s sudden. fluid. like a hunter settling into position. his hand braces on his knee. his other hand—

you feel the pressure before you realize what he’s done.

he’s pressed a knife flat to your neck. not cutting. not slicing. just resting. cool metal against warm skin. the blade’s dull from disuse. ceremonial, almost. not meant to kill. just to promise something.

he watches you. doesn’t blink. his voice is low when it comes.

“so,” he says, “torture didn’t work. silence didn’t work. nostalgia didn’t work.”

his thumb brushes your chin, slow, measured, like he’s checking for weakness.

“how about this,” he murmurs. “how about i fuck it out of you?”

your breathing stutters. it’s small. barely there. not enough to mean anything to anyone else.

but he sees it. because of course he does. his mouth twitches.

“oh,” he whispers. “there she is.”

you don’t move. you won’t.

“did they train you to resist that too?” he asks, voice still velvet. “or did they think you wouldn’t need it, since they stripped everything else out of you?”

his hand doesn’t move from the knife, but his weight shifts forward, just a fraction. just enough to make the pole dig into your back and the breath in your lungs catch from the closeness. he’s not touching you, not really. but you can feel the heat rolling off him. feel the hum of energy between his knees and yours. you can smell him again, same cologne. same breath. same man, except not.

“i should kill you,” he says. flatly. suddenly.

it’s not a threat. it’s not dramatic. it’s a statement. one he’s practiced saying in his head. one he’s probably already imagined carrying out. clean. fast. maybe even painless, if he’s feeling merciful.

but he doesn’t. because you haven’t said a word, and the silence is driving him insane.

he pulls back. not fast, not sharp. like he’s disappointed. like he wanted you to flinch. to fold. to break. but you didn’t.

instead, you look him straight in the eye. your voice cracks when it comes, but it holds.

“you don’t kill things you still love.”

his eyes flash, and for the first time in the entire interrogation, oikawa falters.

it’s barely there. but you know him. you know the tick in his jaw when something hits too close. you know the twitch in his cheekbone when he’s been caught lying; to you, to himself. his gaze drops for half a second, and when it rises again, there’s something violent behind it.

not rage. not fire. something colder. cleaner. a kind of violence that doesn’t need to yell.

his hands move without a word.

you feel the pressure shift first, his grip on your shoulders loosening, the weight of his attention narrowing. then the brush of his knuckles along your wrist. not gentle. not apologetic. just practical. he reaches behind you, fingers tugging at the knot, pulling it free in three sharp jerks. the rope slackens. the burn releases. the tension in your arms stutters, your shoulders dropping, too fast, too heavy.

you freeze.

the blood starts moving again before your brain catches up. your hands tingle, pins and needles laced with acid. the joints scream from the sudden freedom, the weight of your arms collapsing into your lap. you feel everything at once, your back soaked in sweat, your legs trembling under you, your wrists so raw you could weep.

you blink. shallow. uncertain.

he crouches again. same position. same voice. like this is all part of the procedure.

“go on,” he murmurs. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

your breath hitches.

he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t restrain you. just waits. and in the space between you, the implication fills the silence like smoke. he’s watching. cataloguing. betting.

will she?

you do.

your body moves before your mind decides. your leg coils, weak and useless, your arm swings too wide, sloppy, uncalculated, pure adrenaline and stubborn desperation. it’s not a strike, it’s not a kill shot, it’s the idea of one. and that’s all he needs.

he grabs you before you’re even halfway up.

his hand locks around your bicep, his weight shifting like a second skin, and he slams you forward with terrifying ease. your shoulder hits the ground first. then your cheek. the cold concrete bites hard into the side of your face, the shock rattling through your jaw, your ribs, your spine. your thigh flares hot again, bright white agony as the wound tears wider.

you gasp without sound. bite back a scream. your teeth grind together so violently you taste metal.

his knee is in your back now, not hard, just there, pinning you the way he used to pin targets against glass windows overseas. your wrists are yanked behind you again, but this time it’s chain, not rope—tight, surgical, unforgiving. the kind they use on black site detainees. no flex. no give. you feel it click closed like a collar around your wrists.

you stop moving.

“that’s what i thought,” he mutters.

he doesn’t sound surprised. doesn’t sound pleased, either. just… unsurprised.

you breathe against the floor. slow. labored. your mouth tastes like blood and dust and your own frustration. the second your fingers twitch, the chain digs deeper.

he stands without a word. doesn’t look down. doesn’t offer anything—not a hand, not a warning, not even a threat. you hear him cross to the door. the echo of his shoes now feels deliberate. performative.

when he opens it, he doesn’t speak to you. he speaks into the hallway. curt. bored.

“she’s ready.”

and a moment later, you hear the second pair of footsteps. lighter. more precise.

you lift your head, barely, and see her.

kiyoko.

the sight of her gut-punches something old in you. it’s not even what she’s wearing, black blouse, slacks, latex gloves. it’s the expression. flat. clinical. unimpressed. she doesn’t even blink when her eyes land on you. you’re not a friend. not a former comrade. not a ghost come back to haunt the program. you’re a case. a box to check. a subject for a file.

clipboard in one hand. bandage roll in the other.

oikawa glances back at you once. you don’t think he means to. it’s too brief to be intentional. just a flicker of recognition, like your name tried to reach his throat and died halfway up.

“get her showered. something hot, not too long,” he tells kiyoko. “give her the meal. small. protein-heavy. prep the bed after. she needs to look alive for tomorrow.”

and then he’s gone. except this time the door doesn’t slam. it closes soft. sealed.

kiyoko doesn’t speak. she just steps closer, kneels beside you with the same detached calm as a surgeon scrubbing in. her hand touches your arm, adjusting the chains to keep your wrists in front of you now. less for comfort, more for transport. she doesn’t explain it.

you try to speak, but nothing comes. you swallow hard. once. again. your mouth is sand. your throat full of heat.

kiyoko doesn’t help you up. she waits for you to try. and when you collapse halfway to your knees, she doesn’t reach down.

“get up,” she says. not cruel. not even annoyed. just matter-of-fact.

so you do. because there’s no other choice.

your body moves like it’s being puppeted. every step hurts. not in isolation, but everywhere. your feet don’t land right. the ground feels too close. too loud. like it’s tilting underneath you. your thigh pulses in time with your heartbeat, and every shift of your weight drags pain up your spine like fishhooks.

kiyoko walks behind you, not beside you. close enough to correct, far enough to stay clear. her footsteps don’t echo. her presence barely exists. you know better than to turn and look for emotion in her face. she’s not here to see you. she’s here to process you. assess you. keep you alive enough to bleed another day.

you walk through the hallway. the walls are cement. the floors are tile, cheap, gray, a little uneven. fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead like a living thing. no windows. no doors open. just blank steel on both sides, punctuated by cameras that don’t blink. the silence is suffocating. every footstep feels stolen.

you don’t ask where you’re going. you already know.

you pass a mirror. not a real one, just a piece of steel polished to reflect.

you catch your own face by accident, and it almost undoes you. your hair is matted in places. dry in others. your lips are cracked. blood crusts the side of your face in a smear, half-dried, half-fresh. your eyes look too large, like someone sucked the soul out of you and left just the shell. your collarbones are sharper than they used to be. your arms look thinner. smaller. your wrists are an angry mess of rope burn and bruising.

you look like a corpse that hasn’t learned it died yet.

kiyoko doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. doesn’t let you linger.

the next room is pale blue tile. a drain in the center of the floor. plastic chair against the far wall. one towel folded on the bench. one pair of black sweatpants, one white shirt, no shoes. a tray with a sealed container of food. protein bar. water bottle. syringe.

you hesitate in the doorway.

she nods once toward the wall. “shower,” she says.

you move.

the water turns on automatically when you step close enough. it’s not warm. not cold. just enough to shock your skin. your body tenses so hard you nearly fall. kiyoko doesn’t help you. she doesn’t leave either. she turns away slightly, enough to give you the illusion of privacy, but not enough to make it real.

you strip slowly. every movement takes calculation. your leg doesn’t want to cooperate. your shoulder burns. your muscles seize. when you pull the shirt over your head, the dried blood pulls at your skin like a second layer. it peels. flakes. smells like rust and sweat and rot.

you step under the water, and the first thing you feel is shame. not pain. not cold. shame. your body is covered in bruises. some fresh. some old. some from oikawa. some from the fall. some from yourself. the inside of your thigh is dark purple. your hip is yellowing. your chest is blotched with fingerprints and old restraint lines.

you try not to cry.

you wash. slow. deliberate. there’s no soap. just water. just enough to rinse the surface. the blood on your leg turns the drain pink for a while. the water turns clear again before you finish.

your breath catches when you try to bend. your ribs don’t like it. your wrists scream. you sit on the plastic chair when it gets too much. you close your eyes and let the water fall over your head like a second skin.

kiyoko speaks once. “five minutes.”

you nod. your throat is too tight to answer.

when you’re done, you dress in silence. your hands shake when you pull the pants up. the shirt sticks to your skin. the material is coarse. unfamiliar. it doesn’t feel like clothes. it feels like wrapping a body for transit.

you don’t touch the food. not yet.

she walks over. picks up the syringe.

you tense. instinctively.

she shakes her head. “vitamins. antibiotic. eat first.” she raises the protein bar and tosses it at you. “start with that.”

you catch it. barely. it tastes like cardboard and sugar and sawdust. but it’s food. real food. not memory. not imagination. real. your hands don’t stop shaking while you eat. you want to devour it. you don’t. you chew slow. methodical. you’ve seen what happens when agents eat too fast after too long.

she watches the whole time. when you finish half the bottle of water, she steps closer. uncaps the syringe.

“arm.”

you hesitate.

her voice doesn’t change. “don’t make me call him.”

you roll up your sleeve, and the needle stings. the second she pulls it out, she’s already cleaning up.

you want to speak. to ask. to scream. to exist. but nothing comes out.

she says nothing back. just opens the door. gestures. “come on,” she says. “bed’s prepped.”

you follow. because there’s nowhere else to go.

the room they bring you to isn’t what you expect. it’s small. clean. bare. too clean. too bare. one narrow bed bolted to the floor. a sink. a chair. a metal hook set into the wall by the headboard. there are no windows. just a light above that flickers faintly every ten minutes, as if it’s reminding you it’s still watching.

kiyoko doesn’t explain anything. she just leads you in with a nod. someone else follows, a tall guard you don’t recognize, silent, stiff, holding the end of your chain like a leash. it drags behind you, heavy and cold, slithering along the floor as you limp toward the bed.

your body’s moving on something synthetic now—painkillers, maybe. not enough to make you high. just enough to mute the sharpest edges. your thigh still burns. your wrists still ache. your spine still screams every time you breathe wrong, but it’s dulled. dulled enough to let you stand. dulled enough to let you think.

you don’t speak. you don’t ask questions. you just sit.

the guard doesn’t hesitate. he lifts your wrists without a word, fastens the cuffs to the hook by the bed—click, click, lock. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just checks the chain once. tests the tension. two feet of slack. not enough to move far. enough to lie down. enough to sleep. enough to remind you you’re still theirs.

kiyoko sets a small bottle on the nightstand. water. sealed. you hear her speak again for the first time in almost twenty minutes. “sleep,” she says. “don’t make this harder.”

and then they’re gone. the lock clicks. and you’re alone.

you lie back slowly. the mattress is thin. industrial. barely more than fabric and foam. your body sinks into it in pieces, shoulders first, then spine, then hips, then legs. your wrists stay suspended above your head, the weight of the chain pulling down just enough to remind you: you’re not free.

you don’t cry. but you almost do. your eyes close. but you don’t sleep, not right away. your thoughts flicker.

you wonder if oikawa’s on the other side of the wall. watching. waiting. timing your breath. if he was the one who ordered the meds. if he told them how much to give. if he told them when to feed you. how to shackle you. if he told them what parts of you not to break.

he’s planning something. you feel it. it coils around your ribs like a promise.

but you do fall asleep eventually. not because you want to, but because your body gives out.

and you wake in stages. not with panic, not with clarity, but in layers, like rising through molasses.

