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demonslayedher · 3 years

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How Does Eating Humans Work?

Hello, Gotou here. We’re shamelessly borrowing from the format of a KnY Fanbook #2 comic to launch an investigation into demon metabolism and development by crossing the Sanzu River again to interview demons in the underworld. While we’ll be using canon materials as a base, the analysis and conjecture herein is personal, so we ask for your understanding. Also, please note that consuming any food in the underworld will make you unable to return, and we cannot promise your safety even though the interview subjects are dead, so please come along at your own risk.

Some of the questions we’d like to answer are, why do demons need to eat humans? How much do they need to eat to survive? Are there factors that influence how eating humans makes them stronger? If they don’t want to kill humans, what are their other options? We’ve rounded up some special guests below the cut (hidden for length and grossness), everyone from the lowly Temple Demon to the lovely Tamayo, to see what their actions in canon might tell us.

First, a review of what canon tells us, mostly as summarized in Fanbook #2: 1. With one exception named Yushirou, all demons were created by Kibutsuji Muzan, for his own purposes. They all have some amount of his blood, and can be divided into four classes depending on how powerful they are. From top to bottom, the Upper Moons, the Lower Moons, demons with special abilities, and other demons without any special characteristics. 2. Demons may be stronger depending on how much of Kibutsuji Muzan’s blood they have. Most beings’ cannot handle a large amount of his blood, and it will rupture the cells and that being will die, but there are demons who adapt well to it. 3. Typically, sunlight is the only way to kill a demon, by either bathing them in sunlight or cutting of their head with a Nichirin blade. However, there are powerful demons for whom chopping off their head does not work, and if it’s strong enough, demons can also be killed by wisteria poison.

4. Demons eat human blood and flesh. The more they eat, the stronger they become, and the faster their regenerative abilities become. Some humans have “Marechi,” a rare blood type, which is especially nutritious to demons, and eating one Marechi is the equivalent of eating several humans.

That’s an interesting thing we’d like to come back to, especially since we’re looking for quantitative information about how demons gain nutrition (though I have my doubts we'll get enough for statistical analysis). As an interesting note, Fanbook #2 also tells us that if demons try to consume the same edibles humans do, they’ll vomit it back up.

I’m told that Miss Tamayo drinks tea, though. That’ll be an interesting question for later. In my notes, it seems she’s also explained to Tanjirou back in Chapter 15 that demons will normally go berserk if they go a long time without consuming any blood or flesh. Berserk is one thing, but I wonder if they can starve to death? We’ll see if these canon clues will lead us to anything. We’ll begin now in an interview format. Hopefully this will go smoothly, but I’ve got a feeling it won’t. First up, we’ve the Temple Demon.

Temple: Who were you calling ‘lowly’ just now? Up there, above the cut?

Gotou: That was in a literal sense, not having Blood Techniques means you’re in the bottom common tier of demons.

Temple: Argh. Fine. What do you want to know?

Gotou: In Chapter 2, you were spotted with three human victims. However, it seems you left their bodies mostly intact and only ate small parts instead of consuming one full human at a time. Could you comment on this?

Temple: I’d have gotten to more later if that whelp with the strong legs didn’t interrupt me! Who’s got time to eat entire humans anyway? I went for the easy stuff first.

Gotou: I see. It appears you might had focused on key organs, like the heart and the liver. Would you say these are especially nutritionally dense?

Temple: I guess. If I’m going to eat humans, I’m going to start with what’s worth bothering to digest. Blood’s easier on the stomach, so that’s what I was busy with on the lady there.

Gotou: Then it takes effort to digest? Hmm. Let’s come back to this later. How many humans would you say you consumed, including these three?

Temple: Not a lot… I tried to get a variety so I could get stronger faster, but…

Gotou: I’ll put down a guess as ten or less. Let’s move on to someone who has a sharper memory for numbers. One of our longer-lived guests at Mt. Fujikasane for 47 years, the Hand Demon. While most of the demons on the mountain had only eaten two or three humans, you’ve eaten a whole 50 of the children who headed into the Final Selection, didn’t you?

Hand: Yes, that’s right. It was hard at first since I wasn’t very strong, and the demons usually all went crazy there eating each other, just like that one brat who got away in Chapter 7 said. If you could manage to kill any of the kids, you had the other demons to fight off to even get a piece to yourself. That was enough to get me by, and stronger, little by little. Your body learns to make your meals last, and make the most of what you can get. I usually only had a bite of one child a year, can you imagine how horrible that was? Most demons who survive usually figure out some way to develop and survive better, and once my cells found something that worked for me, I kept doing it. I got really good at snatching away prey from other demons, and soon enough I was a bigger threat than any of them. None of them could, you might say, lay a hand on me.

Gotou: That’s an interesting point about self-development. A demon named Nezuko was spent two years doing that in her sleep.

Hand: She must have had a big meal before that!

Gotou: Well, anyway. It seems that in near starving conditions, your metabolism made the most of what you had, leading to the most efficient use of whatever food was available to you.

Hand: That’s right, I got really good at it. Wasn’t always pretty, but I made it work. I got to a point where I could go two years without eating and still keep my wits about me while the other demons were going mad. But I chose to eat. I liked to keep my appetite for specific children.

Gotou: That smile is not reassuring. Some humans taste better than others, I guess?

Hand: That’s for sure. This one kid tasted awful, like rust and man sweat! I still don’t have that disgusting taste out of my mouth! But he was one of my more satisfying meals, so I ate more of him.

Gotou: Then why would you… nevermind, I don’t like that smile, no further questions. While I had hoped to keep these interviews focused on quantities of humans consumed, it does seem personal taste is worth asking about. I had tried to invite a Swamp Demon from Chapter 11, but it kept arguing with itself and it felt like I’d be wasting my time. The one definite thing I learned was that this demon is picky, with a distinct preference for 16-year-old girls. Based on the number of trinkets he kept, it seems he had consumed at least seventeen of them, including several in one town. Sheesh, that’s sort of a rough mission to send a first-timer on. I’ve got a more cooperative guest here to discuss her tastes, a Snake Demon who, according to Chapter 188, has a special taste for baby flesh.

Snake: Thank you for having me here. It’s good to be appreciated again.

Gotou: Did you only eat babies?

Snake: Goodness, no. Babies are delicious, but they aren’t very nutritious. And their skulls certainly aren’t that big, the ones I lounged around with were from the people whom I killed and stole from. But you know the nice thing about baby skulls? They’re still soft. They take a long time to digest, but I can swallow them whole.

Gotou: Like… like a snake, then. Sorry, I’m a little ill hearing that. Let’s back up, were all those skulls the remains of adults you ate, then?

Snake: Meh, I ate some of them of better-looking ones, but most of them I only killed. I could usually kill a lot more at a time than I could bother eating, my killing record was fifty women all at once.

Gotou: And you didn’t find that wasteful?

Snake: Wasteful? Not at all. I wasn’t exactly in dire straits, I lived a more luxurious life than most demons do. That meant I could afford to wait for a truly delicious meal, like how you humans might leave something in a slow-cooker to enjoy the perfect combination of doneness and tenderness, plated in the most appetizing of ways.

Gotou: I guess demons and humans are similar in that regard.

Snake: I’m so glad you can relate! Then you understand the frustration of a meal you’ve be preparing for years opening up the slow-cooker and running away right when they were just about done.

Gotou: I have never had that experience.

Snake: I’ll get you, my pretty. And your little snake, too.

Gotou: I think we might have gotten a little off-topic here. It does seem digesting humans comes with some difficulty. I’d like to invite the Drum Demon in next. Your name is Kyougai, I hear?

Kyougai: !!

Gotou: Kyogai, right?

Kyougai: You’ve heard of me! You know my name!

Gotou: I happened to, yes.

Kyougai: What have you heard???

Gotou: That you were kicked out of the Lower Moons for being unable to consume enough humans.

Kyougai: Oh. ……..yeah, that’s me.

Gotou: I thought demons go berserk if they go a long time without consuming humans. Wouldn’t that make an inability to consume them problematic?

Kyougai: It wasn’t that I couldn’t eat them! Like I said in Chapter 24, I had to in order to sustain myself, just like any other demon. But, at some point, I couldn’t eat as much as I used to. That happens to humans too, doesn’t it? When you just can’t stomach anymore?

Gotou: You mean like when you’ve overeaten? In a human’s case that feeling may go away within a few hours.

Kyougai: Sort of like that, but you know, humans reach a time when nothing is appetizing or the thought of eating makes them feel sick, right? Isn’t that the human condition?

Gotou: …uh… maybe if they have a medical condition? Or anxiety? Do demons get anxiety? Or eating disorders?

Kyougai: I… I don’t know. I just wasn’t good enough.

Gotou: I think it’s plenty good if you stopped eating humans. Though to have developed Blood Techniques and been a Lower Moon in the first place, you must had eaten a great number of them.

Kyougai: You think I’m great?

Gotou: What?

Kyougai: No, sorry, I was getting ahead of myself. It’s true, I used to be able to eat as many as the other Lower Moons always consumed. Our stomachs were stronger, you might say. Demons got strong by eating humans, and then the more you did that the better you usually got at it, so the strong ones would eat more and more and keep getting stronger and stronger. At least, that’s how it usually worked. I’ve seen other demons below me reached that point too, where they feel the drive to eat, but then they have trouble digesting it for a long time, so they don’t wind up eating that many people.

Gotou: Then it would make sense to eat the most nutritionally dense parts first.

Kyougai: Or a Marechi.

Gotou: Yes, or a Marechi.

Kyougai: It was a great idea, wasn’t it?

Gotou: I cannot condone any consumption of humans as a good idea.

Kyougai: I knew it. I’m nothing. Go ahead, stomp all over everything I ever tried to accomplish.

Gotou: I think I’m going to move on to my next interviewee now. It looks like we’ve got… oh, would you look at this? Lower Moon One. Enmu, I believe.

Enmu: You can believe whatever you want. I’m happy to help.

Gotou: I don’t need any help, thanks. I’m curious, since you were one of the stronger demons out there, it seems you had a stronger capacity for consuming humans.

Enmu: I did, I was always careful and paced myself so the Demon Slayers wouldn’t notice me. I took my time. I liked to enjoy e-e-e-a-c-h one.

Gotou: Then you had tastes too? Like babies, or 16-year-old girls?

Enmu: I could season any human to my liking. They’re all very easy to prepare.

Gotou: I’m still trying to get quantitative data. Can you tell me at least a rough estimate of how many humans you consumed?

Enmu: I told this more precisely to that boy with the earrings back in Chapter 59, and I can tell you this too. At my best, I could had eaten over two-hundred people at once if I took my time.

Gotou: OH MY GAW----sorry, I dropped my pen. Two hundred, at once?

Enmu: Yes. If I had just. Had. A little. More. Time.

Gotou: Clearly there is a huge difference between what common demons are capable of and what the Twelve Moons are capable of.

Daki: Psh, those were all any random common people. That’s nothing to brag about.

Gotou: Excuse me, and you are?

Daki: Daki, Upper Moon Six. You want something really impressive, you talk to the Upper Moons.

Gotou: I’m sorry, I don’t see you on my list.

Daki: What! Your list is stupid. Look me in the eyes, I’m Upper Moon Six!

Gotou: Very well, then. What can you tell me about your diet, Miss Upper Moon Six?

Daki: That’s more like it. It’s true that digestion takes a while, and takes some effort. Even though we Upper Moons may have eaten hundreds of people in our lifetimes, it’s not as if we gorge ourselves. The clever ones among us save prey for later to eat when we feel ready for it.

Gotou: Food storage? How do you keep them fresh?

Daki: You leave them still alive, numbskull. Nobody wants to eat something cold, that’s gross.

Gotou: I see, so that’s why demons prefer to go after new kills instead of saving what they’ve already managed to kill. That also might explain why the demons on Mt. Fujikasane wouldn’t had eaten many humans, if they found long dead ones in edible.

Daki: You want to know the real secret to eating humans? You can eat what you find tastes good, sure. But to get stronger, you eat strong people. Like your Corp members, the ones besides chumps like you? Using all that Breath makes their muscles really lean and potent, it’s like they come offering themselves as protein bars for us.

Gotou: You make them sound like a fad diet…

Daki: The real secret is eating Pillars. Besides Marechi, they’re the strongest meals out there. Guess how many I’ve eaten?

Gotou: I don’t have the data to make an educated guess.

Daki: Then get educated! Look back at Chapter 88! I’ve eaten seven Pillars, and my brother has eaten fifteen!

Gotou: Your brother? Who is he, then, Upper Moon Five?

Daki: What? Ew. Gross. Gross! No way, ew!

Gotou: Hmm… eating Pillars, huh? Well, I can think of one Pillar who was…

Douma: Me too!

Gotou: Speak of the devil.

Douma: Actually, we Upper Moons can! And he's not Satan, that's not how this works. But I guess Muzan-sama’s curse doesn’t effect us now. Ask me anything you want!

Gotou: That Chapter 143 reference was such a rude entrance. I understand that Pillars are particularly nutritious—

Douma: Oh, please don’t misunderstand! I don’t even eat all the Pillars I’ve encountered. There was the one Flower Pillar who got away from me, but some of the boy pillars I just leave around. What’s really the key to consistent nutritional intake is women! It’s really unhealthy for a demon not to get enough women in their diet, that’s why even if you’re only looking for Marechi or Pillars, your metabolism is going to get thrown out of whack with sudden big meals. You grow a stronger metabolism with consistency, I believe!

Gotou: If I could stop you there, I had an image from Chapter 142 I preferred to focus on for this case study. I see you keep a wide collection of skulls, from victims whom I assume you ate.

Douma: Yes, they all stayed together inside me for eternity, but the room looked lonely without décor.

Gotou: It seems other demons usually go for nutritionally dense organs like hearts or livers, or easy to digest parts of the body, perhaps just blood sometimes. Eating the entire victim, bones and all, doesn’t seem to be the norm.

Douma: Bones are organs too, you know! That’s where blood is made, at its freshest. They do take more practice in learning to digest, and I had to find a way around not having to chew them, but the bone marrow is very, very good for you, so I make sure to consume it frequently. It may take more time and it causes some of my followers to panic more while they wait, though, that’s a bit of a downside. Oh, and I guess bones can make good storage for some sneaky poison. Even fingernails and hair follicles, who’d have thought?

Gotou: I don’t think hair would have much nutritional value in the first place. In all my years, I can never recall seeing a victim with their hair eaten.

Douma: Tsk, tsk! Clearly you haven’t done much metabolism research in advance. I was really impressed by how well Shinobu-chan understood how my digestion would work. Eating hair can do amazing things! Isn’t that right, Genya-kun?

Genya: ?????????

Gotou: Genya-kun!?

Genya: What am I doing here?

Gotou: I don’t think you’re supposed to be here. Isn’t there, you know, another side? The other direction?

Genya: What are you doing here? Did you die?

Gotou: I’m here doing research on demon metabolism and how they get stronger by consuming flesh.

Douma: What can you tell us about what up with having your friend feed you hair you found on the floor in Chapters 170-171, Genya-kun?

Genya: I’m not a demon!! Why the hell are you asking me?

Douma: ‘Hell’! Haha, good one!

Gotou: How do you even know about that? You were dead almost a full volume before that. And Genya’s different, he’s not a case study in how demons consuming humans works!

Douma: Are you certain?

Gotou: I hear the term get thrown around a lot that he’s ‘half-demon’, but—

Genya: I’m not a demon!!!

Gotou: --how would that even work? That would imply that one of his parents had to be a demon, and that—

Genya: What did you say about my mother!?!

Gotou: What? Nothing—

Genya: You say that to my face! You just trying saying something about my mother to my face! My mother never actually ate any flesh, you got that? She doesn’t deserve any of this!

Gotou: Genya, calm down, what—

Douma: I see we’re learning nothing about hair at all. Maybe Kokushibou-dono would provide better commentary on that?

Genya: Mom? Mo-o-o-o-m? Are you down here somewhere?

Gotou: And there he goes… wait, did you say Kokushibou? Upper Moon One? Oh no—he—he didn’t want me bothering him, he did not agree to another interview—

Douma: He-e-e-e-e-y, Kokushibou-dono! How did that work with Genya-kun eating your hair? Hair can be nutritious, right?

Kokushibou: You would gain… nothing… from consuming human hair… it’s not… flesh… you wasted your energy digesting it…

Douma: Aww, cutting it off them would had been sad, though.

Kokushibou: Demon hair… like demon weapons… is made… from our unique cells. It’s not dead… like human locks. Because that boy ate my live cells… it affected him…

Gotou: Yes, because he had a very, very unique metabolism, analyzed separately in this post. To be perfectly clear, Genya is completely human with cells that could temporarily transform, and he never consumed human flesh.

Kokushibou: He… vexes me…

Gotou: Um… while I’ve got you here, you’re one of the longest lived demons, clocking in at over three, maybe four centuries. Do you have any estimate of how many humans you’ve consumed?

Kokushibou: ……I see in… Chapter 100… that you are 23 years old?

Gotou: That is correct.

Kokushibou: Do you bother… remembering how many meals… you’ve had in a mere 23 years?

Gotou: I’m very sorry to have bothered you.

Douma: Kokushibou-dono’s ancient compared to the rest of us! But if I tried, I could probably recall. Let’s see. One, two, three, four…

Gotou: Is that? Your finger in your brain? Oh—ohhh—that is disgusting---I really don’t need to know numbers that badly, please stop. Is there maybe just some average you can give me for the Upper Moons instead? Like how many you’d eat in a month?

Douma: I wish I could, but a certain someone was an annoying outlier and didn’t like to eat so many humans. He made me worry all the time about his health.

Gotou: Really? Who might that be?

Douma: Hello-o-o-o-o-? Akaza-dono? Yoohoo! He spends all his time with his wife now and never answers when I call, it makes me so sad. Akaza-dono did eat humans, plenty of strong ones, but any time he wasn’t under orders from Muzan he liked to spend his time training instead of eating. Fanbook #1 says he did that way more than eating!

Gotou: Training? What sort of training?

Douma: Similar things to what your Corp members did, I imagine. Doing squats, throwing punches, things like that.

Gotou: Then demon muscles had similar function to human muscles, and could be strengthened through hard work? That’s surprising.

Douma: I know, right? I’ll let you in on a secret, I don’t think it was the physically repetition that did anything. I think it was his willpower getting honed and shaping his muscles.

Douma: I had to focus when I acquired new skills too, like breaking down poisons. A lot of sad, lowly demons, like that Hand Demon fellow? They focus as hard as they can in their desperation, or focus on some strong emotion or attachment or whatever, and they grow and develop because of it. Sometimes all their weak bodies can manage is an ugly mutation, but that’s proof enough of how much focus they had.

Gotou: That sheds a lot of light on Nezuko, actually.

Douma: Shed “light” on Nezuko-chan, hahaha! Sunlight! You humans are all so witty!

Gotou: Speaking of willpower, I’ve got one more interview I need to get to down here. Of all the demons I have records of, only Nezuko went her whole time as a demon without consuming any human flesh, although she did go through moments of berserk cravings for it. It’s possible that other demons were killed before they could consume anything, but typically they will consume flesh as soon as possible, which is why its common for their family and close relations to be among the first ones killed. Tomioka-san even mentioned in Chapter 1 that these close relations are especially nutritious.

Gotou: A demon about as old as Kokushibou, if not older, is a special case of her own. She was one of the only demons we know of to have escaped Kibutsuji’s curse and acted in dependently of him, including having created a demon of her own after two hundred years of trying. Most notably to our purposes, she trained herself to subsist on small amounts of blood, after having survived on corpses and wild animals for a time, according to the extensive Taisho Secrets at the end of Volume 21.

Tamayo: I explained this in more detail to Tanjirou-san in Chapter 15, but I went on to purchase blood from poor people, and extracted it in ways that wouldn’t be harmful to them. The one demon I created, Yushirou, could subsist on even less. I gained enough self-control that I could treat injured humans without feeling tempted into a berserk state.

Gotou: I was just talking to Douma about willpower making demons capable of accomplishing new physical developments. Was that how you were able to gain this state? I heard you even enjoy a cup of tea now and then.

Tamayo: Yes, I’ve taken a liking to it. I’d offer you some if not for this, you know, being hell. It’s nothing like the hell I went through when first resisting consuming humans, though. My demon body refused to take anything but fresh human flesh at first, but in the hardest moments, I always remembered a kind demon hunter who said he believed in me and my desire to defeat Kibutsuji Muzan. I believe Nezuko may have summoned her strength to resist the call of her demon cells in a similar way; she knew she had her brother there to rely on. Once she mastered something as remarkable as resisting the need for human flesh, it gave her the freedom to prioritize other developments.

Gotou: You spent centuries researching demon cells, especially how demons may break down and metabolize poisons.

Tamayo: I had not studied the metabolism of poisons until working with Shinobu-san. The medicine we concocted for Kibutsuji was only possible thanks to her work, and I couldn’t had worked with many of those wisteria-based substances on my own. I feel I was only there to fill in the gaps of her brilliant understanding.

Gotou: You’re very humble. I would pass along my thanks and compliments to Shinobu-sama too, but I’m pretty sure she’s not down here. On that note, did Genya-kun go back home?

Tamayo: He did after a nice reunion with his mother just now, it was very sweet. Shizu-san and I get along well, after all, we both carry similar guilt.

Gotou: Wait, was his mother a demon? That means Wind-sama’s mother was too? Wait?? What??

Tamayo: The worst hell I went through, or that any demon has gone through, is to realize what you’ve eaten after the hunger-driven madness clears. Being similar to your own cells, they’re easy on a volatile new anatomy to break down and digest. That’s why many demons may have driven themselves to forget everything all over again, or to twist their personalities to justify the horror, saying that because they ate the hearts of their loved ones and because demon flesh can live forever, then they never truly killed them. The truth always remained untwisted for me, and to this day, it torments me more than anything in this underworld can try.

Gotou: …

Tamayo: You should wake up now, Gotou. You’ve been through a lot; the nightmares must be taxing on your health. Please remember to eat well.

#kny fandom theories and meta #too many characters to tag #I wrote this draft early last week and only this morning had time to edit it but it took foreeeevvvverrr on my slow computer #now off to work #eat well everybody #I'm off to work #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

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kass-storycorner · 3 years

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An unpleasant surprise

I should definitely do my coursework instead of writing this fic, however the idea just came into my head and I couldn’t focus until I wrote this down. Writing this took waaaay longer than I anticpiated and it was way more spontanious... so it’s not proof read or anything, still hope you’ll enjoy it.

The idea/prompt: character is secretly in love with you, but won’t tell you because you are already in a relationship with someone else. Character however finds out that your partner is cheating on you – this is how they would react/act upon finding it out

Word count: 3637 Words (I’m sorry)

Character: Kaeya x gn!reader (in this it’s still very platonic and one sided love) Genre: Angst (?), Hurt, Comfort, even a bit of humour but maybe not, idk haha

Content warnings: cheating, threats, mention of blood and a major injury, mentioning of Dilucs and Kaeyas past, but nothing to explicit (tried to avoid the major spoilers)

Format: The first part / backstory is written in bullet points, but at the end you’ll find a fic written in the normal text format

He just wanted to drown his sorrows in peace at the Angel’s Share, but no. He had to be witness to that disgusting display of infidelity of your (hopefully soon to be ex-) boyfriend

Kaeya has known you for several years now, both of you started around the same time in the Knights of Favonius. The early years of your training were some of the most fun times Kaeya had- thinking about it always made him smile. Both of you were known from the beginning as rule benders, mostly breakers, within the Knights and if it weren’t for the influence of Kaeyas adoptive family none of you both would’ve gotten that many chances to stay until each of you proved their own worth without familiar ties.

However, in the last few years you both grew a bit more distant. Kaeya blamed himself entirely for it, after Crepus death he knew he should not have any emotional ties to anyone in Mondstadt, at first he ruined the relationship with his brother by telling him the truth. He then just tried to avoid you more and more, which wasn’t easy, because after Diluc quit his position as a Cavalry Captain Kaeya rose up to his position – only to have you as his subordinate.

