#was literally there the whole cheating subject is very raw to me for many reasons and im just tired of being the emotional dump so often | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

versegm · 3 years

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The first thing you’re aware of is fire.

The fever rakes your body like boiling oil in your veins. The ground feels freezing cold beneath you compared to the summer locked in your lungs. You exhale, and your breath almost burns your lips.

You open your eyes.

“... Ah. I got lost again, didn’t I?”

The night sky greets you, pitch black pierced by a thousand stars. None of the constellations you see are familiar. Striking by its size and color, a blue planet stands among them.

You’re back on the Moon. Where all lost and forgotten things lay.

You sit up. Your limbs are trembling. It doesn’t hurt, though. You suspect that you might be dreaming- as much as servants dream, obviously. It’s harder to feel pain when one doesn’t have a body.

Your chest burns. Your everything burns. It’s a familiar fire, something you know you’ve encountered in the past. But when you blink, all you can picture is smoke, with no additional context. You cannot remember.

“Okay, so.” There’s no one here for you to talk to, of course. But talking out loud helps you keep track of your thoughts. Better track than when you keep quiet, if anything. “What’s the last thing I was doing?”

You look down. You’re wearing your usual armor. You flex your hands. They’re empty.

“I think I was hanging a light string. I was up a ladder. Siegfried was telling me to be careful.” You tilt your head. “So I was in Chaldea. And we had a reason to celebrate. Perhaps a birthday?” … No, you don’t think that was it. “A holiday, then?”

Ah! There! You clap your hands. “Christmas! It was for Christmas!” You love Christmas! Much lights! Much noise! It’s great! It’s like the world aligns with the inside of your head for a week.

“So I was hanging light strings for Christmas with Siegfried, and then I…” You pause. Frown. “I…”

…

You draw a blank there.

Huh. Well, no need to cry over it. You’ll remember in time. You usually do. In the meantime, you should probably get going. You’ve never shaken your memory up by sitting around.

You get up and start walking. Your legs are trembling. You feel weak. You feel hot. You walk past the prayers and wishes sent by sinners to God, past the ancient glory of the Assyrians, past the favors princes gift their subjects. You are so small, among these mountains of unrecorded history and unsated desires. They’ve only grown bigger since the last time you’ve come.

You reach the river. It’s unchanged. It is, after all, one of the few things even magic can’t alter easily.

The antelope, though, is new.

“Hi there!” You wave. Small. Short fur. Brown body, a black stripe on the flanks. White belly. White face. Two black stripes down its eyes like tears. It’s a springbok. (Or rather, it appears to be a springbok. On the Moon, more literally than on Earth, nothing is as it looks like. You wonder if you look like a human to others, here. Maybe you’re actually a bird, or a gust of wind. Reckless and free.)

The animal startles, turning her head towards you with fright- but she does not back away. She stares. You stare.

Slowly, she bows her head.

You do the same. It’s only polite. “So, are you lost too? I don’t remember how I got there. I think the underworld sickness sent me here, but honestly, I’m kinda guessing randomly here.”

Oh! The underworld! That’s right! That was the last time you felt this heat, when you wandered into Hell. You didn’t need a coat for the next few winters after that.

The springbok, being a springbok, doesn’t answer. She does, however, lowers her head, and tries to push something with her nose. Square. Thick. A clay tablet.

You get closer and pick it up. It’s a lot heavier than it looks. Perhaps your illness is making you weaker, but you have an inkling as to what that tablet is. If you’re right, that’d explain why it weights so much.

You flip the tablet. There is something carved on the other side. The alphabet is too old for you to know it. You can’t read it, but you know what it is.

“You know, last time, I met an old man here.” You say. You wonder if the springbok can actually understand you. “He was carrying stone tablets like these. The names of the recently deceased. Their name, and history, and identity, and everything. He carried them here, and threw them in the river. And then he went to pick up more tablets, and do it again.”

The antelope pokes your leg with her snout. You think she wants her tablet back. You ignore her and turn towards the water.

“Do you know what this is? It's the flow of time. The literal flow of time. When a name falls in there, it erodes. Becomes smoother. Until it’s not readable anymore. Until no one remembers that person anymore.” You smile. “That’s what I was told, anyway. I’m afraid my guide is long dead, too.”

The springbok makes a noise you could almost interpret as frustrated. You run your fingers over the writing on the tablet. “Is this your name?” Quite a life she must have led! For it to be so heavy. Did she burn bright, or did she burn long? You wish you could have a proper conversation with her, now. That sounds so interesting!

The gazelle is growing even more agitated now. She’s biting at your pant legs, pulling. She’s surprisingly strong. Still, you stand your ground. “If you’re not lost. Did you come here on purpose? Did you come here to be forgotten?”

The springbok lets go of you. For a few seconds, she doesn’t move. Your heart sinks.

Then she kicks you.

You stumble forward. You manage to catch yourself on your hands before your face hits the ground. But the tablet slips out of your grasp. It slips, and it rolls, and-

“No!”

You throw yourself on the river bank and plunge your arms into the water up to the elbow, tablet. deep catch . water pull .

ground back, . springbok , instead of as you feared, with concern.

“Hold on. My thoughts are. All over the place.” . “I’m missing. Bits. I need to talk. I can keep it straight if I keep talking.”

The springbok concerned noise pokes your with its soft . You would her, but arms feel like .

You peer down.

Oh.

Your arms are missing . It’s. Not good to look at. Raw exposed without to protect it. It’s a good thing is a dream. This would be to heal in real , not to mention painful.

“Sorry. Sorry. Couldn’t let you do that.” The tablet heavy in your arms. “Someone still remembers you, right? It’s not fair of you to force the wheels of time to speed up just for you. They should get to mourn you properly! You can’t just take it away from them. That’s rude. And painful. And, honestly, this wouldn’t even work well. Take it from an expert at forgetting things! One may not always remember people or names, but feelings are forever. If there’s still someone out there preventing you from being forgotten, removing your name from history won’t take away their grief.”

You wonder expression the gazelle is making. Your sight is getting blurry. Note to self, don’t play with time! It messes you up real bad! Real bad! Don’t do it.

“Anyway. No more of that. Let yourself get forgotten normally, like the rest of us. No cheating.” You close your eyes. “Or get remembered, and live with it. Whichever is your lot.”

You feel sleepy. You feel tired.

You feel a little less hot.

“Sorry. I guess that’s what I was brought there to do? Or maybe time’s just up for this particular dream.” You chuckle. “I mean it, though. No more of that, alright? Else I’ll have to come back again! I’ll get lost as many times as it takes to lend you a hand.”

You feel soft fur on your cheek.

You fall asleep.

You wake up in Chaldea.

You feel restless and warm. A plague struck Chaldea, you’re told. But it’s okay. The master dealt with it already. We can go back to Christmas. We can go back to celebrating.

Your forearms itch.There’s moondust all over your skin.

You can’t remember what you did.

You shrug. Hopefully, it was something good. Most likely, you were the sole witness of your actions, so you suppose it doesn’t really matter.

You head towards the cafeteria. You heard the master brought a couple more servants back from this whole adventure. You wonder who is this year’s Santa! Oh, maybe Cu Alter? He seems to be the only alter who didn’t-

You freeze in the doorway.

Blonde hair. Humanoid. Very obviously divine. Nothing about this stranger is even remotely reminiscent of antelopes. Yet, for a second, barely a blink- you see a springbok standing there.

Her skin is glistening with moondust, too.

Oh, my.

#fate #fate grand order #fgo #astolfo #ereshkigal #merry christmas in the underworld #my writing #memory loss tw #to be safe

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lizk77 · 4 years

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Ten Years

This was actually originally posted on facebook around the end of the year. It began with my need to share my experience with others. I saw a few of those ‘10 years ago’ posts where people post a pic from back then and a recent one side by side. I tried that and realized I don’t really look much different. But the last decade of my life has certainly been the most meaningful of my life. This is very personal and discusses physical, mental and emotional abuse so if that’s a sensitive subject for you please don’t read. This is why I’ve been absent from tumblr and writing for so long.

I would also say this is not appropriate for anyone under the age of 18 due to adult themes.

It’s been 10 years. A decade. The most difficult yet meaningful decade of my life. When I think back to the person I was 10 years ago, I am amazed by the woman I’ve become today. I stand here at the end of the most difficult decade of my life and I’m proud. Proud of what I’ve accomplished, my strength and everything I’ve learned.

I began this decade feeling nearly suffocated by grief. I was no stranger to grief, but the loss of my mother was like the spiritual and emotional equivalent of having the wind knocked out of you. Pure, utter devastation. I was overwhelmed by my feelings. The whole world felt like a strange, scary place without my mother in it. In the months preceding her death I had tunnel vision, I focused on taking care of her and Emily and didn’t allow myself time to feel anything. So even though I knew she was dying, it didn’t really hit home until after she was gone. I instantly regretted that I didn’t focus more on enjoying my mother’s last months on this earth. I carry that regret with me still today. I should’ve had her teach me how to make her spaghetti sauce. I should’ve written down the recipe for parsley potatoes that she showed me how to make once but I haven’t been able to duplicate since. I should’ve asked her questions. Questions about my grandparents, about my dad, about when I was a baby. I should’ve had her French braid my hair every night. I miss that the most. I should’ve asked her how to be a good mother. What to do when my child is up at 3am puking down the hallway, all over the bed and the carpet. If I should take my kid to the hospital when she has something stuck up her nose, or how high of a fever is cause for alarm. There have been countless instances over the past decade where I would have given anything to be able to call her for guidance and support.

Grief has been the overwhelming emotion guiding me the past 10 years. I’ve learned that grief never ends. It changes, at first the feeling of loss is so raw that you just don’t know how you’ll ever be the same again. Then, over time, it evolves into every emotion. Grief can be happiness, sadness, anger and frustration. It can encompass all emotions at once. There are times even now when I just feel the loss of her all over again and in that moment I’m devastated all over again. I struggled with a lot of things after my mother’s death. I am still struggling with my faith. I have been angry at God for the past decade, so angry that I have neglected the spiritual well-being of my children. I have yet to figure out how to let that go.

I’ve always considered myself to be a strong, independent person. Life made me that way. I’ve experienced enough death, enough pain, enough abuse. Not long after the death of my mother, I was lured into a relationship that provided security. Financial security, which I had never had before. But I lost my strength. For 7 years I allowed my strength and independence to be stripped away. I was broken, ashamed, nobody knew what I was going through. Hell, I didn’t even realize the full extent of it. I was blind to the damage being caused not just to me, but to my children. I told myself our security was more important than our happiness. I realized after a while that I was wrong, but by then I didn’t know how to get out. I was afraid of losing everything.

Then it happened. The one thing I always said I would never tolerate. And yet, I found myself wishing it would happen. Because then I would have a reason. I watched my mother suffer the effects of physical abuse many times while I was a teenager. I vowed that I’d never let that happen to me. But once I was tangled in the web of my own abusive relationship, I began to realize that there are types of abuse that far surpass the physical. Bruises, cuts, even broken bones eventually heal. And it’s so easy to say, “He hit her? What a monster!” The abuse is very evident. But when you’re subjected to the whims of a narcissist, it’s very different. Everybody thinks they’re such a nice guy. They project an image of being loving and caring and happy. But the truth is they are even more of a monster than the guy who beats his wife. For seven years, I merely existed in his world. I tried as hard as I could to give him what he wanted and make him happy. Nothing I did was ever good enough. My daughters and I walked around our house on eggshells, not wanting to poke the sleeping giant. I tried to be the peacekeeper. Tried my best to keep his anger focused on me and not my girls. I told myself I could take it as he backed me into the bathroom, up against the shower wall, screaming at me with his face inches from mine. Spit flying everywhere. He called me worthless, accused me of cheating, told me I didn’t care about my children or the home we built for them.