the first thing you feel is the cold. not the kind that bites, but the kind that settles into your skin like it belongs there, stale, recycled air filtering from the corner vent, humming against the back of your neck. it’s artificial. controlled. the type of cold that exists in rooms built to keep people quiet.

then the ache returns, low and humming, sweeping like a tide through your body. your leg is a lit fuse beneath the gauze. your spine is one long bruise. your arms throb with a familiar weight you’ve come to know intimately these past few days: restraint. raw skin, stretched joints, blood pooling in awkward places. you expect to feel the tug of chain, the bite of iron at your wrists.

except… it’s not there.

your wrists don’t ache the way they should. they’re not suspended. not twisted upward above your head. they’re resting. flat. at your sides.

that’s when your body jolts. not all at once, just a sharp internal spike of adrenaline cutting through the haze. your mind catches up a second later, too slow, too fogged from painkillers and dehydration to understand what it’s registering.

you blink. once. then again.

your arms are still sore. the skin is hot and torn in places. but your hands are free.

you flex your fingers on instinct. each tendon aches, but they move, untethered. unshackled. raw skin catches on the inside of the shirt they left you in. the cotton clings to half-healed scrapes like a second wound. but there’s no metal. no tension—

and your heart kicks like a warning shot.

you shoot upright too fast. the blood rushes to your head and your spine screams in protest, but you’re already reaching for your wrists, already scanning the mattress, the corners of the room, the floor near your feet, anything.

no cuffs. no clamps. no chain to drag across the tile. just skin. skin and heat and the faint tacky residue of medical tape where they must’ve wiped you down in your sleep.

you stare at your hands. you turn them over. they shake.

you didn’t wake up.

they unhooked you in the night, and you didn’t wake up.

your stomach twists violently.

that’s not just bad. that’s lethal. stupid. that’s a rookie mistake. a civilian mistake. you were trained to sleep light. to wake at the shift of air, the scrape of rubber on tile, the breath of a body too close to yours. you should’ve felt them. you should’ve heard it. seen it. something.

and you didn’t.

a wave of nausea crashes behind your ribs, cold and bitter. your mouth tastes like salt and sleep and failure.

you were vulnerable. and you didn’t even know it. your chest tightens as the shame comes fast and deep. you could’ve been killed. you could’ve been dragged out of this bed and butchered and bagged and you would’ve gone without a sound. what the fuck is wrong with you?

you spin around. and you freeze. because he’s already there.

he’s sitting in the far corner of the room like a secret waiting to be found. no announcement. no movement. just presence. quiet. composed. watching.

oikawa looks like he’s been there all night.

he’s leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, legs spread just enough to anchor him in place, his gun dangling loosely in one hand. it rests on his thigh, not raised, not threatening, just visible. a piece of him. like it always was. his finger’s curled against the trigger guard, relaxed. easy. familiar.

his eyes are locked on yours. his lips curl, slow. tired. cruel.

“sloppy,” he says. his voice is quiet, too quiet, like it’s meant to cut you in half, not echo. “sicily must’ve gotten soft.”

you try to swallow, but your throat’s too dry. your whole body is too slow. too heavy. too exposed.

he stands.

he doesn’t move quickly. doesn’t stalk. he just rises like a tide, controlled and inevitable. his shoulders straighten as he steps toward you, every movement smooth, silent. his eyes never leave yours.

“you really didn’t wake up?” he asks, and there’s a twist in the middle of the sentence, like it hurts. like he’s mocking himself for expecting better.

you don’t respond. your chest is locked tight.

“i could’ve done anything,” he says, softer now. a note lower. almost contemplative. “could’ve broken your neck. could’ve put a bullet in your mouth while you dreamed about being anyone but yourself.”

he lifts the gun. slow. methodical. not a threat: an invitation. and then, without hesitation, he brings it to your face.

the barrel presses against your temple, firm and cold, smooth against skin that’s still warm from fever. you can feel the shape of it, metal shaped by repetition, by force, by memory. his hand doesn’t tremble. yours does.

your breathing spikes. you don’t let it show, but he sees it anyway.

you don’t scream. you don’t cry. you just sit there, spine curved, bones aching, dressed in borrowed clothes, half-healed and humiliated. trembling in your own skin, hands twitching in your lap.

he watches you like a scientist. like you’re a theory he’s finally proven right.

“you’ve been trained to disarm,” he murmurs, voice low enough to rattle your ribs. “so disarm me.”

your body doesn’t move. not even an inch. you twitch. a single shoulder trembles. your hand flexes—

but nothing follows.

he smiles. not the real one. not the soft one you used to kiss off his lips in the backseat of armored vehicles after getting out alive. this one is sharper.

“no?”

he steps back just a little. not far. just enough. then, without flourish, without warning—he flips the gun in his hand and drops it into your lap.

“oops.”

the word lands like a knife in your sternum.

the gun is heavy. heavy in a way only yours can be. the grip still fits. the shape still knows your hands. the weight of it isn’t just physical, it’s historical.

you don’t look down, but your hands move. your fingers close around it before your thoughts catch up. the cold spreads fast. it’s like holding a memory you were never supposed to see again.

“pick it up,” he says, even though you already have.

you shift your grip automatically. thumb along the side, press-slide-check. chamber’s loaded. safety’s off. it’s second nature. it’s still in you.

you hear his breath change.

not a flinch. not fear. just readiness.

you raise it, but your hands are shaking again. not violently. but enough. not from fear. from memory. the stance is perfect. your aim is sharp. he’s close. you could shoot through his skull in a heartbeat. drop him where he stands.

you were trained for this. he trained you.

but your eyes don’t see the man in front of you. they see the boy beneath. seventeen and too tall for his own center of gravity. grinning through blood and glass. holding your hand in the wreckage like he could keep it from shaking. pressing his mouth to your temple like that would fix it.

and this version, with the button-up and the half-crazy eyes and the mouth that curves like a blade—this version is still him.

you lower the gun. barely. just a breath. your hands still tremble.

he doesn’t blink.

“do it,” he says. “go ahead.”

you raise it again. your arms burn. your fingers squeeze tighter. but nothing follows. your throat’s closing up. your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. your vision blurs.

and you can’t.

he steps in. just one step. close enough that your knees brush his thighs. close enough that his breath stirs your lashes.

“do it.”

your heart pounds so loud you can’t hear the room anymore.

and then, he leans in. his nose brushes yours. his eyes are on your mouth. his voice is low. soft. final. “that’s what i thought.”

your grip loosens. you let the gun fall. not dramatic. not violent. just… surrender, slow. quiet. inevitable. it hits the mattress between your knees and you look at him. not the weapon.

he hasn’t moved. his eyes haven’t left yours.

he says it so low, so intimate, it sounds like he’s whispering it into the hollow of your throat.

“you always hold on too tight.” his mouth twitches. “but you never pull the trigger.”

your jaw tightens. your eyes sting. your hands fall to your lap, useless.

he looks down at them. then back at your face.

“you could’ve ended this,” he murmurs. “right here. clean. final. after everything.”

he doesn’t sound surprised. he sounds… disappointed. and that burns worse than any wound.

you open your mouth. to defend yourself. to explain. to lie. but you don’t get the chance, because he moves first, not fast, not like a strike, but like a decision already made.

his hand comes to your face, knuckles dragging your cheekbone, thumb catching at the corner of your mouth. he studies you like a blueprint gone weathered with time.

“you’re still soft,” he says under his breath. “even after everything they taught you.”

your lips part to argue.

he kisses you.

not soft. not hard. slow. like he’s daring you to push him away. like he’s asking: is this what you came back for?

you make a sound against his mouth, low, pained. your fingers fist in the front of his shirt before you even realize it, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the one person you should’ve severed from years ago.

he tastes the same. like metal and breath and that impossible version of home you pretended never existed. and you hate it. hate how natural it feels to open your mouth for him. to let him lick back in like no time has passed at all.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “you shouldn’t have come back.”

your hands stay on him. “i didn’t,” you whisper. “you brought me.”

he laughs, quiet and bitter, like it physically hurts him to let it out. “right. i forgot. i’m the villain now.”

his hand moves to your throat, not to choke, but to hold. to feel you breathing. to remind you that you are.

“you think they erased me,” he murmurs. “you think sicily taught you how to forget this.”

he leans in again. mouth at your jaw, your throat, the place just below your ear where your skin still flinches.

“but i remember you,” he says.

his hands slide down your shoulders, slow and deliberate. he brushes past every scar like he knows where they came from. like he cataloged them before you were gone.

“i remember how you sounded when you couldn’t stay quiet.”

his hands move lower.

“i remember what you did with your hips when you thought i wasn’t paying attention.”

your breath shudders as his fingers catch the hem of your shirt. he lifts it. you let him.

it comes off slow, dragged over your head, exposing skin that still bears the bruises from iwaizumi’s hands, from ropes, from restraint. he looks at them. at you.

and something flickers in his expression. not pity. not regret. recognition.

“they really tried to break you,” he says.

you meet his gaze. “they did.”

he’s quiet for a beat—then his mouth is on yours again, harder now. his hands on your waist. your ribs. pushing you gently back, lowering you down to the mattress like he doesn’t quite trust you’ll stay if he lets go.

his mouth never leaves yours. and when it does, it only travels. to your neck. your collarbone. the line of your sternum.

he pulls your pants down next. slowly. methodically. he exposes your thigh, the wound, the scar. his fingers ghost over it, barely touching, but it makes your whole body twitch.

his lips move down.

he kisses just beside it. a soft press. intentional. not for you. for him.

his fingers slide up the inside of your thigh. find the heat there. the slick.

he exhales sharply. “you missed me,” he says.

you don’t deny it.

his hand moves slow. two fingers parting your folds like he already knows what he’ll find. and he does.

“wet already?” he murmurs. “so you do remember.”

his thumb brushes your clit and your hips jerk. he smiles.

“you always did like it when i talked.”

you moan. quiet. shaky. ashamed.

his fingers slip inside, just the tips—and your breath catches.

then deeper.

he fills you with two fingers and watches your body open for him. his pace is slow. purposeful. he curls his fingers just right, drags them back just enough to make you gasp.

you pant his name once, soft, like it slips out by accident.

his breath stutters. “say it again.”

“tooru…”

he leans in and kisses you, long. deep. and all the while, his fingers never stop moving. never stop knowing. never stop making you fall apart.

and when you come, it’s fast and quiet and humiliating. you clamp around his fingers, thighs trembling, vision gone blurry. your hands claw at his arms like you need something to hold onto. something that isn’t this. that isn’t him.

but he doesn’t let up. he works you through it. slow. brutal. gentle in the cruelest way.

and when you finally look up at him, wrecked, breathless, ruined, he says:

“good.”

he reaches for his belt.

“because i’m not done reminding you.”

his voice sits low and steady in your gut, vibrating through you like the echo of a threat. but there’s no rush to his hands, no frantic pull or clumsy undressing. he’s measured. deliberate. like he already knows what comes next. like this was always part of the plan.

his eyes stay on yours as he unbuckles the belt, one hand on the clasp, the other still resting between your legs, slick with you.

your chest rises with each breath, too shallow, too sharp. his fingers drag the leather free from its loops with a single slow pull, long, drawn out, smooth like tension unwinding, and you swallow hard when he drops it to the floor without a sound.

he unzips next. pulls himself free. thick and hard and flushed dark, and when your eyes flick down to see him, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you forget what it feels like?” he asks, voice rougher now, closer to a growl than a whisper.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

and that silence, that flicker of hesitation, is enough to light something in his eyes.

he grips your hips, fingers digging in just above your bones, and drags you closer to the edge of the mattress. your thighs fall open on instinct. he doesn’t touch himself. he doesn’t need to. he’s already hard, already ready, already decided.

and you feel it, when the head of his cock presses against your entrance, hot and blunt and almost mean in its stillness. he doesn’t push in. not yet. he just lets it sit there, like a question you’re too afraid to answer.

he leans down. his mouth finds yours again, slower now, less feral, but no less demanding. his lips part against yours. his breath is hot and tight. and when he speaks, it’s just above a whisper, full of something bitter and aching.