It was not until you were on a mission with Kaeya that went horribly wrong, that Kaeya realised his feelings for you never were platonic, he was in love with you since the early days of training.You are his first love.

That mission was more of a secretive one, a few months after Diluc had left Mond and Crepus died, and one of the first bigger outings Kaeya had to lead as a Cavalry Captain. And the first mission without his brother by his side. The dragon Ursa resurfaced and continued to cause harm to the people of Mond, so Grand Master Varka gave Kaeya the responsibility to find that Dragons lair.

Instead of finding the hiding spot of Ursa, Kaeyas troop stumbled into a hiding spot of the, at that point not known as, Abyss order. That was the last time Kaeya went into a mission without information he himself collected and checked, because looking back it was so obviously a trap. How did he not notice it back then?

The fight was brutal and exhausting – somehow it was a miracle that the only Knight dangerously wounded was you. At least that is what the other Knights who were on that mission too would say, thankful that the worst they had to suffer from back then were a few scars at most. Hearing anyone talk about it enraged Kaeya, though he would never show it. It was because you were the most skilled fighter in that troop, even without a Vision Kaeya was sure that at your peak back then you could’ve bested him even now. But because of one of his mistakes, he did not care to watch his own back, maybe because he knew you would protect him, it was you who was injured and not him.

In that moment, seeing you unconscious on the floor laying in your own blood because you protected him, Kaeya understood his feelings for you.

After bringing you back safely to Mondstadt, and you thankfully not dying because of the injuries, Kaeya became even more distant. At first he wished to be able to tell you his true feelings after you’ve woken up, but he just couldn’t. When the healers and doctors gave the news that the injury was so severe that you would never be able to fight again, or even walk down the streets of Mond without being in pain – Kaeya thought the guilt of keeping that secret from Diluc and Crepus for years was unbearable, but the guilt he felt from being responsible for this? It pained him even more.

You stayed in the Knights, taking over administrative tasks and helping every other department of the Knights in the best ways you possibly could.

What surprised Kaeya is that you were never bitter about it. You never said it was Kaeyas fault, even went out of your way to constantly reassure him after you got the news that he shouldn’t blame himself for it (until this day he refuses to listen to you). Your smile and laughter didn’t stop after it, which he never could understand.

How were you able to be so happy and kind when your dream of leading your own troop just – vanished. To travel around Teyvat, see the world. When you weren’t able to do the things, you loved on your own, like going to Windrise to pick some of your favourite flowers.

Somehow, Kaeya thought, it was because of that guy. He never liked your boyfriend to begin with, but Kaeya thought maybe it was his jealousy that clouded his judgement.

He came into your life shortly after the incident and Kaeya remembered the first time he saw you two together – holding hands, you looked so smitten and the way you laughed when he leaned down to whisper something into your ear. After seeing that Kaeya knew he could never have something like this in his life. Not if its not with you.

Kaeya didn’t spend much time with you outside of the Knights anymore, though he would always have a conversation with you when you came up to him or he had to visit your office. Whenever he saw you outside of the Knights, you were always with your boyfriend, sometimes stopping and having a quick chat with Kaeya. Sometimes he wished you would stop being so nice to him.

Now seeing that disgusting piece of shit of a boyfriend sit in the corner of the Angel’s Share, with his hands all over some young thing made Kaeyas blood boil.

How dared he, the man who should be so lucky to have you, have his eyes and hands on another woman.

Also it’s a good thing that Diluc is not at Angel’s Share today, he was also a close friend of you back in the day and even though the friendship with Diluc didn’t survive his three years absence, Diluc would definitely throw that bastard out

Kaeya was astounded by the audacity your boyfriend had. He never had a high opinion of him but seeing that man openly flirt and make out with a woman that was not you, so obvious for everyone to see… in a bar that was frequently visited by your colleagues and friends. If it weren’t for the fact that he was cheating on you Kaeya could maybe muster up some respect for a man who had so clearly a death wish. Eyeing him from the corner of his eye, Kaeya kept observing that situation. How the hands that always held yours in public were touching all over the body of that unknown woman. How the mouth that told you sweet nothings over and over, told you that he loved you, was occupied with kissing the neck of another woman. That whole display just filled Kaeya with disgust. The loud giggles of that woman in his lap filled the Tavern and that was the moment Kaeya decided he had enough. Calmy, he finished his drink, stood up from the bar and made his way over to the table. “You surely don’t mind if I join you two”, Kaeya said in a nonchalant manner, sitting down opposite to the couple. “Oh, Sir Kaeya!”, the young woman giggled, clearly intoxicated, and embarrassed by the way Kaeya eyed the two. Quickly they both shifted, so the woman sat now besides your boyfriend. The way the cheater looked at Kaeya, it was quite amusing. A mix of fear, shock and uneasiness filled the eyes of him. It filled Kaeya with a weird sense of pride, knowing that being caught by him was something that scared him. “Seemed like you two had quite some fun back here”, Kaeya smugly started his interrogation. It was not unusual for Kaeya to use the Angel’s Share as his interrogation room – the casual setting and the alcohol made it so much easier sometimes for people to spill all their secrets. Especially when Kaeya could just be so charming. What Kaeya interested the most was if this was the first offense of the cheater or if that behaviour was a more… regular occurrence. It was at least for him the first time he caught that man red handed. Getting some information out of the girl was quite easy, she was so eager to tell the Cavalry Captain all about the two. Though from what Kaeya gathered the whole thing between her and your boyfriend was quite fresh. “You two really seem like a fitting pair”, Kaeya replied after a long ramble of that woman on how she was just so in love with your boyfriend. His voice sweet and smooth as silk, not showing how the anger inside him grew. It was just not fair, not fair to you. “Hey,” Kaeya began and eyed the empty glasses on the table, looking then back at the woman. “How about another round of drinks, it’s on me. Would you be so kind and go to Charles and order a few?”, again his voice was charming as ever. “No, no, Sir Kaeya, that’s too kind, but another drink won’t be necessary. It is quite late; don’t you think flower? We should get going”, the cheater chimed in and Kaeya nearly lost his cool when he heard him call the woman ‘flower’. Whenever Kaeya met you and him on his patrols around Mondstadt he always heard him call you ‘flower’. Fucking bastard, is all Kaeya could think before the voice of the woman protested the cheaters concerns. “Nooo, just one more round. How can you turn down Sir Kaeya, love? Just one more, please”, she looked at him with pleading eyes and he just sighted. “Fine”, he said and with that the woman was on her way to the bar. Kaeya now hoped that Charles would keep her occupied long enough so he could find out everything he wants to know from that cheater. His eye shifted from the woman who made her way to the bar to your boyfriend who sat directly across Kaeya. Now completely alone and vulnerable, for his shield left his side. The tension in the air seemed to be unbearable, Kaeya could see how uncomfortable the silence and his curious glance made the cheater. But Kaeya knew – sometimes saying nothing says it all. Helplessly your boyfriend looked over to the bar only to see that the woman he was with was now totally engrossed in a conversation with Charles. After a few minutes, that might have felt like hours to that cheater, he broke the silence. “So,” he tried to start a conversation, clearly not knowing that he fell right into Kaeyas trap. “What gives us the honour to be invited by the Cavalry Captain?”. “Oh, I think you might be smart enough to come up with an answer yourself,” Kaeya replied, keeping up a smile. Though the look in Kaeyas eye was just as cold as the top of Dragonspine, causing the other man to shiver. “As much as it honours me that you think of me this highly, I sadly have no idea what would make the renowned Sir Kaeya sit down at my table tonight.” “Oh, so this is how you want have this conversation”, now his voice was just as cold as his look. “I don’t understand what you mean.” ‘Bullshit’, Kaeya thought. “I’ve been just curious about that woman that just sat so prominently on your lap earlier this evening, she seems to be not the same I saw you hold hands with earlier this day.” “As nice at it is that the Cavalry Captain seems concerned for me, it isn’t one of the Knights duties to pry into the lives of citizens, now, is it?” Oh, how confident the cheater now sounded, thinking he was winning that conversation. Kaeya couldn’t deny that the entire situation made him furious and that he handled it a bit differently than he usually would if he were to talk with drunk treasure hoarders. “Oh, we’re awfully bold now, are we? Believe me the Knights don’t care about your infidelity, though I guess a certain one might find it awfully interesting to know how you spend your nights.” There was a short moment of silences between the two men, the tension just rising. “Well, they wouldn’t believe you. But if you want to go and be a telltale go, I won’t stop you”, the man gave as an answer. His words did not fit his body language – bold words, but his body was tense and Kaeya could see the fear behind the eyes of the man. But it was not fear of losing you, no he seemed to be quite confident that this would not happen. Kaeya said nothing, he just looked at that man, piercing him with his ice cold look. “You see”, he continued, “I wouldn’t be sitting here in Angle’s Share with that lovely company if I thought they might believe the words of any low-rank Knight coming in their office, believing their lies. Quite sad what pranks some people want to play on them, don’t you think?” Slowly, but surely, Kaeya understood that this tonight was definitely not the first offense of that man. And he now understood why most of the Knights here tonight just looked away from the scene, not batting an eye at what was going on. Kaeya could kick himself in the ass, how did he not notice the behaviour of that rodent before him earlier? If he was so open about cheating on you that even most of the other Knights knew, how come that he did not? “And I think its just so sad, that one of the people they hold in such high regards would join in on those baseless accusations, don’t you think Sir Kaeya? I mean it would be so disappointing for them to find out that you tell them such a lie, only because you just don’t like me.” If Kaeya wasn’t a Knight, if he weren’t Kaeya right now, if he hadn’t to uphold a certain image… the floor of the Tavern would be painted with the blood of this absolute bastard. Oh, how Kaeya wished he could lose his cool. “If you say it like that, then I guess I won’t tell them a word,” Kaeya replied. “I’m glad you understand”, the cheater smiled, the fear in his eyes now subsided and he seemed to relax a bit. At that Kaeya just leaned forward, his look cold and his voice even colder. “You are telling them.” The man just scoffed, looking confused at Kaeya. “Why should I?” Kaeya now coming closer, his voice more threatening than before. “Do you really want to find out, if you don’t?”. Kaeya leaned back, smiling and at that moment the woman came back with the drinks. The face of the man was just pale as snow, the fear back in his eyes. “Oh, thank you dear”, Kaeya said when she places his drink before him, and he took a sip. If your boyfriend is smarter than he seemed to be after fooling around with that woman in public, it would do him good to do as Kaeya said.

Dealing with the pain in your leg was something you were used to now for a few years, but the pain in your heart today… you somehow would prefer a broken leg over your shattered heart. Your eyes were fixated on the documents before you, though trough the tears in your eyes you could barley make out what they said. What they were even for. How could you ignore it for so long, that he cheated. That he fooled around with any woman in Mondstadt willing to be with him. This sleezy asshole. The tears fell down on the paper, you couldn’t care right now what important piece of documents you ruined with your tears. How, how, how??? Why were you so stupid to believe him when he always said that all the people that came to you with their concerns must have been mistaken. Why did you believe him over and over again. You couldn’t stop thinking about how the first person coming to you was Outrider Amber, so nervous to even say anything. How you just laughed her worries away, saying she definitely was mistaken. How after Amber again and again told you how sure she was. Had you just listened to her. Then maybe you wouldn’t feel so humiliated. If you just hadn’t listened to that damn liar. In that moment you heard a knock on the door. Quickly you wiped your tears away with your sleeves, clearing your throat. “Come in,” you said, though you were shocked at how hoarse you sounded. Stepping into your office was Kaeya, but when he saw your red eyes and tear stained face, he quickly closed the door behind him. “Are you alright?”, he asked in such a soft and kind voice. Since you woke up in the infirmary all those years ago you hadn’t heard him talk in that voice. You couldn’t help it, it made you immediately tear up again. Throwing your head into your hands you just couldn’t stop the uncontrollably sobs that took over you. You didn’t even notice that Kaeya was kneeling beside your chair until he felt his hand on your back. “Hey,” you heard him say, again in this soft voice. “It’s alright, let it out.” And you did. For a while you just sat there, crying and sobbing until you ran empty. The whole time Kaeya was on your side, saying nothing. He was just there and somehow, even after you two grew apart in the past years, after all that happened – Crepus death, Dilucs disappearance and return, your injury. Even after all it did not feel awkward to just cry and look for comfort at his side. After all, you still were friends. Slowly you calmed down, looking up to him. “I was so stupid, Kaeya. So many people came to me, told me what they saw, who he was and I- I just ignored it. I ignored it all, my feelings and-“, you felt the lump in your throat, making you stop speaking. It was just too much. “You’re not stupid,” he said, taking you in his arms. It felt so good to just melt into the hug. Just trying to forget the pain for a few seconds, slipping back into the familiarity of Kaeya you haven’t felt in such a long time.

Kaeya on the other hand couldn’t stop asking himself if what he’s doing here was alright. Was it okay to comfort you, he asked. If he hadn’t basically threatened your, obviously now, ex-boyfriend last night to tell you the truth, he might have been met with your bright smile today and not that painful expression. But it was the right thing to do, you deserved to know. You deserved for that guy to tell you, although he should have told you the truth out of his own free will. Not because Kaeya got involved. “Thank you”, he heard you mumble into his chest. “For what?” he asked, both of you now parting from the hug. “For just… for being here. And for being a friend”, you answered, again wiping tears away. Kaeya couldn’t help himself and chuckled at that statement. A friend, yeah. That is what he was and what he must be fine with. However, he didn’t really expect you to view him as one, after all that happened and how much he tried to avoid you in the past. “Well, I have been an awful friend the last years, haven’t I?”. Your eyes shot up, looking directly into his eye. “No, what makes you think that?”. You genuinely looked surprised at his statement. “Well,” he gestured towards your leg. Before he could even say anything, he felt your hands cup his face and looking at him sternly. “Kaeya Alberich, how often do I have to tell you this. What happened to my leg is not your fault, please stop taking blame for it. It was my choice to join you on that mission.” For a short while you both just looked into each other’s eyes until Kaeya couldn’t stand it anymore, a sigh leaving him, and he looked away. “How come that I want to comfort you and you just end up telling me something I just can’t seem to learn.” He stood up and then he saw it. You smiled at him. A sad smile, but a smile, nonetheless. “One day you’ll hopefully learn it”, you said. “Now, to make up for this”, pointing at your leg, trying to joke, “and for threatening a Mondstadt citizen, I think you should get me something from Good Hunter.” Kaeya was surprised. How did you know? He couldn’t even ask you, you already gave him the answer to the question that was so clearly written all over his face. “He literally begged me, after telling me the truth and breaking up with me, that I made sure you wouldn’t hurt him.” Now Kaeya gave out a small laugh, partially because he felt a bit embarrassed by you knowing, but also the thought of that arrogant asshole being so afraid of him amused Kaeya. “And, what did you tell him”, he asked, now back with his more playful tone. “Mmmmmh, I told him I’ll think about it.”

#genshin impact fan fiction #genshin #genshin fan fiction #kaeya x reader #kaeya fanfiction #genshin angst #kaeya angst #genshin hurt #genshin comfort #how do you tag fan fiction help #reader insert #gender-neutral reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin x reader #angst #hurt #comfort #kaeya alberich

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sanjithesimp · 2 years

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Hiiiii ilysm and i love your wrighting i wanted to know if you could give any tips on how you wright so good im a beginner and it would be REALLY helpfull thanks and ily❤

Hellooo!! How are you doing? ILYSM too, thank you for supporting me and my work <3

First of all, I just want to say how happy and flattered I feel for you asking me for advice. I’ve never considered myself a good writer, but I always try to do my best.

Anyways, to the tips:

When I’m about to write I always but some music on that will help me set in the mood for writing (it also depends on what i’m writing) but this is like the thing that helps the most to get my ideas flowing

Write every single one idea or scenario that goes through your head (I do this ALL the time). I write everything, even if it doesn’t really make sense but maybe you can use them for later.

When using prompts what i usually do is write every idea that comes to my mind that is related to that prompt or the topic, it helps me to get a better idea of what i want to write. (idk if this makes sense)

I know this one is very obvious but read a lot, it has helped me to widen my vocabulary and also to get better when describing a situation, person or a place. It also helps my imagination a lot lol.

Research. Research. Research. I always research when i don’t quite know the character and I want to get as close as possible to how they are, behave, etc. Also I use it when I don’t exactly know how to describe something or a specific situation (I’m embarrassed to admit it but this happens a lot when I’m writing smut, my research history is a joke, but in a positive note at least I get more experience 👀 👀 👀)

On that last point, I also have researched a lot because sometimes its hard for me to write for other genders, or pronouns because I have always felt much comfortable with writing fem reader. But I like to be inclusive and have tried to write more and more for other pronouns or genders. I know at first it will be hard but practice and research are the answers to everything.

And also, I’ve read some posts on how to be more inclusive in general in my writing as sometimes people might not identify with the description of the reader. This is an important point that I had never taken in account, but now that I do, I have reached more and more people on this site which is very cool because everyone can enjoy a bit of my writing.

This tip is not so easy to do, because reading our own work (or at least for me), is very hard. I’m very critical with myself so any mistake or any thing that looks weird I will not like it and will probably think that is horrible. But it is very recommendable because you can correct some things, or even improve the fic.

This is not much about writing but it is to have a better organization and give format to your fics. I tend to have a template for my fics, and it has been very helpful.

The last point and the most important one is enjoy writing. Do not pressure yourself, and don’t feel like you have to write it, or don’t overwhelm yourself if you are having trouble in having ideas for your fics. Sometimes we have other problems, or other things in our head that won’t let us concentrate so it’s better to take your time. The ideas will come, I promise.

I hope this will help you and other writers in here. I know that they are not much, but these are the ones that have helped me a lot to improve my writing.

Sorry for replying until now :((

Also if anyone has other tips that could be helpful feel free to add them <3

#i hope this tips help #if you have any question dont hesitate to message me #:)#sof answers #answered

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friendandphoe · 3 years

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okay the formatting on this is gonna be a lil weird bUT!! have this figuring it out/something to last revamp that’s been sitting in my brain for the last few weeks @ahbonjour @museumlad @creativeskull95

There’s no way in hell she’s ever looking Professor Keelson in the eye again. “I’m sorry,” she croaks for the thousandth time, and finds a tissue being pressed into her hand.

“Quite alright, my dear,” Professor Keelson says soothingly, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his round belly. “Wipe your face, now, there you go. I’m — well.” And he rubs the bridge of his nose, just under his round wire glasses. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting this, unfortunately.”

She nods numbly, ice trickling down her spine.

You ruined everything.

“I’m sorry,” she tries again, because it’s all she can think to say, but the professor waves her off with a weathered hand and pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as he makes his way to the mini fridge he keeps under the bookshelves.

“Now, now,” he says, almost scolding, and pulls out a clementine, a bar of chocolate, and a bottle of water. “Don’t you start that with me, Ms. Ochoa. This is not the first time I’ve had students crying in my office, I daresay it won’t be the last.” And he sits heavily back down in his chair, setting the snacks in front of her. “Eat, drink. Now, I won’t press on what’s been troubling you, but you know, these tired old eyes of mine do still catch a few things here and there, and I have seen you — well. I don’t like to use the word struggling, but you know, perhaps it is a bit more apt than anything else I could think of.” And she knows he’s looking at her, knows those beady black eyes well, but just focuses on unwrapping the chocolate bar as quietly as she can.

What makes you think we want you around?

“You’ve had a rough time of it, this year.”

It’s not a question, but she still finds herself nodding confirmation. “I don’t know what happened.” She says hoarsely, and reaches for the water bottle.

Leave us alone.

“I’ve been wanting this for years, I worked so hard to get into this program, I just—” and she has to press her mouth shut to keep the lump in her throat from escaping.

Leave us alone!

“Some… stuff. Uh, came up, I guess.”

They sit in silence for a minute, then softly: “The human mind is a wonderful, confusing little thing.” Professor Keelson says. She dares a glance up at him, finds him — thank god — staring out his office window. “It tends to block out anything unpleasant we might not want to hear, and often that negativity will build and build and build until, one day, the weight becomes too much to bear.” He sighs and scrubs a hand through his short white beard, messing the hairs out of their orderly style. “And then we must face the unfortunate truth that sometimes what we thought we wanted is, in actuality, not at all the path we should be taking."

She drops her gaze back down to her bouncing knee. “Is it stupid?” She blurts out, watching her leg blur under her rising tears. “I just — this is a good school, a good program, and I’ll have so many job opportunities when I graduate—”

A weathered hand stretches out across the desk, just reaching to where her pinky would've been. “And yet,” Professor Keelson murmurs. “It won’t make you happy.” He sits back in his chair, looking every inch the benevolent Santa Claus his students know him to be. “And given how miserable you’ve been this year, Ms. Ochoa, I daresay your ultimate happiness is worth far more than any graduating job offers.” His smile drops for a half-second. “Though I can’t say I won’t be sorry to see you go. You’re already one of my best students, you know.”

You're an embarrassment to my name and reputation.

A wet little giggle chokes out of her throat, and she wipes down her face one more time. “Don’t tempt me, I’m half-considering staying,” she admits. “Even with all of this.”

“Ah, but if you do, what sort of state will you be in once you graduate?” Professor Keelson says, raising a bushy brow. “All you young folk are the same. You’re young, you have that wonderful, limitless energy, but you must learn to take care of yourselves now, while you have the space to do so. Won’t do you any good to drive yourselves into the ground every night when you’re my age, you know!” He looks at her appraisingly, then smiles wide. “And you know, my dear, there’s great strength in being able to admit you were wrong. I’ve always admired people who are strong enough to chase their dreams instead of following the easy path. Do you have an idea where you’re going, yet?”

Don’t ever come back here, you little—

“There’s a performing and visual arts conservatory,” she says hesitantly. “River Park, downstate. They’ve got really good photography and filmmaking programs, and, um.” She pauses, unsure how to explain how right it had all felt when she’d been reading about it online. “Well, I have an interview on Wednesday, so.”

Professor Keelson’s smile widens. “River Park! My partner studied illustration there, years ago when we were both young. You’ll do wonderfully.”

She can’t help but feel like his faith is ever-so-slightly misplaced —

I didn't want you.

— maybe it’s just the existential crisis talking, who knows —

Do you understand me?

— but she can’t quite bring herself to argue against the sparkling excitement in the professor’s eyes. She lets him press another chocolate bar and tissue combo into her hand as he shuffles her out of his office, with strict, cheerful instructions to come see him before she leaves for her interview.

You were a mistake.

Tuesday night comes in the blink of an eye; she’d barely dumped her meager wardrobe back into the suitcase she’d kept under her bed and her sticky notes are still haphazardly slapped to the wall above her desk. She’s not exactly sure where the time went — it’s not like she went to any classes. Or ate much. Or was sleeping, really. Granted she did try, but the third time in the same night she woke up sobbing because her blankets had twisted around her leg, trapping her in an all-too-familiar heat vortex—

window won't break it's too hot it hurts to breathe window won't break it's so fucking hot she can't think window won't break but it'll slide get out of this goddamn heat get out get out crunch fuck ow hurts hurts ow fuck hurts her toes shouldn't be ow fuck fuck fuck pointing that way hurts hurts fucking hurts can't feel her knee fuck fuck where's papá—

— she kind of gave up. She doesn't even bother pulling out her shitty, half-broken headphones to try and watch something on Netflix to try and pass the time, she just lays in bed and listens to Rebecca softly snoring five feet away. The ceiling is infinitely more interesting than anything else she could’ve been focusing on, anyway.

Except maybe her portfolio. Which. She hasn’t really. Looked at.

She’s so fucked.

Still, she drags herself out of bed nice and early at 7 am Wednesday morning, beating her alarm by the customary 4 minutes, and actually manages to gather the energy to sift through her remaining clothes to dig out something — well. She doesn’t really have anything “nice,” per say, but she does have an oversized sweater that’ll pass as a dress once she puts on some makeup and a belt and ties her hair up, and that’ll have to be good enough.

You show up to my door looking like that?

River Park is going to laugh her right out the door.