And I stayed. Because I didn’t know how to leave. I didn’t think I could take care of my home and children on my own. I wasn’t strong enough. I was weak. I wasn’t good enough. After all, that’s what he had told me for 7 years. The day after one of our fights was always surreal. He acted like it never happened. Told me he loved me and he just needed to get his anger out or he’d explode. Like berating me and breaking me down was no big deal. And I would stand there in front of him, bewildered. Amazed by how really fucked up he was. But I stayed. I kept the peace and I stayed.

Until that night. When he hit me, it was like he knocked some sense into me. I remember the look on my daughter’s face after it happened. Tears welled up in my eyes as my baby looked at me with concern and asked if I was ok. I was not ok. Not at all. I saw myself in the face of my baby, saw the concern I felt for my mother all those years. And I drew strength from it. My mom would have been devastated to know what my life was like. I was her strong child, yet here I was broken and weak. I couldn’t let the same cycle repeat itself. I couldn’t let my kids grow up watching their mother being treated badly. I knew that if she were still alive, I would’ve gotten out sooner. She would’ve seen right through him. She would’ve known he was evil and I was miserable. She always did. She always knew. I used to hate that she was always right about my life and my feelings. But now that she’s gone, I truly miss her ability to tell me what’s wrong with my life. She always had a way of calling me out on my bad decisions. And she was the only one I listened too. The only opinion that really mattered.

So I decided to make a change. I called the cops and had him arrested. Then I went the very next day and filed an injunction for protection from abuse. He was gone. My oldest was already with her dad and my youngest went up north to stay with my aunt for awhile. I had two uninterrupted months to find myself again. I picked up the broken pieces of my life and focused on me. I spent time with friends. I went on dates. I lost a bunch of weight. I went out and experienced life beyond my couch. Gradually I began to feel like myself again. I regained my strength. But I also found myself grieving, once again. Despite everything I had been through, I missed my family. I worked hard for 7 years to build a life and it was gone. Of course I didn’t miss the abusive part of my relationship. But there were some things I missed. The feel of someone next to me in bed at night. Having someone to talk to about my day. Despite my decision to stay single and raise my daughters on my own, I found myself lonely at times. Sure I had been out on dates, but I told everyone up front that I wasn’t looking for a relationship, I just wanted to keep things casual. Once you tell a guy that there’s really no way to take it back. Plus I had so much baggage. And I’m not talking about my kids. I’m talking about emotional baggage. I was a mess. I faked confidence that I didn’t have. Sure I was getting stronger, but healing takes time. How do you tell someone you just met that you just suffered through 7 years of narcissistic abuse? Without them thinking you’re totally crazy? You don’t. So I held it back. I tried to push it to the back of my mind and forget it was there.

It didn’t work. I decided to try something different. I talked about it. To everyone. Literally. Friends, co-workers, family, dates. Reactions were mixed. Most people were really supportive. Some were not. A lot of people just faded into the woodwork of my life at this point. They stopped texting me and returning my calls. I was upset by this at first, but soon discovered that letting it out was like lifting a huge weight off my shoulders. It was helping me heal. I was growing stronger each day. I have to thank each and every person who listened, even if they had a negative reaction. My healing was much quicker because I let all those feelings go rather than bottle them up. I know, crazy, right? Here I am, the cold-hearted one who buries their feelings deep down, sharing all my feelings with pretty much anyone who would listen. And something amazing happened. I started to smile more. I opened up to people. I started being honest and upfront with people about my feelings. Sure, I’m still hurting and healing, but I really feel transformed. I struggle, I have stress and anxiety, mostly about my children and finances. But I am happy. I am confident again. I know I’m a good person and learning how to let go of all the bad feelings and negativity created by my situation. Some days are good, some days aren’t. Some days I feel strong and on top of the world. Others I feel weak and broken. But the most important thing I’ve learned in the past decade is how to pick myself back up, dust myself off and rise above.

I don’t know what the next decade has in store for me. I know I will continue to focus on my inner growth and raising my children. I will figure out how to be happy and how to struggle less. I will also focus on developing honest and loving relationships with the people I care about. Respect and loyalty and communication are my top priority. My focus has to be me and my children. We come first. I refuse to allow any of us to be mistreated or abused. I will settle for nothing less and surround my family with people who are genuine and who care. This is my goal for the next ten years.

It will be the best years of my life.

Tagging: @allaboutchoices @innerpostmentality @bobasheebaby @sirbeepsalot @darley1101 @desiree---1986

I’m tagging just a few people I know. I won’t be offended if you don’t want to read or reblog.

#not choices #personal #ten years #hiatus explained #long post

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letstalksymphogear · 5 years

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Symphogear, Ep. 6 (Cont.)

Hibiki, having seen a horror upon horrors, immediately asks Tsubasa if she’s okay. Tsubasa points out she’s a hospital patient, why would you ask this question, you insensitive prick. Hibiki points to the following scene:

Now, you may be asking yourself. “How does a formerly comatose person who is now bedridden on an IV drip manage to do this much damage?” Simply put, Tsubasa has a very chaotic aura. She doesn’t even have to take stuff out of her room; the places she goes to just naturally wind up like this. It’s a metaphor for how much of an absolute mess this person is simply by existing.

“l-look i just- its hard to organize things and- im more of a visual person and-”

“BITCH YOU LIVE LIKE THIS?”

Hibiki unwittingly gets her revenge on Tsubasa. She doesn’t realize it, but her lecturing Tsubasa on what an absolute mess every facet of her life is could possibly be heralded as her lowest point in the entire series.

No, wait. Thinking about it now, this is her second lowest. We won’t see her lowest until GX comes along.

“hibiki, every single bone in my body is broken, you dont have to break my pride too”

Hibiki, being an absolute darling, actually picks up Tsubasa’s mess. This is more than she can say about her own messes.

“haha, miku usually does this for me! wait- wait a minute.”

“i dont get it. i tried to kill you. i tormented and ignored you. i refused to help you for months. i failed to train you on any facet of combat as your senior. i nearly let you get kidnapped and, failing that, nearly killed myself while making you watch, which ALSO didnt help you not get kidnapped aside from scaring the shit out of that weird lady. why are you... helping me?”

“because either we’re going to be very good friends or im going to toss you out the window personally!”

“oh god, that aggression screams kanade. i cant not like her.”

Absolutely annihilated. Just kick her while she’s down in her Taco Bell spiral of humiliation and self-discovery, Hibiki.

“it’s okay, tsubasa! you may be a terminal dumbass, but im sure if we all work together, we can share our braincells and become collectively smarter, for each other!”

“interesting theory. how many ya got?”

“ZERO!”

They trade the kind of banter two people with 0 brain cells would have and then Tsubasa points out Hibiki is doing a great job in her place.

“hey hey HEY HOLD THE PHONE IVE LEARNED MY LESSON IM NOT TRYING TO REPLACE YOU OKAY IM NOT YOU, IM JUST HIBIKI, DOING HER JOB, ALRIGHT”

Meanwhile, in the library, Miku is looking at books, as she does what she says she’s gonna do, unlike a certain other person cavorting with cute idols.

“The Gay Way: How to Get Your Same Sex Relationship Back On Track, by Dr. Lesbe Honest. wow, this one is right up my alley.”

Okay, I’m gonna be honest with you. I literally forgot they show you the title in this. Imagine my face when I made up that title on the spot only to be hit with this little number. Holy shit, Symphogear. There’s this thing called subtlety. I’m begging you. We get it.

OH, AND IT GETS BETTER, BECAUSE

THE AUTHOR OF THE BOOK IS THE WRITER OF THE SHOW

IT’S LITERALLY GOT HIS NAME ON IT

THIS IS THE EQUIVALENT OF WRITING A STORY AND THEN INSERTING A BOOK CALLED “LEARN THE PLOT” WRITTEN BY YOU, IN UNIVERSE

KANEKO STOP THIS BALONEY, PLEASE

AND LIKE FUCKING CLOCKWORK SHE JUST- SHE TURNS HER HEAD AWAY FROM THE BOOK TITLED “THIS IS THE PLOT MOTIF” BY “AUTHOR” AND THEN FUCKING

SHE CONVENIENTLY LOOKS OVER TO THE DISTANCE

AND SHE SEES HIBIKI WITH THE HOT IDOL MIKU WAS INTO, THAT THEY WERE BOTH A FAN ON, AND SHE’S JUST CHILLING THERE AND MIKU WAS TOLD HIBIKI’S ON SERIOUS BUSINESS

AND THE HOSPITAL QUARTERS ARE SOMEHOW CONVENIENTLY CONNECTED TO THE FUCKING LIBRARY ON FULL DISPLAY BECAUSE GOD KNOWS EVERYONE IN A LIBRARY HAS TO WATCH SICK PEOPLE DIE IN REAL TIME

AND NOW MIKU IS THINKING “OH MY FUCKING GOD IM BEING CHEATED ON” AND HER FEELINGS ARE HURT FOR THIS TOTALLY CONTRIVED FUCKING COINCIDENCE

AND SHE’S ALL “BOO HOO HOO I’VE BEEN NTR’D! THIS WAS A CUCKING PLOT THIS WHOLE TIME! WOE IS ME!” FUCK YOU. THIS IS THE WORST. THIS IS ABSOLUTE GARBAGE WHY WOULD YOU- WHY DO YOU EVEN NEED TO SET THIS UP? THERE’S SO MANY BETTER WAYS TO DO THIS!

AND SHE’S JUST STARING BACK AT THE BOOK WRITTEN BY THE SAME ASSHOLE WHO WROTE THIS ENTIRE DAMN SCENARIO IN THE FIRST PLACE, AN EVIL GOD MOCKING HIS SUBJECTS IN THE FACE OF SCRUTINY FOR DRAMA WITH THE MOST CLICHE LOVE NOTES IN A GODDAMNED SOAP OPERA

AND HIBIKI IS NONE

THE

FUCKING

WISER

SYMPHOGEAR SURE IS GREAT, HUH? I SURE DO LOVE SYMPHOGEAR WITH ALLLLLL MY HEART. WHAT A WELL WRITTEN MASTERPIECE! FUCKING BELONGS IN THE FUCKING MOMA!!!!!

Okay. Okay. Let’s get that out of our system. The worst is over. This is the, uh, crescendo of the bad side plot as it inevitably sets itself on the road to resolution. I’m not going to have an aneurysm. My brain is not going to split itself in half. We’re good. I swear, we’re good.

Tsubasa, meanwhile, wants to understand why Hibiki fights, wrestling with the Da Vinci code that is her own emotions. She points out the fight against the Noise isn’t a game, and it ain’t no comic book bullshit either. It’s real, it’s out there, and it’s not pretty yet easily marketable as cute mascots. And what does our protagonist say? No making it up, she literally says:

“i dunno”

Not a damn brain cell in her body, but props for keeping it real. I’d likely say the same thing.

This is the face of someone currently sucking air through their teeth at the raw frustration that someone would be dumb enough to risk their life for the sake of only helping others.

“listen. im gonna keep it real here. i suck at literally everything. math. social studies. writing. helping people is all i have, because its not a competition. you just... you do it. you dont get better at helping people, you just help. like, thats it. i dunno what else to tell you.”

Then Hibiki points out that she feels it all started with Kanade saving her, and the speech implies its a ‘pay it forward’ sort of affair. She was saved, and so she should save others. Unfortunately, it comes off more as a guilt complex. “I lived, and I feel bad about that, so I gotta save everyone else” kind of stuff.