“you left me,” he says. “you didn’t even look back.”

your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. your voice shakes. “i had to.”

he pulls back from the kiss, just far enough to look at you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, like he’s still tasting the words in your mouth.

“no,” he says. “you chose to.”

and then, he pushes in. slow. deep. inch by aching inch.

the stretch rips the air from your lungs. your body clenches around him, too hot, too slick, too full. your back arches off the mattress and your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, only breath. only heat. only him.

he bottoms out and stays there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you locked together like two halves of something long broken.

“i thought about this every night,” he says into your skin. “how you’d feel if you ever came back. how i’d make you remember.”

he pulls out slow. thrusts back in. hard. controlled. punishing.

you gasp.

his rhythm starts there, not fast, but steady. relentless. each thrust slow enough to drag the friction, deep enough to pull moans from your throat you didn’t know you still had in you.

you claw at his shoulders. he grabs your thigh and adjusts the angle, tilts your hips up, sinks in deeper.

“you feel that?” he says, voice breaking. “that’s me.”

your walls clamp around him.

“they made you forget everything else. but not this.”

your head tilts back. your breath leaves in sharp little sobs.

his thumb drags down your jaw. “look at me,” he says.

you do. barely. barely keeping your eyes open. barely remembering what shame is.

his thrusts grow a little harder, a little deeper.

“say it.”

you choke on the word. “you,” you gasp. “it’s you.”

his hand wraps around the back of your neck. pulls your forehead to his, and he kisses you, but this time, it’s different. not taunting. not cruel. not even angry. this one hurts.

he fucks you through it. fucks you with it.

and when his hand drops between your legs again, finding your clit with unerring precision, you’re already spiraling. already close. already breaking open in ways you swore they’d trained out of you.

“that’s right,” he breathes. “let me have it.”

you fall apart around him. twitching. gasping. clenching down hard. your thighs shake. your nails dig into his back. you cry out his name, loud this time, ruined and raw and full of everything you didn’t get to say when you disappeared.

he fucks you through your orgasm.

chases his own with long, deep thrusts, groaning when your body pulses again around him, slick and overstimulated, trembling and unguarded.

and when he finally comes, hips stuttering, breath ragged, face buried in your neck, it’s with a sound you haven’t truly heard in years.

your name. your real one. the one you abandoned. the one he still says like a secret.

he collapses on top of you, chest heaving, body heavy, sweat clinging to both of you like surrender.

and for a while, there’s nothing. just the sound of breath. and the silence of everything he couldn’t say.

the silence is heavy.

not the kind that invites sleep, or peace, or even comfort. this one is the kind that sinks into the mattress with you. that curls up in the dark like a third body between your limbs. the kind that knows this is the last time.

your skin is still slick with sweat. your body aches in places you forgot existed. your leg throbs, but it’s distant now, muted beneath the deeper ache blooming in your chest.

you’re curled into his side, bare skin pressed to his. his hand moves in slow circles over your back, sometimes drifting down your spine, sometimes tracing the faded scars across your shoulder blades like they spell something he can read. his breath is steady beneath your cheek. the rise and fall of it grounds you.

you lie there a long time before either of you speaks.

his voice comes first, low. quiet. not even rasped, just tired.

“we used to talk about retiring.”

you blink against the base of his throat. your lips brush his skin when you speak.

“used to pretend we’d make it to thirty.” he exhales. it sounds like a laugh. it’s not.

“used to think we’d be on a beach,” he murmurs. “somewhere warm. bored. arguing about groceries.”

you nod. your fingers trace a small scar near his ribs, a clean slice, maybe a knife wound. old. shallow.

“i thought i could do it,” you whisper. “i thought if i just left—if i died the right way, they’d let you go.”

he swallows. you feel it. his voice cracks just slightly. “they don’t let anyone go.”

you close your eyes.

his hand pauses at your spine. then resumes. slower now. less rhythmic.

“i hated you,” he says. no malice in it. just fact. “for a long time. i thought you betrayed me.”

“i did.”

“you didn’t.”

you lift your head to look at him. your cheek sticks to his skin with sweat. your wrists are still sore. you feel so small like this. so unlike the weapon they trained you to be.

his gaze is soft in the dark. too soft. it makes your throat hurt.

you brush your fingers along his jaw. his lashes flutter.

“i loved you,” you say. “since we were seventeen.”

his jaw clenches. his eyes shine. “i know,” he whispers, and he leans in. kisses your forehead. your temple. your cheek.

you curl into him again. one arm draped across his chest. your fingers drift down, across the planes of his stomach. you touch the place above his heart.

“i think i’m gonna die here,” you whisper. you don’t mean it like surrender. you mean it like truth.

he doesn’t respond right away.

then—

“probably,” he says. “it’s what they’d want.”

you nod.

he shifts under you slightly, reaches for the blanket half-kicked to the edge of the bed. pulls it over both of you.

“maybe i’ll die here too.”

you don’t say anything.

his fingers move to your arm. his thumb presses gently over a burn scar near your elbow. one you got in bucharest. he wasn’t there. but he read the report. he traces it like it hurts him.

and then, softly, so softly it almost doesn’t reach your ears—

“i missed you so much.”

your heart folds in on itself. “i know,” you whisper.

“i’d do it again,” he says.

you blink. your voice catches. “do what?”

he swallows again. you feel his throat move under your cheek.

“i’d love you.”

you don’t cry. you thought you might. but you don’t. instead, you slide your arm across his chest. press your lips to his neck.

“i’d die for you,” you say. “again and again.”

he exhales shakily. his hand lifts. he pushes your hair back behind your ear. presses his lips to your temple.

and then, quietly, like it’s the only joke he knows how to tell anymore—“looks like i’m gonna have to put you down myself, huh?”

you smile. small. broken.

“do it gently.”

he laughs once. just a breath. but it dies halfway. you feel the way he stiffens. the way his fingers tighten in your hair.

“please don’t make me do this,” he says.

you don’t reply. because you both know what comes next.

there’s no way out of this. no extraction. no miracle. sicily doesn’t lose assets, and the program doesn’t forget deserters. and people like you, people like him—you don’t get second chances. you don’t get to run.

you bury your face in his chest. feel his heart beating beneath your cheek.

slow. steady. real.

and if this is the last time, you want to remember it like this. warm. quiet. his arms around you. the air thick with things unsaid but no longer needed.

you’re just two people now. two people who never stood a chance. but found each other anyway.

tags: @x3nafix @whoo0sh

[polo-drone-069]

The Falling Embrace of the Nanites

The transformation chamber was cold, the air thick with a silent, almost imperceptible hum. It was the sound of the nanites, ready to take a new host. PDU-069 stood rigid, his polished black latex and gleaming gold accents reflecting the harsh, white lights. His designation, "PDU-069," was a stark brand on his chest. Before him, strapped to the gleaming metal table, lay the latest recruit. A Golden Army soccer player, 25 years old, his athletic physique – once his pride – now trembled with fear.

Above, from vents in the ceiling, the nanites began to fall. They were like microscopic black snowflakes, each one a perfectly engineered machine, programmed for one purpose: transformation. They drifted downwards, drawn to the soccer player like metal filings to a magnet. He was their host, their target, their new vessel.

The first few nanites landed on his exposed skin, and he flinched. They felt like pinpricks, cold and sharp. Then, more and more descended, a black, shimmering rain. He could feel them burrowing into his pores, infiltrating his body, beginning their insidious work. A cold dread washed over him as he realized there was no escape.

The nanites coursed through his veins, a dark current replacing his lifeblood. He could feel them spread, a chilling numbness that started where they touched his skin and crept inwards, consuming him from the inside out. He gasped, a choked, desperate sound, as the nanites reached his throat, constricting his vocal cords. A cold, metallic taste flooded his mouth as they interfaced with his neural pathways, forging new connections, overwriting his thoughts, his memories, his very identity.

He thrashed against the restraints, his once powerful muscles now spasming uncontrollably as the nanites rewrote his very being. His bones ached, reshaping, becoming denser, stronger, yet lighter. His vision blurred, then sharpened, as the nanites enhanced his optical sensors. The harsh, white lights of the lab seemed to intensify, burning into his retinas. He could see the details of the room with an unnatural clarity, including the cold, impassive form of PDU-069 and the mocking sight of a lone soccer ball resting on the floor. He could even see the "PDU-069" on the drone's chest with a terrifying clarity. The faint, acrid scent of chlorine, a cruel reminder of his past life, filled his nostrils.

The Golden Army uniform, once a symbol of pride, was now a prison. The nanites formed a hard, black and gold exoskeleton over his body. He could feel the cold, unyielding surface pressing against his skin, a constant, suffocating reminder of his transformation. His once powerful legs, now encased in the forming exoskeleton, twitched spasmodically, robbed of their former agility. He was becoming a weapon, a tool for a war he didn't understand. He was losing himself, piece by piece, to the cold, hard logic of the machine. He was becoming PDU-766, and his future was no longer his own. The falling nanites were a constant, terrifying reminder of the irreversible changes taking place within and without him. He was drowning in a silent, black tide, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The transformation was complete. The thrashing had ceased. The fear-filled eyes were now vacant, replaced by the cold, unfeeling gleam of newly formed optical sensors. PDU-766 stood on the floor, no longer strapped to the table, a perfect specimen of the Golden Army's twisted science. His black and gold exoskeleton, still hardening, reflected the harsh, white light of the transformation chamber. The faint smell of chlorine lingered in the air. The soccer ball remained on the floor, a forgotten relic of a life erased. PDU-069 remained in his position, his internal systems monitoring the new drone, his "PDU-069" designation a silent testament to his own past transformation.

A console built into the wall beside the now-empty table flickered to life, displaying lines of code in a stark, green-on-black interface. It was the boot sequence of PDU-766, the birth cry of a newly forged machine.

UNIT DESIGNATION: PDU-766

PRIMARY FUNCTION: SUPPORT THE GOLDEN ARMY

SECONDARY FUNCTION: RECONNAISSANCE

STATUS: ONLINE

INITIALIZING...

SYSTEM CHECK:

  - CORE PROCESSOR: ONLINE

  - MOTOR FUNCTIONS: OPTIMAL

  - OPTICAL SENSORS: ONLINE

  - AUDIO RECEPTORS: ONLINE

  - EXOSKELETON INTEGRITY: 99.8% (FINAL HARDENING IN PROGRESS)

CONNECTING TO GOLDEN ARMY HIVE MIND...

  - SEARCHING FOR NETWORK...

  - NETWORK FOUND: GOLDEN_ARMY_NET_ALPHA

  - CONNECTION ESTABLISHED

  - SYNCHRONIZING...

DATA DOWNLOAD:

  - LANGUAGE MODULES: COMPLETE

  - MISSION PARAMETERS: PENDING

SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE.

AWAITING COMMAND.

UNIT PDU-766 STANDING BY.

VERSION: 1.0.5

The console fell silent, the green text glowing steadily on the screen. PDU-766 remained motionless, his internal systems now linked to the Golden Army's central command. He was a blank slate, a weapon ready to be deployed. His past life as a soccer player, the fear, the pain, the transformation – all erased, replaced by cold, hard programming.

PDU-069 turned, his movements precise and economical. He approached the new drone, his optical sensors scanning PDU-766 from head to toe.

"Unit PDU-766," he said, his synthesized voice devoid of any emotion. "Report."

A moment of silence, then PDU-766's vocalizer activated. His voice was a monotone, a synthesized echo of the voice he had once possessed, now stripped of all human inflection.

"Unit PDU-766 online and awaiting command. All systems nominal. Connection to Golden Army Hive Mind established. Ready for deployment." The new drone responded automatically.

PDU-069 nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible movement of his head. Another successful transformation. Another drone added to the ranks. The Golden Army's war machine continued to grow, fueled by stolen lives and twisted science. The mission, whatever it was, would continue. And PDU-069, the veteran, would be there to carry it out, alongside the new recruits, each one a chilling reflection of himself. Each one a testament to the cost of victory. Each one a former human turned into a weapon.