Everything she might need is already shoved unceremoniously into her backpack — wallet, keys, wrist brace, student ID, laptop, flash drive (in its place of honor in the tiny pocket), knee brace, fruit snacks, water bottle — but her eye catches on her DLSR just as she’s finished tying the laces on her most comfortable boot, and she hesitates. She hasn’t really looked at her portfolio much recently — she knows she’s got some old pictures from Manhattan, and maybe some from various campus events that might be good, but it’s been a little hard to go out and take nice shots when she’s been drowning in depression soup for the past four months. Four years. Whatever. Either way, she doesn’t have much to show for herself, and inspiration hasn’t really hit lately.

But River Park is — well, she has no idea, really, she hasn’t seen it in person yet, but the photos online are gorgeous, all glass-and-brick buildings framed by forests and gardens. Very much a college town, from what she can tell, the campus map isn’t really a map so much as a general directory pointing out which buildings were associated with the conservatory, but there was something that felt weirdly homey about seeing those pictures. Maybe it was the layout of the buildings, maybe it was the way they described their classes and professors, maybe it was just the simple fact that everyone in those pictures was genuinely smiling, but she’d gotten this weird, longing ache just below her collarbone that had made her close down all her other college-related tabs and email River Park’s photography and filmmaking department.

Something feels good about that campus. And maybe, if she gets there a little early, she can—

You don't get to come into my life and — and ruin everything I have here.

It’s only seven forty-two. Her interview’s not until one, and the train ride downstate should only take an hour. She’s got time.

Which is how she finds herself knocking on Professor Keelson’s office door, DLSR hanging around her neck, about two hours earlier than she’d been intending to be there, praying to who and whatever might be listening that he’s actually in and she didn’t just horribly fuck this up like she’s been fucking up, oh, who’s to say, just about everything she touches these past few months.

You’re not a part of this family. You never will be.

“Come in, come in!” She hears just beyond the door, and she cautiously peeks in to find the wizened old professor crouching over his printer, staring at it suspiciously as it slowly spits out some document. “Hello, dear. Wasn’t expecting you this early!”

I think you should leave.

“Sorry,” she manages, hovering in the doorway. “I just — change of plans.”

Professor Keelson nods, collects his papers, and creaks over to his desk. “Yes, very good.” he agrees, shuffling the papers into two piles. “Take a seat, I promise I won’t keep you very long. You look nice, by the way.”

She sits, already relaxing in the warm familiarity of Professor Keelson’s overstuffed office. Maybe this is why he’d wanted her to visit before she went, just to make sure she wouldn’t vomit on the interviewers. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome. Now,” he says, stuffing one pile of papers into a folder. “These are all your important documents: transcripts, transferable credits, disability accommodations, et cetera. Pardon my overstepping, but you did seem a little, ah, frazzled, shall we say? Last you came to speak with me and I was almost positive that you wouldn’t have thought of pulling the paperwork together.”

Which is absolutely true, she hadn’t, and she can’t even bring herself to feel insulted that he’d assumed she wouldn’t. “Thank you very much,” she says, trying desperately to seem calm and cool and collected and not crush her very expensive, very precious camera in her white-knuckle grip.

A mess. You're a mess.

Professor Keelson’s face crinkles into a smile. “You’re very welcome. You’ll be happy to know that, since you’ve already completed all your core classes and general requirements, all of those credits will easily transfer between the schools. There may be a class or two you’ll have to make up, but you should be able to jump right in with your major-specific classes. Now, this,” he says, folding the other papers into an envelope. “Is your letter of recommendation. I’ll put it in the folder with everything else, but I wanted you to know that you had it.”

Oh, fuck, she might start crying again. “Professor—” she starts, but he’s already slid the folder across the desk to her.

“Ms. Ochoa, if I may.” Her mouth snaps shut, and he continues: “Our time together has been short, yes, but you have been one of my favorite students to ever come through these doors. Barring your obvious intelligence, passion, and work ethic, you’re also relentlessly kind, despite everything you’ve gone through.” His gaze fixes on her cheek for the briefest of moments, tracing over the lumps and bumps of her scars, but his eyes are as soft as they’ve ever been. “I don’t presume to know your history, but I know bits of your present, and the person I’ve seen would make a valuable asset to any school she goes to. If you approach your new classes and projects with as much determination as you did mine, I’ve no doubt your new instructors will be as proud of you as I am. I let them know as much.”

...

She numbly takes the folder, desperately blinking back tears. “Th-thank you, sir.” She manages, thick in the back of her throat. “I-I’ll do my best.”

Professor Keelson takes up his customary position, hands laced neatly over his belly. “You will.” He agrees, smiling. “Now, you should be heading out soon. I’d hate to make you miss your train, especially if you want to get there early.”

“Yes — yes.” And she gets up on autopilot, sliding the folder into her backpack as carefully as she can manage. “Thank you. Thank you so much, professor, I can’t — I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

She’s halfway out the door when she hears him call: “Ms. Ochoa, one more thing?”

She turns.

The professor smiles benevolently at her from his chair. “Don’t give up on yourself before you’ve even gotten started.”

And with that, she’s on her way.

Get out.

So, update: maybe deciding to take her portfolio pictures on her way to her college interview was a stupid idea, but to be fair, a lot of her stupid ideas have worked out pretty decently before, so. It’s fine.

Probably.

She definitely doesn’t almost miss the train by snapping shots of the mostly-empty station, but in her defense, the morning fog hadn't quite dissipated yet, and the spooky air of possibility that the tracks had been extending and disappearing into was just begging to be captured. And she absolutely doesn’t continually hop seats throughout the hour-long ride to get different angles of the seats, the blurry towns and roads whizzing past, or even a couple of self-portraits here and there. It’s not like there are people around for her to bother, anyway, so it’s fine. (Probably.) It’s a little hard getting a satisfyingly dramatic shot of her staring out the window, but she thinks the one where they’re passing through a tunnel and she’s locked eyes with her shadowy reflection might be a winner. She won’t really know until she opens them up on her computer, which will probably end up being just before the interview, with her luck, so. Who knows, she might just be wasting her time and battery life.

It’s the most fun she’s had in a while, though.

And. Fuck, maybe it makes no sense, but she's still got that feeling in her chest. It's creeping up to her ponytail, at this point, tugging on the ends of her curls, ordering her to pay attention.

Capture this.

It's important.

Last time she felt like that, she won an award, so. Y'know. Fuck her if she's going to ignore it.

She cuts herself off when there’s ten minutes left in the journey, just to be sure she’s not scrambling to put herself together as she’s pulling up to the station, but ten minutes, it turns out, is both much longer and much shorter than she thought it’d be. Just enough time to run down the list of all the possible ways this could (and would) go wrong, but not enough to steady her racing heart before the train’s slowing down.

You're delusional. This isn't one of your little fairy tales. This is — it's not going to happen.

Don’t give up on yourself before you’ve even gotten started, she remembers, taking one last breath to steel herself, and swings herself up onto her feet and out the doors.

The station is nice enough, but not terribly different from the one she’d started in besides being a little cleaner, so she shoulders her backpack and makes her way down the stairs and into the town proper.

Which.

Wow.

Maybe it’s just a seasonal thing, maybe not, but all the buildings she can see are draped with hanging lights, and even the curving street lights have extra strands hanging over the sidewalks. She almost wishes she’d scheduled her interview later in the day, just to be able to get a shot of those lights against the dark sky, but contents herself with snapping pictures of the incredibly aesthetic sidewalk and shops. She spots an art supply store with a cheerful blue door sandwiched between a movie theater and an apartment complex that frames up nicely, and there’s a coffee shop with swirling, festive winter-y designs painted on the window with pots of poinsettias framing the corners that’s a — no pun intended — picture-perfect paragon of coziness. She stops maybe a little too long to zoom in on the red leaves and flawless paint, making sure to keep the actual inside of the shop out of focus, because as cute as the beanbags and mismatched armchairs are, she doesn’t really feel like going in to ask if it’s alright for her to take pictures of the small handful of people both in front of and behind the counter.

One last shot of the poinsettias and she moves on, turning her lens to the last few, dying flowers in their garden beds, then to the display window of a bookstore that proudly announces its support of the LGBT community with various painted flags, then to the churning river that cuts through the town and the elegant bridge that arcs proudly above it.

There’s not a lot of people walking around right now, but she can definitely see kids around her age up the street, chatting and laughing amongst themselves as their breath puffs out in front of them. A cute dog bounces over to say hello before its owner tugs it away with a sheepish smile, and even without their leaves, the trees interspersed along the sidewalk stand tall, proud, and lovely.

She’s got that weird ache in her chest again — stronger this time — that indiscernible pull that draws her to stay, and she puts her camera down, puffing out a shaky breath.

What made you think we want you here?

“It doesn’t matter.” She tells herself sternly, leaning up on the sides of the bridge. “It doesn’t matter unless you get in.”

Speaking of. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, fully intending to double check the email she’d been sent with instructions on where to go, but her eye catches on the time.

Twelve forty-six.

So. Maybe not the best idea to go gallivanting around a campus she doesn’t know, especially when she has an extremely important interview to get to, but even as she’s scolding herself, she knows the pink flush in her cheeks isn’t just from the cold, and she’s got more energy now than she’s had in months, so.

Worth it.

Thank god E.A. Archer Hall is straightforward enough to find; Google Maps tells her it’s a seven minute walk in a mostly straight line from where she is on the bridge now, which she just about manages even though it’s cold and her stump is starting to ache. The building is emblazoned with the name right on the side, so it’s impossible to miss, but she needs a keycard to get in, and somehow she thinks her current school ID isn’t exactly going to fly here.

But someone, somewhere, is smiling on her, because she’s only just gotten to oh, shit before a tall woman with vitiligo and long box braids strides towards the door, pushing it open.

“Alejandra Ochoa?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says as smoothly as she can behind her chattering teeth, and the woman smiles.

“You're right on time. Come on in, let's get started."

#I HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS ABOUT HOW DIFFERENT FIO/STL WOULD GO NOW SO IM REWRITING IT #i dont wanna spoil things bc i am in fact working on the next bits but here are some minor thoughts:#1: alexa starts out as an architecture major then switches schools to go into photography/filmmaking spring semester 2nd year #((not to toot my own horn but the way her major reflects her emotional arc is actually very clever of me if i do say so myself))#2: alexa and jaimey are half siblings through their dad and there will in fact be more Jaimey/Juno development than ive ever done before #((i have a lot of thoughts about their relationship and how it would grow and develop over time so. lowkey Jaimey redemption arc))#3: alexa obviously nails this interview and she hangs out on campus for a lil while afterwards to take pictures #((3.5: she does end up going into the coffee shop and there is in fact a Very Cute Barista and she gets Nervous))#4: the little interjections are things that have been said to Alexa somewhat recently but not all by the same person #thats about it i think anything else would be spoiler-y #n e way i cant wait to loredump all my new thoughts on yall im so sorry in advance for all the notifications you're about to get #im workin on some AU stuff too but lately ive been wanting to write about Normal Kids doing Normal Kid Things so here we are #i hope you enjoyed #movie house #alejandra ochoa #alexa darmond #my writing #shut up phoenix

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whencartoonsruletheworld · 3 years

Text

Justice

ao3 link

They weren’t supposed to be here this long.

Even after they forgot everything else, that thought still lingered in their minds. Too long. We’ve been here too long. There was something, something dangerous about being out too long… we have to go home.

Where’s home?

Sometimes at night the eldest would remember a little bit. Never enough to stay come morning, but enough to make him wonder. Hands brushing over his fur, whispers about something of theirs being blocked off, disrespected. “So we’re sending you, and if you do a good job…” There was some kind of promise there, a promise he knew was important but slipped away about twenty years into their imprisonment. But it was important enough that they’d all agreed, and waited for their opportunity to start the mission. They couldn’t get there until a path opened up for them, and it took two of the planet’s years for them to make their way to the right time, the right place, close enough to where the offense occurred that they could finally deliver consequences.

They got there, and did what they were supposed to do; deliver punishments, not torment. The three of them, they were judges, not criminals. Unfortunately, the hard part came when they couldn’t exactly explain their mission. These people’s small minds couldn’t pick up on it, or maybe some kind of magical block was going on. But that was fine, they could continue messing with them until they figured it out and made it right. And it was easy- they kept getting slighted for the smallest things, so they’d “slight” these people right back.

Sometimes it wasn’t even intentional, but when they saw people get angry, they figured out how to roll with it. They could roll with anything, really, that was how they were. Sometimes they just wanted to play, spend their time with these people in as fun a way as possible; they were children, after all. But then the people would get angry over nothing, and then the siblings would sigh and roll up their metaphorical sleeves in order to teach them a lesson, as they were meant to do.

They figured out the rules of this world pretty quickly- comedy was the basis of everything. If something was funny, it could happen, any other physics be damned. Which worked out great for the trickster siblings, especially since so rarely did anything or anyone die, meaning they could keep their mission going as long as necessary.

It ended up going longer than they wanted, though. Longer than they could have ever wanted. Their kind didn’t like waiting, after all, but then they had no choice.

It took the humans about a year to find a place that trapped them effectively, and even then, it was a mistake on their part- they didn’t know why this worked and the others didn’t, they just assumed it was luck or a stroke of genius, if they had a big enough ego. But it started with the siblings running, running, running, and then they were mid-air, a net keeping them up, and then they were in a tall tower, a small tower, and they were let out, and they thought this might be a fun new room to play in, like they’d been playing with everyone the last year, and then the door slammed shut.

They didn’t notice at first, barely cared. They weren’t afraid of closed doors yet. They messed around with each other a little, and then got bored, and then the oldest tried to open the door and found that it was stuck. He pushed more, and then tried to manipulate the rules of this world to get out. He threw himself at the door, threw his brother at the door, pulled a piano out of a bag to throw against it, did dramatic leans and half-hearted witty remarks. But then the hours kept wearing on, and his siblings sat against the wall and asked when the door was going to open, and after what might have been an eternity and might’ve only been a few minutes, he had to admit that it might not.

That was the thing about time here, while they were trapped. It could’ve been a century, it could’ve been a week. It was no time at all and all the time in the world at the same time. They weren’t of this world, but were trapped inside, had been fitting in with the flow of things. And they were very close, so close, to the way home, but it was just out of reach. Just close enough to mess up everything they tried to do, and just far enough to keep them trapped.

For a long time, they tried everything to get out. But the saws the middle child tried to use on the floor simply shattered, and the windows the youngest tried to paint wouldn’t open up and let them out. The eldest had been taught, before they left, how to teleport them where they needed to go, but it only worked under certain planetary formations, in certain times. He almost never guessed right, and when he did, they’d be thrown somewhere that was worse- three-hundred years in the past and halfway across the planet, unable to transport again another month, for instance. And then when they’d be able to teleport again, they’d be back in the cage, like no time at all had passed. Maybe it hadn’t, maybe they’d just been dreaming of their last escape.

Years went by, years and years of the youngest wondering if someone would come to visit and the middle asking why they didn’t have food, shouldn’t someone be feeding them, and the eldest spending nights, while his siblings were asleep, trying to get that door to open. Years passed by, but the children didn’t age, neither mentally nor physically. This wasn’t their world, they wouldn’t grow here. Like a seed, planted in the wrong soil, they’d remain forever underground- or, in this case, high aboveground and unable to break free.

At some point, he couldn’t remember when, the eldest child tried to make things better. This was all another game, he told his siblings. It was like hide and seek, and eventually the humans would find them and let them out and then they could finish their mission.

The middle was already forgetting the mission by that point, but he’d never been one for attention to detail, he just liked to have fun, and they’d been having fun the last year. They would have fun, or they’d give misfortune to someone who deserved it. They hadn’t done anything wrong. The eldest must be right, this must be another game. When the humans came, they’d tell them that they didn’t like the game anymore, and they’d whack the ones in charge with a hammer as punishment or something, and then move on.

The youngest remembered for longer, her mind had always been analytical, more focused. She’d wanted to complete the mission faster, to get back what was theirs and then return home for… she felt like they’d left something behind, sometimes, even after she forgot about home, sometimes in her sleep she’d mumble that they’d forgotten something or someone for so long, too long.

The eldest tried to keep them distracted, and it took maybe a decade for it to work. Though the universe’s rules would not allow them to escape, it would allow them to fill the tower with what they wanted. If it was funny enough, the youngest could pull a book out of midair to whack her brother with, and then they’d have a book to read. The eldest would complain that they didn’t have a bed, and then the middle would be able to pull a triple bunk out of the wall. They worked around the rules of the universe, worked around their imprisonment to at least make it a bit more like home. Every now and again they’d switch things up- now the tower is a huge trainyard, now it’s got a lot of different rooms, now it’s a dance hall.

Their hopes of being released, of this all being a mistake or a game, however, got crushed very, very suddenly and horribly. It had been a few years when they were first let out, but there was no giggles of “You’re It!” or “Found you, finally!” or even the most yearned-for “We’re sorry, we’re fixing it.” Instead, the door was thrown open, and they were grabbed and shoved into a net and tossed down the tower, into the arms of a guard, who tossed them into a room. The middle bit a hole in the net so they could escape, and they ran to the office of the man in charge, and told them they were just about done with the tower, thank you very much. The man in charge then just laughed, and they were happy, this was a game after all!

And then he told them that they made no sense, they didn’t fit with the world, with its people. They couldn’t follow orders, they couldn’t talk to people without scaring them, they couldn’t listen. They were disobedient, they were chaotic, they were broken. Wrong. Different.

He yelled this for a long time, and the eldest tried to stand tall, to look defiant, so that when the man quieted he could yell back. The middle stared at the wall, then the desk, then the floor, trying to keep his mind on anything else, so he didn’t have to hear that they’d done a bad job, they were here to do a job, they’d been doing it, didn’t this man understand? Or were they the ones who got it wrong? The youngest, meanwhile, started to cry, hiding behind her brothers and burying her face in their arms, shaking and trying to ask if it was true, if they were really hated. They weren’t supposed to be hated. They shouldn’t be hated, they couldn’t be hated…

The guard came back and managed to grab the middle, and ran off with him, and the siblings had to follow. They wouldn’t leave their brother, not alone, not after they’d only had each other for so long. And so when the middle ended up back in the tower, they ran in after him, and shook as the door slammed again.

The tower, they realized, had only been opened to be cleaned, so that it didn’t smell, so that the humans weren’t bothered by it. Nobody cared about the siblings in there. Not one person.

The youngest and middle cried for a very long time, to the point where the tower was filled with water as it once had been. And then the eldest, who himself was feeling like his heart had plummeted into the depths of hell below them, used the universe’s laws again, pulling a raft out of nowhere for them to lay in.

He hugged them and told them first that this didn’t matter, they weren’t here to make friends, just to make things right. The youngest said that they’d thought they were communicating, though, they’d thought that people were listening to them, were having fun with them! The middle said that there must have been a reason they were hated, it must have been something they did, something unfair and cruel, what had they done to deserve this? The youngest asked why the adults hadn’t just told them they were doing something wrong, the middle asked why this world was so confusing and why their job wasn’t done yet.

The eldest didn’t have any answers, so he took a deep breath and told them that, okay, this world was a bit… wrong. Clearly the people didn’t even know what they were, what they were dealing with. So when they got out, they’d punish them more. For locking away their judges, mistreating the ones who were there to guide them onto the right path. But even that didn’t work, because his siblings no longer cared about their mission, they just wanted to be free again.

The middle spoke, then. And though they all forgot the words later, the eldest was still haunted by them, even after he long lost the ability to remember why.

“Why have we been here so long? Shouldn’t they have come looking for us?”

And once again, there was no answer for him. So the eldest simply smiled and started talking. About anything, nothing- a joke, perhaps, or a story. Just kept talking, kept them distracted. And soon they were asleep, and then the next morning their tears had dried and he had set up a new room for them to play in. To make the best of things. Make the best of things. Make the best of things. Make…

The forgetting began then. Maybe it was just because of how long they’d been trapped in this world, maybe it was their proximity to freedom denied to them, or maybe it was just a way to protect themselves. To make things a little better, to convince themselves that they wanted to be here, that there was nothing else they had to do, this was home, this was fine, everything was fine.

The youngest, of course, forgot first, and the middle not long after. The eldest hung on as tightly as he could, but after thirty or forty years it slipped from him, too. He remembered a few things, like how to teleport- except they always ended up somewhere strange and then were back in the tower. He remembered, and reminded his siblings, that they didn’t just cause pain, they delivered justice, even as his memories slid and this became less of a job and more of a moral obligation. He remembered the rules of this world, so that he could pull a television out of nowhere once it was invented, in order to discover what was happening in this world, or to entertain them with something, or so that he could change the tower room to keep them from getting bored with their environment. He remembered that the adults were mean, that nobody ever listened to them, and that… they had a job to do? But what was that job? It slipped from him eventually, but he did feel like there was something they had to do. The man in charge said they were supposed to work for the people on whose land they were on, but were they? Maybe? Maybe not? What were they doing here?

They didn’t just forget their job, they forgot their world, too. About fifteen years in, when the youngest could no longer remember what their old house looked like, how high she could swing on the tree in the backyard, she had sobbed between her brothers until she fell asleep. And then fifteen years after that, she didn’t even remember they had an old world at all. It didn’t take long for that fact to slip from her brothers as well. They spent so long in the tower, in this world, that it was becoming their world.

Where else did they have to go? Who else did they have to go home to? Who, indeed; the youngest asked one day, “We’re siblings, so where are our parents? The rest of our family?” And the eldest had a flash, a memory of loving hands and soft songs and people like them, who looked and acted like them and knew who they were… and then the flash was gone, and he shrugged, and said that the people who owned the tower seemed to have created them.

Every now and again they’d be let out while the tower was cleaned again, but they didn’t try to be nice this time, they simply ran, found something to entertain them, someone to grant justice to. But then someone would get them back in the tower, and they’d be alone again. Once, just a few years before the doors failed, they’d literally been sold off for a limited time, dragged away in a net to work until their employers got upset with their chaos and sent them back, back to the tower. By this point, they didn’t even hate the cage anymore, it was the closest thing to home they had.

And every now and again, a memory of someone lost or left behind would come into the eldest’s memory, during these excursions. When they’d be yelled at for not listening, even though they thought they had been, he’d get another flash, of someone who might’ve been their father or uncle or brother, teaching them to play with a toy while they listened so their mind didn’t wander. Someone would tell them they were strange, and the eldest would put a hand on his sister’s shoulder and remember a woman who might have been a mother or grandmother or cousin putting a hand on his own shoulder, telling him that she understood. He would see his brother flap his hands with excitement, and a voice in his head would say that someone used to do that, too, and would jump up and down with them in the garden when they were excited, flapping their hands as if they were wings. He would see his sister curtsey and introduce herself, a smirk on her face saying that this rude person they’d encountered would be playing with them soon, and he’d feel a familiarity in her announcing that she had a family name- yes, someone had her name before, her names before? But then those thoughts would disappear, and he’d forget again.

And once they forgot what they were there for, they struggled to make sense of it. Why were they in the tower again? Why were people so mad at them all the time? Why did these people feel like the siblings just weren’t right? No, it must be the people who were wrong, it mustn’t be them… after all, the youngest and middle reasoned, they liked themselves fine, and they liked each other, so they couldn’t be wrong. The eldest, whose self-love would wax and wane, just nodded along, and then told them they were the best siblings in the world and hugged them tight and wouldn’t let go.

It was about sixty-three years before there was a burst of magic- not much. Not enough to take them home, not when they couldn’t remember or recognize it. But there was a burst of magic, and the tower door opened, and the siblings waited a moment, to see if someone would run in with a net or rope. But then nobody did, and they realized the door was truly open, and they wasted no time in running out.

They couldn’t remember a mission, a job they had to do. They only remembered this world, what they had learned here, and that the adults didn’t listen. And they remembered their obligation- they were not here to hurt, but to deliver justice. So they’d try to make things better, to play with the humans, to find some fun, to make a friend or two. Occasionally they found someone who understood them, some of the workers around who were pretty close to them- in fact, the siblings had been mistaken for these workers upon their arrival, not that they really noticed- and thus understood them. But these workers were often busy, and would go home at night, and had their own lives to live. The other workers, and the other people living in this world, were either openly hostile or just completely unaware of how to deal with these children. Either way, the siblings couldn’t find someone who’d stay with them.