“its my coping mechanism for my countless traumas!”

“i get it now. you’re just as much of a mess as i am. you just dont show it as much. that kinda thinking’s gonna get you killed.”

Tsubasa then correctly points out that it is a kind of survivor’s guilt, where she wants to be released from the pain of old wounds, completely unaware of the irony of her statement.

“yeah. i get ya. we’re both wrecks. but... we can be wrecks working together.”

This would be the part where she says I’M SORRY but apparently we just don’t fucking do apologies in Symphogear, huh? Too good for ‘em, eh?! God.

Then they go outside and talk more about stuff and Durandal. The summation:

“do you have the capacity to live a life forever kicking ass?”

“yeah”

Hibiki, coming to terms with how she wants to deal with shit, manages to sharpen (haw) her resolve as to who she is and how she uses her abilities.

Meanwhile...

youtube

“i cant believe hibiki is having an affair with an attractive idol popstar. especially my favorite one from their old band. not only is she cheating on me, but she’s cheating on me from one of the five people on my lists id immediately get with if i had the chance. it feels like a double betrayal. a real life one, and a fantasy one... why do i find this weirdly hot...?”

“HEY NEWCOMER WELCOME TO THE CUCK AND BUCK WHERE WE SELL FRESHLY FRIED CUCKS FOR ONE BUCK, REAL EASY, REAL CHEAP, GOOD OL’ FASHIONED JAPANESE SOULFOOD”

“ive come to take my throne. i’ll take the ‘one flew over the cuckoo’s nest” and have the three eggs over easy with the ‘easy sleazy pancakes’”

“make it an extra lonely helping. this is gonna be a long afternoon.”

“ahhh. a freshly cucked newcomer coming to the cuck and buck to duck amongst their bad luck run amok, huh?”

“listen dont sass me about my busy girlfriend with your dr. seuss antics just gimmie the food and lets get this over with”

“no problem! sorry, they just come easy. it’s hard to buck at the cuck and buck when rhymes you huck make you wanna fu-”

“FOOD. NOW.”

Miku then ponders about how her feelings may have spiraled from a process of over thinking, or possibly hunger. Maybe both. Maybe Hibiki isn’t cheating on her. Maybe the reasons are more complicated than she knows. She briefly contemplates communication; a futile gesture when it is Hibiki safeguarding a secret she is forced to keep for incredibly stupid reasons.

“thanks for the food, miss. it really helped sort my feelings out.”

“no probs, kid. here at the cuck and buck, the only thing we cuck here is... our hearts.”

Meanwhile, Hibiki is still hanging with Tsubasa. Hey, if you’re gonna hang out with a critically acclaimed popstar, might as well squeeze every minute out of it, right?

“so... taco bell, huh? im surprised you actually like taco bell now. maybe you just like fast food styled psuedo-mexican restraunts? have you tried chipotle?”

“i... maybe you’re right, actually. i’ve grown to love taco bell, but... maybe i should expand my horizons. kanade did say... singing makes you hungry. maybe thats what she meant. i should take to new life experiences...”

“yeah! i can take you to all the good fast food places i know!”

“dont you have a girlfriend?”

“she can join us! she’s a big fan of you after all!”

“hey- hey wait! m- more friends? more... more friends... more friends.....”

“more friends...”

Meanwhile, a crisis develops.

Chris, having heard the f-word (friendship), is heading immediately to do the exact opposite of this.

She’s taken some pointers from Tsubasa, t-posing to assert dominance.

“how the fuck is she even flying”

“i cant wait to tell hibiki how much i love and appreciate her despite the weird NTR aura surrounding this whole situation”

“yeah, that’s right! i’m meeting the Gremlin in the park for an asskicking, don’t worry!”

“oh, speak of the devil! hibiki! i love and appreciate you despite the weird ntr auras!”

“miku- wait. oh no. i saw this happen in sam reimi’s spiderman 3. im fucked.”

“YOU GUESSED CORRECTLY, PIDGEON BANGS”

I know I’ve joked about homewrecking, but this is ridiculous.

Chris realizes there’s someone else around she may have potentially hurt. This is surprising, given murder is not something she has shyed away from, but she’s slowly climbing that ladder of morality, so cut her some slack for taking it one rung at a time.

“im losing my girl. losing my grip. now im about to lose my life. this NTR business truly is the worst.”

Chris has accidentally employed the Dio Brando style of disposing of people, which consists of throwing a vehicle and smashing them until dead.

“you’ve taken one step too close to my heartstrings, Gremlin, and for that you’re about to understand the full definition of an ass kicking.”

Hibiki fucking punches the car. Everything is forgiven in this episode for now.

“i... hibiki... are you... a street fighter character? holy shit. oh my god. hibiki oh my god you’re a street fighter character. thats been the true problem here. you’re a street fighter character now. oh my god. cheating? how could i have thought cheating was involved? you were literally just becoming a straight up superhero! oh my god. the abs! the washboard abs! the signs were all around me! the only thing you went to do behind my back was kick ass!”

“i’m sorry. i need to go kick ass now.”

The good news is all that tension just got evaporated. Miku sorta gets the truth now: her girlfriend hasn’t been cheating on her, she’s just been trying to save the local tri-county area from the grips of inter-dimensional alien eldritch entities controlled by a Gremlin and her Mistress. It’s a lot to take in, though.

These two are about to fight head to head. Last time, Hibiki was but the pupil. Now, she is the Master.

“can’t touch me, goldie locks. lemme do you a favor and CRACK THAT WHIP!”

“oh my god hibiki’s gonna fight that weird looking person”

“naruto running deeper into the woods isn’t gonna stop me from beating your ass senseless, fists for brains”

“thats because i wanna talk, asshole”

“wait. wait, what? you... you want to talk? to me?”

Hibiki proceeds to aggressively describe herself to her. Name, identity, blood type, age, the works. This is because she’s trying to befriend her, because Hibiki feels fighting people is bad, and that talking is more useful than fighting. This is a recipe for suicide, normally, but in this instance...

“what in the goddamn hell... i... um... nice.. to meet you...?”

Hibiki deploys a counter-T-Pose to show kinship, feeling that they don’t have to fight like this since they’re not Noise.

“talk may be cheap but it’ll make kicking your ass all the more easier, nerd”

Chris learns this, in fact, does not make the ass kicking all the more easier. Hibiki’s fresh new moves manage to dodge whip after whip of Chris’s attacks, and it’s really starting to annoy her a lot.

“pain in the ass. so you learned how to fight, huh? fine. you’ll tire out eventually.”

“let’s just talk, seriously! or maybe we can bond over board games-”

“i FUCKING hate board games. the fuck are you, a grandma? just fight already! people cant understand each other anyway!”

“JUST DIE ALREADY!”

“i was told to kidnap you. but im exerting a loophole today; no one told me to do it alive”

“the only kidnapping going down is me, sleeping in on a thursday afternoon forgetting class exists, you neon porcupine. so come at me. can’t kick me ass if you dont come any closer, right?”

“WITH PLEASURE!”

“ive watched the entirety of dragonball z, i know exactly how this fight’s gonna go down”

“finally. looks like i got y- hey, wait, what?”

“ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY JANKING MY LEG? THIS BITCH IS LITERALLY GOKU? PULLING KAMEHAMEHAS AND SHIT? WHY? god. its me. yukine chris. why do you hate me. why do you drag me through all this shit only to be hit in the head with some real anime baloney. why. please. have some mercy.”

“i dont know what a goku is but sure, yeah, why not”

“im going to kill her. oh my god. she doesnt even know who goku is.”

“get that tentacle shit away from me. im not fucking around anymore. we’re going to have a heart to heart whether you like it or not!”

“oh shit she found my weakness. really close melee combat.”

“MADE A FRIENDSHIP GIFT FOR YA. IT’S A FRESHLY MADE KNUCKLE SANDWICH, STRAIGHT FROM THE DELI”

“OH GOD, PLEASE, NOT MY FACE”

“REQUEST ACCEPTED, PAL”

Hibiki punched her so hard that she physically destroyed the entire armor Chris was wearing in a single blow.

“she... she doesnt punch ME like that... i mean, probably because she loves me, but..”

“did... did she just kill that person...? hibiki...? you, uh... you alright...?”

#symphogear #recap #comedy #anime #a lot of cuck was said here

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vorthosjay · 6 years

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Let’s Talk About Return to Dominaria Episode 6

Sorry for the delay, Episode 6 of Return to Dominaria by Martha Wells is here and TEFERI IS BACK. And he is exactly who I wanted him to be after sixty years of living as a mortal. Not a whole lot of plot progressions happens, but that’s a good thing because we get to spend the entire episode getting reacquainted.

Teferi's Protection by Chase Stone

Slogging through the Tivan desert toward the monument plateau, Teferi said, "Mark my words, this time I'll have the answer."

The Tivan Desert is that giant patch of land making up southeast Jamuraa. There’s basically nothing there, and this is the first story to ever go there, AFAIK.

Not far ahead was the monument, a giant block of stone partially concealed by a natural plateau. Travelers from Femeref who passed by on the nearby trade road always assumed it was an ancient ruin. It was ancient, but younger than Teferi. It was also a puzzle he had been trying to solve for years.

Okay, number one, Femeref is in northwest Jamuraa. The Tivan Desert is in the southwest. It’s THE WORST POSSIBLE ROUTE TO GO ANYWHERE.

Art by Jared Blando

I don’t understand why there would be a trading road there. I guess there are pockets of civilization out that way? But why travel past two deserts and two mountain ranges rather than just take a boat?

Also, this is a great set-up for Teferi. I like the line “It was ancient, but younger than Teferi.” a lot, it sets up a lot about him.

At fifty, his daughter was still strong and capable, but this wasn't a good age to take a fall. He should know; he aged so slowly, he had been fifty for more than a few decades now.

So Teferi had his daughter about ten years after the Mending?

Also, in Time Spiral Teferi is noted as having kept his body at about twenty-five as an oldwalker, he’s not just aging slowly, he’s aging at a weird pace. I wonder if as he got older, his time magic began to affect him, so that the older he gets the slower he ages.

The automaton was a good eight feet high, made of silver and copper metals, shaped like a bulky warrior with a block for a head. Its parts had separated and hung in midair: limbs, the cogs and wheels that drove it, the crystals that supplied its power. It wasn't quite still; all the pieces were vibrating faintly, caught in a timestream where the explosion that had blasted them apart was ever so slowly occurring.

This is mean, Teferi. This is literally what happened to you, getting caught in a slow-time bubble on fire.

He smiled fondly and said, "Do you remember the mechanical spiders?"

One of Urza’s first real innovations as a planeswalker were mechanical spiders to fight Phyrexia. They would emit a frequency that would hurt anything with glistening oil.

"Why would he make it so hard?" Niambi said, frustrated. "He must have known you would need it someday."

Teferi gave the stock answer. "He's protecting it from Phyrexians, and the demons and their mages, and everyone else who might want it for the raw power locked inside."

Niambi snorted. "You don't believe that."

She knew him too well. "I don't, but it's the answer everyone wants."

I like this exchange a lot. It plays into the history theme of these, what people want a historical figure to have been rather than what they actually were. It also plays into Teferi’s character, which is a man who knows way more than he ever lets on and enjoys playing games.

"I know, I just . . ." Niambi gestured in exasperation. "You were his friend! Why would he do this to you?"

Teferi shook his head. "Urza didn't have friends, not like you and I have friends. He had experimental subjects, and those just powerful enough that he considered them sentient beings, if not actually people. But he was what we had at the time."