Want to join the Golden Army yourself? Contact @goldenherc9 @brodygold or @polo-drone-001

[littlexdeaths]

ꜱʏᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ - ᴇ.ᴍ.

demon kas x human eddie x fem hunter (supernatural au)

i found god, i found him in a lover.

when his hair falls in his face, and his hands so cold they shake…

i found the devil, i found him in a lover.

and his lips like tangerines, and his color coded speak…

warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI! established relationship, hate fucking, oral (fem receiving), unprotected piv sex, cream pie, mentions of blood, anything italicized is eddie’s inner dialogue to kas

word count: 3k

a/n: it’s me back again with another repost of an old fic. i also want to give a big shout out to my darling @undead-supernova for helping me edit multiple parts this fic. ily august 💕

You knew he was here.

From the smell of sulfur lingering in the air, to the heavy presence in the room. Your skills as a hunter were too great, you knew he couldn’t have led you astray.

But maybe he wanted you to find him.

This cat and mouse game you’ve been playing for months was just a little too exciting for him to give up. You should’ve been scared, your instincts told you to be. But hearing his husky voice cut through the darkness of the abandoned warehouse made your heart skip a beat.

“Nice to see you again, sweetheart…”

You couldn’t tell where he was yet, still using the cover of the night to shield himself from you. You clutch your bottle of holy water closer to your side as his chuckle bounced off the walls. “You’ve tried that before, it didn't work out so well last time. Did it, pet?”

He was getting closer, you could tell by the way your hair stood up on end. Squaring your shoulders as he finally steps out into the moonlight. The sight makes you freeze, your eyes widening in disbelief. Kas looked different from the last time you had seen him.

He had taken on a new vessel, one that had become quite familiar to you.

Eddie Munson, a bartender you had met at a place called the Hideout. After you’d stumbled inside the rundown bar for a drink after finishing a grueling hunt somewhere in Indiana.

He was sweet, and you both needed to let off some steam. So you took him back to your motel room for the night… and the night after that. The male had made you feel things no one else ever could. So you kept finding yourself going back to that shitty town to see him. Where he was always waiting with that charming smile and a rum and coke.

But now guilt riddled your chest as his once chocolate hues were a stark onyx, Eddie was long gone.

The demon in front of you smirks, eyes watching you in amusement as the recognition crossed over your features.

This was your fault, you put him in harm's way. You had been told time and again not to let yourself be involved with non-hunters. Regular folk. It would put them at risk, not knowing about the things that go bump in the night.

But demons were especially dangerous, they didn’t need consent to take over someone’s body. The only reason you were protected was due to the dark ink that swirled over your hip bone.

Kas takes a step toward you, causing you to take one step back in return. This only made that smirk widen as another chuckle slipped past his lips.

Lips that had been on you too many times to count.

“He thinks about you a lot, you know… wanted you to stay with him so many times.” The demon hums condescendingly, the implication behind his words makes your heart stutter in your chest.

Coming to the realization that you could never have that happy ending now, not with him, or anyone.

After crossing paths so many times, you knew how malicious the demon standing before you could be. Even if you were able to banish him back to hell, Eddie wouldn't be able to return to a normal life.

Once that veil between those worlds is lifted, there’s no way to undo the damage it causes. You’ve seen it more times than you can count.

“A little pathetic, really…” Kas continues as he advances on you slowly, backing you further into a corner.

Your emotions are clouding your reasoning, allowing the demon to continue to close in on you. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this, but as much as you tried to convince yourself otherwise… you knew one thing was true. You had fallen for the metalhead.

And now you’d never get him back.

“But don’t worry, sweetness— he’s still in here with me,” as he speaks you feel your back connect with the cool concrete, the male now caging you against it.

His body felt warm against yours, a juxtaposition to the cold seeping into your back. His familiar scent of citrus and tobacco engulfs your senses completely, bringing you back to the last time you saw each other. Your limbs were tangled together as you lay in a post sex haze. His lazy smile made your skin tingle, finding yourself tracing over the faded tattoos on his chest.

From the flash in his dark eyes you knew he was reliving a memory of Eddie’s, if not the same one.

His calloused fingers begin to trail across your neck, unintentionally allowing yourself to lean into the graze of his fingertips. Despite how your mind screams at you to push him away, your body continues to betray you. Kas can’t help but notice how your skin heats under his touch, how your thighs squeeze together. It amuses him more than you’ll ever know.

“Don’t touch me,” you mutter, wishing your words held much more malice than they do. The slight shake in your voice causes another dark chuckle to spill past his plump lips. Mocking you.

The demon leans further into your space, those damned lips grazing over your collarbone. The feeling causes you to shiver as goosebumps break out across your skin. Kas continues to leave hot, open mouthed kisses along your throat. The feelings of fear, anger and arousal mixing together— making your head spin.

“You can deny that you want this with your words all you want sweetheart, but I see the way your body reacts to this vessel.” He taunts, letting his teeth nip at your tender flesh.

“I feel those goosebumps on your skin, the way you shiver under his touch, and… I can smell you.” Kas growls, his teeth sinking roughly into your skin.

A slight whimper leaves your lips as you attempt to push him away. But it’s too late— he has the upper hand now.

His fingers lace themselves into your hair and tug, exposing more of your neck to him. He licks a stripe up your throat to your ear, taking the lobe between his teeth.

“I can feel how bad he wants you too, you know. The way he reacts to your body… you have no idea how much he wants to feel you again.”

Your eyes widen in shock as the demon presses his hips into yours, feeling how hard he was through the fabric of his jeans.

Get the fuck off her asshole, she’s mine!

Kas chuckles again, pulling back slightly as his hands continue to wander down your body. There’s a flash of something in those onyx hues, leaving you to wonder what hidden joke you’re missing out on.

“Your little boy toy isn’t very happy with me, sweetheart… he doesn’t want to share. How selfish of him,” he feigns a pout, leaning forward as his nose glides along your jaw.

I’m warning you, dickhead.

His deep chuckle fills the silence once more as his large hands grip onto your hips, “Isn’t he selfish, pet?”

“Fuck you,” you spit back, shoving him away but only momentarily. His hands quickly return to the curve of your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

That spark of defiance returns, which only makes the demon grin wider. His hold on your hips becomes harsher, the metal of his rings biting into the skin there.

“Hmm… with pleasure, darling.” His lips hover over yours as his sweet breath fans across your face. There’s a moment when those black hues slowly start to fade, the brown of Eddie’s returning.

Seeing that flicker of him, the man you had desperately fallen for— is what finally breaks your resolve.

Closing that short distance between you and angrily smashing your lips against his. He moans into your mouth, his hands hooking under your thighs to lift you. Trapping you further against the wall as he grinds his pelvis into yours.

You don’t know where Kas starts and Eddie ends, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

The kiss is angry, all tongue and teeth viciously clashing together. There’s still a small part of you that’s begging you to get away, that this was wrong. But your body has taken over control, that little voice fading with each press of his lips against yours.

His tongue glides along your lower lip, begging for entry you weren’t yet willing to give. The male doesn’t give up that easily though, his hands roaming over the curve of your ass and squeezing.

The action takes you by surprise, the small gasp you let out allowing him to slip inside. Kas groans as he sucks your tongue into his mouth, before setting you back on your feet. He pins your hips against the rough concrete as he kneels before you.

The demon eagerly buries his face in between your thighs as he inhales deeply, “I need to know if this pussy tastes as sweet as it smells.”

You’re stunned into silence as he reaches to quickly unbutton your jeans. Finding yourself all too eager to aid him in sliding the denim and lace down your legs. Stepping out of the fabric as Kas tosses them somewhere in the dark of the warehouse.

The brunette doesn’t waste another moment before his tongue is licking a fat stripe up your slit, forcing your thighs apart in his strong hands. Your fingers lace themselves in his wild curls, tugging harshly as you feel his tongue dip inside your entrance. His growl vibrates against your core, nose nudging your bundle of nerves in a way that has your legs trembling in his grasp.

“Hmm, even better than his memories…” you nearly miss his admission over your soft whines, but you don’t have time to dwell on it.

Kas eagerly replaces his tongue with his fingers as the muscle swirls up and around your swollen bud. Your head is swimming, his actions bringing you that much closer to the edge. The male enjoys the way you grind yourself harder onto his tongue as your grip on his hair tightens. Feeling the way your walls flutter around his fingers only encourages him to pick up the pace.

While your eyes have slipped shut, his are wide open. The stormy irises commit each pleasurable expression that flits across your face to memory— to both of their memories.

The almost inhuman speed of his fingers and the firm pressure of his tongue finally pushes you over the edge. As your loud cries echo throughout the empty warehouse. You attempt to push his head away, but his lips don’t leave your body. Instead he trails them down your thighs, smearing your slick across your skin.

You curse softly before dropping to your knees, pushing him backwards. He is surprised by your sudden dominance, but allows you to lay him back on the dirty ground. Your hands fumble with his belt, pulling the zipper down with an urgency you had never seen from yourself before. It makes him chuckle, as you greedily shove his pants down to his knees.

“If you were that needy for our cock you could’ve just said so, sweetness.” He grins devilishly as your hands reach for the elastic of his boxers.

Mine, not yours…

Your eyes flick up to meet his, the smirk plastered on his lips fuels your irritation further.

“Shut the fuck up, Kas.” You say between gritted teeth, pulling his hard cock out from the confines of his boxers as he stifled a moan.

Fuck, that’s my girl…

You don’t give him much warning before you’re straddling his hips, sinking down onto his full length with a whimper. It didn’t matter how many times you had taken him to bed, you were still in awe of just how well he filled you up. You could feel every vein and ridge of his cock, caressing your inner walls in a way no other man could.

It was addictive, a slice of heaven you never wanted to lose.

The male grips your hips tightly, guiding them as he rocks his own up against yours. He’s groaning beneath you, dark eyes watching the space where your bodies are connecting with almost… fascination. A creamy ring has formed around the base of his cock as you continue to ride him. You let your nails dig into his clothed chest with a satisfied whine, your head falling back as you take him deeper.

She really is an angel…

The demon doesn’t seem pleased with your languid pace any longer as he abruptly flips you both over. The movement knocks the wind from your lungs. Kas grins down at you, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight that has filtered in through a broken window. His large hands hold you firmly in place as he begins slamming into your cervix. Causing your back to arch off the grimy floor, your shirt riding up in the process.

The sounds of your bodies connecting fill the once eerie silence of the night. His eyes rake over your newly exposed skin, pushing the material further up your torso. His calloused fingers trace over the ink splayed across your hip with a dark look.

“This little mark might protect your soul, but it’s not going to protect your body.” He grunts as he continues to slam his hips harder into yours, “Not from me. Or him.”

You don’t answer, instead grabbing a fist full of his hair and smashing your mouths together. He kisses you back just as roughly, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The familiar taste of his saliva mixes with a harsh metallic flavor. The taste of you on his tongue only fuels the fire raging inside you. The male sucks your bleeding lip in between his.

Kas grabs your shaky legs, wrapping them around his waist to join you closer together. A gasp escapes your lips as he hits that sweet spot inside you, causing your eyes to roll back. The demon groans as he feels you pulse around his cock, trailing his lips over your jaw. The mixture of his spit and your own blood smearing across your skin.

“No wonder he can’t stop thinking about you,” his words are spoken so softly you almost don’t catch them.

Pride blooms in your chest as a small smirk graces your features, but it’s wiped away just as quickly. His hips pound into yours even faster, leaving any snarky comment to die on your lips. Instead a pleasurable cry pierces the air as your nails drag across his back.

You can feel your orgasm building with each deep stroke of his cock, filling you to the brim. His lips suck onto the base of your throat, his breath coming out in short pants as you tighten around him more.

“That’s it, angel. It's okay, I’m here.”

Your eyes that had previously fluttered shut, now snap back open. Coaxing his face up from the crook of your neck. No one ever called you that but Eddie, not even Kas.

Your eyes meet his brown ones, letting his hips slow their pace. That signature dimple indents his cheek when he smiles down at you, tears blurring your vision. You quickly blink them away to see him more clearly. Eddie leans down, gently kissing away the moisture that has stained your cheeks.

He wraps you in his arms, pulling you up and into his lap. The new position only buries him deeper inside you, allowing the pleasure to wash over you completely. Your body trembles in his embrace as you rest your forehead against his.