They got close a few times- a few people who tolerated them most, but even then, they’d do something they found fun, perhaps with a bit of magic or universe-bending, and then those people would be angry or scared, and then it was back to square one. They seemed to always be stuck at square one. And now they couldn’t even remember why.

They did remember how alone they felt in the tower, though. So the youngest ran for attention, rushing for validation and demanding that she be respected and adored, asking for others to tell her that she was adorable, she was lovely, she was brilliant, she was good. The middle would eat whatever he could find, remembering how they’d had no food in the tower and one day that door would close and be stuck again and he’d better eat whatever he could while he was out. The eldest would try to talk, to keep the people of the world entertained. If they were entertained, if the world thought he was funny, he wouldn’t be locked away, his siblings wouldn’t be locked away, everything would be fine. They were there to entertain, to have fun, to deliver justice, and… nothing else, right? They’d been created by this world, this was their world, there was nothing else they had to do. Nobody else to go back to. If they had family, they must be gone, or they’d have found them. Someone would have found them.

They’d even forgotten how close and far freedom was from them. Because the door was no longer stuck, and they had nowhere to go, they’d sleep in the tower still, it was home now, the only home they could remember. So they didn’t know that their goal, their ticket home, was right beneath them, that they’d been sent here because of the tower, and so the fact it was their home now was sort of ironic. They might find it funny if they remembered.

The tower had been built over their family circle, one of the many circles of the fae. Those were not to be disrespected, to be built over and disrupted. If the tower was destroyed completely, if the pavement ripped up, the circle would open and so would the way home, to the land of the fae who lived between time and space, between worlds, delivering justice with their tricks and twisting words.

And home was waiting, beneath the tower, wondering why the Warner siblings hadn’t yet returned. How long did time pass on Earth, anyway? Shouldn’t Yakko, Wakko and Dot be home by now?

They should be home by now. They weren’t supposed to be here this long.

#animaniacs #animaniacs 2020 #yakko warner #wakko warner #dot warner #WELL I DID NOT EXPECT TO BE POSTING THIS EVER #BUT I WROTE IT FOR AN EXERCISE AND I KIND OF LOVE IT SO HERE YA GO #ANGST TIME #mine #connie writes

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kareofbears · 3 years

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persona 5 strikers thoughts and feelings

This is going to be a long post. Like, the type of post you’d only really have time to read when you’re trying to sleep but you’re not ready to be unconscious yet so you’re just looking for something to do to spend your time with minimal effort.

So in 2018, a masterpiece was born into the world: Into the Spider-verse was released and it was amazing—it’s honestly the best spiderman movie we have without a doubt, and it’ll be very far into the future before Spider-verse is beaten as the best spiderman movie. Them’s the facts. Then in 2019, Spider-man: Far From Home was dropped. It’s a great movie! Great characters, great continuation of who these characters are and works fantastic as a continuation of a story. It’s really hard trying to take the torch of a previous movie (or in Marvel’s case, juggling twenty something movies) and come up with a new movie that both works on its own, as well as being the next step in this series of films. Thus, with that idea in mind, I think it’s kind of unfair to judge into the spiderverse and far from home, because these are two movies with two completely different objectives in mind.

Okay, so this is still a persona 5 strikers post, I promise, but the idea is the same: Persona 5 could basically do whatever it wanted—new story, new characters, new everything, and it’s just plain old awesome. However, Persona 5 strikers did not have that sort of freedom. It was bound to the original game, and it had its own rules and stuff it had to keep intact, characters they had to work with, and on top of that, it had to justify its existence as a sequel (lets pretend money doesnt exist lmfao).

SO, the big question is: did it do that? Did it justify its existence?

And my answer: holy fuck did it ever do that

I came into this game knowing the extreme bare minimum. I knew there was someone named Sophia, and i knew there was roadtrip, and i knew there were Personas. That’s my knowledge of it before i played it on the Switch. I should also clarify like, early on, that i was not expecting anything from this game. At all. I was the world’s biggest cynic of this game—if you scroll down my p5s tag far enough, youll just see me complaining about a game that hasn’t even come out yet. I was fully expecting to have this be a Waifu show, and any male character that isn’t Akira to just be shoved aside like some kind of nerd in a high school hallway, and i have never been more pleased to be wrong. In fact, i actually owe it an apology, because of how fucking rude i was for no reason!!! Because this game deserves everything to be honest.

Persona 5 strikers is, frankly, insane. Insane in the sense that it got to pull shit off that just would never have existed in the original game, because the original game is scared. It had to be as impressive as possible and garner as much attention as possible. Strikers does not have that problem—every single person who bought that game does not need to be convinced that persona 5 is a good game. They already played it. That means Atlus can just fuck around and have a good time, and man did they have a good time. There’s still scenes that still shock me if i think about it too hard, because i’m used to atlus having to follow this sort of rule set when it comes to persona 5 (or any of the main games im assuming, but i havent played them.) And on top of that, there’s still shit that’s Atlus Trademarked Branded in a good way. The style of story of story telling, and revealing the mystery that is so integral to what p5 is, is still there.

So, to make this even a little bit comprehensible, i will make a list!

First of all, What is this game?

In short, this game is an OVA of an anime. It’s bonus side content that has one thing in mind: to showcase these lovable characters more by putting them in fun situations. That’s it, and it is just phenomenal. That was the main point of, i’d say, like forty hours of the game. It’s just fun times with fun characters.

But to get deeper of what i think is happening, or what they were thinking during the development, is that this is a second opportunity. Persona 5 (as we all know) had a lot of problems, and we were not quiet about those problems. We yelled it all out, made posts, made complaints on every social media platform ever. And Atlus heard all of them, and Strikers is a way to mitigate those mistakes. Aside from being a fun OVA, Strikers also works to be a deeper exploration of these characters—more specifically, the characters that did not receive much in the original game. Creating this sequel is having the ability to redo what they felt (or to be more specific, we felt) in the original game while adding new ones. I will get to that in a second.

The format of the game

Absolutely brilliant to throw them on a road trip. P5V already forced us to experience Shibuya for 200+ hours, and im so glad that they didn’t do that again. Going from town to town, making us experience these new places alongside our favorite characters is so good, and it just makes sense. It’s fun, it’s lighthearted, and it’s actually shockingly good. But one thing i do want to talk about early on is the way the story unfolds and the villains that they use, and what they do with it because it’s very interesting.

So as we explore japan and stuff, we encounter jails, and with those jails comes an antagonist. This antagonist works to be a parallel to one of our characters. That character will find it in their hearts to feel bad for the antagonist, because the antagonist could have been them had the original game not happen. At first I thought all of the thieves were gonna get an antagonist, and i was really hyped for the ryuji one. And then came to hour forty of the game where i realized “yeah that’s not gonna happen. There’s just not enough time.” And i was right, and the game ended. But i am not salty at all, honestly, because the people who got a direct antagonist were: Ann, Yusuke, and Haru. (we wont count zen and sophie).

Is there a trend??? Yes. these are all characters in the original game that have received the worst treatment by atlus. The three of them are basically cast aside the minute they finished their original arc, and its horrible! BUT that’s why this is the path that atlus chose for them—to give them more depth, and screentime, and a way to show their inner self. That isn’t to say that the ones who aren’t those three (makoto, futaba, mona, akira, ryuji) didn’t get anything. Futaba still has her thing at the end with ichinose, and she was very prevalent and animated during the rest of the game. Mona and Akira have to be a focal points, that’s just the nature of the game. The other two though, I will talk about in depth in a second.

Makoto

Y’all i poke fun at shumako fans sometimes cause its kind of easy and fun, but i honestly love makoto. In my very first playthrough of p5 (my first ever jrpg game, first persona game, i had no idea what i was doing), i had only maxed out two characters: ryuji and makoto. And i know she had a lot of screentime and love in the original game which is great, but i truly felt like she was dissed in this game. Her only roles were

A driver

Someone to tell them “we don’t have a choice. Let’s keep going and see where this takes us.” (seriously, if you replay this game, you will see how much she does this)

Idk, i just wish she had more to do, especially compared to how much love they gave the other characters.

But let’s talk about some of the new characters!

Zenkichi

Damn you atlus. Damn you and your insistence at bringing in cop characters. I was fully on board with hating zenkichi, i was fucking ready for it. I was convinced that there was nothing they could do convince to like zenkichi. I was immune to their copaganda.

And then i ended up loving him, which makes me sad a little bit. I didn’t realize how desperate i was to have an adult who has a persona. Someone who wants the world to change just as much as they do, while still having that aspect of them that makes them adult. Like??? As someone who is technically an adult, its a breath of fresh air. An adult. Who fights. For justice. Using a persona. And god i love akane so much, and her obsession with the thieves (that scene is probably in my top ten fave scenes of the game). Also what i loved about zenkichi is that he fucking hates the cops!! He hates the system of the cops!! And thats why i actually really started to love him!! Because i thought it was atlus saying that the systematic problem of the police cannot be solved by one person, and zenkichi threw away his badge. I actually cried at that part!!

But then he became a cop again, and i was just :/ but as a character, i really love him to bits and would love to do a study on him, or at least use him as an outside pov. But! i absolutely love his persona, since im a les miserables fan hehe

Sophia

she’s probably my favorite new aspect of the game. I was ready to not like her—again, i just suck like that, lmfao—and when i saw her, i was scared that she was just another waifu. I mean, she was very cute after all. But then as the game went on, i thought she was a little too cute. And even further into the game, i finally slapped myself in the face and realized oh my god shes not a waifu. Shes a sister.

That blew my mind, im ngl to you. A female character that isn’t supposed to be romanced? By jove, what a miracle!

And she…is an amazing character. Im sorry, i just love her so much. I love her so much that she probably ranks as my fifth or sixth favorite character which is surprising even to me. Everything about her is delightful and invigorating. She’s funny??? Her comedic timing is amazing, and she has such chemistry with the rest of the team. She’s actually useful to the plot, and while her character design is a little too on the nose for me in terms of cuteness (i mean, good god she’s wearing oversized sweater to show how cute and tiny she is, and her hair has literal hearts in it), she is absolutely lovable.

But what i actually really wanna gush about for a second is sophia at the last stage of the game. You get the idea, i dont really like to get excited over things, so at this point i figured that there was nothing this game could do to shock me.

And then sophia had a persona awakening.

Like. holy fuck did i yell. I didnt realize what was happening until the music had already kicked in. and its just so fucking smart!!! Sophia??? The ai?? With no heart?? gOT A PERSONA???? AWAKENING??? BECAUSE SHE LEARNED WHAT THE HEART IS AND THE PASSION THAT YOU NEED IN ORDER TO GET A PERSONA??? I started crying honestly, because it was just so smart. And looking back on it now, its obvious!! Of course it would lead to this, it only made sense that the culmination of her character arc leads to her getting a persona, nothing else would have been as good. Also, her voice actor is just amazing?? When she was talking to ichinose at the end, i actually got incredibly emotional because of the line reads. Its just so spot on and it really captures the essence of sophia.

Muah. five stars Atlus. You got me.

Ryuji <3!!!!

Oh man. Oh boy. Okay. so where do i start.

Yall know i love him. Hes probably my favorite fictional male character of all time, and he is the one i was the absolute most cynical about in this game. I was expecting literally nothing. Nothing. Like. nothing. I thought he was just gonna keep being used as a joke, or a gag, and he’s gonna be super horny all the time for the other girls and it was gonna make me mad and there was gonna be some insane homophobic/queerphobic jokes in every other scene and i know i was being unfair, but i cant help it.

And then i played the first two hours of the game, and i cried the entire time. Because ryuji has never been better than he is in this game. Its crazy.

The ryuji in persona 5 strikers is who ryuji should have been/how he should have been treated this entire time. From the actual funny jokes (for example, the gold bar joke + his reaction to it in the beginning of the game), defending his female friends instead of being the one people need to defend from (natsume arc), and the fact that he was the one to be there with morgana and akira in the very beginning of the game. Its such a small thing that they didnt even need to do, but it was such an integral part of the original game for me, that i just was convinced that nothing like this was going to happen. But then it happened. Its just small stuff like that that could have been overlooked but it wasn’t because this game? Persona 5 strikers? Fucking loves ryuji.

The actual respect they gave this boy is insane and i wasn't ready for it. Like, they gave the shujin trio lunch, they gave the little charm of the katana when they were in natsume’s jail, and, in my opinion this is the second-best thing that they could have given ryuji is sophia. Ryuji and sophia are the pinnacle of a brother & sister bonding relationship in the game that isn’t akira & futaba. And its really prevalent too?? Small stuff from the beginning of the game (pulling her out of a jail, calling her shorty), but then you have the iconic “shut the fuck up” scene, and that scene was so well characterized and written and voice acted, that somehow him saying “fuck” was the least exciting part of that scene to me. Ryuji is an older brother to her, like its undoubtable, and its only further cemented at the end of the game where Ryuji helps out ichinose because he knows how much sophia cares about her. This game. Love ryuji. And i love. This game.

You know what else i love? Akiryu.

Guys. i was fully prepared to starve in terms of akiryu. But theres just. So much of it. I wont get too deep into it, because i think this aspect of the game for me still needs marinate a little bit. Like, what was that last shot when EMMA died and Ryuji walked to approach Akira so they could relish in their victory together?? And the smile from both of them??? What the fuck. That was amazing. Also Joker being saved by Ryuji when he was about to fall from the cliff to save sophia??? WHAT. The LEADER AND HIS RIGHT HAND MAN? WHAT. anyway. If theres anything i want to keep for myself in my own brain, its the akiryu aspect of this game, so i wont talk too much about that part of things (instead, itll probably manifest in fic lmfaooo).

Sure, there’s tidbits of stuff i dont like that they gave ryuji: sexualizing ann in that one cut scene and making him touch the jails even though it hurts, and i recognize those and frown at them, but for the most part, i am blown away with how they treated him.

Basically, Ryuji has never been better. From the opening of the game with him being the first text message and the one to sling his arm around akira, to the very last cut scene where it was ryuji wordlessly leaving because he’s so confident that they would never be separated for long, this game adores Ryuji and i am so so happy to say that.

The Royal aspect of things

Yeah, i had to talk about this, but itll be a short thing i just wanted to point out. Because the last part of this game...is persona 5 royal. Which is curious. Like taking reality and giving that power to someone else so you dont have to experience suffering anymore? And even like, the final section just looked a lot like the top half of maruki’s palace?? And whats even crazier is that we had a boss fight with sophia, just like how we had a boss fight with sumire? Royal and Strikers have like, the same thesis statement. It’s kind of uncanny.It’s interesting, it’s like atlus came up with these two ideas, and then just decided they liked both of them so much that they just did it twice. I don’t mind though—actually, in terms of how the last Palace/Jails go, i probably like them both about equally.

Though i did love the final battle in this one more than i did in royal. Splitting into teams?? Thats cool as fuck, and really innovative and i didnt see it coming. It also kicked my ass. A lot.

Now for the last stretch: the small stuff!

The music — bomb as fuck. In my heart, Daredevil is ranked the same as Rivers. Axe to grind is also amazing, but Daredevil owns me

Akechi — i really debated whether or not to talk about him, but i figured a bullet point should be enough. Im really shocked that he wasnt in this at all. Like not even a name drop. If this is an OVA, and the point of the game is to please the fans, and akechi is arguably the fan favorite character, i was really ready for something. But there was nothing, except for the pancake hallway if that even counts as a reference. Thats it. Thats all i wanted to say about him.

The humour — FUCKING HILARIOUS im convinced that in my fifty hour playtime, five of that is dedicated to me laughing and unable to continue the game

Akira — so much personality! His lines of dialogue are crazy sometimes (like. Whats up with him saying Ryuji has ‘nice abs’ when they were in bath? Im crazy and even i dont know what the fuck that could mean)

Battle system — oh my god i almost forgot to talk about this. I love it! I kind of miss the turn based aspect just because i found it very comforting for some reason, but this hack and slash style of gameplay is so invigorating because i do feel like it justifies shit like the baton pass and huge attacks. This battle system fully encompases how the Phantom Thieves are supposed to fight, you know what i mean?

Anyway, thats my thoughts on strikers. Loved it. Amazing. 9.3/10, wouldve been higher but Konoe’s Jail almost bored me to death. Also im a monster and i didnt do any requests that isn’t a fun one, teehee. As if i play persona 5 for the persona aspect of things.

#cant believe im done #but you know what?#i was actually at peace when i finished it #so i consider that a good healty thing #p5s #alex plays p5s #mine #p5 #my moon and stars #the leader and his right hand man

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bi-ressler · 3 years

Text

Coming Home [RessGale]

@skiesfallithurts requested "Coming home + RessGale" for this ask meme (still taking prompts if you want to send something in! Could take me some time though due to real life)

Title: Coming Home Relationship: Julian Gale/Donald Ressler Characters: Julian Gale, Donald Ressler, Henry Prescott (mentioned), Raymond Reddington (mentioned), others (mentioned) Words: 10.891 Setting: Post-Prescott-Arc AU Warnings: Abuse of prescription meds (aka Donnie is back on oxy and I'm not even remotely sorry), sexual assault (non-explicit, but it's being discussed), homophobia very briefly mentioned A/N: I've had this idea in my head for literal ages and thanks to the prompt I'm finally doing it! So thanks for indulging me :D Also, this got away from me (again) and turned out way (WAAAAAY) longer than it should have. Oops! - - - As always, English isn't my first language, this isn't beta'd and all mistakes are mine. Feedback is greatly appreciated :) (Also, tumblr keeps fucking up the formatting, so if the sentence breaks up in the middle of the paragraph, blame hellsite dot com.)

[Read HERE on ao3!]

__________________________________________

Falling back into old habits and unhealthy coping-mechanisms is far too easy, Donald finds. But when everything crumbles around him, and all the poorly concealed cracks and insufficiently closed gaps and holes in his armour, in his life, finally give out and leave nothing but rubble and guilt and dread, it's the only way he can think of not to fall into complete despair and drown himself in self-pity.

But maybe he's already past that point.

Maybe this is what drowning actually feels like, and there's definitely no lack of self-pity on his behalf.

So he downs the pills with a swig of beer, ignoring the fact that this feels far too familiar, far too much like coming home after a storm, soaking wet and shaking to lay down on the warm carpet and breathe for the first time.

It was all a mistake.

The last six years, it was all one big mistake and right now, he'd give everything to go back in time, erase Reddington from his mind, never join that damned taskforce that had him spiralling to this point from day one. Hell, he'd go even further, never become an agent in the first place - maybe open up a coffee shop in Detroid or become a banker or lawyer or anything at all, as long as it's as far away from Reddington and this whole mess as possible.

That way, he'd never meet Henry Prescott. He'd never murder Laurel Hitchin. He'd never let down everyone in his life, most of all himself, and Audrey would still be alive, and Julian would still be with the bureau ---

Julian.

The guilt comes back full force, because if anyone didn't deserve the fate they got, it would be Julian. Hard working, fierce, loving Julian.

He dry-swallows another pill for good measure, shoulders his go-bag and disappears down an empty alley, unseen by cameras and cops and anyone who might recognize him.

He's not sure if he can go on like this.

He's been on the run for nearly a week now; a week of hiding, paranoia, always looking over his shoulder and ducking into the shadows. Where he once felt safe when he heard the siren of a police car, he now starts running. It's exhausting and he cowers lower into the corner of the abandoned building he's staying in tonight.

Another pill. The shivers lessen. The bottle is almost empty.

He leans his head back against the cold concrete and curses his need for justice, his stupid-ass decision of accepting this life as punishment for his actions.

No, that's not right, he thinks.

If he really was after justice, he wouldn't have run. He would have faced the consequences like a man, faced jail-time and public humiliation.

Instead, he'd been crushed by his own guilt after Prescott's death, written his confession with a shakey hand and left it on his desk, before grabbing the go-bag from the trunk of his car and running.

By morning Cooper must have found it, and in the afternoon he'd seen his face on the news. He has no idea where to go from here.

He pops another pill and curses when he reminds himself to cut back and save what little of the drugs he still has left.

---

The thing about guilt is, Ressler thinks, that despite what everyone says, it doesn't lessen over the years. He still feels guilty about ruining his brother's chance of a career as a cop, and he still feels guilty about Hitchin and Wright and Prescott and every crime Reddington committed right in front of his eyes.

He still feels guilty about what happened to Julian - the first time, after that operation in Kabul went so horribly wrong and Julian took the blame for it, both of them knowing full well that Ressler had been in charge and made the decision to fire, but being stubborn enough to convince IA that it had been his fault, handing over his badge and service weapon with an unreadable look towards Don. Maybe he did it out of some twisted sense of obligation. Maybe they were just in love and compromised. But in the end Ressler's decision had cost Julian his job and a civilian his life.

And the second time, after the whole mess with Mr. Kaplan, effectively ending Julian's career as nothing more but collateral damage. He can still feel his heart crack at that look of betrayal in Julian's eyes as they stood over the remains of Mako Tanida.

---

The other thing about guilt is that Donald doesn't know how to make amends. He knows how to follow his instincts and get himself deeper into trouble, deeper into the pit of guilt, deeper into unescapable situations. Making more and more excuses, trying to cover up all of his messes with lies that lead to more excuses, more lies, more damage.

He knows it's good that he does feel guilt in the first place. But there's only so much he can take.

He thinks about everyone he has left - Reddington, Keen, Aram, Cooper, Navabi.

He could go and find Reddington, ask him to get him out of this mess he created, but he still has some dignity left (he almost laughs at that, sitting in the dirt, close, so close again to withdrawal that his chest tightens, burdened with the undignity of all the actions that led him here). So Reddington is out. He'd only get him into some deeper shit, anyway, and he can't deal with that right now.

The taskforce is out, too. They're obligated to arrest him on sight. And after doing what he did (all the dirty work for Prescott that makes him shudder and swallow back bile), he wouldn't be able to look them in the eyes. They'd know. Another thing he can't deal with.

He can't go to his family, either; getting to Detroid would be a feat in itself, but no doubt the feds are just waiting for him to make contact with his mom or brother. He doesn't want to think about them; if he just so much as imagines his mom crying over the news of her little boy's fuck-up of a life he would only break the last remains of his heart.

Sighing, he realizes he's on his own and he closes his eyes against tears that don't come. His eyes are far too dry, and yet he feels like crying; maybe he's become too numb, but not numb enough to not care. He swallows against his dry throat, his fingers flexing around the pill bottle. He's out at sea alone, the storm raging and waves threatening to bring him down, and in the darkness, there's no lighthouse in sight, not even a candle in the window of someone who might take pity on him. He's bound to drown.

---

The next day, he runs out of pills as well as luck. He hears the shouting before seeing what's going on, and he doesn't need to round the corner to know that the cops are arresting his dealer; he hears his name. They're not after the poor sod for his arsenal of prescription-meds, they're after him. He turns around and doesn't stop running until his lungs burn and his feet ache.

---

He finally collapses behind an old factory that's been out of use seemingly forever. He vaguely remembers it from a case so many years ago, when everything was still fine and he still had dreams and hopes and Reddington hadn't crossed his way yet, Julian already by his side, Prescott a name he had no business knowing.

He remembers some nondescript arms dealers hunched over their merchandise, duffels with a ton of dollar bills and a short shoot-out that ended with the perps in cuffs and a brilliant smile from Julian. Although he couldn't see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, he knew the twinkle in them that told him everything he needed to know.

How the fuck could he fuck up something so good?

It doesn't matter now, though. He slides down the rough walls, and a shiver rips from his spine, rocking his entire body, until it gets stuck in his hands and they can't stop trembling. Every movement hurts deep in his bones, and the shaking only makes it worse until he feels sick to his stomach and feels the bile rise.

He closes his eyes, and now the tears come.