This... this is a really good explanation of who Urza was.

Jhoira explained, "Gideon and Liliana are Planeswalkers."

"Ah, I used to do that." Teferi smiled, as at ease as if they were discussing any other common interest.

Teferi is so great in this article I can’t stand it. He still has his best quality, his sense of humor, but he’s been tempered with wisdom and humility by mortality.

Gideon had been trying to get a sense of Teferi's character, and he thought the man might want to help them. Which meant the reason he was out here really was important. He said, "Perhaps a trade? We help you with your quest, you help us with ours?"

Teferi eyed him thoughtfully. "You assume you can help me."

With a sigh, Niambi said, "He doesn't want help; he's stubborn, and he wants to do it himself."

Well, maybe not that humble. He’s still Teferi, after all.

Teferi explained, "At the time of the invasion, Zhalfir was the most advanced nation on Dominaria. Its powerful magic, its technology, its military might meant it would take the brunt of the Phyrexian attack. Urza intended it to take the brunt of the attack. And the leaders of Zhalfir thought they would triumph. I knew better."

He looked out over the dark desert, where the wind blew drifts off the tops of the dunes, the crystalline sand catching the last of the light. "I wanted to spare my people and my homeland from a war I knew would destroy them. So I created a time rift and phased Zhalfir partially out of this plane. The Phyrexians couldn't reach it, but Zhalfirins couldn't reach the rest of Dominaria, either. They still can't."

Teferi never really gave much of an explanation in Invasion, or even in Time Spiral that I can remember. Put plainly, I can really see why Teferi might believe this was something he needed to do, and not just peacing out to screw Urza.

Into the silence, Shanna said gravely, "There were many Zhalfirins in Femeref and Suq'Ata and other places, who could never return, who lost all or part of their families, who lost their homes."

"Yes," Niambi told her. "It made Father very unpopular in our folklore, for some time."

Hence why he’s a small figure at the bottom of the memorial in The Mending of Dominaria.

Jhoira added, "He did the same to the land of Shiv. But later he was able to repair the rift and return Shiv to this plane. That's how he lost his Planeswalker spark."

Liliana lifted her brows, startled. "Really?"

"Yes. It left me unable to return Zhalfir." Teferi made a gesture, taking in the desert around them. "So here I sit."

"He hasn't been just sitting in the sand here the whole time, don't feel too sorry for him," Niambi put in.

"Stop mocking your father's existential pain," Teferi told her.

Niambi and Teferi’s characterization is great. While knowing you’ll outlive your child would be terrible, having them be your equal as an adult is something all (most? some?) parents dream of.

I love that she gives him no quarter.

"I have a plan, but it isn't going very well," Teferi admitted. "I discovered some time ago that my friend Urza had left behind a series of devices and magical artifacts that could be of some help in repairing a time rift. I've been searching a long time, but I've only found the location of one artifact. It's here, in that monument. I hope that if I can retrieve it and unlock its secrets, it will lead me to the other objects. But I've been inside the monument many times, uncovered its secrets and sprung its traps over and over again, and I still haven't been able to get to the artifact."

Gideon was glad to hear Teferi's mission was a good cause. If they could help him complete it, it would be all the better for Dominaria. "Who was Urza hiding the artifact from? The Phyrexians?"

"No. From me." Teferi's smile was dry.

So that was how it was. Gideon said grimly, "That's not very friendly."

Hmmm. I wonder, what is this artifact that Urza hid rather than use against the Phyrexians? Why hide it from Teferi - because Teferi was a rival planeswalker? And when did he hide it?

Raff explained, "They're helping us kill Belzenlok so then they can go kill Nicol Bolas. Everyone's helping each other." Liliana stared incredulously at him and he added, "It's not a secret, is it?"

Nicol Bolas literally cut Teferi to shreds (he got better, oldwalker powers and all), so I’m sure this name intrigued him, but there doesn’t seem to be much reaction to it from Teferi.

"Loose lips get skyships destroyed," Liliana said, darkly.

Nice riff on “Loose Lips Sink Ships”, but it doesn’t rhyme :/

Teferi lifted his brows, but said kindly, "Oh, believe me, I've had plenty of experience cleaning up past mistakes. And when you spend so much of your life as an immortal Planeswalker, the mistakes tend to be grand in scope. It isn't possible to erase them, but with effort you can eventually balance your account."

Gideon could see Teferi's words hit home. Disgruntled, Liliana frowned and looked away.

I would say, “with effort you can hopefully balance your account.”

I’ve talked about this some, but what is redemption for oldwalkers who do horrific things? I think that’s an interesting question, and applicable to the modern planeswalkers, too.

I also like that he recognizes that oldwalker mistakes were grand in scope. Overall this story has been great in terms of taking a hard look at pre-mending planeswalkers.

The young mage Raff crouched down to study the script carved into the walkway. "You think he tailored this place specifically to prevent Teferi from solving it?"

"Worse, I think he cheated," Jhoira said. "Liliana, do you see any ghosts here?"

HA! I love that Jhoira walks in and is like, yeah, Urza was a dick so he probably cheated to screw with Teferi.

AND SHE IS RIGHT.

Jhoira is so great.

Also: Who helped Urza with the ghosts? That’s not something he really does.

Teferi didn't want to be a spoilsport, but had to point out, "If there were things in this chamber out of phase, I'd see them."

"That's why I don't think they're out of phase, I think they're ghosts." Jhoira gestured around.

IMPORTANT!

This basically kills any fan theories about Kaya being from Zhalfir.

Spectral Grasp by Tyler Jacobson

What Kaya does is not Phasing, and the metaphysics of phasing and the ‘ghost dimension’ work differently.

Not really all that important in the long run, but a cool bit of metaphysics regardless.

Liliana said, "Imagine a drift of mist, very faint. Ghosts like these lose cohesion after time, and these are far too old to have forms. Oh, two more, second level floating down."

Another cool bit of metaphysics, ghosts lose cohesion.

"Restoring Zhalfir is not fun," Teferi corrected sternly. All right, it was a little bit fun, but he felt it was better to maintain decorum in such a dangerous place.

This is really giving you a great sense of Teferi.

Teferi held a delicate dark crystal orb nestled in a cage of silver vines. Lights glowed inside it like a captured starfield.

Here’s the first big question for this article: What is this? Is it something we should know? Or some new MacGuffin (or piece of the Legacy) cooked up for just this story? Will it even matter later?

It’s a vague match for three things of note: Heartstone, Juju Bubble, Power Matrix. Heartstones are Phyrexian powerstones that contained a Newt’s soul. The Juju Bubble and Power Matrix were random bits of the Legacy.

I’m going to have to search some novels and see if I can find what this is.

Urza had expected Teferi to be alone here, and had geared all his defenses that way. I'm not like you, Urza, Teferi thought. You never could see any other way but your own.

You were like that, too, Teferi. Jodah called you out on it. You were always better than Urza, but that’s a low bar. You got better and I’m proud of you.

A Serran angel dropped to land in the rising sand before them. Teferi pushed Niambi toward her and said, "Take my daughter!"

As Teferi shook the sand out of his clothes, Niambi gave him a hug and protested, "I could have climbed with everyone else, Father."

That wasn't a chance Teferi had been willing to take. He just turned with her to look down at the monument.

Non-parents will probably look at this as Teferi being overprotective. Parents will read this bit and say “You’re god damn right you can’t take that chance.”

Jhoira stood by while Teferi and Niambi said goodbye on the deck of the Weatherlight. As Niambi hugged him, she said, "Have a good time with your friends. Kill lots of demons."

He answered teasingly, "You aren't even going to pretend to miss your old father."

I love that his daughter is hilariously nonchalant about all this.

"I will miss you, but I know you too well." Niambi gave him a shake. "This is what you were born to do. And once you've found a way to return Zhalfir, I expect you to visit so you can give us all a tour. Or warn us, if they want to kill you."

I’m dead. Niambi has slain me.

She touched the amulet around her neck, then opened it. Inside lay a small Powerstone, glittering in the dim light. She had made this stone herself at the Thran Mana Rig. It held Teferi's Planeswalker spark.

The hard part, she told herself, is going to be convincing him to take this back . . .

Here is big question number two: how did Jhoira reclaim Teferi’s spark?

We knew this was happening, thanks to Opt.

Opt by Tyler Jacobson

The crystal pulsed with the power of Teferi’s planeswalker spark. Had Jhoira given him a blessing or a curse?

We just didn’t know how it was happening. Of note, the section of Shiv phased out included the main Mana Rig. We already know powerstones can hold planeswalker sparks - Glacian’s was in the Mightstone/Weakstone, and his and/or Urza’s water later in Karn when they were implanted in the silver golem.

But I think it’s very interesting that Ixalan introduced the Immortal Sun, which contained Azor’s spark, only for Dominaria to use that same plot device again. Almost like spark transfers are important around this point of time.

#vorthos #mtgdom

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beauvoyr · 6 years

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Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 13

flowering | child of cosmogony

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, Asphyxiation, Murder, no beta we die like men, pre-canon a.k.a before FFXV WARNING: This chapter contains murder and violence. Chapter Rating: M Crossposted on: AO3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership.

Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: White, too, can be corrosive, just like acid.

what happened to mother? you can’t say, for you do not know.

she fades into a distant blur, one of the many paintings hung in the halls of your head. sometimes, your mind is a treacherous friend playing tricks on you. you’d hear her last scream, hidden behind a door. you never dared to open it; if you do, you know you are intemperate, letting your feelings best you at this game for two. so mother remains, at most, locked behind the door. schrödinger’s cat, both alive and dead at the same time.

should you ask byron to quench your thirst?

no.

father’s lesson is still etched on his skin in long, raised lines you memorized under your fingertips. twelve on his front, five on his arms, and many more on his back. you’ve ruined him, you know. the remnants of these angry red lines have faded off into pale pinks on white over the years, as though branches of cherry blossoms bloomed on his skin. something so grotesque shouldn’t be so beautiful, even as you gingerly run your fingers across the patterns. whenever you do, byron stiffens under your touch like he’s afraid you’d dig your nails into the hatch welts.

he doesn’t know your touch is reverential, each brush an apology too late to be given.

and the lingering guilt in your heart paves way into something else.

“YOU AND NOCT REPENTED YET?”

Gladio is a merciless master. In this training room, he is the commander of the battlefield. Noct being a prince doesn’t mean shit to him, as long he knows how to dodge a blow and barrel into safety behind the Shield. Hardy as he is, he’s still got a weak spot somewhere in his heart when the feral glint in his amber eyes softens, coming across you and Noct, sitting together on your knees after getting banished to the farthest end of the hall. Your expression is certainly sorry enough, having repented to Hell and back as you rub your raw knees, and Noct is. Well. Kinda still working on the whole ‘repenting’ part.

“I can do three hours,” Noct grits out, deliberately cocking a brow in challenge. “You up for it?”

And Gladio’s casual smile morphs into something along the cynical lines of you little shit.

Just as quick, your hand flies out to smack him square in his bicep with an affronted, “Prince! Stop! I’m already sorry enough that I’m late…don’t drag me into this.”

Noct’s answer is a light elbow to your side, his grin taking on a criminal edge. “Your fault. Three hours should be good, hmm?”

“Spare me…I can’t even feel my legs anymore, is this normal?” Gladio catches your murmurs buried by your face in your hands. Your voice is certainly apologetic and he knows you’re not the type to piss him off on purpose, but Noct is just the devil sitting on your shoulder. An unrepentant, filthy devil wielding a trident for a spork.