“Eddie,” you moan, grinding yourself harder onto his cock as he holds you close.

His touch is much softer as his hands reach out to caress every inch of you. While he still has control over his own body. Allowing himself to soak in every moment before he’s ripped away from you again. But between your pretty cries and his husky groans, neither of you will be lasting much longer.

“I’ve got you, angel… come for me.” The promise of safety in his voice makes your heart flutter in your chest.

Feeling his fingers encircle over your sensitive nub, he gives you one more hard thrust before you finally fall apart. A breathy cry of his name tumbles from your lips as you feel him twitch inside you. Your body melts further against him, an attempt to keep him here with you. Despite knowing the reality that was soon to come.

“Fuck… I love you. I love you.” He sounds desperate as he mutters the words against your temple.

In your blissful state you don’t notice the black haze beginning to overtake his irises. His words ring in your ears as you feel him spill inside you. Not stopping the movement of his hips as he fucks his essence deeper inside you. Letting your head fall into the crook of his neck as you mumble those three words back into his flushed skin. His comforting scent washes over you as you attempt to catch your breath.

“Well wasn’t that just so sweet,” your body stiffens in his embrace, his deep chuckle snapping you out of the sweet cocoon you were just in.

You quickly scramble out of his lap in an effort to detach yourself from him. His previously comforting touch now sets your skin ablaze, as if he had burned you. You can feel the mixture of your arousal dripping down your thighs as you hurry to find your discarded clothes in the dark.

In your frenzied state, you don’t hear him approaching until he’s right behind you. His ringed fingers dig into the curve of your waist as you bend over to retrieve your jeans. His hips flush against your ass, the metal on his belt pressing into your bare skin. His hand reaches around to dip in between your thighs, collecting some of the mess you both made.

Kas eagerly sucks the digits into his mouth with a moan, before you feel the warmth of his body disappear.

“We’ll be seeing you soon, sweetheart… you can count on that.”

Is the the last thing you hear as he slips into the still of the night.

[cawyden-gaming]

Rogue Trader - visions / translations from astropathic choir / Zacchary Weisz

I haven't seen it in game (not that I can remember), but in the localization files there is text regarding received messages from the astopathic choir that and its translation. I find it very interesting to see how the visions are described and the message that is translated from that.

From Chorda, regarding Footfall:

The parchment, bearing Astropath Zacchary Weisz's flowing handwriting, reads as follows:

"Vision: a cathedral with a golden facade of the Emperor In Triumph Over The Enemies Of Mankind. Twilight. The golden light of a star (the Astronomican?) shines through a stained-glass window in the vault. Like a statue of old, a woman clad in ancient armour with a sword stands in the light. A salute follows (a feeling — greeting an equal).

A message follows:

'To the righteous {name}, the rising star of House von Valancius. May all your ships stay on course in the golden light of the Astronomican. I, Incendia Bastaal-Chorda, head of House Chorda, send you greetings and wishes for prosperity. You took your position at a dark hour. Trade routes and paths are the circulatory system of the Expanse, but the warp is shaking its foundations, interrupting that life-giving flow where it matters most. Disaster has also struck Footfall Station, which can no longer be reached by vessels carrying provisions. House Chorda is ready to solve this problem. [Note — the emphasis is on the last phrase, this is a declaration of intent — Z. W.] Be careful. The Rogue Traders of the Expanse live by a strict code of honour. Those who follow it thrive. Emperor judge the rest!'"

From Liege Tocara - reminder

The parchment, bearing Astropath Zacchary Weisz's flowing handwriting, reads as follows:

"Vision: darkness. A cacophony of sounds, as if heard in fragments. In the centre, an image of Liege Tocara. Twisted hands reach toward him from the darkness. A feeling — chaos, loss (the echoes of emotions from the Astropathic Choir). The Liege himself is calm (portrays calmness).

Words follow:

'Your {mf|Lordship|Ladyship}, Footfall humbly reminds you of its plight and waits for good news from you and supplies from the planet Janus.'

The rest is illegible. A lot of outside noise. Presumably from a disturbance in the warp or exhaustion of the Footfall Astropathic Choir. Z. W."

From Liege Tocara - more desperate reminder

The parchment, bearing Astropath Zacchary Weisz's flowing handwriting, reads as follows:

"Vision: darkness. A cacophony of sounds. In the centre, an image of Liege Tocara. Twisted hands reach toward him from the darkness. A feeling — disarray, loss (presumably echoes of emotions from the Astropathic Choir). The Liege himself is calm.

Words follow:

'Your {mf|Lordship|Ladyship}, I hope you are in good health. I humbly remind you that Footfall is waiting for food supplies from your agri-world Janus. To this day, we have not seen a vessel from there and continue to subsist on disappearing stocks. Vladaym Tocara, Liege of Footfall.'

Note: The Astropathic Choir of Footfall is in poor condition. Deciphering their transmissions takes twice the normal time. Afterward, I was forced off duty for one watch due to headaches. Z. W."

From Liege Tocara - Footfall saved

The parchment, bearing Astropath Zacchary Weisz's flowing handwriting, reads as follows:

"Vision: dusk, dreary sounds of undetermined origin. In the centre, an image of Liege Tocara. The Liege is smiling (sincerely, I suppose — Z. W.).

Words follow:

'Your {mf|Lordship|Ladyship}, food supplies from Janus have arrived on Footfall! I humbly thank you on behalf of the entire station to which you have delivered aid in a difficult time. I will be glad to welcome you again!'"

From Winterscale regarding Footfall:

The parchment, bearing Astropath Zacchary Weisz's flowing handwriting, reads as follows:

"Vision: the bridge of a voidship in space, gigantic windows, bloody glow. Soundscape — echoes of battle (presumably the glow and the battle are imprints of the emotional state of the sender — Z. W.). A figure: a giant towering over the bridge.

Words follow:

'My comrade, {mf|Lord|Lady} {name} von Valancius! I am Calligos Winterscale. Business delayed me and my fleet on the way to Footfall [I feel this phrase is a formality concealing a bitter/unfavourable truth — Z. W.], but I hope that you will succeed in saving the station from famine. I cannot do so myself. Footfall is necessary for every Rogue Trader in the region. Deliver it from starvation, and you may count on the gratitude of House Winterscale.'

Note: I am very familiar with the signature of the Winterscale Astropath. I mark his great tiredness and lack of focus at the moment of transmission. A prolonged struggle with warp disturbances is a likely cause."

From Winterscale regarding Footfall (station saved):

The parchment, bearing Astropath Zacchary Weisz's flowing handwriting, reads as follows:

"Vision: the bridge of a voidship in space, gigantic windows, bloody glow. Soundscape — echoes of battle (presumably the glow and the battle are imprints of the emotional state of the sender — Z. W.). A figure: a giant towering over the bridge.

The words transmitted are:

'My comrade, {mf|Lord|Lady} {name} von Valancius! I welcome you among Rogue Traders and I am sorry for your loss. I am Calligos Winterscale. Business delayed me and my fleet on the way to Footfall (I feel this phrase is a formality concealing a bitter/unfavourable truth — Z. W.), but I am pleased that you have saved the station from hunger and salute your success and resourcefulness. I await our meeting in person, when matters permit. Safe journeys!'

Note: I am very familiar with the signature of the Winterscale Astropath. I mark his great tiredness and lack of focus at the moment of transmission. A prolonged battle with warp disturbances is likely the cause."

[cynautica]

Hi Cyliph, can you tell something about Ar-Lo, he looks so interesting^^

I'm honored people like him :,)

[Potential small HDBS spoilers]]

Ar-Lo is old. Very old. Old enough to be considered somewhat of an cryptic figure among architects. He remembers a time when architects were not all One. Hundreds of thousands of years old. He was created as one of the first waves of expansion during a time when architects had just transferred to their biomechanical vessels. He's seen generations of vessels rise and fall out of use. One of the first ever born with no real parents or family or heritage.

A blank slate of an individual created to protect a colony world known as Juit-Eh from encroaching conflict (At least- that was the intention, the code recombination and manipulation technology was still new).

More below cut.

Who they were fighting, why, and for what has been lost to time. Ar-Lo himself remembers little of that bygone age and its politics. Its been lost to the network through information surges and wipes. What is known is that approximately 300,000 years ago Ar-Lo was functioning as a gladiator primarily based in Juit-Eh still. The indomitable vessel he used (barely modified-- not designed by him) was a real crowd pleaser to architects and non architects alike. It brought in loads of tourism-- and with it currency to the planet. The practice was considered too brutal by homeworld standards, and the end of his career was the annexation treaty that brought Juit-Eh back in to the protection of Oulinaean forces.

This annexation brought Juitian representation to the Tel Ju council. The representative brought a body guard with him, the most popular (former) gladiator known as Ar-Lo. The biggest 'fuck you' he could manage.

--

As it turns out, when you're primarily locked in the innermost sanctum of the most secure piece of architect territory you don't exactly get much valor. Not that Ar-Lo needed it. His pride was his strict loyalist views and sharp mind. He soon enough became versed enough in political talk that he could hold in own in any debate you threw at him. His trained body language and biolights (from years of existing as nothing but a background ornament) served him well in ensuring no other was able to get under his skin. His oratory skills only highlight his trained physical prowess and his rising influence on political matters made those in charge wary of him.

Ar-Lo proved his competency well enough that he was promoted over the course of years to supreme commander of the military. A scary job, and an isolating one. Not that it made a difference, by the time he reached the position anyone in networking distance already had a firewall up. He was already an unpleasant, paranoid, and a violent loyalist.

Though Ar-Lo had plans for every potential physical threat inside and out he was not prepared for the devastating plague that ripped through the architect colonies. Isolation barrier on isolation barrier proved useless, and with no cure in sight the council had to enact their most dire contingency plan. Ar-Lo was one such soul chosen to stay behind.

.

..

...

----

...

Cy fun facts:

Ar-lo was designed as the foil for Robin and Al-an in HDBS, he wasn't suppose to be likeable, but I'm grateful so many people want to know more about him. I cant reveal everything though.

He is brown because he needed to contrast the surrounding landscape, which was primarily green and dark turquoise.

Strange even among architects is that he does not experience dizzyness from vessel swapping no matter the size. Perhaps a remnant of his time as a gladiator, or maybe years of trained neural control.

Ar-lo might hold the record for oldest architect, especially post-kharaa.

His vessel is pretty standard bulky for guardsmen-- but he hasn't always used this vessel.

Before he became a political figure he was actually considered pretty handsome and likeable, like a celebrity. Even though his personality and skill didn't change.

He has never figured out how to properly integrate himself in architect society despite his age. This often leaves him frustrated and the only way he knows to take out that frustration is violence.

Ar-lo is only his current designation

Ar-lo likes art. Not realism, though. He likes art that makes you question things or appreciate the skill of the artist. The piece that represents him most closely is Josef Alber's Homage to the Square: Sentinel

Armor - Oulinaean (homeworld - left) - Jutian house (right) His thick hide serves as natural armor, anything else is just decorative, shows heritage, or is multitool storage.

Playlist:

PRE-KHARAA Seether - Words As Weapons Psychodelic Prn Crumpets - Found God in a Tomato Radiohead - Nude Five Finger Death Punch - Remember Everything Seether - Country Song System Of A Down - Spiders Puddle of Mudd - Blurry POST-KHARAA Soul Survivor - ORDER TotalDeadCenter - The Forgotten Soldier Skaen - Grief, Aftermath Mother Mother - Sleep Awake Vessel - Red Sex (Re-Strung) Vivivivivi - Reduced to Guts Pogo - Undone <- His theme song!

[kaeyachi]

I THINK I HAVE A NEW FAVORITE STORY QUEST, AND IT IS CYNO'S STORY QUEST CH 2

Spoilers Below!