He lets all the shame and hurt and fucking guilt wash over him, drown him until he is gasping for air, remembering --- remembering all the roads he shouldn't have taken, remembering every time he allowed Prescott to shove his dick down Donald's throat, the blood of some stranger still on their hands and clothes, and Ressler can't keep it in anymore. His stomach convulses and forces its few contents out, spattering on the dirty ground, acid in his aching throat that still remembers Prescott's assaults.

He remembers Prescott's laugh and the grip of his hand leaving bruises on his arms. He remembers burying bodies of people he knew nothing about, for a man who could be his downfall with no more effort than twitching a finger.

Ironic, how that still happened and Ressler has just reached rock-bottom while still having done everything Prescott had demanded. A fucking lose-lose-situation. Ressler would like to laugh about the stupidity of it all (of himself), but it gets stuck somewhere between his chest and vocal chords. He can never go back.

He'd always thought it would be Reddington who'd ruin him. He was wrong.

---

With the onsetting darkness comes the cold; it's the end of summer and the days are warm enough, but the nights take all the warmth and replace it with cruel emptiness and too many thoughts.

He remembers all the times their hunt for Reddington had gone wrong; all the times they'd run into another dead end; all the times an informant ended up dead --- all the times he would crawl into Julian's bed or Julian in his and they'd hold each other, seek solace and comfort and hope and the strength to move on in each other's arms.

He remembers Julian's lips on his and how, for these few moments, he'd want nothing more and could forget the job. He remembers skin on heated skin, and whispered platitudes that in that moment felt like a lifeline, and falling asleep with limbs entangled, sheltering him from nightmares and fatalistic thoughts.

He misses it. Misses it more than anything else, and it's the first time he acknowledges this feeling. He'd missed Julian for years; and then he was back again, back in that ice rink, looking at him like nothing had happened, like he still didn't blame Donald for all the shit that had happened. Maybe he really didn't. Maybe the guilt for all of that had been for nothing.

And then Julian was gone again and this time it would be irreversible. Like a lost limb, he feels his absence.

Shivering, he stares at the darkness around him, and all he wants is those strong arms around him and the scent of leather and aftershave and the scratch of Julian's stubble against his own.

He can never have that again. He doesn't deserve it, and Julian sure as Hell won't forgive him. Not for ending his career and certainly not for working with Reddington and turning a blind eye to the crimes he committed under their watch. He wouldn't even want to touch him again with all the dirt and blood on his hands from working for Prescott; wouldn't want to kiss the same lips that suffered the abuse of a ruthless killer and had swallowed it like he deserved it.

Because the truth is, maybe that's what his life has become: an unescapable, unforgivable Hell, all the pictures of what he'd done burned into his brain, behind his eyelids, on his skin where the bruises have long since faded but the dirt still remains. And maybe that's exactly what he deserves.

He crumbles under his thoughts until he lies on the ground, a shivering, hurting mess that's overflowing with guilt and self-loathing.

Julian always used to kiss it away.

---

How, when and why Donald has decided to walk up that road into the woods is lost on him.

He used to know this road, been here a few times but not in several years; it seems unchanged exept for the sky that looks a bit duller. He never walked this path before, but he didn't want to steal a car. Wouldn't know where to dump it here anyway.

He knows it's probably a dumb idea, but he's out of options by this point.

Every step is hard work and his knees are about ready to give out, shaking under the strain of carrying him for miles and miles, and even in the chilly shadows of the surrounding trees he's sweating like it's a hundred degrees out. Another shiver runs through his body that feels like it's crushing every bone on its way, and he moans as he gasps for breath.

He knows though if he stops he'll never get up again. He'll never reach the old cabin in the woods by that small lake, and he'd die by the side of the small, muddy road. He's not ready for that, though.

---

It's late afternoon when he gets off the main road and takes the small footpath that leads to the cabin in a few hundred yards. The sun is much hotter now and although he can feel her warmth on his skin, he feels cold and clammy and miserable, fighting shiver after shiver and losing hard.

All he wants to do is curl up into a tight ball and die, but he's not gonna give up, not now, even though he knows that he's making a massive mistake here, but he doesn't care. It's like he's too far gone to acknowledge that fact and all his common sense has left him along with the contents of his stomach last night; he can't shove it back and, frankly, what does it matter? He can't fall any deeper.

So he stumbles on, struggling over rocks and branches, his feet numb except for the occasional flare of pain that still reaches his brain and he can't quite manage to shut out.

Then it comes into sight and he breathes out, a pained, wheezing sound that makes his head spin, and suddenly he feels sick because he knows he has made the wrong decision; he should go. He should turn around and collapse by the road and wither away like a fallen leaf.

The cabin is still like he remembers it from years ago; it belonged to Julian's father before he'd died, a nice little place far out in the woods that's perfect for a weekend-trip. Julian used to tell him stories of coming here with his dad to fish and hunt, back in the day before everything had turned to shit between them, before he came out as gay and his father stopped talking to him altogether.

He knows Julian is here; he's seen the old Ford parked by the road close to the small footpath. He also knows he's not welcome, just as he knows that he won't have anything left if Julian rejects him and throws him back onto the street he came from.

Feeling his knees wobble, he pushes on before he can give in to the seducing urge to let himself fall to the ground and curl up to die. He can still do that afterwards.

Another few steps and he's around the cabin where he can see the small lake, a pond really, with the wooden terrace right by the water; on it stands a deserted deck chair, but the bottle of beer that sits right next to it is still half-full, so Julian must be back any minute.

He leans heavily on the wall of the cabin and feels his strength bleed away. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead and along his nose as he lets his head fall, the strain in his neck too much for his muscles to hold it up anymore. Catching his breath is difficult when his lungs don't want to take in any much needed air and his chest feels too tight, like the collar of his dirty white t-shirt is strangling him, and he raises a violently shaking hand to his chest, ignoring the creaking of his joints as he does so.

Shit, this is worse than he'd thought. The hand that isn't clutching his shirt automatically wanders towards his pants pocket. It's empty. Of course it's empty. He's out of pills. He panicks at that because how in the world is he supposed to survive ---

when he hears a gun cock and forces himself to look up into Julian's face.

He looks good - always does - and his stubble is almost a beard now; his hair has grown too and Donald just wants to breathe it in. He wears sunglasses (of course, it's still bright outside and his eyes are just so damn sensitive), and his brow is deeply furrowed, his mouth a thin line that tells Donald just how welcome he is here.

"Don?", he asks, voice raspy like he hasn't spoken in a long time. Maybe he hasn't, but Ressler isn't naïve enough to blame any emotion for the roughness.

"Hey", he says, and he feels the world sway from the effort of holding himself up, so he grabs for the wall again, temporarily borrowing stability from the wooden structure. He doesn't even want to know how awful he must look, all sweaty and dirty and miserable, shaking and fighting just to keep standing.

"What do you want?", Julian asks, words hard and the gun still pointed at Ressler.

He looks at Julian, helpless to say anything, devoid of all words, and he realizes he doesn't know how to answer that question. He opens his mouth in the hopes of being able to bring out anything at all when a shudder runs through his body, leaving him breathless and on the ground. For a second all he knows is the pain of too much and too little at the same time that grinds his bones to dust and cuts through his muscles effortlessly. He thinks he groans in pain, but can't tell over the static in his ears.

"Fuck", he hears at the edge of his consciousness, "Don!"

And when he looks up, Julian is gone from where he stood before, instead there are arms steadying him from face-planting into the muddy ground. He leans heavily into those arms that promise comfort and solace and strength.

"Julian", Don rasps out, and he looks up to see Julian close, so close, worry visible even behind the sunglasses, and he has to close his eyes as a rush of emotion threatens to overcome him. This is it. This is all he wanted.

"Don't talk now, okay? I'm callin' an ambulance." And that's wrong. He can't do that, Ressler can't go to the hospital, not when he's on every wanted-list in the city ---

"Don't", he whispers and swallows against the bile. Julian looks at him like he's lost his mind, but there's still so much worry. "Don't", Donald repeats. He doesn't know how else to communicate this.

"Okay", Julian says flatly, still sceptical. "You mind tellin' me though why the fuck you're here?"

Ressler looks away, tries to ignore the black dots that creep into his vision.

"I'm sorry", he says, and he means it. Hopes that Julian understands, because Ressler doesn't know if he has the strength or the words to really explain himself here. "I didn't know where else to go."

Julian just nods, waiting for him to continue while Donald shivers in his arms and doesn't know how to go on.

"I fucked up", he finally says, and Julian laughs at that; a humorless, dry laugh that settles itself deep into what's left of Don's bones, a laugh that sends waves of guilt through his chest. He looks to the ground and tries not to break down under the weight of it.

"Yeah, you did", Julian says and there's an edge to his voice that's dangerous and hurt and speaks of everything Ressler has put him through. "And I'm really fucking close to tell you to go to Hell."

His eyes burn holes into Donald's skin until he's sure that Julian must be able to see his insides now, the rotten flesh and the dirt and the blood and all the shame and guilt he's never gonna be able to wash away.

"Not gonna do that though. Seems like you're already there."

Don lets his head fall and at this point he can't tell sweat from tears or blood or vomit or dirt; it's all there on his skin, whether remembered or real he doesn't know. All he knows is that it's disgusting, he's disgusting, he's dirty and has done unforgivable things and yet Julian is still holding him up, still touching him --- His head drops and he closes his eyes against the spinning world.

"C'mon", Julian says quietly, "let's get you cleaned up. You look like you could need a drink too, something to eat. And then you're gonna tell me what's going on before I change my mind. You alright with that?"

Donald just nods. At least he thinks he does.

He feels Julian's grip tighten, and together they manage to get Donald on his feet; he sways unsteadily, but Julian's hands are still there, grounding him against the nausea, keeping him from falling over as he clenches his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness and pain that rips through him.

"Hey, wait", he blurts out when Julian nudges him to move. "You don't - you don't have to do this, Julian. I won't blame you if -", he takes a deep breath, trying to organize his blurry thoughts, "- if you... y'know. Wanna throw me out on the street. Let me rot."

Julian looks at him long and hard, his face unreadable, and Donald wonders when that changed. He used to be able to read him flawlessly, back in the day.

"I know", he says eventually, "and believe me, I have every reason to, but... let's just get inside 'n' sort this out, yeah?"

He nods.

The inside of the cabin looks exactly the way he remembers it from the few times Julian has taken him here. Cozy and warm, soft light through the small windows, wooden table in the middle of the room - with all kinds of stuff on it, bottles and tools and newspapers - surrounded by self-made wooden chairs; it's only one room, and in the corner is still the old bed with the worn through mattress that he remembers very vividly (it's softer than it looks, the pillows under his hips fluffy, the scent of whiskey from Julian's lips and resin from all around him filling his senses ---) Julian drags him to the bed; Don is glad that Julian keeps his hands on his shoulders for a few more moments. He doesn't trust his body to sit on its own and not fall over. He takes a few deep breaths - the smell of whiskey and resin still lingers in the cabin and if he closes his eyes, he might be able to pretend nothing has happened and he's back to when all was good. He doesn't close his eyes. Needs the punishment of seeing an older version of Julian and that glimmer in his eyes that betrays the cold anger he tries to project. In here, it's easier reading him. The sunglasses have landed on the table in the mixture of things, and breathing is just that much easier now. Funny how brown eyes can have that effect on him. Or maybe it's just Julian's eyes. "You okay? Or are ya gonna topple over as soon as I let go?", Julian asks. His hands burn where they touch Ressler's shoulders - even through the shirt - and he feels like their heat is spreading all the way through his arms, mending his broken bones with a painful grip that makes him gasp. "It's alright", he says. His voice sounds strange, somehow distorted and raw, and when Julian lifts his hands it's like ice fills all the places that were on fire just seconds before, crushing him, burning even worse. He bites his lip. "'Kay", Julian murmurs, and then he turns around to get a bottle of water and --- and he opens up one of the cabinets and pulls out a small, brownish-yellow pill bottle --- his heart is beating so fast now he thinks he might throw up, and every fibre in his body screams Want! Want! Want! --- his muscles pulling on him, willing him to move, to get to the pills, down them all, swallow them, no regrets, make the trembling stop and the sweating and the shivers, undo the damage to his body, unbreak his bones, untear his sinews --- His mouth falls open. He can already feel it: the texture and the form of the little white pill against his tongue, the short moment when he swallows, the high he's chasing - no, no, it's not that anymore, it's never been that; it's always been about numbing the pain until it wasn't, until it was just about avoiding the come down. But right now he can feel the high, the anticipation, being so close to victory --- "Don?" And he wants to tell Julian to shut up, to just give him the pills, but he's the one who holds the bottle, he has the power in this moment and fuck, Ressler would do everything, anything, get on his knees or on all fours and just take it (flashes of Prescott assault his mind at that, and he gasps audibly because Julian is not Prescott, far from it, and he just wants his brain to shut the fuck up, to stop, knowing the pills will do that, they'll fucking save him from his own thoughts) --- "Hey, man - what's going on?" It's Julian's voice again, so much nearer now, burning hot hands holding him together as Donald crumbles. He collapses like a frail burning building, the last beams that were holding it together now nothing more than a pyre of grief and lost hope. He trembles against Julian's chest, his hands clinging to Julian's shirt, hurting from the exhaustion of cramping around the scratchy material but unable to let go, his head tucked under Julian's chin where he crouches in front of Donald on the floor. He wants to cry or to scream or to lash out, but all the energy he has left is unfocused, is mainly the never ending chant of Want! Want! Want! beneath his skin. "Fuck", he grinds out, and it's the hardest thing for him right

now, but he has Julian's arms around him and can feel his lips in his hair and smell leather and aftershave and --- Julian hasn't let him go yet. He hasn't pushed him away yet; is still touching him, unafraid, not yet disgusted. Then again, he doesn't know what Donald has done. "Hey, hey", Julian breathes against Ressler's temple, "it's okay, Don, it's - it's alright. It's gonna be alright..." Don shakes his head, takes a stuttering breath. "It's not, it's -", he starts, and his hands shake so hard now he's afraid of hurting Julian, "it's all gone to shit, okay? Nothing's alright, and - it's all my fault. It's all my fault, Julian, just ---" He doesn't know what he's saying, only that he needs to get it out. He needs to let Julian know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could go back and do it all differently, how much he wants Gale to be happy. "Easy", Julian whispers, and now his hands are stroking up and down Don's spine and he feels like a child, but also safer than he has in a long time. This, right here, is his shelter in the storm, a place to wait out the worst of it before he can go home. Only that he doesn't know where home is anymore. Not that it matters. He has his self-imposed punishment to serve. They sit there for a while, until Ressler's breathing is less ragged and his body is limp with exhaustion and his hands uncramp around Julian's shirt. "You need to drink something", Julian says, his voice far too soft, and somewhere deep inside of him Ressler just wants Julian to yell at him, to beat him, to show him exactly how he's felt the last couple of years. Let out all the anger and frustration and disgust he must be feeling. Add his loathing to the pyre burning away at Donald's insides. Julian shuffles away, keeping one steadying hand on Ressler's shoulder, the other reaching for the glass of water he must have put on the ground besides him when Donald collapsed. "Here", he murmurs and holds the glass up to Don's lips. Donald doesn't even try to take it from him, his trembling hands trapped between his thighs. The water is refreshing and he's sure he could drink an entire river - his mouth and throat aren't longer as dry, his heaving stomach slowly settles, his over-heated skin seems to cool a little. When the glass is empty, Julian sets it aside and takes a hard look at Don. "Better?", he asks. Behind the hard, cold glare his gaze is so open, so vulnerable now that Don has to look away. "Yeah", he nods. "Thanks." He doesn't know where Julian has put the pill bottle, but it's probably back in the cabinet. There's no way Julian could have misinterpreted Donald's behaviour. "So." Donald looks up again. He can still feel the sweat on his forehead, on his neck, chest, everywhere, but now it's cooler, and if the temperature keeps dropping as quickly he will surely freeze to death. He doesn't know though if it's the change of seasons or his own body. "Guess I owe you an explanation", Donald murmurs. He's tired suddenly, so tired he can feel it in his bones. Like he's two hundred years old, an ancient tree about to die. "You bet your ass you do." With that Julian gets up off the ground, refills the glass, sets it on the table and sits down next to Donald on the bed. He sits further away than he used to, the gap between them like a fucking canyon that Don could throw himself in to to break every bone in his body yet again, for the last time. He won't though. He owes Julian that much. "So?", Julian asks when the silence stretches too long. But Donald doesn't know where to start, doesn't even know what to say except for I'm sorry and forgive me and I love you. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry again, his heartbeat picking up its pace, beating uncomfortably against his too tight ribcage. "I'm sorry", he begins, and when he looks at Julian, his face is impassive and schooled. He expects more. Of course he does, Donald thinks, and he deserves it, deserves more, deserves everything. He's just not sure he can give that. "I ruined your life", he says. Looks down at his hands and how

they shake where they're trapped between his knees. "Again", he adds and the corner of his mouth twitches in a humorless attempt at a smile. "You should never have paid for what we - what I did. The whole Reddington-thing. I justified it with all the good we did, all the cases we solved, the criminals we put behind bars, but... you were right. The price was too high. It was doomed from the start... All the people who died, Julian, all those good people --- I don't know if it was worth it." He looks up into Julian's face. It's not as passive and unreadable as before; now there's a glint of pity, a tiny spark of anger, the smallest sign of resignation. "And - and to think I betrayed all my principles for that taskforce. All I ever stood for - wanted to stand for. Fuck, I'm... I just... I just wanna go back, Julian. I just wanna start over. Forget about - about Reddington and Prescott and Hitchin and - Audrey. Fuck, Audrey... I should have known then. I should have quit back then." He buries his face in his hands. There are no tears, but the shame that's crawling up his spine and spreading through every inch of his body is threatening to overwhelm him. "What happened to her?", Julian asks quietly, his voice impossibly soft. He knows about them. About their far too early engagement, about the stubbornness with which Donald had tried to love her just to get over the fact that Julian was gone from his life. About his need to prove that he was okay. "She's dead. She was killed. She'd still be alive if it wasn't for Reddington." "I'm sorry", Julian says after a moment of silence. He sounds genuine, even though Ressler knows how Julian feels about Audrey. Or used to feel, anyway. And now, Donald doesn't know what else to say. Knows there's so much, too much to talk about, but he doesn't know where to start. He wants to tell Julian about Hitchin and Prescott and those brief moments with Reddington - in the box and in a hotel room in Washington and the whole long flight from Munich back to the states. Donald takes a deep breath; it's not like that makes any difference because his lungs still seem incapable of taking in enough oxygen for him to survive. How he's still conscious, he doesn't know, but it's probably just his mind playing tricks with him. And all the while, Julian looks at him with patience that's bordering on resignation, and sadness he might be mistaking for grief about the people they could have been. The love they could have shared, the lives they could have lived. All those things Ressler never gave himself time to grieve for, but are returning with a vengeance now, cutting him up, sucking him dry, suffocating him in their thick reality. "I deserved it", he finally croaks, his voice strangled by everything he's lost, and he clears his throat. "Everything I got in the end, I deserved it." He stares at his hands that are trapped between his knees, feels them tremble, and when he looks back up at Julian, the other man is suddenly closer than he was before. The canyon between them is nothing more than a crack in the pavement now, their legs not yet touching, Julian's heat a welcome comfort against Don's clammy pale skin, and it still feels like it's not enough, like nothing he could do could ever be enough, and as much as he detests the thought that this might be the closest Julian will let himself get to Don, he also revels in the almost-touches and the dark gazes and the fact that this, too, is something he painfully deserves: the one person he never stopped loving to be entirely unreachable. He thinks back to the good times and how easy it was to just reach out and take any comfort he needed. The sleepless nights in those dingy motel rooms they spent staring out the window at the starry sky or at each other, the moments of warmth and solitude, bodies wrapped around each other like they're one, soft breath in his ear, dry lips on skin, rough fingers entangled, squeezing, comforting. Thinks back to that night in Manila, when Julian stood before Donald's door at three in the morning, dark bags under

his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around his chest to prevent him from falling apart; later it would be Don's arms holding him together. Thinks back to that morning in New York that should have been entirely unpleasant with the stink and the broken heater in the middle of January and the noise even so early, but with Julian's sleeping form next to him - so peaceful and full of beauty -, he wished it could always be like this. He doesn't think back to the time they said goodbye, or the time Julian almost died from a bullet in his stomach, or the countless times they sat at each other's hospital beds. He doesn't think about the last time they kissed, the last time they made love, the last time they hugged, the last time there wasn't this edge to Julian's voice that tells Donald that things will never be the same. He certainly doesn't think about the future. "And what is it you got? What is it you think you deserve? 'Cause I see you sitting here like, like death warmed over and I can't imagine what the Hell you could've done to deserve... well, this." Julian's voice is rougher than usual; Donald doesn't know if it's because of the emotion he swallows so successfully or because he's smoking more than he used to or because this is the first time in a long time that he's speaking to somebody. Donald draws in another sharp breath. His lungs aren't exactly cooperating, but it doesn't matter as long as he can still explain. "I think I need some air", he says, voice barely more than a whisper. He sees Julian nod out of the corner of his eye, and together they manage to walk outside. It's weird, a little, how much better he feels and how much easier it is to talk, to move, to breathe, ever since arriving in the cabin. Just a few hours ago he was almost certain he'd be dying in a ditch right about now. It's gotten dark outside; the sun hasn't disappeared fully yet, but through the trees that surround the cabin and the pond it's impossible to make out. Julian sits him down in the deck chair Donald had noticed earlier, the opened bottle of beer that's still sitting beside it now forgotten. Don takes a deep breath. It's easier now, out here. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Julian setting up a second chair next to the one Donald is sitting on. They both lean forward, elbows on their knees, Ressler's head hanging, Gale watching him with sharp eyes. Donald shakes his head; to think how easily all this could have been avoided! If he hadn't taken the job with the taskforce, none of this would have happened. Or if he'd been honest sooner, if he'd talked to Julian when the whole Mr. Kaplan-mess started instead of betraying him --- "That, right there, what you just said, is why I love you." He can still hear those words loud and clear in his head, recalling that moment with absolute clarity even if most of his other thoughts and memories are blurry from exhaustion and pain. The way they just came over Julian's lips, so simple, so easy, like they were picking up from where they'd left, still sends goosebumps over his arms and back; he remembers the painful tightening of his chest back then, and his mind going completely blank, and deciding to overplay his nerves with a lame joke and getting back to work as quickly as possible. He remembers hope bubbling up in the back of his ribcage, and laying awake that night overthinking those words. Overthinking the whole situation while pushing away his guilt. He hated lying to Julian then, and he hates where it has gotten him. He remembers cursing Julian's mind, always so quick and clever, and he remembers cursing Reddington time and time again. He purposely doesn't remember all the times he thought about the Concierge instead of Julian when he was alone in his bed. It feels like another betrayal all over again. And he remembers being on the verge of asking how much truth lay behind Julian's words more than once but always pulling back at the last second. Maybe he'll never know, now. "Don?" He remembers that he needs to talk. His mind feels almost bruised by the

onslaught of memories ever since he's seen Julian for the first time in so long. "Yeah. Sorry." He takes another deep breath, now easier out here, and leans back in his chair, tired eyes focusing on the patches of darkening skies through the crowns of the trees. A sense of tranquility fills his whole body and the shivers cease to shake him. "You were right about Mako Tanida. His head. Reddington - Reddington gave it to me as a gift." He closes his eyes for a second and sees the severed head in the box as if it happened yesterday instead of almost six years ago. He shudders and opens his eyes again, back to watching the gentle breeze shifting through the leaves and branches. He doesn't look over at Julian. "Some sort of... sick compensation for Audrey's death." He pauses at that, thinking back at Audrey and how he barely remembers her face now even though he knows he should. It gives Julian time to piece it together. He doesn't say a word though, intent on letting Donald speak. "It makes me sick now. But that's Reddington, you know? He lulls you in and there's nothing you can do about it. -- Objectively, I knew what we were doing, and I was justifying it with all the high-profile arrests we did. But... I don't know, man, he was under my skin and I only realized it when it was too late. He's like this... spider. Sucks you dry as soon as you're caught in his net. And it doesn't stop until someone worse comes along and ---" He stops speaking then, dropping his head, unable to find the words to convey Prescott's cruelty, his depravity that became Donald's own. A hand on his shoulder makes him look up; Julian is watching him, his gaze a strange mix between a cold distance and warm empathy. "What happened?", he asks. As if his hand doesn't burn Don's flesh where it touches him over his shirt, as if he doesn't know the repercussions of this gesture, as if he can't even imagine what it means to Don that he's touching him out of his own accord, not yet fleeing, not yet disgusted, but full of love and comfort and everything Donald doesn't deserve. They stay quiet for a short while, Don watching how the cold distance transforms to something new, something like pity, but not exactly. Maybe curiosity with a touch of sadness. Like he wants to hear the answer and doesn't. Like he wants to know what made Don come here but doesn't want to hear it. Like he knows it could change everything between them, all the anger he's been carrying with him since the ice rink-case melting away, leaving only the torn pieces of his old love. "Laurel Hitchin", Donald says quietly. Another shiver runs through his body as he feels Julian's hand falling away. They're silent again; Don trying to figure out how to confess a murder and all the shit that followed it, and Julian thinking about how Hitchin might as well have fired him. She may have been an awful person, but she didn't deserve to die. In Don's experience, there's no one who deserves to die; at least that used to be his opinion. He's not so sure about it now. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but that's where they stay. He can't push them over the edge, can't make his vocal chords work and his lips form the vowels and consonants. He tries in vain, again and again, until Julian is looking at him again like he knows Donald's struggle. "She's dead", Julian says, tone neutral, and Don can't read from it how much Julian knows or at least suspects. He nods. Remembers her laying on her kitchen floor, pool of blood growing larger second by sickening second. "I didn't mean to ---", he stammers, and Julian's eyes grow wide like he didn't expect this confession. "Shit", he breathes and rubs a hand over his face. It stops over his mouth and chin and he looks straight ahead into the darkness that has settled around them like their own private bubble where there's room for confessions and guilt and maybe even forgiveness; room that the bright sun of the day doesn't allow. "That's why you're such a mess? Jesus, Don,