Noct smirks, flippant. For some reasons, he looks oddly triumphant of himself, like he’s reveling that he can last longer than you. Which is technically cheating, in Gladio’s books, ‘cause Noct’s got years of punishment to back his credentials—and this is only your first day, for crying out loud. “It’s only normal when you can’t feel anything from waist down,” Noct says, his smirk turning savage. “If you can’t feel your legs, that means you need one more hour.”

There is a high note tucked somewhere in your following groan. “No, stop, please. Gladio, I’m sorry I’m late, I’m sorry I made His Highness late, I’m sorry we’re late—“

Honestly, you’re kinda pathetic like this.

With all due respect, you could still be King Regis’ illegitimate child or secretly some poetically forgotten Astral and he’d still think you’re pathetic. All the years you’ve been doing with your books developed none of your muscles. Gladio squints a little, hoping to find something to prove him wrong. Nope, not an inch. Ah well, he can’t blame you, not when your situation’s a bit weird like one of those stereotypical romance novels of noblewomen held captive since birth, just waiting for roguish warriors to rescue them. And now that you’re all ‘rescued’ by none other than nth-time Champion of Punishments, Prince Noctis, well—now what?

“Suck it up,” Noct drawls, lips all lazy smiles. “You’ve got 54 more minutes to go.”

Mumbled between your fingers, you resign your fate to the greedy prince. “Gods, I—I’ll do my best, Prince. I think.”

That gets him gloating more than ever, always a sucker for people obediently obeying his command, feeding his Ravatogh-sized ego. “Good.”

Well—now, Gladio guesses, it’s high time to put you out of your misery. “All right, knock it off. Noct, quit bullying the new kid on her first day.” He claps his hands, subjected to a moody glare from the little punk ass prince since Gladio obviously ruined his fun. “Architect guy, listen up: First rule, don’t be late. Noct can demonstrate what happens when you’re late, since he’s pro at this.”

And Noct, the pretentious prince who thinks he's hot shit, rolls his eyes. “Seniors are pros anyway.”

“Whatever.” Gladio’s way beyond holding up the conversation every time Noct gets all mouthy, being the smart-ass he is. He only holds up two fingers for emphasis. “Second: Don’t expect me to go easier on ya just ‘cause you’re a girl, got it? I’ll adjust your training regimen to start off with the basics, like building on your stamina and strength and flexibility. Nothing too hard, just somethin’ to get those muscles to work. Work hard and you’ll be as good as Iris in no time. All clear?”

You head bobs up and down fervently, wide-eyed. “Got it.”

He nods his approval. Good. You’re off to a pleasant track record if you keep this up, since you’re obviously preinstalled with strong self-discipline, ignited by your own initiative to better yourself for Noct. You look like a decent student in the long run, already managing to survive through two hours on your knees—and then there’s Noct, who’s already stretching out his legs and attempting to massage some life through them. He gets you to unfold your legs too, receiving all pained grunts and suffering moans when Noct taps your thighs, just being the asshole he is. Provided you don’t follow Noct’s bad influence, Gladio supposes you’ll survive through your training regimen with all your limbs intact.

…which brings him to rule number three.

“Third rule.” He clears his throat, drawing your attention to him once more. “If Noct’s being an ass, just punch him.”

“So if you’re being an ass, she gets to punch you too?” Noct asks, sounding all the more impressed with himself for thinking that up. “‘cause I’m pretty sure it goes both ways.”

“Can it, Prince Charmless.”

Little Prince Charmless scoffs at the injustice, nudging you in the rib, even if there’s an awkward reddening of his ears. Yep, he’s trying hard not to show Gladio’s jibe got under his skin, but the proof is right there. You only emit a long-suffering sigh, burying your face deeper in your hands. Nope, too damn late to escape your fate if you’re looking for a way out. Once someone gets involved a little too deeply with Noct, they’re usually stuck in the ride for the long haul, and then some. Noct, the very definition of guiltless and unrepentant right there in the dictionary, hasn’t shown you the fullest extent of his arsenal of assholery yet—oh, Gladio can’t wait for the day you’re gonna be moaning into your hands again as you lament your fate to the Astrals, ‘cause the good stuff is just starting with a bang.

“All right, kids, enough of that talk.” Gladio thumbs over his shoulder where the steel brackets display an array of daggers, swords, broadswords and polearms masterfully crafted from hardwood. “Noct, go do your warm-ups. I gotta have a little chitchat with our resident Architect right here. Now scram.”

Oddly, Noct doesn’t move. He’s regarding Gladio coolly under hooded blue eyes, arms crossed. “About what exactly?”

Unfazed because he’s the bigger person around here, both literally and figuratively, Gladio whistles low under his breath, sassing Noct’s huffy arm-crossing thing. “Didn’t know I needed His Highness’ express permission to talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Noct asserts, like the sky is blue and chocobos can’t fly and you’re all his. “I brought her down here so she’s my responsibility.”

Responsibility, what was that again? Gladio feels his eyebrows shooting up fast enough to launch into outer space. Noct being irresponsible is an ancient prophecy everyone and their grandmas heard of, but Noct being responsible is definitely not written anywhere in the Cosmogony, nope, not even a little footnote tacked at the end of the last page. What is he, some sort of feudal-era dad marrying off his daughter or something? The absurdity of the mental image gets Gladio chuckling a little.

“Responsibility is a big word, Noct, gotta be careful with that,” he points out. “You sure you wanna take responsibility over her paperwork, about two or three whole stacks of ‘em?”

That gets Noct decolorizing faster than expected and he’s all too happy to jump to his feet. “Gonna go get my warm-ups done. See ya.”

And that’s that. Noct betrays you just as easily, stalking off in the direction of the weapons. Gladio’s chuckling dissolves into barking laughter, colouring Noct’s nape with that same awkward red from earlier. Dropping on the polished floor, he snorts at Noct’s direction. “Heh, he freaks out on the big stuffs all the damn time. Chickens out the moment someone says the R word. Don’t let it offend ya, kid.”

“Not offended at all, don’t sweat it,” you answer, plain. There’s a bit of an improvement though, your tone is no longer as monotonous as a machine, sometimes ending in a breathier note, or dropping significantly whenever you’re distressed. None of that robotic rubbish whatsoever, probably thanks to Noct’s constant meddling in your life. “I know His Highness is a busy man, even if he looks all irresponsible. I just wanna be there to support him and the kingdom. It’s my duty as an Andronicus anyway, so it’s no biggie.”

Gladio huffs under his breath and scratches his cheek at the bit on the Andronicus. And that’s another matter altogether when it comes to your lineage. “Yeah… about that, I wasn’t joking about the paperwork. We’ve got whole stacks of them, standard security stuff on your background.” He sees you readying a rebuttal, all the more ready for your responsibility, and he holds up a hand to stop you from going further. “Hold your chocobos. Your situation’s a little difficult than the rest of the usual stuff we’ve got. Y’know what I mean?”

Of course you do, he knows you’re smarter than the average brat out there. The placidity in your eyes is deceptive, gazing unflinchingly into his. With each syllable, your lips curve, adopting a change in your languid lilt. “I’m aware of my unique predicament. I’m always doing things behind father’s back anyway, so it’s not a surprise if he finds out sooner or later. He can’t stop me.” Almost to yourself, your eyes trail aside and you murmur, “He’s long lost the power to control my life the moment I came to the Citadel. He knows he’s losing this war I waged. We’re now playing against time, that’s all.”

That’s—well, a little unnerving to hear.

Slack-jawed, it takes a moment for Gladio to dissociate the groaning, moaning mess curled up apologetically earlier from this conniving creature splayed before him. All lashes lidding low, examining a raveling thread on your thighs with the apathy of a queen, despite having uttered words an average twenty-something wouldn’t dream of a lifetime. How easily you switch depends on the matter, going from the ungainly girleen into this Machiavellian lady in mere seconds. As much as you paraded yourself as a harmless being, there is no denying the Andronicus inside.

And the Andronici are some of the most impersonal, inhumane nobles serving the Lucii Kings.

Gladio shuts his mouth with a hard click, getting his head in the game. He leans forward with a look meant to daunt those who’ve heard of the Amicitia, but you remain unconcerned. “What makes you so sure you’re gonna serve Noct?” he presses on. “What if your dad overrides your decision to become the next head of Andronicus, kid? You got backup ideas ready?”

Something about your illusory indolence feels off, gets his gut feeling roiling inside. “I already have plans in store,” you say. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t involve His Highness in my own mess, you have my word.”

Always answering things in a vague, roundabout way like what Noct complained when he first came across your existence, huh. Unless he resorts to brute force, he doubts he can wring anything from you without breaking an arm or two. Or ringing alarms somewhere else in their pentagonal friendship cycle. Still, as long as you’ve got Noct’s wellbeing as the number one priority in that pretty little head of yours, you’re entitled to your own secrets. You can deal with Quintus however you deem fit, since it’s your domestic problem to begin with. Stepping into someone’s familial crossfire isn’t exactly outlined in his job scope as Noct’s Shield anyway.

Putting an end to this, Gladio pulls himself up and points at you to stay. “Well, your document’s gonna be highly confidential stuff since we’re working against your dad here, so I’ll just bring it up to my old man, Clarus Amicitia, in case you don’t know who he is. Be prepared if he wants to meet you.” He pauses, then finding it appropriate to tack on a grin just for the sake of fucking around with you. “Personally.”

He doesn’t expect you to laugh but you do, a small, high sound that catches him off-guard with the brilliance of your smile.

LATER ON, Gladio chances a glance at your sealed envelopes. All six stacks bear the same name, marked at the top right hand corner in a careful cursive. Andronicus, and nothing more.

“the prophecy speaks of a king,” quintus utters, low. “a king who vanquishes eos’ illness. the true king.”

seated behind his impressive desk, against a curtain of crimson, he is the very picture of an imperator. well, byron supposes people do call him quintus the compeller for the very same reasons. standing near a suit of armour, byron pours some gourmet tea as he tries to tune out quintus the same way he tunes out a scream: by stabbing until the scream turns to squelches. he fashions his expression into one of apathy when he brings over the tray, setting it on the edge of the carved desk.

quintus does not wait for him to usher a cup at his direction; he takes as he pleases, tinkling china against china harshly after a deep sip. “what good will there be for a true king to emerge when niflheim is more than ready to snuff us out come tomorrow? rather than worrying about the impending darkness, i’d rather if his majesty would renew his efforts on reestablishing the military.”

this, byron inquires with careful curiosity. “reestablishing the military, sir?”

“he believes it to be futile effort.” quintus clicks his tongue, ridiculing the king’s trite choice of words. he sets down his teacup so sharply until it chips at the edges. “i respect him but i beg to differ, as this is a matter of life and death. our people are dying outside the old wall. daemons, mts, monsters, you name it, we have it. dissolving the military and rebranding it as the crownsguard is a foolhardy move executed by none other than the late king mors’ father. are the people beyond the walls not the people of lucis as well? they, too, deserve the lavish sense of security insomnia affords. if we cannot provide them the crystal’s protection, then we can surely offer them the reassurance of our military’s strength, no matter how little we may have. by ignoring their plights, by letting the imperials run free on our lands, we have abandoned them—no,” he bellows, tensing, “we spat on their faces.”

interesting. byron hums under his breath, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his sentiment. quintus seems content enough to continue his spiel of spite after refreshing himself with polishing off the lasts of his tea, and it has byron all too pleased to pour another cup.