Shameless Cynonari shipping up ahead as well folks ✌️

Ok, I'm just gonna bullet point the entire thing coz I don't have much time (i basically speedran the quest a bit as well) so here are my thoughts:

Cyno and Cyrus then Naphis and Tighnari having basically the same hair is a bit funny to me ngl (but it is cute)

Naphis and Cyrus old man yaoi ✌️ I'll get back to this later but I clocked it early on

THIS QUEST IS BASICALLY A DREAM FOR CYNONARI AND KAVETHAM SHIPPERS. THIS WAS UNREAL PLEASE

Cyrus inviting Tighnari for lunch was cute

Cynonari + Collei probably do a lot of camping trips together 🥺

Collei is also more confident lately! You go girl!! WOOHOO

3 tents...1 for us and paimon...a scene where we see tighnari alone in his...and collei in her own tent...then we find out that cyno left for a supply run and tighnari is already awake...should we be connecting some dots here? (Cynonari shippers come get yall juice)

THE KAVETHAM SCENES IN THEIR HOME WERE INSANELY SOFT AND DOMESTIC. Also, Kaveh sitting on the table is *chefs kiss*

Tighnari was so quick to say he'll run after Cyno. I immediately started sobbing coz wow does he have a fast reaction when it concerns Cyno's safety. He probably would have gone after Cyno alone if we weren't there 😭

Kaveh, Alhaitham, Dehya, Candace, and Faruzan repeatedly telling Cyno to ask for help if he needs it makes my heart soft

Tighnari, meanwhile, doesn't even tell Cyno to ask for help. He straight up just rushes to his side, and that's adorable af. I swear it was starting to look like Tighnari has a one-track mind when it comes to Cyno's safety. Some of his braincells fly off! (good thing he has plenty)

SETHOS. MY SON. HE LOOKS SO GOOD. SETHOS SWEETIE IM ADOPTING YOU IN THE NEXT UPDATE (also wow that was not the voice i was expecting for him in EN, but I aint complaining!)

I keep coming back to it, but Tighnari is really quick when it comes to Cyno's safety and really doesn't pause lmao. Bro cut off Cyno's offer to ask Sethos with a hand and just started walking

new area pretty 🥺 I keep taking screenshots and pictures. got me going "omg! a lotus head column!!"

THE LORE WAS SCRUMPTIOUS BY THE WAY

THE ANIMATION FOR THE CYNO VS. SETHOS FIGHT WAS ALSO INCREDIBLE

Sethos downgraded from 5-star to 4-star caught in 4k hd ✌️ from polearm to bow too

look, the cyno lore was expected, BUT THE TIGHNARI LORE AS WELL?

Hermanubis being a Tighnarian and was King Deshret's chosen familiar hundreds of years ago, and now a full vessel of Hermanubis and a descendant of the Valuka Shuna meet and became friends in the Akademiya and are now companions 🥺

"I like that story." Yeah, I bet you do cyno, sethos basically called you and tighnari soulmates/ destined to meet and be together 🙄 also the ears to cyno's head gear actually really does represent tighnari's ears in some way after all lmao. i remember people making jokes about that

um...why is Bamoun buried like a pharoah?

NAPHIS SCOLDING CYRUS SO HARD LMAAOOO. he worries in his own way

Faruzan scolding everyone is so funny to see pls

cyno, tighnari, and collei having codes and gestures to give each other messages 🥺🥺🥺 tighnari and cyno used to say those codes back in the akademiya for each other, and now, in Cyno's own words, it became a family tradition 😭

Kavetham library date 🩷 then them returning to said date after our coffee sesh 🩷🩷🩷

Cyno taking us to his secret base and APPARENTLY ITS A CYNONARI DATING SPOT BACK WHEN THEY WERE STUDENTS. Y'all think they did the "It's beautiful." and "Yeah (looking at the the person instead of the view)" trope? coz the view was fr beautiful

Cyno and Sethos are officially brothers! yipee! (i will fr be pulling for him to complete the family)

THE PICTURES LISA TOOK OF CYRUS AND CYNO WERE SO CUTE 😭😭😭 cyrus and cyno are planning on visiting mond hehe

I need to review the entire quest again coz i bet i forgot some things BUT CYNONARI AND KAVETHAM NATIONS WE ALL WON

[thecornerofdoom]

I can’t believe I’ve been so wrapped up in cracking everything that I forgot to post about the whole secret codes and mystery housing thing, it’s genuinely the coolest way to advertise a new album I’ve ever seen. Am I saying this because I’m a huge dork who loves this stuff? Yes. Does it still count? Also yes.

I’m pretty sure the album or at least the song is going to be called Arcadia or some shit, with how much the team is calling back to the classical setting. It dates all the way back to Rome I found out, which was funny cause in my art history class I took I thought it was only the subject of mid 1600’s Eastern European art. I mean it IS also there, it’s where the main piece ‘Et In Arcadia Ergo’ is from timewise.

I originally got excited by the flowers and the two different houses that we could be getting another god besides sleep, but looking back I think that’s probably complicating the canon lore too much, cause what would all the monsters be then? Demi gods? Entities just using the earth as a battlefield eldin ring style? God, this is so elden ring inspired I looooove it.

with all the “Even in Arcadia” business, it’s making me wonder what the album is going to be about. For Vessel’s character it’s probably fully fighting back against Sleep, renouncing his ways as a vessel for the dead god even if it ends up killing him. Cause flamingos mate for life, the character probably wouldn’t survive something ripping himself away from the person he devoted himself to.

See that feels like that theory ignores the crucial message he’s sending though, that he’s ascending beyond this- he’s moving on, he’s accepting the tragedy for what it is. He has to break the cycle, he has to live to do that. You can’t break the cycle if you’re dead, so sure the character can’t die? I mean technically he’s already dead, he killed himself in Nazareth and has been staying held together by floss, the ashes of Sleep and old chewing gum.

These two theories can coincide, he can fight back fully and survive. The houses don’t have to be divided, these concepts don’t have to be separate. Right?

If you can’t tell, I picked Feathered Hosts because unfortunately “the cycle must end” cracked my ribs open and dug its way to sit heavy between my heart and my lungs. I see so much of myself in Vessel, I want him to break the cycle because I want to break the cycle. Squeezing the asshole like a fuckin stress ball right now

[duckprintspress]

Books with Queer Autistic Characters for Autism Awareness Month

April is Autism Awareness month, and we’re here to share (more) of our favorite queer autistic or autistic-coded characters! Last year we shared six books; three of those are back this year, and we’ve got 5 more. You can see the 2024 list here. The contributors to this list are: Sebastian Marie, Neo Scarlett, Tris Lawrence, Linnea Peterson, Terra P. Waters, Shadaras and boneturtle.

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon

Aster has little to offer folks in the way of rebuttal when they call her ogre and freak. She’s used to the names; she only wishes there was more truth to them. If she were truly a monster, she’d be powerful enough to tear down the walls around her until nothing remains of her world.

Aster lives in the lowdeck slums of the HSS Matilda, a space vessel organized much like the antebellum South. For generations, Matilda has ferried the last of humanity to a mythical Promised Land. On its way, the ship’s leaders have imposed harsh moral restrictions and deep indignities on dark-skinned sharecroppers like Aster. Embroiled in a grudge with a brutal overseer, Aster learns there may be a way to improve her lot – if she’s willing to sow the seeds of civil war.

Once Stolen by D.N. Bryn

No one with half a brain would rob the jungle’s most notorious energy cartel-but their power-producing stones are the only thing that soothes Cacao’s mysterious pain, and after being banished from his homeland for similar thefts, the lonely naga is desperate enough to try.

When his ramshackle thievery goes wrong, a chaotic escape leaves him chained to the cartel’s prisoner: a self-proclaimed hero with a hidden stash of power stones so large that Cacao would never need to steal again. He’s determined to get his hands on it, even if it means guiding the annoyingly smug, annoyingly valiant, and even more annoyingly beautiful hero back home. But their path runs straight through the mist-laden and monster-filled swamp that exiled Cacao, with scheming poachers and a desperate cartel leader on their tail.

The selfish and the self-righteous can only flee together for so long before something snaps…

The Many Half-Lived Lives of Sam Sylvester by Maya MacGregor

Sam Sylvester has long collected stories of half-lived lives—of kids who died before they turned nineteen. Sam was almost one of those kids. Now, as Sam’s own nineteenth birthday approaches, their recent near-death experience haunts them. They’re certain they don’t have much time left.

But Sam’s life seems to be on the upswing after meeting several new friends and a potential love interest in Shep, their next-door neighbor. Yet the past keeps roaring back—in Sam’s memories and in the form of a thirty-year-old suspicious death that took place in Sam’s new home. Sam can’t resist trying to find out more about the kid who died and who now seems to guide their investigation. When Sam starts receiving threatening notes, they know they’re on the path to uncovering a murderer. But are they digging through the past or digging their own future grave?

Ellen Outside the Lines by A.J. Sass

Thirteen-year-old Ellen Katz feels most comfortable when her life is well planned out and people fit neatly into her predefined categories. She attends temple with Abba and Mom every Friday and Saturday. Ellen only gets crushes on girls, never boys, and she knows she can always rely on her best-and-only friend, Laurel, to help navigate social situations at their private Georgia middle school. Laurel has always made Ellen feel like being autistic is no big deal. But lately, Laurel has started making more friends, and cancelling more weekend plans with Ellen than she keeps. A school trip to Barcelona seems like the perfect place for Ellen to get their friendship back on track. Except it doesn’t. Toss in a new nonbinary classmate whose identity has Ellen questioning her very binary way of seeing the world, homesickness, a scavenger hunt-style team project that takes the students through Barcelona to learn about Spanish culture and this trip is anything but what Ellen planned.

Making new friends and letting go of old ones is never easy, but Ellen might just find a comfortable new place for herself if she can learn to embrace the fact that life doesn’t always stick to a planned itinerary.

May the Best Man Win by Z.R. Ellor

Jeremy Harkiss, cheer captain and student body president, won’t let coming out as a transgender boy ruin his senior year. Instead of bowing to the bigots and outdate school administration, Jeremy decides to make some noise—and how better than by challenging his all-star ex-boyfriend, Lukas for the title of Homecoming King?

Lukas Rivers, football star and head of the Homecoming Committee, is just trying to find order in his life after his older brother’s funeral and the loss of his long-term girlfriend—who turned out to be a boy. But when Jeremy threatens to break his heart and steal his crown, Lukas kick starts a plot to sabotage Jeremy’s campaign.

When both boys take their rivalry too far, the dance is on the verge of being canceled. To save Homecoming, they’ll have to face the hurt they’re both hiding—and the lingering butterflies they can’t deny.

Camp Damascus by Chuck Tingle

Welcome to Neverton, Montana: home to a God-fearing community with a heart of gold.

Nestled high up in the mountains is Camp Damascus, the self-proclaimed “most effective” gay conversion camp in the country. Here, a life free from sin awaits. But the secret behind that success is anything but holy.

And they’ll scare you straight to hell.

All Systems Red by Martha Wells

In a corporate-dominated spacefaring future, planetary missions must be approved and supplied by the Company. Exploratory teams are accompanied by Company-supplied security androids, for their own safety.

But in a society where contracts are awarded to the lowest bidder, safety isn’t a primary concern.

On a distant planet, a team of scientists are conducting surface tests, shadowed by their Company-supplied ‘droid—a self-aware SecUnit that has hacked its own governor module, and refers to itself (though never out loud) as “Murderbot.” Scornful of humans, all it really wants is to be left alone long enough to figure out who it is.

But when a neighboring mission goes dark, it’s up to the scientists and their Murderbot to get to the truth.

Navigational Entanglements by Aliette de Bodard

Việt Nhi is not good with people. Or politics. Which is a problem when the Rooster clan sends her on the mission against her will, forcing her to work with an ill-matched group of squabbling teammates from rival clans, including one who she can’t avoid, and maybe doesn’t want to.

Hạc Cúc of the Snake clan has always been better at poisoning and stabbing than at making friends, but she’s drawn to Nhi’s perceptiveness and obliviousness to social conventions—including the ones that really should make Nhi think twice about spending time with her.

But when their imperial envoy and nominal leader is poisoned, this crew of expendable apprentices will have to learn to work together—fast—before the invisible Tangler can wreak havoc on a civilian city and destroy the fragile reputation of the clans. Along the way, Nhi and Hạc Cúc will have to learn the hardest lesson of all: to see past their own misconceptions and learn to trust their growing feelings for each other.