I ---" But he doesn't continue. Donald doesn't want to hear another I'm sorry from Julian, and he doesn't want to hear that he's fucked up either. He just wants to forget. "It gets worse", he says and Julian looks up, surprise and pain and dread lining his features, and he suddenly looks much older than he is. Still beautiful, and Don has to swallow against the sudden feeling of belonging that rises in his chest; like he's home, like this has been his home all along, and it will be until they're old and grey and dying of old age in each others' arms --- only that it's a fantasy, a feverish dream he's having. Before Don can continue though, Julian stands up and disappears inside the cabin without another word. He can't blame him. With a sigh he stays where he is, watching the sky again that's now completely dark, and he doesn't know if he isn't actually watching the invisible dance of the trees. His mind is completely blank now and it's a more than welcome change. Before he knows it, Julian is back with two bottles of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Wordlessly, he gives one of the already opened bottles to Don who takes it with only slightly shaking hands, then sits back down, takes a gulp of beer, puts it down on the ground beside his chair, and takes a cigarette out of the pack. He offers one to Don but he declines with a shake of his head. The small flame of the lighter makes Julian's face flicker orange and yellow, the shadows making the lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth dance and seem deeper than in the light of day. For the few seconds it lasts, he looks almost angelic in a rough, strange way. "I called the cleaner who used to work for her", he says before he can think about it. "His name's Henry Prescott." The smell of burnt tobacco lulls him in, like they're back in Julian's old apartment, in his bed after an evening of slow sex, bliss and heavy limbs and soft words forever interlinked with it. It almost makes the bile that's threatening to rise after the mention of Prescott's name stay down. Julian's eyes are on him again, calmer now, but also more distanced than before. Don can barely make them out through the dark of night, but from experience he knows Gale won't say any more. He needs all the facts, and Don's the only one who can provide those. He looks back to where the lake must be, now an invisible black hole between the equally black woods. He thinks it must be easy now that he's started, but the words won't come, his mind preoccupied with keeping the images at bay, the memories of dead bodies and blood and the smell of bleach and ammonia. He closes his eyes for a minute, the shivers returning, rocking his body against his will, and he's going to be sick if the stink of chemicals doesn't leave his nose soon --- He wishes Julian would touch him again, ground him somehow like he used to, but he doesn't. Don doesn't look up either. He needs to carry on. "He found out who I was", he says eventually, strangled, struggling to keep talking. "Blackmailed me into working for him." He rubs his free hand over his face, pressing down over his eyes to get rid of the images and the smell, and for a moment it's like Julian isn't even there, like he's not listening, like Don can say anything he wants to the dark emptiness he's surrounded by. He takes a few gulps of the beer but doesn't set it down. "Fuck, I --- the things I did. The shit I was forced to do and I, I didn't even fight it. I was too afraid to - I don't know, lose my job, my reputation, my friends", it breaks out of him now, and a laugh forces its way through his constricted throat at the irony of the words. He feels Julian shift next to him, reminding Don of his presence, but he doesn't turn to look at him. "I did every fucking thing he told me to. Drove around dead bodies in car trunks. Buried and unburied them. Scrubbed blood off walls and carpets and beds. --- How the fuck can anyone forgive me for that? How can you?" He takes another large sip of the beer, now risking a glance at

Julian. His cigarette has almost burnt down completely, leaving a tail of ash threatening to fall onto Julian's lap; he hasn't taken a drag since Don has started speaking. Instead he's looking at Donald, almost staring through him, and Don doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't think he's ever seen that expression on Julian. "I should never have come", he says curtly because he can't face the silence now. "I'm sorry. I should never have -- I guess I know now that I deserved it." The calm that settles in his bones surprises him. He looks back up to the sky, clear and beautiful where it shines through the trees, and now he can make out tiny bright dots, stars spattered across it like the splashes of watercolor over paper when he was a kid. He can feel tears behind his eyes and he knows this is the last time he will be home. Knows it's the last time he gets to feel something other than guilt and dread. Maybe he should get up and leave now, having done enough damage as it is, but something inside him urges him to stay, to tell Julian the whole truth, make him understand. He needs Julian to tell him to fuck off; needs his rejection to be at peace and go home. Somewhere, anyway. "He didn't stop there", he says, and he knows it's his only chance to ever articulate it; if he doesn't say it now he'll be silent forever. Besides him, Julian tenses. He's been tense for the last couple of minutes, but now his back is straight in a way that it almost never is, but Donald needs to get those next few words out. He feels strangely detached from his body and mind and memories. "Sometimes he would force me on my knees, make me suck him off", he starts, and it's easier to say it out loud than it should be, "and sometimes he would bend me over the hood of the car or tie me to the bed post in whatever hotel he'd stay in. I took it every time. I thought I didn't have a choice." And he's smiling now, the weight on his shoulders, his lungs, his mind so much lighter, and he doesn't even mind the trembling of his hands, of his whole body. He just lets it happen. "Until my conscience finally made me put a stop to it. I arrested him. Wrote my confession. And left. But I'm still too much of a coward to face the consequences, instead I'm running from everything." He lets his head fall. This shouldn't be this easy, he tells himself, but then again, with Julian nothing is as it should be. "Swallowing one pill after the other, sleeping in the mud, always looking over my shoulder. That's no life. That's - that's Hell, Julian." Finally, he looks back at his old love, a flood of emotions racing through him like a tsunami, and he chokes out: "I deserve it. All of it. What Prescott did to me. I gotta live with it. I'm ---" But the words die on his lips as he feels Julian's arms around his neck, and hot breath against his ear, and fingers tangling in his hair. He stops breathing for a few seconds, brain catching up with the sensations, and Julian is embracing him like he knows it's the last time, or like he's sorry, or like his life depends on it. "Just so you know", Julian rasps against Don's cheek, "I really fucking want to punch you right now. I wanna - wanna throw you against the wall and just - punch you until I can't move my arm anymore. Okay? Got that?" Donald nods silently, still stunned by the sudden embrace. He didn't think Julian would ever want to touch him again, wouldn't even want to be near him again. "No one", Julian says, "No one - deserves shit like that." And then he stammers like he wants to say every word he knows at the same time while simultaneously not knowing what to say altogether, before giving up with a hissed "Fuck". Don knows this, knows that sometimes, Julian's brain is faster than his mouth, and then he stumbles over words like an excited child. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you, huh?", he asks quietly, still not letting go, and now Don puts the bottle down and returns the embrace. Carefully, very carefully, like he might freak Julian out, like he might realize then what he's doing and

drop Donald like a hot potato. Donald shakes his head no; doesn't want to be dropped, not now, not when he's this close to Julian; shakes his head because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now either. The idea that's been in the back of his head, whose existence he completely ignored until now, that's probably the reason he came here in the first place, creeps into his consciousness now, and his grip around Julian's ribs tightens. "I just--- wanted to apologize for everything I did to you. I ruined your career, your life. I lied to you, I betrayed you. And I'm so sorry, Julian, I'm - I'm so fucking sorry." He loosens his grip again so he can look at Julian who looks up. His eyes are wet and dark and so damn beautiful, and now they're only inches apart. He could kiss him now, ruin everything all over again for a short moment of bliss, but he doesn't. "Me too", Julian says quietly, and his voice is soft like torn velvet. "I wish you wouldn't have come here. Let me keep my anger. But I guess you have this way of making me forgive everything you do. You're impossible, Don, you know that and I, just, hate you so, so much right now, I fucking - I hate you so much ---" "I know", Don whispers against Julian's cheek as their faces are pressed together, stubble against stubble, words escaping them that neither of them hears, lips against skin, not exactly kissing, but mouthing apologies and curses that get lost in the night. "I was so angry for so long, thinking about you, and the shit you did, the - the way it had to end", Julian rasps, tension falling off his body, too tired to keep on shivering. "I kept asking myself why the fuck you'd work with him --- how you could stand looking Reddington in the eye day after day and not - not see all that he cost us. Except I realised you did see, and you just didn't care." "Julian, I ---", he interrupts, but Julian keeps talking. "And I took that as justification to curse you and to hate you, and I did, you know, I really did, but... then I realised it was Reddington and I -- I chalked you up as just another casualty, another person he ruined, because you - you might just as well have been dead, you know? I fucking buried you." Julian chokes a little at that, but his grip at the back of Don's head doesn't weaken. "I know him, Don, I, uh, I know how he is. How he will put you under his spell and pull you in and never let go. Just... Just tell me this." And he looks up again, eyes red rimmed even in the darkness, and Don wants nothing more than to kiss those tears away, but he can't. He owes Julian, and even though he doesn't know what he wants to ask, he knows he needs to give an honest answer. No more lies. No more. Julian's searching his face and seems to have found what he's been looking for when he finally speaks up again after long moments of silence. "Did you love him?" The question should surprise Donald. It doesn't. He looks down, unable to meet Julian's unrelenting gaze. Thinks back to the box and the hotel room in Washington and the flight from Munich back to the states. Slowly, without looking up, he nods. No more lies. Here it comes. "Yeah", he says quietly even though he knows Julian has seen his nod. "I did. But never like I loved you." The words just come, mindlessly spilling over his lips, and he means them; he still doesn't look up. Doesn't want to see the disgust and rejection in Julian's eyes. The moment stretches like someone stopped time, stopped the entire universe, and Donald doesn't mind one bit. If it means having this last moment with Julian, even if it's filled with uncertainty, he'll gladly spend eternity frozen in time like this. Julian's fingers are still in his hair, his gaze still focussed on Donald. He's still though, not moving, and if it wasn't for his heavy breath, Don would have thought Julian might really be frozen. Then the moment ends. "Okay", Julian says, simple but heavy, like this truth lifted some weight off of him that Donald didn't know Julian was carrying. He looks up now, unable to keep his

gaze away any longer, and he doesn't know what to make of Julian's expression. There's no disgust. There's no rejection. There's understanding and sadness locked away in the tears that are sticking to his eyelashes, shimmering in the pale light of the moon that's slowly beginning to shine through the trees. Donald doesn't understand it; Julian is supposed to be upset, angry, pushing him away, throwing him out on the street to rot --- not drawing soothing circles over the back of his head, not looking at him like that, like they can fix this, like Donald is finally home --- "I'm, uh... I'm going to the police. Tonight. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. My sad attempt to make things right." He has to look away again, Julian's focussed, open gaze too much for him. "Guess I couldn't... leave without having told you. And I'm - I'm not asking for forgiveness here. I know I can never have that. I just needed to see you. Make sure you're alright, so..." He clears his throat, realizing that they've only been talking about him and never once about Julian. Fuck, how egoistic can he be! "How're you doing?", he asks, and Julian is still clinging to him, just as he's clinging to Julian. "Oh, I'm fine", Julian laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Julian -", Donald starts. He doesn't need his bullshit now. "Really, Don, things couldn't be better. I've read that in my horoscope." He still smiles, a little crooked like he's holding something back, something big, and now Ressler's hand comes up to cup Julian's face. Again, the thought of just kissing him comes to mind, but they're so fragile, both of them, it would only leave them shattered for good. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke the thick stubble and he doesn't say a word. Julian closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and for a few precious moments, Donald can pretend they're happy. "Stay", Julian says and Donald freezes. Thinks he must have misheard Julian, who looks up now from where he kneels in front of Don's chair, his own hand leaving the blonde hair to rest at Don's jaw. "What?", he asks. It's more of a breath though, no sound escaping his lips. "I'm - yeah, I'm fucking pissed at you right now, but all of this... it - it doesn't change anything. Y'know, I still mean it." And they're so close still, and Donald has lost track of what's happening, and confused, he shakes his head. "What do you mean?", he asks. "Trondheim. Remember that?" He does. It was the beginning of March and so cold even the hotel room in New York with the broken heater seemed like a tropical vacation in comparison. It wasn't the first time they said I love you, but it was the first time they talked about the future. Before, they would stay in the moment, too afraid of letting go, of losing the other over naïve fantasies of a life together. That night though, they didn't need to be scared. "Whatever happens", Julian said, "I'll never walk away. How could I, huh? Guess I'm too far gone." He smiled, and so did Donald, pressing a kiss to Julian's collarbone. "Fifty years from now", Julian continued, "I'll still think of you. Every fucking day." That earned him a kiss on the lips, chaste and innocent and full of love like they've never experienced before. "Don't matter if you're still with me or not. You don't forget the love of your life, Donnie. I won't forget. Not us. Not this. Never. I could never let you go. Ever." But back then, Julian couldn't have imagined where they would end up one day. "It was different back then", Don says. Not because he doesn't want Julian's words to be true, but because he doesn't think himself worth them. "Yeah, it was", Julian answers, "but tell me you don't feel it still. Tell me, Donnie, and I'll let you go." Donald's answer is silence because, yes, of course he still feels it, that love that's deeper than any feeling he's ever known, deeper even than the shame and guilt and pain of the recent months, years, but doesn't Julian know that it's pointless? That Don's life is over? The silence stretches on and he can't hold

Julian's gaze. "I know", Julian says, "I know." And those words are enough to set him free, to liberate him from his cage of anger and self-pity and guilt and self-imposed punishment - he knows those won't go away anytime soon, but he still feels like breaking down, mercy too much to handle when he knows he's undeserving of forgiveness. He lets his head fall, knowing Julians hands are there to steady him. They do, cradling him like a newborn child, and in a way that might be true: maybe, somehow, this can be a new life, a new start for him; a clean slate. Maybe now, he can forget all of it, all the shit that happened, the person he was - the person he was forced to become --- maybe this is the one chance in life for rebirth. "I'm a mess", he says. "I know", Julian answers. "We can figure it out. Together." "You deserve better." "Shut it now, Donnie. I think I know best what I deserve, huh? I've given up everything for you, y'know, twice. You know what I think it is I deserve? Hm? What we deserve?" Donald looks up, feeling Julian's breath against his lips as much as the intensity of his gaze, those brown eyes so familiar in their depth it makes his heart ache. He wants to answer, say something, anything at all, but no words will leave his lips. He feels trapped there between Julian's closeness and the chair, but there's no place he'd rather be. He holds Julian's gaze for a few moments before shaking his head. "Peace, Donnie. I think we deserve peace after all this. Just a little, don't you think?" And that sounds good, far too good to be true, and he can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him. "Yeah", he says finally, voice constricting, "I want that. I want that, Julian." A smile is still tugging at the corners of his mouth when Julian kisses him, slow and unsure and not at all like the many kisses they used to share; it's like a first kiss, a promise for an uncertain future, a vow to try. To give it time and let wounds heal - they're all they have, after all. "You're not going to the police", Julian says as they part. "We will figure this out. Get you clean. And in fifty years we'll still be here, okay, I won't lose you again, I couldn't, couldn't bury you again, I'll ---" And as Donald kisses the doubts and fears away, for the first time in years he has the feeling that everything might turn out okay; that he might be deserving of happiness after all. That finally, finally he's home. _______________________________________

#the blacklist #donald ressler #julian gale #tbl fanfiction #mine #coming home #long post #(under the cut)

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obeymeluv · 4 years

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Who Plays Match-Maker?

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Even devils need a little help sometimes! »»————-　♡　————-«« »»————-　♡　————-««

I have too many ideas for this blog and I’m not sure what to share first :/ The askbox should be open so if you have any suggestions or want to send something, feel free!

These blurbs are inspired by who would play wingman/match-maker for each brother. Sorry if the font or format is messed up. I wrote/submitted this from a different computer. And had to redo it because Tumblr froze the first time I tried.

When Lucifer is in love...

He’s going to deny it BIG TIME. Why? Well, he has so many responsibilities and if Diavolo needs him--! Lucifer basically runs from his feelings and doesn’t want to admit he could be in love with someone because he’s spent thousands of years alone. Thousands of years being head of the house, upholding his image and his loyalty to Diavolo.

As much as he entertains the idea, it somehow seems like laziness. Like he’s falling short somehow. It’s not something he feels he deserves, especially when he thinks of how long he lied to his brothers. Asmodeus would step in to work this out because who better than him?! He’s not the Avatar of Lust for nothing!

If he’s having a hard time pushing the two together, he’ll enlist Satan for backup because Satan could annoy him into almost anything. Involving Diavolo’s last on the list, but Asmodeus WILL have the two dating before long!

When Mammon is in love...

He’s easier to read and more open to the idea of dating. Anyone who knows him knows he often acts opposite of how he feels. Mammon may complain about doing things with you but that tell-tale blush on his face proves he doesn’t mean any of it and actually loves spending time with you. It’s pretty easy for ANY of the brothers to rile him, call him out, and get him to confess to something accidentally. Being second-born means his only real kryptonite is Lucifer; centuries of dealing with the younger five leaves him pretty unmoved by their tactics.

Mammon and Lucifer seem to have a radar for each others schemes and behaviors; Mammon’s going to get that hair-tickling feeling that Lucifer’s up to something and notice he’s hanging around you too much. That just gets him because NO ONE’S HANGING AROUND HIS HUMAN MORE THAN HER FIRST MAN, YA KNOW?!

When Levi is in love...

I think he’d be in denial for a long time. If it’s not because of the ‘Ew, normie!’, it’s the creeping and crushing possibility that you could love any of his brothers. Any of them would be better for you. Levi could write you lists of proof, and he’s not shy in assuming people think of him as a ‘gross otaku’ so he’s probably seen his fair share of teasing and degradation that makes love harder to believe in. If you can make it to friends, he’ll be more open and confident with the idea of dating you.

He’s slow to realize his affection for you because he can down-play it and rationalize all of your nice behaviors, but he’ll look back on his game models, NPC crushes, and realize they start to have things in common with you.

Practically every brother will jump at the chance to help their sweet baby Levi out because he’s a late bloomer and deserves the best in life. It’s a huge, huge thing for him to want to be in a relationship and they want to help it work! Satan would be good at talking logically with him, almost in an encouraging therapist kind of way. He’d let Levi draw his own conclusions but loud Mammon is always there to drop the obvious of ‘if you don’t like her, why does NPC look like her?!’

When Satan is in love...

He’s the quiet pining type. As beautiful as a relationship sounds, the cold logic hits him in the face. It’s probably not good for him to get into a relationship, being the Avatar of Wrath and all. You’re so delicate that things could go horribly, unforgivably wrong faster than he could bear! And yet, as he hides away in his books he’s absolutely tormented by all of the hopeful ‘maybes’ floating around.

Satan could just see it and it’s so beautiful! His heart’s doing something wonderfully dangerous and he wonders if he’ll drop dead sometime soon. Lucifer sees it before Satan sees it, and calls him out on it. The embarrassed rage of being called out is enough for Satan to deny it, or make an ass of himself right as you come around to hear the confession (sneaky, prideful bastard planned this!)

Asmodeus or Mammon just love to make up little white lies--”You’re looking for her? She went with X!”--to see him fly off a flustered mess. If he doesn’t like you, why is he so worried? Those white lies always end up with Satan bursting in somewhere just to find you by yourself. And now you’re alone with him.

When Asmodeus is in love...

This guy needs no help! Are you kidding?! His reputation is the hardest to overcome since his nature makes him a lovable person. There’s no shortage of people willing to tell you a scandalous story or about a time they hooked up with him. Maybe out of jealousy or just being truthful. Asmo is happy to tell you all of this himself just to prove he’s serious, but he imagines it’s still a lot to take.

Solomon or Simeon would offer to brew a truth-telling potion (at Asmo’s insistence) for you to ask your most burning questions. Belphegor swears up and down that Asmo loves you because he never shuts up and lets him sleep when he’s nearby.

When Beelzebub is in love...

Is it hunger or something else? Indigestion? He gets all warm and flustered and, honestly, kind of absent-minded. Beel is pretty smart but his mind basically runs on two things when he’s got a crush: food and the crush. Caring but shy, I think he’d make his own confession efforts (sharing food, etc.) and would accidentally botch them by eating all of the food before the plan happens.

He’s a nervous eater, okay? And he needed energy to confess, anyways!

Being his twin, Belphegor is obviously the first to step up and help his brother out. He’ll tell you point blank and restate that he’s sacrificing a nap to tell you this so you better listen up, human! There’s some threats thrown in--do you take them seriously or not?--but Belphie’s said his piece and he’s going back to sleep.

Simeon is all too happy to tell you about Beel’s nervous eating and rambling. “All of it was about you, I think that’s pretty special!” as Beel hides around the corner to watch this all unfold, dying of embarrassment and trying to sneak up on Simeon to grab some of the pastries he brought to the House of Lamentation.

When Belphegor is in love...

He’s going to be a grumpy sourpuss. Not going to say it outright. On the surface, he’s not waxing poetic or showering you with gifts. If anyone else is around, expect to be treated kind of coldly. It’s his version of casual-in-denial and it’s all sharper than he means but Belphie’s awkward and uncomfortable around others.

All of it’s easier in private when he can say it all with the special privilege of sharing his bed. Maybe even his famous cow pillow. Because he’s hard to read and leaves before anyone can see him blush or pout (and whatever else you do to him) you’re DEFINITELY going to need some fraternal intervention.

Beelzebub has no shame in outing his brother (especially for food) because it’s really cute and he just wants someone to know. He’s happy for his brother, and he wants to see him even happier by dating someone! If Belphie talks in his sleep, has a dream, or complains about something one of the other brothers did with you, you’ll know.

That’s hard proof right there!

Once outed Belphie comes forward himself. If he thinks Asmo’s gotten wind of his crush, he beats Asmo to you. No way is he letting Asmo broadcast his feelings everywhere!

#Obey me! x Reader #Lucifer x Reader #Mammon x Reader #Satan x Reader #Levi x Reader #Leviathan x Reader #Asmodeus x Reader #Beelzebub x Reader #belphegor x reader

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felagund-fiollaigean · 3 years

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Stay tuned! We’ll be right back after these messages

A Jedi: Fallen Order fanfic

1k words of angst as Cal and Cere try (and fail) to cope with the galaxy celebrating the genocide of their people. Happy Empire Day.

Read it here or under the cut!

Cal’s terrible, horrible, no good very bad day begins when Greez turns the news on in the morning.