“the kingsglaive may exist to handle our external crises, wars, riffraff, but tell me: how will we survive without them? those serving under our banner are none other than commoners with an aptitude in magic—they live outside the walls, yet, the king forsakes their villages, their tiny towns, just to keep insomnia safe. if we do not protect them, who will protect us once the last glaive dies? no,” quintus shakes his head, fingers laced tightly together, “i will not stand for this any longer. what my ancestors have failed to finish, that is to grant the outsiders equal rights to safety and revolutionizing their technology, i will strive to accomplish during my reign as the head of the andronicus, down to my very last breath.”

how moving. is this the very same man who left his speech on byron’s skin in long, red lines? spoken like a true man of the battlefield, one who operates insomnia the same way one operates a cadaver. he is attempting to reanimate lucis’ corpse by removing its decaying internal organs and swapping them with cables and switches. all the problems infesting lucis will be systematically tackled in stages, starting from the advancement of the army, right until the protection of its people. yet the problem lies with the king and his councilmen, and it is an obstacle quintus cannot resolve without challenging the king himself.

one cup turns to two, and two turns into three. with each cup, byron finds his thoughts swimming deeper and deeper until the dregs are all that’s left in the pot.

“YOU SEE, I DON’T LIKE MESS.” Byron begins, all conversational as he pulls latex gloves over his hands. The elastic snaps when he ensures they are snug around his wrists, and he smiles in satisfaction. “Whenever I see something messy, I get migraine. Long, horrible migraine, like someone sawing my brain. Do you ever feel that?”

A muffled cry.

Byron’s eyes crinkle into crescents at the pathetic sound. “Wonderful, I’m glad you understand. You must forgive me for my crude methods, of course, because it makes for easier cleanup when I’m done. Saved me from another migraine, good chap.”

There is a certain container wedged between blocks of steel that Byron calls his own. Nobody comes to these abandoned industrial dumpsites because who wants to deal with all the acrid stench and squelching maggots underneath their boots? Rusted cars missing their engines and wheel-less trucks are stacked one atop another, a brown stream of waste constantly seeping through decaying bags. Noxious fumes permeate the air, a permanent reminder of his origins: The streets, the sewers, the tin roof for Percival’s hideout and moldy, peeling walls.

Plastic crinkles under his weight, step by step to the table.

In here, everything is clean and white. White plastic tacked to the metal walls, white plastic over steel surgical trolley, an array of knives with white handles arranged in too-straight line. White is easy to stain. He’d know this very well, of course, since he’s been blessed with the very same whiteness. White is beautiful, pristine, the very shade representing purity. Yet, with just a fleck of colour, white stains.

Another muffled scream, and Byron raises his head.

Strapped on a rickety wooden chair, a weasel-looking forty-something man appears to be struggling in his binds. The Informant is trying to escape. Oh dear. He can’t have that, can he?

“It is ill-advised to escape,” Byron breathes out, tipping his chin. Too stoic, too blunt, and too smiling. “You know I’ll come and find you wherever you are, and I’ll make it more painful in our next meeting. Please, for your own good, stay quiet. I dislike rowdiness.”

Goodness, that gets the man thrashing more than he expected, the cloth gag barely muffling all the please and no and stop stop stop stop. Eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, sweat raining his receding hairline, he looks at Byron in what seems to be a mixture of contempt and terror. Really, he should decide on an emotion and channel it properly instead of delivering this half-assed excuse of an expression. Even his apathetic keeper managed better than that.

Byron heaves a heavier sigh, shoulders drooping at the sight. Something pulses faintly at the back of his head. “I gave you your warning, and you chose to disregard it. Very well.”

In theory, cleaving a human involves a body and a knife. Two simple objects readily found anywhere with varying levels of difficulty. In practice, it gets a little more complicated than that. It starts with the selection of tools, finding the best fit for the job. A screwdriver is to stab as an axe is to decapitate. But before all the excitement turns his nerves into jitters, he wants answers. And he wants them now.

“There is a certain dog I’ve taken to feeding, you see, for it is such a wretched, pitiable thing until I can’t bear the sight. In return, this dog carries news for me from far and wide. It’s been the utmost help, of course.” Byron reminds him, latex fingers squeaking over the stainless steel of the trolley. “However, I realized that this certain dog keeps running with his tail between his legs between two masters. A dog certainly has to be loyal to only one master, don’t you think so too?”

He catches the man vocalizing a quiet fuck from his throat.

Ah yes, bingo. Byron’s smile is painfully static as he traces absentminded circles on the tray, watery greys in his eyes turning molten steel. “You didn’t think I’d catch on, did you?”

More cursing, and the man thrashes harder, shaking like he’s got a seizure from just sitting in a chair. His perspiration is rank and Byron has half the mind to skin him just to get rid of the smell, but playing with food is very bad manner for a butler like him. Everything has to be done with clean precision, since he loathes leaving a mess behind.

“How long have you been in this business again?” Byron poses a rhetorical question, knowing the answer better than the man himself. “More than two decades, am I right? You’ve clearly underestimated the people you worked with. They might’ve not noticed your transgressions, but,” he bends at the waist, staring straight into the ruddy redness of the man’s eyeballs, bopping him lightly on his grimy nose, “I did.”

The Informant howls in his face, shivering, tears dampening the gag around his mouth. Awful sound, Byron can’t imagine what it’d be like without the handy cloth muffling his cry. The man breathes hard through his nose, lapsing into hysteric fits and kicking his bound limbs as if they’d come loose like a charming soap opera on the television. It’s useless, he knows that much, but maybe he held a faint hope in his heart that Byron’s overlooked something critical in a moment like this, like the knots are loose or the rope is frayed at the edges. Hope, he can keep hoping all he wants before Byron cuts his life out of him.

Straightening, Byron considers his choices, alternating glances between the knives. Should he go for the standard kitchen set, or the heavier butcher’s piece? Of course, each tool comes with its pros and cons. One is delicate, suited for carving initials into skin, and the other holds only one purpose: To hack meat into cubes. Coming to a decision, he hums and selects the latter. Cold and hefty in his hands, the perfect weight in its build. He runs a thumb over its blade, letting it glint under the fluorescent light.

Please please please stop is scattered between pleas for mercy and cries of apology, and the poor soul might run dry from tears if he keeps yowling like this.

Unfortunately, that is not an answer.

“Careful,” he cautions, lifting the blade to the light, examining its make under blinding whiteness. “The more you cry, the harder I’ll make it for you to die.”

As though Byron’s warning is a hammer to his chest, The Informant heaves and sputters, choking under the gag, swallowing all the noises he made with great effort. The container drops into silence, an overall improvement to the situation, save for stifled sniffling. Good. He likes it better this way. Dropping to his knees, Byron casually drags the knife up the length of the man’s feet—ah, he’s gone ahead and flinched from the cool metal, and now the knife nicked itself right in his flesh. Blood wells up and runs down the plastic. The Informant whimpers, biting off his cry in desperation.

“Have you heard of the death by a thousand cuts? No? That’s okay. Here, I’ll show you, though—“ Byron stops short with a soft laugh, “mine will contain a slight variation to accomplish my mission. Do forgive me for being unable to stay true to the original.”

A butcher’s knife is not meant to saw through meat. There’s no harm in trying anyway, so Byron sets to work. He drags it up and down across the little toe like he’s playing a violin, streaking steel in scarlet. At the back of his head, someone screams. A mindless hum, so he ignores it. The flesh gives way so easily under his ministrations, slowly but surely, and soon enough, there’s a satisfying friction once the blade reaches the bone. Here, Byron supposes, is where his experience tells him to hold enough pressure just to get it to yield. Tedious job, murdering someone. Wouldn’t recommend it to anyone searching for a pretty Credit.

Putting his bountiful knowledge to the practice, Byron grips the hilt tighter and applies just enough pressure with every push and pull of the knife. A raw scream, eyeballs rolling back, jerking with every grate. Please no is back again, this time punctuated by heavy sobs tearing out of his chest of how I’ve got a wife and my kids are gonna starve without me and bla bla bla, Byron’s heard this shit before, heard this too many times on the dull phonograph, seen the heavy wife scolding two scoundrels drawing on one of the many walls near the squatters, and then she gathers them into her arms with a weary sigh and—

—a satisfying crack, and the little toe rolls on the plastic.

Oh. He must’ve applied more pressure than he thought. That won’t do.

Fuck it hurts rips from the man’s throat, Martha Joseph Alvin is recited as final prayer, and Byron feels the pulsing in his head budding into the beginnings of a migraine and why does the damn man care so much for his family when Percival never gave a fucking shit whether Byron’s got anything left in his hands? No fucking mother to coddle his cries, no fucking father to catch his back, no fucking friend to care if he’s not breathing six feet underneath Duscae, turning into fertilizer for the wildlife. Nobody gives a fucking shit about him, not even Quintus, not even—

He raises the knife high and brings it down, a butcher and his meat.

Crimson all over the plastic, such satisfaction, but it’s not enough. Half of a foot is on his chopping board, the white of the bone peeking through meaty red. It’s not fair Byron’s going through this shit alone. Should he amputate the man just so he’d suffer Lavinia’s fate in Titus Andronicus? Cleave off his tongue, sever the joints of his arms and legs, leaving only his torso behind? Someone should suffer the same fate, shouldn’t they? Someone tangled too deeply in the Andronici’s mess deserves to live through the very same tragedy, don’t they?

Yes, he decides in morbid fascination, they should.

The knife is raised high once more.

WHITE, TOO, CAN BE CORROSIVE, just like acid.

o'er rotted soil, under blighted sky a dread plague the wicked has wrought. in the light of the gods, sword-sworn at his side 'gainst the dark the king's battle is fought. from the heavens high, to the blessed below, shines the beam of a peace long besought. "long live the line, and this stone divine, for the night when all comes to naught."

cosmogony: 15:2, nadir.

YOU ARE SORE ALL OVER thanks to the brutal beating of your first day. So sore from your third rep until you marvel at how dedicated Noctis can be, never breaking out of his stance as he took on Gladio in training. By the time you’ve wrapped up your set of push-ups, vision blurring and head spinning, he’s still parrying Gladio’s unforgiving strikes, quicker on his feet to match Gladio’s hulking brawn. He bursts in and out of the fight—warp-strike, he calls it—as flickers of magic drift around him like shards of broken mirrors, illuminating the floors in fractured blues.

Now, seeing him sprawled over the stretch of your bed sheets and comforters, he is an entirely different being from the aggressive prince prowling the training halls. Here, he is the lazy prince, one who conquers sixty percent of your land and demands more than fifty percent of your pillows. A conqueror through and through. If you listen hard enough, you can hear a small buzz in his breathing. His beautiful, expressive eyes are closed, dark lashes a stark contrast against his porcelain skin. Arm half-raised over his head and another resting on his chest, the comforters long gone and kicked off his body, tangling around his ankles.

Limber limbs, agile body, an unrelenting strength.

Your king is a pretty, pale prince, all ink spattered on snow.

Sitting up halfway, you unravel the twists and turns of his comforter and gently draw it over his body, letting the familiar heaviness cocoon him. It falls in the dips between his legs and arms and neck, but you’re careful enough to smoothen the fabric in all the nooks and crannies to ensure nothing’s exposed. It won’t do to have him catching cold limbs in your workspace, hindering all his princely progress if he falls ill. You’ve barely finished tugging the comforter over his feet when he shifts under you, rustling the sheets.

“Mmmh?” A voice thick with sleep. Noctis struggles with holding up his head, the hand over his hair catching a long yawn. “What’re you doing…?”

Patting the finishing touches to his feet, you drop onto the last forty percent of your land with your pillow. Comfort can be subjective when it comes to layered sheets playing the part of a makeshift mattress, but Noctis hasn’t complained thus far. The thought has you burrowing deeper into your own nest. “Nothing, Prince. Go back to sleep.”