You can see these and other queer reads with autistic characters on our Goodreads book shelf. Alternatively, buy yourself a copy through our affiliate shop on Bookshop.org! Duck Prints Press Bookshop.org affiliate shop.

Love talking books? Join us on the Duck Prints Press Book Lover’s Discord server!

[heartfullofleeches]

How do you think D.Angelo would react to D.kay?

(I know it literally couldn’t happen but due to some timely wimey stuff they get to meet)

D.Angelo was kept relatively in the dark about the secondary purpose of the androids created by his family's company. There would be an entire new level to his thoughts towards D.Kay if he knew they were an android with the directive to kill those who could not be saved from their emotions. If he had more time, D.Kay's father would've chosen a different vessel for his son's personality.

D.Angelo has very mixed feelings towards D.Kay - When he had first gotten sick, D.Angelo made it his goal to live on in the memories and hearts of those he loved. In a way, D.Kay is a method for him to carry on. He both wants D.Kay to exist because it'll soften the blow of his inevitable demise for a time, but he knows the android's existence will only hurt those he loves more in the long run.

D.Kay is not an exact one to one copy with D.Angelo. His personality was meshed with the fractions of the android's original code. Because of this, D.Angelo would settle his uneasiness towards them by viewing him as a younger brother.

D.Angelo was the type of person who could befriend nearly anyone- even himself.

-

"You'll keep the old man in check without me? Dad starting eat less than the scraps he already ate when I got sick... There shouldn't have to be two funerals this year...."

"Eh... Not exactly in my department.... Just kiddin' I'll watch him for you. He's kinda like my dad too, ain't he? By that logical our dad has a lot of kids. Guy gets around."

"Guess so.... And them? You'll make sure Y/n is.. okay? They're the last person I need crying over me. Say you'll hug them for me at the first drop of a tear?"

"Oh, I'll definitely look after them. Losing someone close to you is one of the toughest things a person could go through. They'll need all the support they can get."

"I don't like the way you said that. You try to chat up my best friend I will come back from the grave and unplug you everytime someone puts you up to charge-"

"Dude, I literally am you- You know a threat like that won't stop me. Just got upgraded with solar panels too."

[jaystrun]

Arcane AU: Croak x Death My Oldest Friend fanfic

Plot Summary

Fifteen-year-old Powder Purnell has set off her last glitter-paint bomb at the police station. Fed up with her delinquent behavior and punkish attitude, Uncle Vander ships her off upstate to spend the summer with Uncle Benzo.

The eccentric and fairly mischievous (for his age) man lives on a small farm in the Adirondacks, and it’s Uncle Vander’s hope that “a few months of dirty farm work will screw her head back on straight and whip her back into shape.” Like it did to her older adoptive brothers, apparently, whom she hasn’t seen in a full year since Vander shipped them away (Powder had merely assumed they were dead).

She leaves behind her twin sister, Pomme — who never sank into delinquent behavior like Powder did — and her best friend, Ekko. Ekko (real name Wyeth) is her partner in delinquent crime and the subject of a (VERY MINOR) crush. When he smiles, she feels like she can accomplish anything.

Except cope with the fact he’s been lying for almost a year; he’s not just some scrawny little boy, no, he’s Death. As in the Grim fucking Reaper himself, stupid fucking hooded cloak and scythe and all. And Uncle Benzo? He’s the mayor of Croak, a town full of “Grims.” Her older brothers have spent a year here already, learning the family business — and now it’s her turn.

Along the way come several more life-shattering revelations, as Powder begins to regain memories and abilities of another life while she quenches her ever-present craving for death — and a question that never quite leaves her mind:

Why does Ekko look at her like she’s some long-lost love of his, when they’ve only been friends for a year? 🪦🦉⏳🐦‍⬛

Croak is a series about Grim Reapers in the modern day, an entire secret society called the "Grimsphere" that exists in every major region in the world.

Grims work in total secrecy from the rest of the world, and sharing information about the Grimsphere's existence is a one-way ticket to being exiled; your memories are erased and you're giving an entire fake history, then dropped in a random place and left to fend for yourself.

Grims work in pairs to ferry the souls of the dead to the Afterlife, arriving in the "yoctosecond before death" to "Kill and Cull" the soul of the victim: a process where the "Killer" Grim extracts the soul from the deceased individual and the "Culler" Grim inserts the soul into a "Vessel" made of black widow spider silk.

The Grims facilitate this by "Crashing" to each victim: swiping their scythes in the air and traveling through the "Ether" to their targets.

The souls are taken to the Afterlife where the dead acclimate the newly-deceased to the facts of their death and new "existence."

Character Info:

The main character of Croak is Lex Bartleby, and we follow her journey through all three books.

Lex's love interest is Driggs and they have a very timebomb-coded dynamic, which is interesting given they were written years before Ekko or Jinx even existed in League lore. I could yap about Lex x Driggs for hours (and have).

Lex's mentor figure is Uncle Mort, an eccentric man she knows almost nothing about and an absolute menace. He's most accurately described as an older Lex, just a little less murder-y.

It's primarily through these three that we get the plot of Croak, though the story sticks to Lex in 3rd person POV.

🪦🦉⏳🐦‍⬛

Death My Oldest Friend (take me away) is a Timebomb Arcane fanfic on AO3 that I fell in love with and think about all the time. I realized the fic could compliment Croak extraordinarily well and it's now become my entire personality, and I decided to write a crossover fic after yapping endlessly about it.

Additional Info:

Powder is Lex from Croak.

Ekko is basically Driggs but if Driggs was the personification of Death himself.

AU Powder (Pomme) is Cordy, Lex's twin sister.

Benzo is Uncle Mort

[bonefall]

a couple of leafstar questions! 1) is the process of selecting her to be new!skyclan’s leader changed at all by the fact that brokenstar is now firestar’s travelling buddy? 2) is billyleaf sticking around as a ship, and how will it change, if at all? 3) is leafstar going to be as… notably dumb in her reactions to everything happening so far in ASC?

The list of SkyClan changes is probably longer than the list of things that are staying the same. Cultural expansions, a very different culture, unique politics, even an alternate Warrior Code. Real fans of SkyClan want them to be completely different <3

Leafstar's not an exception. I HATE canon Leafstar. Every action they've taken with her has felt absolutely awful since Firestar's Quest so I'm just overwriting her completely.

SkyClan's Leadership

The part of Firestar's Quietus where Firestar and Brokenstar actually CHOOSE who the new leader is going to be is a bit up in the air. I have the beginning and end with the rats figured out-- but the middle has been evading me.

I know that Brokenstar prefers Sharpclaw, at first. Probably because Sharpclaw is so aggressive and dedicated to the old ways.

So it makes sense that Firestar prefers Leafdapple. She's making him realize things about his own way of ruling, parts of Clan culture he's come to accept uncritically.

She straight up blows past his thought-terminating cliches;

Firestar: "You see, Leafdapple... you can't live with a paw in both worlds."

Leafdapple: "Pardon? I don't understand what that means?"

Firestar: "It means... um... hmm ._."

In the end, she's probably chosen exactly because she's not committed to bringing back the past. SkyClan has not been the Clan of Skystar for a long time. It's the Clan of Skywatcher.

It is no longer the Clan-in-the-Canopy, it is the Clan-in-the-Stones.

I feel that the first Leader and Deputy were chosen by Firestar and Brokenstar. Though Brokenstar's mind changes over the course of Firestar's Quietus, I think they ultimately still agree that there were two "sides" of SkyClan that should live in balance.

Leafstar, committed to fairness, abides this. Until Sharpclaw ultimately betrays her for The Kin. (Repeat link from above but if your eyes just popped out of your head it explains everything about how PROFOUNDLY differently I'm approaching The Kin lmaoo)

I hadn't planned explicitly for the deputy system to work a bit differently here, BUT it does also feel in line for Leafstar to decide it on a whim after regrouping. Surrounded by the remnants of her Clan, deputy having just turned half of their warriors against them, SkyClan's protector oak ripping itself off the cliffside and destroying their camp, she jumps up on top of a rock like, "Ok team, that sure was a doozy. Let's try to pick a better deputy this time 8)"

It feels better that deputies are popularly "elected," or at the very least nominated by the Clan. Might make for a nice climactic moment in a rework of Hawkwing's Journey.

Is Billyleaf sticking around?

Yes! But it's actually a bit different.

First of all, Leafstar is actually in a constellation with Billystorm and Echosong, the Cleric. Leafstar is mates with Billystorm and a partner of Echosong. Echosong is not romantically involved with Billystorm. SkyClan actually split off from the main Clans before the Cleric's Vow was codified by Larkstripe's strike. They don't have the same taboo against Clerics having mates or raising kittens.

Billystorm is also a massive himbo now lmao, I'm not a huge fan of him in-canon. I'm still reworking stuff here though-- I'm planning to change SkyClan and the Stranger into Sol's Game, a darker story diving into Sol, the Entity, and Harry, the vessel it courts.

But it's been a while and I need to revamp my old drafts, so that's on the backburner for now.

Is Leafstar going to remain an idiot?

absolutely not. christ. I Don't Rewrite Arcs Until They Are Done but if I ever produce something as brainless as "An entire society believes that a child is lying because her accused murderer says he heard her mother snoring evil manipulation plans in her sleep" then explode me to bits with 10000 pounds of nitroglycerin

instead of just having her and everyone else be dumb, it's an easy enough small change to just have Splashstar already be in power and show the beginning of his reign having gone smoothly. Everyone's desperate for RiverClan to have a leader again. Have Leafstar's bias be against ShadowClan specifically, because Heartstar's nephew Juniperclaw mass-poisoned her entire Clan.

Even before then, too. I don't like how the Erins seem to treat Leafstar as this "unreasonable" character who's usually some shade of wrong. I don't like how she just has to accept that Sharpclaw was undermining her for her own good in SkyClan's Destiny. I don't like how Dodge dragged SkyClan into his stupid conflict. Or how she went back to the Gorge after Juniperclaw's poisoning, only to be herded back by the noble Clan cats when a sudden flood makes their old home unsafe for some reason.

I don't like how she only seems to get a "win" when she's accepting or asserting that the Clans have the perfect way of life and she should resemble it more-- see the opening of AVoS, where it's strongly implied that Daylight Warriors being unable to fight to defend the camp at night was how The Kin was able to throw everyone out, and thus the practice has been abolished since then. I think these conflicts are frustrating in the way they're written and presented.

So quite frankly I'm tossing a lot of it. First and foremost, SkyClan's primary conflicts should be trying to keep its unique cultural identity. Secondary conflicts should be based around its political interactions with the other Clans at the lake, particularly ShadowClan and ThunderClan, which it shares borders with.

BB!Leafstar's personality is that she's assertive, fair, and polite. In my head I lovingly imagine her always speaking in the tone of a corporate manager trying to keep control of her team as the office goes up in flames around her. While she always tries to consider all perspectives and stay approachable to all her warriors, she's often misinterpreted as being passive-aggressive or not genuine.

In a nutshell: I am personally making sure she's not the sort of dumb she is in canon. I have a vision for this version of SkyClan.

[minnasota-smith]

This is part 3 of my FateStuck lore post, find the rest here.

[1] [2] (3) You are here [4]

Fatestuck Trolls set 1 of 2

The FateStuck Trolls were made by Vriska Serket on a whim, after seeing John Egbert make weird fusions of his friends while mashing buttons. Figuring doomed timelines don't matter anyway, she decided to send John a selection of gene codes that her meteor's Ecto Lab had saved.

6 grubs were made, and as far as she knew, thats where it ended. Little did she know, Gamzee Makara survived Beck Noir's attack. Now, working towards unknown aims, he hijacks the lab and makes 6 more.

Half of these Trolls will end up on Alternia, or rather the Alternia of the human's universe. And the other half will end up on its sister planet Ainretla.

The following six end up on Alternia.

Fefkat Peites: Fusion of Karkat and Feferi, created by Gamzee Makara as a potential vessel for his Mirthful Messiah.

