#wifi writes

[binah-beloved]

My Assistant

Binah x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of mutilation and death

~ * ~

Your life is one of death, as the City permits it. A speck of dust in its grinding gears, trying to find its footing. Only to be swept away and crushed between metal and wind. As were all who came from the Backstreets. A screaming, seething mass, clawing at the walls, tearing feathers from wings that would never run bare. You could never be that. A plume. Something so soft and refined. You could be a bolt. A screw in the rusted skeleton of a wing, working in tandem. Join a Wing, and you’ll be free from the dirt. Join a Wing, and you’ll never have to scrape and scrounge in the streets again.

Join a Wing. You’ll be safe.

Safety. The one thing you sought, daring to chase after that distant voice, just on the edge of your vision. One thing amidst thousands. The only wish in your heart.

Yet still, denied.

It’s not safe. Nothing is ever safe, and this Wing is no different. Lobotomy Corporation. The pioneer, the Wing of innovation, whose halls were cold as ice and laced with stagnant air. New employees, they said, would go the deepest. Down to the departments that were buried in the darkest corners, frost lining the pipes. They needed manpower, down there. People. Hands. Sacrifices.

She’s waiting just outside the elevator, your new superior. Sitting in the shadows amidst a throne of gravestones, fingers twined together. Bored, silent- surveying the new workers with the barest hint of distaste as she rises to her feet, finally stepping into your view.

“You have all made your way here.” Her voice is deep yet flat. A monotonous, toneless thing, caged beneath layers of ash. “Or perhaps, were cast down.”

The Sephirah’s long coat drags listlessly over the ground as she approaches. Tilting her head, a single earring gleaming gold in the dim light. “I am known here as ‘Binah’. But ‘Binah’ is merely a place where one finds many graves.”

Your eyes flicker with dread, and her gaze abruptly locks with your own. Onyx, unfathomably deep, pooling into nothingness. A statue, worn and hollowed out by ocean waves. She holds your stare before turning away, as a Sephirah should. A brief flash of something veiled beneath the ice- a hallucination, perhaps.

“I am simply the one who draws the water.”

It sounds like rain, the steady drizzle always cloaking your dreams.

The Department of Extraction is even colder than the rest of the facility, limbs shivering within your thin uniform. Your signature blotches across the paper, gripping a pen between numbed fingertips. Agents received thicker clothes, further bolstered by the gifts and trinkets the Abnormalities bestowed upon them. Clerks simply suffered. Shaking, trembling, a permanent, aching chill sinking deep into the marrow of your bones. Yet your hands still move. Sorting through classifications, organizing messy, bloody reports. Stubbornly chasing that voice, that hope. If you could persevere, things would get better. You would be safe. Maybe one day, you’d even be allowed warmth. It lingers, whispering faint words of encouragement in a shroud of fine mist. You shudder, rubbing your hands together with a quiet cough.

The Sephirah watches you and your coworkers, examining each stack of notes without a word. A silent observer to a rusted world, with little care for the new gravestones that appear; one, two, three each day. Sometimes more, sometimes less- but always growing, littering the walls. You mourn each one, even if you did not know them. For if you did not grieve, no one ever would, and the paper stars you fold begin to pile up against the floor.

Your head lifts, and her eyes meet yours once more. Watching you shiver, just for a moment. The Sephirah’s brows twitch, then smooth out into an impassive stare as she turns away, the feathered collar of her cloak rustling softly.

A cup of tea sits upon your desk when you return. A bitter black blend without sugar or cream. It burns your fingers, then your lips, scalding your throat and tongue until they’re quite sore.

Then it warms you, soothing your veins from your head to the tips of your toes, and you gasp in relief.

The Sephirah is nowhere to be seen.

The tea refills day after day, heated to perfection. Staving off the cold in exchange for your labor, and you work tirelessly, desperate to prove your worth. Holding that dream close to your heart. You stretch, curling your spine back and wincing with each crack as you glance at the teacup, mere dredges of the drink remaining in the bottom. Whoever made this, delivered such a precious gift, would surely be suffering under the same misery. Stuck in a cycle of days, lingering on the precipice of death. Your fingers trace the rim of the saucer, slipping down to pull a small strip of paper from your uniform pocket. It’s a clumsy thing. A lopsided star, the same as the ones you leave by the countless graves. Leaving it tucked beneath the cup’s handle, a tiny, grateful gift.

It vanishes by the next morning, and in its place sits a single sugar cube.

The tea is one constant, a blissful reprieve in the unseen dawn. Always now, you leave a star. Testing any color you can get your hands on- red, purple, black and gold- and always it disappears, the drink refilled and drifting with curls of steam. Something to look forward to each day. Something that motivates you to rise from bed, rather than letting the frost cover your body.

The cup is one stability. The other is carved from onyx.

Eyes trace your every move and twitch- the shift of your hands, the swirl of your pen, the idle tap of your feet. Boring into your spine until your skin prickles with ice. She holds your stare this time, from her spot across the room. The Sephirah watches, unblinking. An obsidian blade piercing your cornea, her footsteps echoing against the floor, looming over you in silence.

A shiver runs down your back, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. Her hand extends, waiting, expectant. An order, without saying a word. With quivering fingers, you set the latest report into her palm, the paper covered in your notes and suggestions.

She scans the sheet, your annotations, the messy handwriting and splotches of ink, face set in stoic neutrality.

“Adequate.”

You blink, stunned, and a wave of relief spreads through your veins, almost slumping in your seat. The Sephirah hands back your work, and her fingers brush briefly against yours. She’s cold. Colder than the metal walls, colder than the endless graves. Her thumb grazes your knuckles, tracing a path down to a scar etched on your palm.