Sleepy as he is, he still studies you how one reads a menu, head all full of delicious thoughts—and perhaps still basking in the afterglow of delicious dreams. The beautiful blue of his eyes are the skies across Galdin Quay, resting heavily on your face. So beautiful, you catch your fingers almost touching perfection. “You sure it’s nothing?”

No. You lick your bottom lip to divert the thought, ducking your head when Noctis drops his gaze to the flit of your tongue, staring at your spit-shiny lips. All traces of sleepy blue are erased, waxing interest in its stead. Interest that you are unwilling to entertain, lest he demands your thoughts. “A thousand times yep.” Shoving your discomfort into the distance, you turn your back to him. Face buried in your pillow, you await suffocation to claim you into slumber. “Gonna get some sleep, see ya.”

“Hey.”

Noctis is saying something, inexplicably intent on preventing you from having the last word.

You pretend you’re fast asleep, emulating an even breathing just to get him to stop. What other choices do you have left? This is bad. You should sleep. Sleep always rids you of your apprehension the same way Byron rids you of your nightmares. Sleep should soothe your aching calves and twitching thighs, a restful balm meant to rejuvenate those who are weary. Sleep should distract you from this—whatever it is you’re thinking, whatever it is the prince wants to do with you.

“Hey,” he tries again, a touch louder this time. “Your hair is in my face.”

You give a start—really? Only to realize a second too late that he’s nowhere near your hair, nowhere close enough to breathe down your neck. What he’s looking for is the startled jerk just to see if you’re awake, and you fell for it. Drat. Knowing he’s bested you this time, you clear your throat and tighten your hold on the pillow. “Turn the other way round then, Prince.”

“Don’t wanna,” he says, voice gone quiet. “You turn around.”

That’s unfair. That’s unfair because he knows you can’t say no to him. Who are you to deny what the prince wants?

Resigning to your fate for the second time today, you finally turn again. Noctis is still where you last saw him, lying on his side, the comforter you pulled hanging off his shoulder. It gets your fingers scrambling for your own, tugging the weighty cotton over your head, leaving only a loose gap around the edges of your face. Trying to find something to distract you from thinking about the weight of his gaze, or the lazy drag of his eyes from your lips to your neck. Trying to string a sentence or two about something—anything, as long as he doesn’t look at you like this.

After a while, he snorts inelegantly. “You look like an egg.”

A what?

“An… egg?” The words are already out from your mouth before you’re consciously filtering them.

Noctis mimics what seems to be wrapping his head from a blanket of air, a live demonstration of his meaning. “Yeah, an egg,” he explains matter-of-factly, dropping his hand to the sheets once more. “Y’know, hard-boiled egg. That stuff. Your comforter’s all white and your face is just—“

“—the yolk,” you finish for him, almost incredulous, almost borderline wanting to smother him under your pillow if you could. Here you are, worrying if he’s read your thoughts, and he comes up with this? “Really, Prince? An egg?”

“Yep.” Remorseless, curling his bottom lip, nodding all the same. “Got a problem?”

Incredible. All you can do is to gawp at him, wordless. An egg, really? An incredibly specific egg—a hardboiled egg? With your face for the yolk? Precisely at that point in your life, you realize Noctis can be quite trying at times. Is that why Gladio was grinning all morning long? Just waiting for you to be suckered into his same experience? You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, seeing how your morning routine tumbled into a disaster with him by your bedside, hauling you to an unannounced training session, and then tapping your thighs when you experienced excruciating pins and needles from sitting on your knees for too long.

If today’s a sneak preview for your future, who knows what’s in store many more weeks after?

Trying to gain a semblance of rationality, you nod—then shake—before settling on a nod again. “Yeah. Yeah I’ve got a problem. Your comment failed to crack a smile on the Egg Queen's face. That was ineggscusable. Good night, Prince.”

“What.” Noctis deadpans, obviously not expecting that to backfire on him. “Want me to snap a pic for proof? You gotta see it to believe it.”

Yanking the rest of the comforter over your face, you decide it’s best to spend the rest of your evening with a nap.

“Go to sleep, Prince. If you'll eggscuse me, I bid you a very good night.”

[tbc.]

Notes:

this chapter isn’t particularly my favourite and a few things felt awkward/misplaced, but i think my editing skills have gone down the drain and i couldn't particularly make anything work. ( ´△｀) i’m sorry sometimes my writing just goes down under and doesn’t wanna come back up. i’ve been awake for the past 31 hours now and i’m absolutely planning to pass out after this.

but yes, thank you for still sticking around and reading this update! and thank you for sending in messages and asks on my tumblr about my current job, even though i couldn’t reply much on time (especially with the asks) while i was away abroad. it’s been really nice chatting with some of you readers and you kind anons as well ❤ i’ll be called for another flight sometime soon seeing how november/december schedule is really packed (holiday season actually stands for…horrible season), but i’ll still do my best to have a consistent update (or update you readers on the status on my tumblr).

i hope life treats you well ❤ here’s a preview on the next chapter!

PREVIEW:

As usual, Noctis doesn’t seem to exist in the equation. Not that he’s surprised, he’s long classified Byron as one of those cynical bastards thriving on treating others as though their collective intelligence is on par with five-year-olds. Scoffing under his breath, Noctis folds his arms over his chest and follows you this time around, letting you lead the way to your room. Byron is all fancy bows as though he’s mocking Noctis for some reasons, throwing the door open with an exaggerated flourish and shutting it behind him once they’re all safely inside.

°˖ ✧◝(○ ヮ ○)◜✧˖ ° and also just because i was editing chapter 23, have a super-future preview of chapter 23 as well!

PREVIEW | 23:

“You wanna tell me what it feels like to have someone else on top of you?” Noctis murmurs.

#Noctis Lucis Caelum #ffxv #final fantasy xv #noctis x reader #noctis/reader #final fantasy xv fanfic #noctis #gladiolus amicitia #Gladio #the next chapter will have byron vs noctis #and it's pretty much one of the chapters i laughed while writing #yeah those were the days #thank you for sticking around dear readers!#lazy people

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gallifreyanlibertea · 7 years

Text

Coincidence

a/n: @inkwells-writing: My AP World History teacher was a loveable asshole and my AP Chemistry teacher was a dork so have this. I’m sorry this didn’t satisfy your toe kink... :(

Arthur woke to the impending doom that was a stack of essays on his nightstand table. The throbbing pain in his temples told him that no, he had not fallen asleep grading them like a good teacher, but had instead obliged to the whims of his coworkers and tossed back a couple of drinks until he’d forgotten his last name. Kirk-something was it?

Arthur turned his gaze toward the conveniently formatted papers, in which, underneath the writer’s name was consistently printed a Mr. Arthur Kirkland.

Kirkland, yes, of course. He blinked his groggy eyes.

There was no harm in letting go once in awhile, yes? It wasn’t often that he’d let himself go to this extent, but it had happened and that was that. No need to go back and lament. Besides, another day behind on reading and he might get the raw satisfaction of making his students wait longer for their grade. Oh, he loved to feel evil, Arthur felt a smile tug on his lips despite the parched, dry state of his throat.

It was easy to blame teachers when grades came in late, Arthur even remembered cursing some of his own to hell and back, but oh boy. Being one was so much different. Torturing his students was as fun as his job got, and if it was another excuse to go out and party like he wouldn’t end up breaking a hip, he would take it.

All in good-natured fun, of course.

He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, blinking to find himself surprisingly unclothed.

It didn’t faze him. One would expect him to… empty the contents of his stomach after, maybe, the fourth drink, naturally. Even his piss-drunk-est self wouldn’t let him sleep in soiled clothes.

His vision blurred for a painful bit before he hissed aloud and held his head in his hands. “Damn.”

“I know a good family recipe for hangovers that I think would be of service to you!”

“I definitely need that service,” Arthur replied with a chuckle, letting himself be pulled into a warm, comforting embrace, fingers under his chin tilting his head up as lips peppered his forehead in kisses.

Oh, the way those arms wrapped around his bare waist, pulling him to a strong, sturdy chest, to hell with the hangover, with those essays. They could wait another few hours, it was hardly ever he got time for himself to enjoy, responsibility-free, stress-free-

Stress-free only to the extent of which those green eyes of his blinked open, wide as saucers, because he hadn't been in a relationship in what felt like forever.

So who was in his bed?

Arthur used every last bit of strength in his arms to push the man far away, holding the bedsheets to his chest like a vice, “Who the hell are you, mate?”

The look he got in response wasn't like something you would expect from a stranger in bed. The man tilted his head, confused. He shifted to prop an elbow up, chin resting in the palm of his hand. “Are you alright?”

Arthur held his breath. “Uh-”

The man turned to the nightstand, slipped a pair of glasses onto the bridge of his nose and Arthur felt every drop of energy drip out of his system. His sheets dropped back down to pool at his waist.

“Mr. Jones?”

“I think at this point, you can call me Alfred.” Mr. Jones said with a dreamy smile, propelling himself forward to no doubt plant another kiss wherever was closest on Arthur’s skin.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Arthur found himself jerking backward, “What- wh, why are you in my…”

“You don't remember?”

It was a silly question to ask. Taking into consideration of their lack of clothes, of the hangover wracking Arthur's skull, of the fact that they'd woken up in the same bed- Arthur was no Sherlock Holmes but he was pretty damn sure what had happened and he wished with every cell in his body that it hadn't.

Because this man taught the class directly across from him, and Mondays were already hell, but now, to walk into school and see a man he’d spent the night with, to see that face every single day?

Arthur crossed his arms. “Mr. Jones, you need to leave. Now.”

“I-” Mr. Jones sat up and those sheets fell away from his shoulders, making it extremely difficult for Arthur to be stern.

No matter how badly behaved his students were, Arthur could always relentlessly crack the whip. But they had never been naked in his bed, and they had never been built like a tank, with biceps, or triceps, or numerous other -ceps that seemed to come out of nowhere. Arthur had definitely never seen them behind those button-down shirts Mr. Jones would wear to work.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, Mr. Jones-” A furrow of those brows framing those sad, sad blue eyes and Arthur cleared his throat, hand pressing reassuringly against a pectoral before him.

And for other reasons too, of course- “Alfred, I just-”

Oh, that face. The same expression that fell across those features when Alfred caught one of his students cheating on an exam- he was, by many and all definitions, a more empathetic teacher than Arthur could even try to be.

Arthur would watch him as he flitted around his class, blue eyes sparkling with wonder at the thought of being surrounded by atoms, that the whole world’s workings divided down into the subject he so lovingly taught.

“Chemistry!” He would say, loud enough to catch Arthur’s attention as he watched his class silently take a quiz. “You guys, chemistry is everything!”

And Arthur would grumble, resting his chin in his hands because history was quite literally everything as well, yet his students never got hyped up about hunter-gatherer societies undergoing the agricultural revolution.

What was Alfred’s secret? Arthur had always wanted to ask, hell, he vaguely remembered doing so last night- slurring over the rim of his umpteenth drink wondering aloud how anyone could make Coulomb’s Law as interesting as Alfred did. So interesting that Arthur himself would pause his teaching on many an occasion to listen in on Alfred’s lectures, after which he would shut the door and resume with a scowl.

Needless to say, Arthur didn’t remember Alfred’s answer.

“I have quite a few essays to grade that I would be better off doing in an empty house. To avoid distraction, that is.”

Alfred broke out into a grin, “I know you like to hold off grading those!”

Damn. What else had he told him last night?