That in itself isn't a terribly shocking occurrence. It was common for the crew of the Mantis to listen to the morning news broadcasts as they went about their various morning routines and then gathered for breakfast and caff in the common area. Cal’s smearing jam onto a slice of toasted bread, Cere’s stirring sugar into a mug of caff, and Greez is tidying, for no apparent reason. Merrin had taken BD-1 with her on a quick scouting trip to see if she could find any edible wild plants they could add to their ship’s store of provisions.

By all accounts, today should have been a normal day.

But Cal had forgotten the date. To be fair, he thinks Greez has as well.

“... Extermination was necessary for the formation of the Galactic Empire,” a news anchor recites. “We have here the security footage from Emperor Palpatine’s office, and we can see with our own eyes top members of the Jedi Council, including Mace Windu himself, attempting to assassinate the Emperor, who was serving as Chancellor of the former Republic at the time. As further proof of the Jedi’s deranged treason, here we see Padawan Zett Jukassa making a brazen attack on Senator Bail Organa. Fortunately, the would-be assassin was stopped by stalwart members of the 501st legion.”

Cal’s mouth goes dry. He had been hungry a moment before but now nausea churns in his stomach. Zett had been his friend. The pair of them were nigh inseparable until they were taken by masters and began training separately. The last time they had talked had been only a week before his master was killed.

Cere’s mug of caff drops from her hand and shatters on the floor.

“Jrik, what motivation could a Jedi Padawan have for attacking a Senator?”

The grainy camera footage vanishes and is replaced with two humans inside a sleek news studio, wearing crisp robes seated at a spotless table.

“Well, Assawle, once the Jedi revealed their real motivation for fighting in the Clone War, it becomes clear the entire order must have been deeply, deeply deluded by their lust for power. Evidently, they were far gone enough to brainwash their young initiates into supporting their goals. It’s impossible to tell for how long their organization had been planning this coup, but it’s very possible that it was their goal since the conception of their religion.”

“Religion? More like a cult, if you ask me.” The other anchor quips.

Jirk chuckles, and the sound of it makes Cal feel even sicker. “You got that right. Well, we can all agree we have our boys in white to thank for keeping our galaxy safe from the violence and tyranny of the Jedi. I know I sleep better at night knowing that they’re well and gone.”

“Well said, Jirk. And you know what I always say. A good Jedi is a dead Jedi.”

“Hey, that’s a good one! I’ll have to remember that. The parade here in the upper levels of Coruscant is expected to begin any minute now, so stay tuned, we’ll be back to report on the Empire Day festivities as they-”

“Well, that’s enough of that,” Greez almost shouts as he switches off the holo-screen. “Nothing interesting on this morning, no use burning the bulbs out if there’s nothing worth reporting. Don’t worry about the mug, Cere, we have plenty others.”

Any other day, Greez would absolutely want Cere and everyone else in the next 3 systems to worry about the mug. But today he busies himself with the broom and doesn’t comment on it again.

Cal reminds himself to breathe. He looks at Cere, who’s gone almost as pale as he is and hasn’t yet stopped staring at the screen.

“Cere?”

She doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Cere!” He moves to stand between her and where the news used to be, and that seems to get her attention. Her eyes snap to his, as if suddenly awakening from a dream.

“Sorry, Cal. Are you okay?”

He nods. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He wants to call out her brazen lie for what it is, but doing so would make him a hypocrite, so he leaves their falsehoods hanging awkwardly in the air between them.

“I… Greez, let me help you with that.” She turns around suddenly and busies herself with fetching a damp rag to wipe up the caff that was spilled on the floor.

“No no, I said don’t worry about it. You just take it easy, Cere.”

As if sitting around would bring the Jedi back. He knows Greez means well, but Cal isn't in the mood to deal with their captain’s fussing, so he turns on his heel and strides back to his cramped quarters, notions of breakfast entirely forgotten.

Yes, today seems like an excellent day for staying in his room and shutting out the rest of the world.

He pulls his headphones over his ears and turns the volume of his music up as high as it will go. Prauf liked to warn him he was going to go deaf that way, but Cal doesn’t care, and thinking of Prauf only hurts more. So he closes his eyes and tries very hard not to think of Prauf, or Zett, or Caleb, or his Master. He doesn’t think about the men with matching faces who had been his friends once, who managed to destroy everyone and everything he loved in one fell swoop. He doesn’t think about Cere in the common room, who seemed determined to pretend that everything was just fine. He doesn't think about the billions of beings who thought he had been brainwashed by a fucking cult.

The music is hard and fast and he focuses on it until it consumes him completely. He lets his upper body rock with the rhythm and empties his mind until there’s nothing left in his consciousness but sound.

#jedi: fallen order #jedi: fallen order fanfic #cere junda #cal kestis #jedi fallen order fanfiction

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memoriashell · 3 years

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hey i really like you ( can we go out? )

Characters / Pairing: Fukawa Touko / Naegi Komaru, techincally some background Ishimaru / Oowada, Makoto gets a few lines, and Syo’s present for a bit in the begining.

crossposted on ao3

Notes: hello here's your late day five of @tokomaruweek week!! valentine's day prompt!!

the format for the texting section might look a little funky on tumblr since there’s no easy way of aligning right side / left side text but hopefully it’s obvious enough who’s texting what.

heads up i'll be skipping day 6 for now probably! i’ll come back to it when i’ve finished the rest of the week, i just might get stuck on it for a hot minute and i’d like to get the rest of the week out of the way first since i'm already behind.

anyways it's probably also noteworthy to mention that this drabble works on the basis you have a basic understanding of the cultural differences in how japan celebrates valentine's day. i was originally going to try and incorporate white day into this drabble instead of just mentioning it but i wasn’t super happy with how this one was turning out anyways and figured it was best to just get this out as it is!!

i also feel like i should clarify bc that i realize the way i characterize toko in everything this week has made it seems like she hates kiyotaka’s guts but honestly i think they’d be real close!! i really like them as two outsider kids who can relate to each other. they are two sides of the same narrative coin and in this essay i will /j anyways please understand she rags on him from a place of ( platonic ) LOVE. and also bc they r both my cc’s i could never be that mean to either of them. well. no meaner than canon is to them.

edit: forgot tws. nothing super huge bc it's mostly fluff, but it does refrence bullying ( although would you consider faked love confessions / etc as bullying? it's just cruel :( anyways. )

Summary: valentine's day has never been good for ugly girls ( and hopeless romantics ) like her.

Valentine's Day. Every girl’s least favorite day.

Or, well, at the very least, her least favorite. Uh, one of her least favorite holidays? Then again, it’s not like Touko really has a ‘favorite’ in the first place, so maybe her point is moot— but she’s getting side tracked here.

One would presume that a romantic like her, an author who writes romance for a living, would live for a holiday that's practically centered around love and romance, but they would be wrong. It’s a miserable reminder of a day for her who has practically been scorned by the idea of relationships. It is a bitter reminder of failed loves and societal norms that she’s never been able to meet.

( Ugly. Rude. Awkward. Unsociable. So what if they’re right? Who is she to tell them they’re wrong? )

If it is not for the fact that she is pretty sure Ishimaru will be at her door if she doesn’t show up, she would probably skip class today. Oh, to be a confident gay man on Valentine's Day and not a closeted lesbian who feels the need to meet heteronormative societal norms. It’s unfair because not only is he ( mostly ) unaffected by this kind of holiday, he’s probably one of the people who care the least about the delicate social intricacies ( and romanticism ) of a holiday like this one. If nothing else, so she can’t say she envies the position this puts Oowada in, because Ishimaru would probably just see this as a learning moment. Anyways before she sounds too envious of her peers for getting their shit together, she just wants it to be unknown that she thinks it’s really unfair that he would get to judge her reasons for wanting to skip school.

( Actually, if she fessed up the deep-seated issues related to why she’d rather not have to be present on a day like today, the last thing he’d do it judge but that’s not really something she wants to acknowledge right now )

Moving on.

Despite the fact that, internally, she is making a fuss about a holiday, she suspects that most of her class probably doesn’t really care about these things. That doesn't mean she feels any less pressured to conform. It’s not like any of them would want chocolates from someone like her anyways, so it’s not like she really needs to be worried...

It’s not the end of the world, stop being such a debbie downer! Syo butts in, ever so helpful. By which she means is very, very unwanted and unhelpful. All the same, they ( unfortunately ) have a point and if she has to put up with this shitty day then at the very least she’d like to have breakfast before someone sees fit to break down her door.

You technically don’t have to do anything. Syo sounds almost too enthusiastic to help with the ‘issue’ at hand.

Using you to escape my problems isn’t always a viable strategy. Touko rebukes. Nor is it a choice, usually.

Only because you try and make yourself as miserable as possible by making things worse for you.

She has nothing to say to that, and instead focuses on braiding her hair to be passably presentable.

“Fukawa-san?” Oh, what she wouldn’t give to not have to hear her name today. Granted, Touko doesn’t think hearing her name being called on any given day is usually a good sign, but it still feels too early in the day to willingly put up with anything and shoots a glare at Naegi, standing in front of her desk. It probably doesn’t help that he sounds nervous for some godforsaken reason, but that’s technically not out of the ordinary, and she’s pretty sure Syo has something to do with that. “Sorry, uh...I was going to try and catch you at your locker this morning, but I guess I must’ve missed you, huh?”

She gives him the most deadpan, withering stare she can muster at the moment as if to say obviously. She’d even turned up to class early because she figured that dealing with whoever else would be in class would be more manageable than having to deal with anything going on in the halls ( because Hope’s Peak is not a normal school and god knows if something can go wrong, it will, and she is not having any of it today ). She assumed that if she looked busy, anyone with any common sense would leave her alone, but Makoto is not the brightest, clearly.

It still kind of throws her for a loop, however, that he chooses to approach her today, of all days. If she were anyone else, or if this exchange happened in any other context, she is sure that him acting like this on Valentine's Day would seem like it was setting up for a love confession. If it weren’t for the fact that Naegi already had a partner so, that’s probably not an issue— not that that would be a theoretical issue, because hey it’s not like Naegi was likely to be the kind of person cruel enough to fake a love confession. That’s definitely not something that’s happened to Touko before and gotten her hopes up only to be horribly crushed and definitely not the reason she’s been particularly defensive today. Nope.

( Yeah, okay, she’s not fooling anyone, but thankfully the only one aware of this is herself. And Syo, but both of these things are clear givens )

It occurs to her that Naegi hasn’t said anything, waiting for her to say something to him, and she grits her teeth irritably. “Wh-What? Spit it out already.”

“Err...are you...” He starts to say something and then seems to think better of it, sheepishly ducking his head for a moment before holding a bag out to her. “Sorry. Komaru asked me to bring these to you. Kirigiri-san had to convince her to not try and sneak into the main building just to bring these to you herself.”

It takes a long minute for her to process what he says before snatching the bag from his grip and holding it close to herself. Friendship chocolates...? That’s probably what’s in the bag. Which is a pretty nice thought in itself— Touko doesn’t usually get gifts like this. It almost makes her not want to touch the bag and ruin the illusion, refrain from eat whatever’s in the bag: but honestly if she doesn’t, Syo will probably make sure to savor it, so she won’t even pretend like that’s an option.

( There’s a part of her that feels a little guilty too, that she hadn’t even considered that Komaru might do something like this and have something prepared for her in return, but if she’d made something and not gotten anything then she’d look like a fool, and it’s not like she would’ve been able to get it to her easily anyways, so she really shouldn’t feel guilty about accepting it, but— )

“I’m glad you like it. She was kind of worried about how you’d take it.” Naegi speaking breaks through her current train of thought and is he still standing here? Had she been stupidly smiling to herself? How embarrassing!

“It’s n-n-not like that...and what kind of person do, do you take me for, anyways...!” Well, if she had been showing any sort of positive emotion on her face, she isn’t anymore. Touko takes this as an opportunity to shove the bag into her book bag, before anyone can notice. For some reason, he looks vaguely disappointed. “I was...ugh, I was just th-thinking that it was surprising she’d trust you with it given the, the track record with how your l-luck turns out!”

Makoto opens his mouth to refute this but thank god someone calls his name from the doorway, and she takes that opportunity goes back to her books before he can try and say anything further to her.

touko-chan!!!!

makoto said he gave you my gift successfully so i know u got it

i think

i didn’t expect u to thank me or anything but it’d be nice

pls tell me u got it right

did u at least read the note i left in there for u

Does Komaru not have homework, or what? She could at least give her a few minutes to try and get a word in. It’s not her fault math is a bitch and Touko is too stubborn to maybe talk to one of her peers into explaining the subject to her.

Yes, by some miracle I did manage to get it.

Thanks.

You’re a good friend.

Sorry.

Is that all? I’m busy.

That is not all, apparently, because Komaru forgoes texting to call her directly. If it were anyone else, she’d ignore it; but since it’s her she figures she can probably talk and do math at the same time.

“So you didn’t check the bag at all?” Komaru speaks before she can even consider greeting her, and Touko rolls her eyes despite the fact that she cannot see it.

“Hello to y-you too. Uh…honestly, I shoved it in my bag earlier and...and haven’t checked on it since. I assumed it was j-j-just candy, and it’s probably safer hid from Syo there.”

“Ugh! I told Makoto to mention to you that I put something else in there. And there’s a box for Syo in there too!” She can practically hear her pouting through the phone line. “Well, uh— I guess that’s fine since you’re busy...? Just check it when you get the chance, okay? Please? I promise it’ll make sense.”

“I got it, I got it. I’ll take a break once I finish this up and check it out. Good enough for you?”

“Mhm! Thank you Touko-chan! I’ll let you go now, so you can focus. Bye!” If Touko wasn’t mistaken ( but probably is ), she sounded almost nervous, the way her words come out in one rushed breath.

Admittedly, now she’s too intrigued by whatever had Komaru pressed enough to make sure she was aware of it, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to focus now, so...opening the bag it is. She grumbles and groans to herself for a moment, stretching as she gets up from her desk to grab her bag.

She hadn’t really noticed at the time, but now that she thinks about it, there’s some definite weight to this thing, more than she’d expect from some candies ( even now knowing that apparently Komaru had accounted for Syo as well ). Not much though, and she probably would’ve just passed it off for the box the sweet is stored in if she were to really think about it, but now she figures that’s probably not the case. Touko peeks inside the bag a little hesitantly— curiosity wins out over anxiety in the end, and spots what appears to be a small booklet along with a box of chocolates.

Oh god.

She braces herself because, this is probably some kind of manga if she knows Komaru and ( unfortunately ) not a mini-novella but otherwise has no idea what to expect. And once she opens it, she has to thank whatever higher being made sure Makoto didn’t say a thing to her about it because there’s absolutely no way she would have been able to keep a straight face if she’d looked at this in class.

One, she forgot how generally talented Komaru was at this type of stuff. Obviously, still room for improvement, but not nearly as bad as Touko would have thought. Two, this is not really a manga, but a fucking thinly veiled love confession, complete with the most casual ‘Hey I really like you, can we go out?’ Third, she’s extremely glad Komaru did not insist on being on the phone while she checked this out because she does not think she can coherently answer that right now.

In fact, it takes Touko a good half hour to calm herself down enough before she can even consider texting her a response. There’s no way she’s embarrassing herself any further by calling her about it, even if that might have been a more meaningful exchange, but like Komaru just confessed to her through manga so clearly they’re already past that point.

You’re a dork.

I hate that you’re using your talents for this though.

thats not a no?

Not a yes.

Very tempted to make it a no for making me suffer through this.

touko-chan;;;;;

be gentle to my poor heart if ur gonna reject me :(

Ugh. I was kidding.

Yes you idiot.

Just don’t use manga for this stuff next time?

ok!!!!! :)

actually i promise nothing

lol sorry ♡

You’re the worst.

hehehehehe >:)

i love you too!!

are you busy this week??

let’s meet up!!!

Some of us care about our grades. As should you.

But Thursday and Friday are lighter days.

Yeah yeah. I like you or something.

thank uuuuu ♡♡♡

She chews on her lip as she rereads the message and mulls over it as she tries to ignore the flip-flop of her stomach. It’ll be fine. She’ll just aim to have something planned out for White Day in return.

#tokomaru week 2021 #toukomaru #tokomaru #komaru naegi #toko fukawa #touko fukawa #danganronpa #* zhi writes

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songfell-ut · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1, I suppose

...Hello! It looks like this thing is on. So. Hi.

I am posting this because I saw an Undertale comic by @lostmypotatoes on one of those dub channels, and it was such a neat and unfinished concept that I started writing an original story based on it. Then I contacted her and she was super sweet about my thievery and I was like ha ha too bad I didn’t make this a UT fic and now I wrote this too.

I don’t know any of the usual formatting or etiquette for posting fic on here because I’m old and don’t do stuff. Sorry! (I signed up here for this very purpose.) It’s...good gravy, almost 7,000 words. Anyway! Here you go, let me know if I should look into Witchfell I don’t know I just did him Underfell but there’s witches