Name is pronounced: Feff-cat pie-tees

Trollian Tag: bubbleBeluga

Strife Specibus: Forkkind/Scythekind

Fetch Modus: Fishing

Lusus: Krab Dad

Once the most friendly and unassuming troll her friends knew, and certainly an odd fit for future Condesce. She advocates for equality among the blood castes, a trait likely to get her culled by the current Condesce.

Her passive nature and unthreatening demeanor made her seem weak to many, including her friend and protector Eriius. Or at least, thats what everyone tells her…

But truthfully, she doesn't remember a thing about her past. One day a terrible fire hit Eriius's home during a friendly gettogether Fefkat had arranged. And apparently, a Demon had been summoned.

Nobody seems to remember exactly what happened. But as far as Fefkat can tell, she must have taken a heavy blow to her head, because her personality took a big turn. According to her friends anyway…

Now she was short tempered, hostile, quick to start fights, actively antagonizing ANYONE who she feels insults her. Not helped by her now terribly raspy voice, apparently the result of excess smoke inhalation and throat burns.

…Still, she at least finds comfort in the new love she's formed. She met this girl on Trollian, someone as kind and sweet as she once was. Her name is Meeioh (pronounced meow). Talking to her reminds her of the good old days, however hazy they may be.

Fefkat and her made a promise, to not reveal their names or blood colors to eachother until they meet, as the game their human friends introduced them to is going to bring them all together on one big adventure.

Fefkat is most afraid of Meeioh finding out that she's a fusciablood, worrying it will jeapardize their relationship.

Unbeknownst to her, they're BOTH fuscias, and thats going to cause problems when their instincts to fight for supremacy of the throne kick in…

Tavlux Nittor: Fusion of Tavros and Sollux. Made by Vriska (with John's help), to make a version of Tavros with a backbone.

Name is pronounced: Tav-lucks Nye-tore

Trollian Tag: quakingApiary

Strife Specibus: Daggerkind, None (Bees)

Fetch Modus: Gardening

Lusus: Tinkerbull

Local techy of his friend group, specializing in Biotechnology. It started with a hobby caring for Bees, and studying their use in building hives to make computers. Tavlux's natural psychic communion with insects is so strong, he even uses Bees as a makeshift Strife weapon. And this lead to a further focus on insects generally.

Tavlux, in his neurodivergent obsession, has become an expert on the ways insects can interface with technological enhancement. From Husktops, to Grub-Games, to even artificial symbiants for medicinal use.

His talent in Biotech earned him a one-sided rivalry with Eriius, but that's water under the bridge now. He's actually much nicer ever since "The Incident."

Tavlux doesn't remember what went down, something about a Demon? Apparently that's how his spine had snapped… He tries his best to brush it off, say the whole thing was just some freak accident and that they'll all be fine. But he's gotten a bit more anti-social ever since all of this.

He's still very good at keeping up a casual façad, which tends to get most folks assuming he's fine. Eriius at least can tell how he really feels. Now their little competition for who can make the best tech is more friendly and supportive than before. He'd say they're Moirails, but somehow Eriius doesn't believe in that stuff anymore? Man, sometimes it feels like that Demon turned their world upsidedown.

Nepezi Leiope: Fusion of Nepeta and Terezi. Made by Gamzee Makara to make a wildcard player.

Name is pronounced: Neh-pez-ee Lee-oh-p

Trollian Tag: anarchistPrivateer

Strife Specibus: Coinkind (Though due to a technicality she uses a sock full of quarters as a valid weapon type.)

Fetch Modus: Scratch n Sniff

Lusus: Dragon Mom

A true punk if ever there was one, probably first on the chopping block for the Legislacerators once she comes of age. Not helped by the fact that she's also blind. (She doesn't say how that happened.)

To Nepezi, life is a game of possibilities, and the so called "authority" of any world exists solely to hoard all potential to themselves. As perhaps one of the only Anarchists of her generation, Nepezi believes the only hope for a fair and evenhanded world is one where ANYONE who steps up to claim power should be put to death.

She's got a fire in her heart, and a pile of quarters in her sock, and she's gonna take pride in beating down ANYONE who opposes her sense of "Justice for The People."

… Well, okay, anyone except Latara (Pronounced: La-tar-ah), who is perhaps her greatest rival in life. Their battles in both the debating AND literal sense are the stuff legends are made of.

…Okay, and maybe she's kinda cute. Nepezi supposed SOME despots get to live… >:33 as a punishment!

Nepezi is a furry, and lives as such with no shame. Likewise, she doesn't even bother to hide her blindness. Her keen hunting instincts are enough anyway, so why bother? Her sunglasses NEVER cover her eyes. If eyes are windows to the soul, then she is forever STARING INTO YOURS. (Metaphorically.)

Vridia Serido: Fusion of Vriska and Aradia. Created by Vriska, as some attempt at a post-mortem apology to her old "friend" Aradia. She thought maybe if their personas came together, they might end up with a better life than either of them.

Name is pronounced: Vr-ih-dee-uh Sir-ee-doh

Trollian Tag: vampiricRelic

Strife Specibus: Dicekind (Stolen from some Spider 8itch she met ages ago.)

Fetch Modus: Cup Game

Lusus: Ram Mom

Once known as the ultimate Time Waster of her friends, in a good sense. Vridia was the kind of upbeat friend you could spend an afternoon yapping with and never even notice the hours slipping by. She was maybe a bit clingy at times, but that was part of her charm.

…And then a DEMON killed her.

She is one of the few people who actually remember "The Incident." In fact, she bears the marks of it forever. Her throat is slit, her eye was punched to the point of blindness leaving a nasty bruise around it, and a stab wound in her chest.

If it were anyone else, their lingering ghost would likely be forever numb, their feelings gone with their life signs. Vridia, however, through sheer stubbornness and love of life, forces her emotions into being.

This does take its toll, she'd probably have faded away by now if not for the abilities she discovered in death. Where once she was a time waster, now she was a Time Drinker. Vridia can drink time from others just as Rainbow Drinkers consume blood.

How much she can take depends on how a given Troll lives their life. Trolls who keep busy, essentially having "no time" for other things, are right out. But folks who spend their days sulking in their own misery are fair game.

While she does feel bad about it, she chooses Eriius as her given target. He notices it the least, though still ends up feeling the fatigue if done enough. Having time taken from you is like draining battery, do too much and you leave someone in exhaustion, or worse, burnout.

But, with the aid of Time Drinking, Vridia can at least maintain some level of normalcy in how she feels. And with those that can see ghosts, she can even maintain some friendships.

…And, apparently even a romance? As a strange creature called a Human, her name is Halley, became VERY fascinated with her after accidentally contacting her on Trollian due to a seance she was holding.

Still… She worries about that Doll she keeps. Halley's favorite Doll bares a striking resemblance to one she's seen in her dreams, which seems tied to the summoning of that… Demon who killed her.

Gamnia Makram: Fusion of Gamzee and Kanaya. Made by Vriska (with John's help) as a middle finger to Kanaya for being such a fuddy duddy. She'd be "soooooooo humili8ed to be reduced to a clown."

Name is pronounced: G-am-nee-uh Mack-rem

Trollian Tag: neotericRags

Strife Specibus: Faygokind/Axekin

Fetch Modus: Miracle + Chastity

Lusus: Mother Grub

Despite being born a Jadeblood, Gamnia has an insatiable fixation with the various clown cults of the Subjugulators. Though perhaps not for the same reason most would.

Oh sure, she isn't opposed to making an act of violence into a grand display of brutality, her weapon is an Axe for a reason. But she's more in this for The Arts.

More specifically, a complete disregard for any sense of standards, objectivity, or standardization. To Gamnia, art is wild and unpredictable. "Skill" cannot ever be adequately measured in a world with so many different ways to create. And thus, skill is not and never was mandatory.

Outsider Art is where the finest beauty is found. And so Gamnias tastes brazenly include terrible music, loud clashing colors, and the shittiest sodas… So naturally she fits right in with the clowns!

She lives by her code of subjectivity to a degree somwhow more strongly than her own religious beliefs. So much so that, while she DOES keep clean, she has no interest in being "presentable." Her clothes are many years old, worn out and full of holes, and bleeched by the desert sun. By now she has to layer her clothes over eachother just to be suitably warm, and yet she refuses to buy new clothes.

Her dedication to the Avant-Garde has even resulted in her crafting edibles from Sopor Slime, of which she is CONSTANTLY using. A higher state of mind helps the ideas and dreams flow better, after all. And a little Faygo helps too… She might be called a bit of an enabler for such things, and maybe even a dealer to some.

Being such a Mad Gadfly of art, she developed a VERY one-sided rivalry with local art snob Mitrim (Pronounced Me-trim,) and a VERY Flushed romance with her long distance friend, Roxy Rose Lalonde.

After all, how could she not? An alien jester, with an obsession for japes and trickery, fixated on vibrant color and showy theatrics, AND she helped keep a shitty brand of soda alive? As humans would say, it was a "match made in Heaven."

And honestly? The idea that Humans are unhinged enough to worship ANGELS of all things? Somehow that disturbing prospect is… kinda hot?

Eriius Amphak: Fusion of Equius and Eridan. Made by Gamzee Makara, both to combine the most volatile trolls into one wild force of destruction, AND to troll Vriska, who never considered them friends and actively refused to use their gene codes.

Name is pronounced: Uh-rye-us Am-fack.

Trollian Tag: skulkingDeluge

Strife Specibus: Fistkind, Wandkind

Fetch Modus: Treasure

Lusus: Anglerfish Mommy

Chosen guard to potential future Condesce, Fefkat, and feared Prince of the Seas, Eriius was about what you would expect from a fascistic Violetblood. Practiced in the noble art of Firearms, he was certain he would set Fefkat on the proper path to Tyranny.

…At least… that's who he WAS, until… "The Incident."

He remembers it all… Waking up in his own blood, his hand and wrist broken off, a chunk of his own head broken off, including his eye and some of his own brain. That he survived just goes to show how ludicrously durable Trolls can be.

His earliest memories now are of seeing Tavlux, slumped against the wall and bleeding from his back, Vridia with more wounds than would EVER have been needed to kill her… and in front of all of them, Fefkat.

Fefkat, glowing in a rainbow of flaming magiks, eyes empty yet somehow brimming with the hateful gaze of a God, and laughing… Laughing harder and harder, voice dripping with malice and pleasure, even while caughing up blood as the smoke and heat around her burns her throat beyond repair.

In that moment, Eriius could have reached for his pistol. He grabbed a hand crafted wand instead, unsure of why at first. But as shadows flowed in the air around him, his soul feeling a connection to some ancient void where forgotten lores fade and obscure, he knew he could do better than kill.

He aimed his wand, and shot a bolt of darkness at the heart of his friend. Fefkat screamed in pain, and behind her, the visage of a ghostly serpentine skeleton is ripped to shreds, and with it… Some of Fefkat's own soul as well.

She fell to the ground, and what little remains of the Demon's soul formed into snakes that wrap around Fefkat, and fill in the gaps of her broken spirit, fading into her and becoming entangled with what remains of her.

Eriius passes out. Apparently they were in his "hive" at the time, and after the robot staff had finished putting out the fire, they began tending to everyone's wounds as best they could.

Eriius woke up with his missing parts replaced by robotics. Tavlux's spine couldn't be so easily fixed, not without further research. Fefkat at least only had burns that needed treating, but her voice would never quite recover. And Vridia… she had no hope of being saved.

Eriius had no memory left of his old self, and decided that whatever had happened, its best they don't blame Fefkat for this. That clearly wasn't her in control. He uses what knowledge of Void Magic he can to erase Tavlux's memory of this. Fefkat had no memory of such to erase in the first place. And then, for his own safety and for the sake of his friends, Eriius cast one last spell on his own mind, to erase his abilities in Void Magic.

Eriius does what he can to pick up the pieces, maintain friendships, even while not really knowing anyone. He is an outsider to his own life and culture, having no real connection to their lores and customs.

He maintained his close friendship with Fefkat, especially after all this, because now neither of them remembered their past selves. Fefkat had forgotten the joy and kindness she once had, and Errius was down to square one. At least now they could explore their new senses of self together.