“If I hold off any longer, I think I might warrant angry letters from parents,” Arthur said with a nervous chuckle, shifting to the far edge of the bed.

Alfred shifted with him and peeked over at the nightstand, crinkling his nose. “The dates on those look fairly recent.”

He then turned back to Arthur with a sunny smile. “Maybe you had them confused?”

“Yes, it’s possible I- oh.”

Alfred had climbed on him. Yes, literally, like a dog craving attention, he had hoisted himself quite literally to hover above Arthur, smirk pushing a dimple into his cheek. “So what say you about a round two?”

“I think I have another set of essays somewhere in the back to, um-”

“God, you make me so hot,” Lips were at Arthur’s ear and green eyes fluttered wide open. “Heh- I guess you could say, you’re quite the exothermic reaction.”

“My parents are coming over in half an hour!”

Alfred paused, expression mimicking the faux-panic on Arthur’s features. “What?”

“Yes, my parents, they-” Arthur sat up straight, hands coaxing Alfred’s warm body off of him- somewhere, anywhere, God, just somewhere that was not above him. “They want to see what I’ve done with the place.”

“You should’ve led with that.” Alfred said naively, blinking as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “Gosh, I’d better leave then.”

“Yeah.” Arthur nodded, and damn he was either one good actor or Alfred was just one gullible man. Something told him it was the latter.

Alfred slipped out of bed to hunt for his clothes and Arthur fought the urge to look.

“Say, why don’t you put your number in my phone and I could call you sometime tomorrow?”

Arthur would not be doing that. “Er- yes, of course.”

A man like Alfred- if he were already this attached after one night, Arthur could just imagine how it would be after a date. To top it off, they were coworkers, it wasn’t ethical!

Besides, Alfred could do better than a shifty man like him whose nightmares were commitment itself.

“Phone’s next to your essays. The password is 1776.”

Arthur couldn’t help the smile working its way onto his face. How predictable... He then went back to frowning, feigning the action of plugging his number into Alfred’s phone.

It was for their own good! They weren’t compatible, it wouldn’t work, and this was the only way to ensure their careers would be unaffected by the disaster that would ensue when two very different types of people decided to date.

“I guess I’ll leave then.”

Alfred put on his clothes and Arthur remembered why he’d been so eager to bed him in the first place, drunk or not.

Mr. Jones was a stud.

“And I guess you’ll call me by tomorrow.” Arthur said with a laugh, burrowing under his sheets, “With the number I put in… on your phone.”

“That’s the plan,” Alfred said with a wink and he was gone. Out the front door, with a phone that didn’t have Arthur’s number on it, dropping a two-ton weight on Arthur’s chest as the door clicked shut.

He slipped on his underwear and a pair of reading glasses, deciding to grade an essay before freshening up. It was unfair, truly, to the student who wrote it because Arthur was not in a very forgiving mood.

Nor was he usually ever, but even more so today- Like he always tended to be after trying situations such as these, not that they were quite common either.

He tended to be quite different in class.

Arthur was a man of a gentleman demeanor. One that could lock up any feelings that conflicted with his normal behavior behind it, feelings such as those that would be brought about by a particularly annoying member in his class, or someone telling him they didn’t remember the homework assignment had ever been given.

In those cases, he would keep a straight face and deliver a proper punishment. Not one tinge of red in his cheeks, not one word that hadn’t already been rehearsed in his head minutes before the conversation.

And it had been that way until the fateful day Mr. Jones had begun to work in their school.

He brought with him leagues of distracted students. Girls who spent more time admiring him through the windows of Arthur’s class, taking discreet pictures as if Arthur wouldn’t catch them and force them to move seats far away from the window view.

He did.

It was all so confusing, how childish little teenagers would throw away perfectly good education, perfectly good opportunities to get A’s on every single exam he’d administer, just to gawk at a man who would never give them a second glance.

“Could I borrow a marker? Mine is dry.” Had been the first thing Alfred had said to him though, and forget everything Arthur had just said, because he was gawking. Stuttering for the first time.

“Um, I-” Exposed. Arthur had paused in his movements pacing back and forth the classroom, as he usually did when he lectured. His hands had fumbled on his desk, “What color?”

“Any color you can spare!” Mr. Jones had said with a dazzling smile and Arthur needed to sit.

“Is green alright?”

“Green!” Alfred had taken it from his hands, leaving Arthur nearly shuddering at the touch of those warm, rough fingertips. “Green is perfect! Beautiful.”

And Arthur knew Alfred couldn’t possibly be talking about Arthur’s eyes, or the sweater Arthur had been wearing that day, but it felt like it and Arthur had to sit right down, turning to scowl at his snickering students upon Alfred’s leave.

“I hope you find it funny when I give you a pop quiz right this instant!”

So of course when Francis, the French teacher down the hall, had asked him out for drinks, promising with twinkling eyes that Alfred would be there as well, Arthur had foolishly gone, pretending it was due to a stressful week. Pretending it was due to anything that wasn’t wanting to see Alfred outside of school.

Despite the fact that Alfred had proposed sharing a lunch break the day he returned the green marker, and despite the fact that Arthur rejected not only that offer, but many others that had manifested themselves, he simply had to go get those drinks. For some bloody reason, Arthur was drawn to him, yet at the same time repelling like the wrong end of the magnet nearing another.

He thought about it all weekend, leading to the moment he’d walked right back into school on Monday, a bit late, seeing as the first bell had already rung before he’d walked into class.

He set his bag down behind his desk. “You’ve got a pop quiz on chapter eleven. Prepare as much as you can before I can get out your graded essays.”

The chorus of groans only served to quirk the corner of his mouth up in a sly smile. “And it’s not curved.”

“Mr. Kirkland!”

Arthur had taken a little longer than he would’ve to set the essays on his desk, but when he did, a timer was set and a relatively simple yet lengthy quiz was passed out, giving him a bit of time to leisurely grade the one or two essays left to grade.

He couldn’t fully focus the whole weekend. Not when small tidbits of Friday night came back to him every now and then, putting a nasty red on his cheeks, forcing him to take a break and… once in awhile, relieve the tension they brought him. He was only human!

Which is why he averted his eyes as he unwittingly caught the blue-eyed gaze of the teacher across the hallway, who’d stopped midway in his lesson to cast a rather sad look in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Now if you guys will get to work on your labs, I’ll be right back!” He heard Alfred say and he practically buried himself in the essay in front of him, pretending to be occupied, nonchalant, indifferent, all at once, all to keep Alfred from walking to the threshold of Arthur’s classroom and knocking gently against the wooden door.

Which he did anyway.

“Hey, Mr. Kirkland, can I see you for a second? I’m having problems with my computer.”

“You should ask Mr. Honda in the math hall, he’s far better at technology than I am,” Arthur responded all too quickly, flipping to the next page in the essay and marking a word with a red pen. “Besides, my class is taking a quiz right now, I can’t leave them, sorry.”

Those blue eyes dimmed down even further and Arthur didn’t know Alfred could own an expression so distraught.

And it was all Arthur’s fault.

“Alright, thanks anyway.”

“Yeah, good luck with your computer, mate.”

Arthur was a horrible, horrible person.

He didn’t believe it when he gave out multiple choice quizzes where all the answers were B, he didn’t believe it when he took fifty points off an essay for botched formatting, yet with that look on Alfred’s face, Arthur was ready to have the insult tattooed on his forehead. He deserved it. He was a grade-A ass.

One that couldn’t bring himself to tell Alfred he wasn’t interested, even though he so clearly was. One that couldn’t bring himself to ask Alfred to leave him alone even though it was the last thing Arthur wanted.

Arthur was a mess and Alfred had caught himself in the crossfire.

The dismissal bell rang faster than Arthur would’ve liked, despite the school having a block schedule, and he watched as his students left the room, leaving quizzes at his desk and picking up unsatisfactory essay grades on their way out.

“You know, Arthur-”

A startled jump and Arthur bit his lip, eyeing the surface of his desk as his fingers fumbled with the fabric of his sweater.

Alfred had walked in during Arthur’s free period and there was no excuse coming to Arthur’s mind, not one that would save him from this, frankly inevitable, confrontation.

“The oxygen in the water molecule has two lone pairs of electrons, and electrons always repel each other.”

Arthur pretended he knew that information.

“They push the hydrogen molecules toward each other, and despite one hydrogen desperately wanting to get as far away as possible from the other one, they’re forced together by the lone pairs pushing them down.”

Alfred touched Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur recoiled, just slightly.

“There doesn’t have to be those two lone pairs for us.”

Despite the unnecessary chemistry analogy, Arthur got it. There was no need to be pushed together if Arthur wanted to get as far away as possible. A far-fetched comparison, but he got it.

“Well, I mean, if there weren’t two lone pairs on the oxygen we’d all be nonexistent.”

Arthur glanced up to find Alfred rather flustered. “Not! Not that I’m saying we have to be together for the sake of the human race or anything, er- it was a bad analogy, but if you don’t want me to bug you just let me know.”

A man of admirable quality. Arthur cleared his throat. “Friday night was a mistake I’d never intended to make- I hadn’t been fully conscious.”

“Me neither!” Alfred blurted, “Or else I wouldn’t have let it happen, I mean, because you couldn’t consent. Not that I... didn’t want it to happen.”

“I don’t think it, um, we should be more than that. A mistake.”

“Okay.” Was Alfred’s response, punctuated with a light smile. It was enough closure for Arthur to have gotten back to his work and for Alfred to have gotten back to his, yet for some odd reason, Arthur couldn’t stop.

It was as if he was convincing himself. “I mean, we’re co-workers, what if something went wrong and we brought our feelings into the workplace?”

“Well, if we fought, I think you’d be able to handle it pretty fine, you never seem to lose your cool.” Alfred remarked, “And me? You never gave me your number and despite that, I think I handled my class today just fine.”

Arthur swallowed around the lump in his throat. “There would be rumors.”

“The rumors would be true.” Alfred said with a shrug, “Besides, it’s not like we’d parade it around school. If they ask, we don’t have to tell.”

“We can’t date, though,” Arthur muttered, fists clenched atop the surface of his desk. “We just can’t, I’m sorry.”

“And that’s okay, it’s what I came here to say, don’t feel pressured to comply with what I want,” Alfred said with a grin, and Arthur really could’ve left it at that. Alfred seemed to carry himself well, he would be fine, and everything would be back to normal, but he just… couldn’t.

“Although, I find myself craving a sandwich from that coffee house near the supermarket. It really is quite good.”

“I’ll have to try it out,” Alfred said, and Arthur glanced up to find him plucking a pen from his pocket, scribbling a note onto his wrist to which Arthur had to force himself not to chide him for the habit.

One couldn’t reveal their true colors so quickly.

“I think I’ll be there, what, this evening? Around seven?”

Alfred stilled his motion, clicking his pen so that the point receded back into its shell.

“If you happen to be there around the same time, I can’t do anything about it.”

“Nothing more than a coincidence,” Alfred said with a smile, and Arthur dared not smile back, lest a student saw and discovered that he was not just a shell of a human with not a single emotion inside, as he tended to quite frequently appear.

After all, there would be plenty of smiling in the numerous other coincidences to come.

#IF ANYBODY ROASTS ME FOR USING A CHEM REFERENCE WRONG MEET ME IN THE PIT I LITERALLY DO NOT CARE #I fuckin hate chem so much #usuk #aph america #aph england #literally fuck anyone who's good at chem I'm on team world history #chem whizzes are too powerful and need to be kept far away from me #literally everyone I know who likes chem finds lame excuses to make references and now so does alfred suck it #jk ily all #except you chem whiz #(I'm just jealous I'm joking)#my fanfiction

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