*takes Valium*

~~~

"Make way! The High Priestess approaches!"

The monster sat up in his prison cell, focusing on a slim figure coming down the stairs. In the room's single witchlight, he could make out a few details: a black gown with a narrow skirt that flared over the stone floor, a spiked headdress, and a long, dark veil over her features. The orange pinpricks of his eyes narrowed.

The guards stood at attention as the priestess approached the cell, her head high and her hands demurely folded. "Make haste, men!" barked the captain. "Secure the creature! Tighten those bonds!"

She stopped just short of the bars as the guards made a show of pulling levers on either side of the cell, stretching the chains tighter on the monster's limbs. "How long has he been here?" she asked.

"Three days, my lady," the captain said, "but he has refused all of his meals."

The priestess looked steadily at the captive monster. "Does he have a name?"

"He calls himself 'Sans,' my lady," the captain replied.

The High Priestess' headdress tilted to one side. "You know, Captain, wood and iron bars cannot hold a boss monster," she said quietly.

The men jumped as the monster snorted—as much as a skeleton could do so. "Funny, I told 'em the same t'ing," he said, his voice rough and painfully loud in the tiny space.

The captain gripped his sword hilt with one hand. "Silence, monster!" he snapped.

"No, let him speak," said the priestess.

Sans grinned wider, baring huge, jagged teeth. Though he remained sitting, he towered over the humans on the other side of the bars, especially the young woman. "How generous of you, witch," he said mockingly. "Tell me, how may I repay your kindness? Let you take my SOUL? Harvest my magic? Or add me to yer evil little collection?"

The guards muttered to each other in dismay. "How dare you speak to her with such disrespect?" demanded their captain. "She is the High Priestess of this realm, and you will address her as such!"

"Wow, what a loyal dog. You heard 'er, I get to talk," retorted the skeleton. He glared down at the priestess, ignoring the captain's sputtering. "Now, witch. Tell me. What are ya gonna do t'me? I ain't very fond of surprises. My heart can't take it." He placed his bony palm on his chest. "Grant me this one kindness, ya magic thief."

The High Priestess did not move. "Captain. Free him."

Sans lifted the equivalent of an eyebrow as the men gasped. "High Priestess," protested the captain.

"Release the bonds," she said.

The captain swallowed. "Is this a wise—"

"Free him, now." The woman's hands dropped to her sides as the guards reluctantly pushed the levers back up. "Sans, I'd like to make you my apprentice," she told the bemused skeleton. "In return, I will give you your freedom."

Stunned silence hung in the air. "You want me to be your apprentice?" the monster repeated. He looked at her, and he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

The captain bristled, moving in front of the woman with his sword drawn, then stepping back at her murmured command. The other men winced as the monster's laughter echoed off the walls. "Stars! That is rich!" Sans slapped his thighbone. "Ya know," he said, more conversationally, "I'd be less offended if ya dragged me out an' forced me to be yer slave."

Suddenly, his grin had no humor in it. The priestess tensed as the monster reached up to grasp his collar. "Do ya think I'm stupid? Me as your apprentice, witch? Please, don't fool yerself with your own lies!" The collar shattered, crumbling to dust. He gave another laugh, eyes glowing a hellish orange. "But I guess I should thank you for the opportunity," he said savagely. "'Cause now I'm going to—"

The air around him exploded in white-hot flame as the monster's voice rose to a bellow of "KILL YOU ALL!"

Power raced through the skeleton in scintillating waves, lighting the cell as bright as a hot day. Now Sans could do what he'd dreamed of since that first human sorcerer had caught him unawares: murder everyone in his path. There were so many possibilities! Fire was fun, but usually worked too fast. He could always tear them limb from limb, but that was messy and labor-intensive. Then there was blue magic, which turned them into stupid, flailing rag dolls, easy to pick up and impossible to put d—

A twinge of suspicion interrupted his musings. Where was the screaming, or the sound of fleeing footsteps? Sans lowered his aura until he could see the room clearly, and what he saw chilled him to his very SOUL.

His attack hadn't killed anyone. It hadn't even singed them. The cell's bars had disintegrated, but now a translucent golden haze stretched from floor to ceiling, and his magic was splashing off it like raindrops off an umbrella. The guardsmen were bravely huddled by the stairs, slack-jawed but unharmed, while the High Priestess stood right where she'd been, hand raised and lips moving.

Sans was not quite so confident now. In fact, his first impulse was to run away screaming. This was the stuff a monster's nightmares were made of: he was trapped by a barrier.

Once upon a time, he'd tormented his brother with stories about a bad little skeleton who went out alone after dark, or talked to strangers, or didn't do his big brother's chores for him, and it always ended with the bad skeleton getting caught by a human. All monsters heard those bedtime stories and learned that there was no escape from barriers; not even the King was strong enough to break one, and just touching them would kill you. If you were lucky, the human would drag you off to be their slave, never to be seen again. If you weren't, they'd squeeze the magic from your body or snap your ribs open to dig your SOUL out, then leave you to die and let your dust blow away.

Panic closed over him like a shroud. He gathered all of his magic and threw himself into a shortcut out of the castle, only to strike an invisible wall and bounce right back into the cell. Shaking his head to clear it, Sans looked around and realized that the barrier had him boxed in on all sides.

Anger saved him, as it always had. In another moment, he wasn't afraid anymore; he was furious at his captors and their whole cheating, thieving, murdering, thoroughly worthless race.

And it was the worst possible moment for the priestess to open a small hole in the barrier and say, "Sans, please calm yourself. I don't want to hurt you."

She snapped the barrier shut half a second before a wickedly pointed bone thudded into it, the tip nearly touching her nose. "So be it," the young woman said tightly, and the bone evaporated as the barrier glowed brighter.

Sans knew better than to waste his energy in an all-out assault. Instead, the boss monster contemplated the force it'd take to punch through one small area around her neck or her heart. He might still be afraid, but every fiber of his being wanted that woman dead on the floor. So...

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned an array of massive, razor-sharp bones, almost too many for the cell to hold, and began firing them at blinding speed, one right after another. The priestess didn't react, but as he struck the same few inches of barrier over and over again, he saw bits of gold flake away, revealing a tiny crack.

He smirked, focusing his magic to hit harder and faster. So much for scary stories. Her people might have been glorifying her as some kind of mighty sorceress, but she was just another stupid human, witch or not. She'd raised her other hand to reinforce the spell, but more and more cracks were forming. You're boned, he thought, chuckling to himself.

Still, as he watched and waited for the golden light to shatter, he had to feel some grudging admiration. Most of the magic-wielding humans he'd killed were big, blustery men, and none of them had lasted half as long as this scrawny female. What kind of SOUL did the witch have, anyway? He'd seen just about every color there was, and figured she was stubborn enough to be purple, or maybe a patient cyan, or even orange for bravery. After all, he was throwing out everything he had, and she wasn't backing down. The skeleton squinted at her through the barrier, searching for the telltale spark of—ah, there it was. There...it...was.

For the second time, Sans looked at her and knew instantly that he was boned. Despite the ferocity of his attacks, the cracks in the barrier were starting to fill themselves in, and the air crackled with another surge of her magic. A merry little chorus of Shiiiiit shit shit shit rang in his head as he stared at her blazing-red SOUL, and it only got louder when he remembered what that color meant.

Determination.

It didn't matter that she was just a human. His intention to kill her was nothing compared to her will to live. As the bones he conjured came slower and weaker, dissolving as they hit the barrier, Sans knew with horrible certainty that he wasn't going to win.

The stories had to be true after all. Unless the priestess got careless and he could either kill her or use a shortcut, he was going to have to do whatever she wanted for as long as she said. But maybe, if he caught her off guard...

Sans let his arm drop. The last few bones clattered to the floor, and he sank to his knees, head bowed. Behind the High Priestess, the men all breathed a sigh of relief.

To her credit, the woman didn't let the spell go. She poked her head through for a better look at him, motioned to the guards to stay where they were, and knelt in front of the massive skeleton, halfway inside the barrier. "I'm not surprised that you wanted to escape. I can almost excuse you for trying," she said. Her voice was calm enough, and as far as he could tell with her veil on, her face was still expressionless.

He would have bought it if he hadn't noticed her hands clenching in her lap. "Almost?" the skeleton asked, head still lowered, eyes fixed on her.

"Almost."

He shrugged, watching her knuckles turn white. "Guess that's why yer the High Priestess, huh?"

"It is. None of my magic is stolen," she said.

"'Course not. Our power's no good in barriers. We ain't that stubborn, or that dumb," he added bitterly.

"My offer stands," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "Do you have any questions or conditions you'd like to propose?"

Sans glanced at her headdress. The spikes atop it dipped in and out of the golden curtain as her head drooped. She had to have expended most of her power holding him off; after several days with no food or sleep and then wasting all that effort on the barrier, he was pretty worn out himself. Too bad monsters couldn't take a human's magic, just her...

Her SOUL. It took all his self-control not to jump to his feet in excitement. Why the hell hadn't he thought of that? An ordinary monster who absorbed an ordinary human SOUL was supposed to grow incredibly powerful. What would happen if a boss monster gained all the power of a gifted and highly determined witch?

The High Priestess shook herself and sat up straighter. "Please answer me, Sans. I don't think either of us wants to go through that again."

"No," he admitted, shifting his weight back, edging toward the wall. Sure enough, she unconsciously moved closer, a few more inches into the cell. "I do have one question," he said, moving back again.

The woman frowned, scooting almost all the way out of the barrier. "What is it?"

He slowly, delicately reached down and tapped on her headdress, gentle as a light breeze. "Mind if I get a better look at ya?"

The priestess started. For the first time, she seemed uncertain. "I..." She frowned, and as she opened her mouth again, Sans lunged at her.

There was no question of her ducking behind the barrier in time. Before she even knew that he'd moved, one of the skeleton's hands had closed around her torso and lifted her as easily as a child holding a doll. The barrier vanished behind her, and Sans said casually, "Heel, or I'll stomp 'er like a grape."

The guards froze in the act of drawing their swords. The priestess started to say something, but he flexed his hand ever so slightly, and she stopped.

Sans smiled. He considered her for a moment, wondering if he should crush her anyway and squeeze her out slowly in front of the guardsmen, the way humans drained a monster's magic. It was tempting, and kind of poetic, but he decided he'd better not; he didn't want to damage her SOUL. Besides, she'd put up a hell of a fight. If anyone deserved a quick death, it was—

"Sans," she said. To his astonishment, she worked her arm out over his fingers and rested her hand on his knuckle. "Please," she murmured.

Normally, he would have laughed at a human begging him for mercy, but this didn't feel like begging. She was just looking at him calmly.

...No, the crazy bitch wasn't asking, she was telling. She was distressed, but expectant, as if she was just waiting for him to put her down and apologize!

He should've squished her or bashed her against the wall for that. But, somehow, as the veiled priestess stared into the fire of his eye sockets, the idea of breaking her didn't seem much fun anymore. Her head lowered and tipped to one side, and all of a sudden, it was like his mind – his memory – got pulled sideways.

As he stared back at her, he was no longer facing a mortal enemy. He was back in a moment he thought he'd forgotten, standing in front of his house in Snowdin. A tiny human in a striped shirt was holding his hand and smiling up at him with perfect, stupid trust, and he knew that however much he despised humanity, he could never hate this kid, any more than he could reach up and stop the sun in its orbit. Why did he have to think of it now, when he needed all the homicidal energy he could muster?

With a painful effort, Sans tore himself away from that memory, back to the present and the woman in his hand. The skeleton growled, starting under his breath and working up to a snarl that reverberated throughout the stone walls. To hell with her. To hell with all of them!

Lack of space was a definite issue, but Sans prided himself on adaptability. He extended his arm to its full length, nearly shoving her into the frightened guards, which gave him enough room to materialize a single blaster.

It was much smaller than usual, and that was fine, because it'd concentrate the last of his power into one good shot. The skull shone an incandescent red, eyes aflame and fangs glinting in its own light, literally nose-to-nose with the High Priestess. Sans let his rage and frustration rise like a tide of pure filth, distantly surprised that he could still feel some grief beneath it all, and the blaster's mouth creaked open from the pressure building in its throat.

The priestess had pulled herself upright with her free arm. The scarlet luminescence was right up against her eyes, but she screwed them shut and leaned forward, face set with determination.

In his haste to align the blast and hit all the humans at once, Sans didn't hear anything unusual; he didn't even notice when the light dimmed just a little, or that the pressure had stopped rising. But then a shock ran through him like a hand grabbing his SOUL, and he jerked out of his concentration to see – and feel – the woman stroking the blaster's nose as if it was an overexcited puppy. "It's all right," she said, so low that he barely heard her. "Please, stop. It'll be all right. I promise." And he'd be damned if the giant skull wasn't closing its mouth and leaning into her hand!

No one had actually touched one of his blasters before. They were long-distance weapons, and he used them as such, only getting close when it was fun or strategic to do so. His first reaction was horrified indignation; he might be about to vaporize her, but for crap's sake, he wasn't being inappropriate.

As she kept petting, though, she leaned in and rested her forehead on the skull's lower jaw, and the skeleton felt an alien sensation steal over him, something he didn't recognize at first. The light dimmed further; the skull's jaws drifted shut. For the first time, Sans heard a soft, rich sound—it was the woman humming to herself, or to the blaster, as if trying to soothe it.

And it was working. Sans felt as if he'd been drugged, with a sense of...peace? Was that it? Yes, it was absolute peace washing over him, relaxing his grip so that the young woman had to catch herself before she fell out of it. She might have been smiling faintly beneath the veil, but he couldn't focus enough to tell. He wondered if it was the same magic that had made him think of Kris, a distraction to save herself and kill him before he attacked again.

No...he wasn't drugged or under some kind of spell. Sans remembered feeling this way when he was a lot younger, and a couple of times during the humans' last visit to the Underground, when he and Pap discovered that at least one human was worth something. Of course, then they'd lost him, and there were no more humans worth anything.

It never failed to amaze him. They'd had less than a month together, but all these years later, he still missed the little bastard so much that it hurt.

Luckily, the pain didn't last. The woman kept humming, and Sans grew less and less angry. The blaster made a kind of purring sound and vanished; at the same time, Sans' arm fell, releasing the priestess, allowing her guards to rush in and pull her away.

The boss monster gazed at the angry humans with total detachment, scratching the back of his head as he yawned. She'd won. "You win," he mumbled.

"Are you all right, my lady?" demanded the captain, helping her sit down against the wall.

The humming had stopped. The young woman rubbed her eyes, keeping them shut. "Don't kill him, please" was all she said.

Sans closed his eyes, too. The humans were conferring in rapid whispers on what to do with him, but he didn't care anymore. It was almost a relief when they stepped back, a couple of them grunted with effort, and something crashed into his skull, knocking him out.

Over a day later, the High Priestess shut the outer door to her chambers, set a covered tray on the table, and sat down at her mirror. She checked that her eyes were clear, or at least not so puffy anymore, then picked up her veil and headdress and settled them over her head. She stared at her reflection for a full minute, as if waiting for the woman in the mirror to get up first. She sighed, and finally pushed herself to her feet.

Just outside her bedroom, she paused, running a thread of magic ahead to check each of the loose barriers she'd set around the bed. Two ripples came back, one very close by. "Good morning. Please step back," she said into the slight crack in the door.

A pause, then a soft creak of floorboards, unnervingly quiet for something – someone – his size. "Further, please," she ordered.

He made a noise she couldn't interpret. Floorboards creaked again, and the bedframe groaned under his weight. The priestess turned the doorknob, picked up the tray, and elbowed the door open.

Sans was sitting on the edge of the bed, knees on his elbows. He had opened the windows, and in the early daylight, he looked even more menacing; the light shone through his filthy shirt, shadowing the spaces between his ribs. The young woman made herself place the tray on a side table and pull up a chair with perfect unconcern, as if she couldn't feel him staring her down. "I see you're all healed. You must have slept well," she said coolly. "I know I did."

The skeleton glanced behind him at the rumpled sheets. "Uh..."

"You were alone the whole time," the priestess hastened to add. "There's a very comfortable couch in my office that I've been using."

"Yer office, huh?" Sans stretched his arms out over his head, bones clicking softly as he rolled his neck around. "Pretty nice setup y'got here. What is this, silk? Real feathers?"

She inclined her head. "I would have removed you from your cell much sooner if I'd known you were there. No one told me until Duke Archibald asked me to help select your new owner, which, no, I am not." She grimaced. "May I ask how you were caught? You're certainly capable of defending yourself."

Sans didn't answer. The young woman was thinking of what else to say when he grunted and turned to stretch back out on the bed, splaying his limbs across the huge mattress. "This's the most comfortable place I ever slept, y'know that?"

"Me, too," she said before she could stop herself.

Sans glanced up, as if wondering whether he'd seen a glimpse of personality, and she cleared her throat. "Is it the same reason you made no attempt to break out of your cell for three days?"

"Got caught tryin'a steal some grain," the skeleton mumbled. "Not a lot of food in the Underground these days. I hadn't had anythin' for a while, so I was weak as hell."

"You refused to eat anything while you were imprisoned," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "I figured it was poisoned or drugged 'r some other shit. Humans don't get their mitts on a boss monster every day, but ya can't have five sorcerers watchin' me every second. Feeding me some kinda crap like that would be the easiest thing t'do."

That didn't feel quite right, but without more evidence, the priestess decided to leave it for now. Instead, she pulled the side table closer to the bed and removed the tray's cover.

Sans twitched at the sight of steaming hotcakes, piles of cheese-sprinkled eggs, tomatoes, and crisp-crusted sausage links. The priestess cut a tomato slice into quarters with her fork, speared one and, with the ease of long practice, took hold of her veil between two fingers and lifted it long enough to get the fork to her mouth, dropping it as she put the fork down.

"Seriously? Just take the damn thing off," the skeleton remarked, sitting up.

The young woman made a show of chewing, swallowing, and lifting another tomato to her mouth. He didn't have a stomach, but if he had, she probably would have heard it growling; he was shifting around and scowling, clearly agitated. So she quickened her pace, taking a huge bite of egg, a chunk of hotcake, and a sausage, in turn eating as fast as she could.

Sans' eyes had lit to orange again, and the priestess was glad to put the fork down. "There. You see? It isn't poisoned," she said briskly. She stood and pushed the side table over to the bed. "Help yourself."

The orange faded. His skull tilted this way and that, like a wary but curious animal. "What?"

"I had breakfast over an hour ago. This is for you," she explained.

He glanced at the tray, then back to her. She waited for a full ten seconds, almost holding her breath, before she was rewarded with a rude noise. "Can I have another fork? Don't want your germs," he said.

The priestess knew when she was being tested. She picked up the fork. She went to the nightstand and the pitcher of water standing ready, and dunked the fork in it, swishing vigorously. "Here. But first," she said, holding up the dripping utensil, "I'd like to get a few things straight."

He didn't move. A moment later, she felt a tug on the fork, and instantly snapped the connection by raising another barrier. "No cheating," she reproved him.

"I'm cheating?" The skeleton banged his fist on the bedpost. "How the hell are you doin' this? I'm not dumb, lady! Ya can't just slap a barrier on somethin' that blocks every kinda magic! I can't get out of here, I can't go blue, ya did some weird crap to my poor blaster—"

"I helped you calm down. You've been asleep for twenty-six hours, by the way."

He stopped dead, but only for a second. "Yeah? Well...well, how do ya know so damn much about what I can do? If I'd known this was gonna happen, I'd'a left a long time ago!"

"And yet you didn't." The woman crossed her arms, keeping the fork pointed away from him. "I don't believe that you were too weak to remove yourself from the situation, Sans. We all have our secrets, and I don't mind that, but I need to know that you won't take drastic measures before we've completed our arrangement."

"There is no arrangement, witch," he shot back. "I'll make you a deal, okay? Forget this apprentice crap, lemme go now, and I won't kill anyone on my way out. How's that?"

She tapped the fork on the pitcher's handle. "Your people possess almost no farmland, and the area we've left you has notoriously poor soil. Did you know there are several potions, all made from common ingredients, that could double your crop yields in the space of a few years?"

Sans started. "No, and I don't care," he said, but without conviction.

"You should. There are also potions that can heal wounds, preserve foodstuffs, and send you to sleep with no ill effects, using only the tiniest bit of magic. Do you mean to tell me that monsters need none of these things?"

The skeleton looked at her warily. She could almost see him thinking. His rough speech and rougher appearance didn't fool her: he was at least as intelligent as she was, and also cared enough to want to hear more. "So," he rumbled, "I learn all this fantastic secret knowledge, and you get...?"

"Insight. Humans have been fighting monsters for centuries, and the more we know about you—"

His eyes flamed. "The easier it is to kill us? You seriously think I'm gonna—"

"The easier we can stop dying!" she snarled, her anger suddenly flaring right back at him.

The boss monster's eyes went blank with astonishment. She took a long, deep breath that did not help at all. "Believe me or not, Sans, when I say that I want to make peace for everyone's sake. I am tired of hearing every unsolved crime and evil thought blamed on monsters. I am tired of arguing with sorcerers who want to seal the entrance to the Underground and let you starve to death so that we don't have to talk about it anymore. I am tired of mediating disputes over monster ownership, as if we had any right to help ourselves to other sentient beings, and I'm sick to death knowing where our magic comes from and being unable to stop it!"

She was almost panting now, gripping the fork like a trident. Sans was staring at her like she'd grown another head. She swallowed, and lowered the fork. For want of something peaceful to do, she dipped it back into the pitcher for more swishing. "Monsters are not completely blameless," she said quietly, "but you are outnumbered by a much crueler and stronger race, and we've taken that advantage too far. It has to change, Sans, but we cannot do anything until we learn to talk to each other again."

Sans' teeth ground together. "Have you ever read a history book?" he snapped. "Ya know what happened the last time we had humans over to play?"

The priestess stared at a spot on the wall. Sans looked up in alarm as the barriers surged in and out of visibility, hissing softly. "Yes," she said, and went on, reciting from memory: "Several people were killed in an explosion caused by faulty stage effects at a farewell gala for the human delegation, most notably Prince Asriel of the monster race. Though the exact cause of this unfortunate accident remains unclear, its scope and destructive power were hallmarks of human magic, leading to accusations of sabotage and assassination from both sides. War was prevented solely by the will of Queen Toriel, who was devastated by the loss of her son and adoptive daughter, but nevertheless prevented her husband from executing the remaining humans. The delegation was permitted to leave, and in exchange, humans promised the Underground would never be sealed."

"...O...kay, then. Yeah. That's...that's pretty much it." Sans rubbed the back of his neck, scratching between the vertebrae. "Knowin' that, you still think you can teach me a bunch of stuff, turn me loose, an' make everything all better?"

"No. But I can try." On impulse, the priestess knelt, looking up at him and hoping the effect wasn't spoiled by the dirty fork. "Sans, give me one month. That's all I ask. You can have copies of any recipe you need to take back with you, and I'll show you the techniques to make them work properly. You won't have much freedom of movement, but you won't be kept in a cell, either." She glanced at the feather mattress and added, "You can keep the bed for yourself. As luxurious as it is, I feel lost in it."

He didn't laugh, but he didn't sneer at her, either. His eyes went from the fork to the bedpost, the canopy, the bookshelves lining the walls by the fireplace, and back to her face. "I need some time t' think about it," he said reluctantly. "What happens if I don't wanna?"

Her magic crackled in the air again, and she winced, trying to calm down. "I'd rather not say, but I think you know the answer. Remember, I'm not the only human who can use barriers."

He did not like that, and she couldn't blame him. She looked down at the fork in her hand. "You should eat now," she said lamely, and held it out to him, handle first, praying she had judged correctly.

The skeleton's face was impossible to read. Now that it was quiet, it reminded her too much of when he'd grabbed her in the cell. Her instincts screamed at her to pull her hand back and throw a barrier between them, but determination surged as she remembered how she'd already faced down his attempts to kill her. She was going to forge a lasting bond between their worlds and hand him a kitchen utensil like a normal person or die trying.

Slowly, Sans reached down, and she fought to keep from panicking as his massive hand approached hers. He paused...and plucked the fork from her grip with delicate courtesy, holding it up between them. "Hm. Too small. Still dirty." He tossed it back into her lap.

She stared at the fork. She stared at him. She picked up the fork, dropped it into the pitcher, and plunged her hand in after it. Out came the utensil; she turned her back to him, and with one swift motion, off came her veil. As High Priestess, she wore it for most of her waking hours, which meant she'd learned to whip it off without even disturbing her headdress, the way she'd once seen someone yank a tablecloth out from beneath a set of dishes.

And as High Priestess, if she wanted to use her sacred veil to dry a mostly-clean fork in order to please a giant monster who was intimidating her and somehow also being a complete snot, then who was going to stop her? No one, that was exactly who.

With a righteous huff, she turned back around, still polishing the bedamned fork. "Here," she said, facing him for the first time. "I hope this is satisfactory."

Sans looked at her. He didn't say anything.

The world always seemed a little too bright when she'd just had the veil on, and the light from the window was in her eyes. She rubbed them on her sleeve and tucked a strand of shoulder-length hair behind her ear. "Well?" she demanded.

Sans didn't take it. He was leaning forward, hand dangling as if he'd started to reach for it and somehow forgotten what he was doing. His sockets were blank, an odd color washing over his bony face. "Uh," he said. "It's."

The priestess didn't know that that could be a complete sentence. It probably wasn't, she thought in growing irritation. "Sans," she said carefully, "are you going to use this, or would you like to eat with your hands?"

The skeleton shook himself and turned away. "Never mind. 'm not hungry," he grumbled.

She bit back the urge to call him a colorful name or two. "Sans, this is not a joke. There is nothing wrong with your food, except that it's cold. Eat it. Please."

"I will, I will." Sans hunched his shoulders. "Just gimme a couple minutes."

She did not have the time or patience for this. "Sans. Look at this." He glanced at her, and in one motion, she stabbed a sausage and another chunk of hotcake. "Say 'ahhh,'" she ordered, and when he blankly repeated, "Ahh?" she thrust the fork into his mouth.

Sans nearly choked, demanding, "Wh' th' fuh, 'a'y?" before he swallowed it whole. The priestess was fascinated to not see anything pass his throat, though she knew he had eaten it. "What the fuck, lady?" he clarified.

"I am not 'lady,' thank you, and I know you know better words than that," she said sternly, putting the fork back on the tray. "It's not my fault if it got cold."

"I don't care how hot or cold somethin' is, lady. Ya didn't give me a chance to get my tongue out, so it's all the same to me." The boss monster answered her puzzled look by concentrating, then opening his mouth and pointing. "Thee? Tah-dah."

Good God, he suddenly did have a small, floppy red tongue. She flapped her hand at him, face burning. "All right! I believe you! Put it away!"

He did, and she was relieved to see nothing but a mouth full of giant fangs. "So," he said presently, "if I'm not supposed ta call you 'lady,' what's your name?"

The priestess blinked. No one had asked her that in a long, long time. "Well...if you don't like 'my lady,' there's always 'Your Eminence,' or my ceremonial name, Thea." It occurred to her that he was probably not going to react well to any of her suggestions, but she soldiered on: "You could just say 'High Priestess,' though that's a mouthful. At the convent, they gave each of us a different saint's name, and I was—"

Sans held up his hands. "Okay. That sounds peachy. But what. Is. Your. Actual. Damn. Name?"

She grasped her skirt so hard that her nails dug into her palms through the thick velvet folds. "My name is Frisk."

Sans' eyes were blank again. "Huh. No wonder. Welp, nice to meet you, Frisk." He raised a hand.

It was a blatant lie, but cordially given, so she attempted a smile in return. "It's nice to meet you, too, Sans."

For some reason, that seemed to alarm him. He drew back, then suddenly grabbed the tray, tipped his head back, and dumped the entire contents into his mouth. He had no cheeks, but his face somehow looked very full before he swallowed it all, dropping the tray on the floor. "There. Where's the bathroom?" he rasped.

Frisk realized her mouth was hanging open, and shut it. "It's...why do you ask? You're a skeleton."

"Right. Right." He scuffed the bones of his foot on the carpet. "Oh, look at this. Fork yes."

Sure enough, he'd found the fork. She scooped it up, setting it on the table, and out of nowhere, the priestess felt a real smile lift the corners of her mouth. "Just in tines."

The words hung in the air for a long moment. Frisk was beginning to feel stupid when Sans smacked his thighbone and gave a shout of laughter. "I'll be damned! You got the point."

"It's food for thought," she said, and grinned as he doubled over. "I'm sorry. Please fork-give me."

Just like that, she thought distantly. Yesterday – the day before? – she'd fought for her life against a boss monster who interpreted her overtures as a deadly threat, and now they were giggling in her room like drunken schoolgirls. Was this going to work after all? Was this how real peace began, with awkward silence and stupid puns? If not, Frisk could always console herself that this was the most she'd laughed in years.

Sans was not wondering the same thing. He was thinking how he'd woken up not knowing where he was and had had to figure out that he wasn't dreaming about the battle in his cell; a human witch really had trapped him and knocked him out with some kind of weird brain-magic. Once he got over the fact that he couldn't take any shortcuts and wouldn't fit through the windows, though, he had to admit things could be worse; the bed really was the most comfortable thing in the world.

Talking with the witch was not comfortable. It was bad enough when she was asking him questions about his capture and not breaking out of prison, but then she had to give him food and say things that made sense, and things that made even more sense, and then...

He'd never understood why human men made such a huge fuss over women. Monsters came in so many shapes and sizes that anything was possible; the inside really did count more than the outside, except maybe when it came to reproduction. But that was a rare occasion for monsters, who thought that humans' obsession with it was shallow and weird at best. Sans in particular had no interest in the human form unless he was trying to destroy it; they were all just skeletons with varying degrees of hair, meat and fluids in the way.

And then that infuriating woman had turned around in the sunlight, veil and stupid fork in hand, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. The overall picture was what made him feel a huge mess of feelings he didn't like or understand, but he could see every detail perfectly: her lips pursed in annoyance, the sun reflecting off that black circlet thing, chestnut hair shining and eyes half closed against the light. Her dress was still black, but today it was a looser, laced-up style, shoulders partly hidden under some kind of sheer material that ended high up her neck.

And then she had turned her head and done something with her hair, and now he couldn't think things right. All he could try to do was turn away, then eat it all in order to make her go away, and only his punning instinct had saved him from saying or doing anything else stupid.

Why did she have to like puns, too?

This was bad. It had gotten very complicated, very fast. He had to get out of here. She'd demonstrated some emotion behind her priestess-y facade; maybe he could appeal to it, persuade her to take some other monster under her wing and...wow. Speaking of wings, as she laughed, he happened to look down at her from a different angle, and she had a really nice rack. It was hard to see under such dark clothes, but they accentuated the graceful outline of neck and shoulder perfectly. Under the sheer material, her collarbone was—

"...going to do it," she was saying, wiping away tears of laughter. "I'm not all-powerful, but I have enough influence at court and with the Church to guarantee your safety." Frisk looked up at him, bright-eyed, and his SOUL did another loop-de-loop. "So, Sans. Will you stay?"

He didn't want to, it was a bad idea, and he said, "No," in his mind.

She smiled, tilting her head.

"Yeah," Sans said out loud.

#frans stopitstoptalking

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