A long, thin mark, almost invisible against the lines of your skin. It’s nothing special. Just the remnant of an embarrassingly messy accident involving you and a shard of glass that happened to find the right angle- something you rarely point out or admit.

Yet she touches it as if it’s something familiar, drifting past its end to trail over your veins. Her gaze holds yours fast, frozen, before finally releasing your hand and stepping away. You watch, choking, as she vanishes down the hall, heavy coat swishing in her wake.

Your heart thumps painfully in your chest, drowning your lungs in the evening’s icy rainwater.

“You.”

Your Sephirah stands beside your desk, staring through your bones once again. Her fingers curl, beckoning you closer. Those cold, frigid fingers, hanging limply at her sides. Covered in tiny white scars. Nicks and punctures, gashes and slivers through the skin. Your own foolish mistake pales in comparison, hidden against your palm. She observes silently, for a moment, before marching down the hall, not bothering to confirm your own steps.

“I find myself in need of an assistant,” she continues, tone unwavering from its usual chill. “Come.”

Nothing to do, except obey. Descending deeper, past the rusted doors and twisted metal railings. Water drips from decaying pipes. Landing in forgotten puddles, seeping through the floor to some rotten place. The murmurs of your coworkers, however quiet, fade into an uneasy void.

She walks until she can go no farther. Standing before a pit, a vast well carved into the ground and splashing the walls with shifting green light. Wretched curiosity tugs at your senses, but your Sephirah holds up a hand.

“Avert your eyes.” The words are oddly low. “Stronger minds have been severed, gazing into its depths.”

Hastily, you look away, back facing the hollow structure. The clink of metal, a chain being unwound- and the distant splash of water reaches your ears, just out of reach.

“All but my own.”

Your Sephirah’s steps echo across the floor, fabric whispering over the concrete. “A unique punishment, the inability to fall to madness.” A trace of bitter loathing laces her voice. “To see the collapse of a boundary without obtaining it.”

She pauses, and you frown. Beneath the disinterest, the cold resentment, a deep river of exhaustion filters through your ears. Devoid of the light you so relentlessly ran after.

“…You must be very brave, Lady Sephirah.” You speak without thinking, and the air turns deathly quiet.

She stops in her tracks, at the edge of the well. Staring down into the waters, earring swaying like a pendulum. Your nerves spark with fear, roughly biting your traitorous tongue and bracing for a deserved punishment.

“…Those words…”

Her breath hitches, a pebble thrown into a still pond. Fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak, tight enough to tear.

“…Always those words.”

Her chin lifts, eyes trained upwards, and for a fleeting moment, your Sephirah seems startlingly human in the well’s glow.

“…Do you dream of loops?”

You blink behind your fingers, a few paces behind her. It’s ordinary, now. Your Sephirah’s need for an assistant. The paperwork that once filled your arms delegated to other clerks, your whispering coworkers. A faint warmth settling into your veins, brushing it with the edges of your nails. Another splash, water trickling over the bucket’s edge. Again and again, she draws. More and more, the Manager orders. The chains cut into her skin, blood beading in stinging rivulets. Yet still she pulls. Drawing until her hands are scraped red and raw.

She tells you that she hardly feels a thing. Just another scar amidst the hundreds beneath her clothes. It’s nothing of consequence.

Out of politeness, you ignore the twitch of her fingertips.

“Sometimes.”

Your head leans back, gazing up at the ceiling- or, what little you can see beneath your hands. “…Or, I dream of dreams. That I’ll wake up, and none of this would have happened.”

A quiet hum. Your Sephirah’s way of acknowledging your words. The chains creak once more, lowering the bucket back into the well’s depths.

“And do you remain yourself, when you awaken?” she asks, as if she’s merely interviewing a future employee, trickling down in a steady stream. “Or is a sense of self something brief and scattered?”

Confusion knits your brows together; pondering the question, turning it over in your brain. A sense of self. Such a difficult thing to retain, confined to the darkness. You dare to glance at your Sephirah, and she meets your eyes with a stare of muted, shattered glass.

“…The experiences are different, but the base is the same,” you finally decide. “There’s still the same heart underneath.”

“Hm.” She nods, almost nonchalant in the motion yet laced with something like pride. “Perhaps you are wiser than you seem.” Her words wash over you, warming you to your bones, and the bucket finally dips into the distant water. “…As always.”

With a flick of her wrist she departs, striding down the hall. Leaving you to flounder alone and entirely baffled.

“…Ah…”

Your limbs burn, the throb of broken bones mixing with the sharp agony from countless gashes. Fingers curling, attempting to move, only to spasm as pain jolts down your side, a gasp tearing itself from your throat. The ground is tacky with blood. Sticking to your skin, clumping in your lashes. Something rests atop your head, slowly stroking your hair and holding you steady.

With a pained groan, you force your eyes open, wrenching the lids apart like a scab from a wound. The Extraction Department ceiling arches, hazy and dark, before your gaze focuses on a pale smudge.

A hand. Elegant bone structure, peppered with scars. Pinching a tiny thing between forefinger and thumb. One of the paper stars you folded, so long ago.

Your Sephirah kneels, cradling your head in her lap. Brushing her knuckles over your cheek, light as a feather. Scarred fingertips rough against your skin. Trembling. Warm.

“So it is this, yet again.”

She chuckles humorlessly, the gold in her hair glinting with each shake of her head. “How many times must I watch you decay?” Her hand curls into a fist, and she dips forward until your noses nearly brush. Caressing your face as if she’s done it a thousand nights before.

“You were always so… horribly selfless.”

Your Sephirah’s grip tightens, arms curling around your waist and bringing you closer, pressing her cheek to the top of your head as she hums. It sends a stinging lance of pain through your ribs, and her tone soothes your weak cry with a hush.

“It is my true punishment. My eternal agony, written into the script of these headstones.”

Slowly, she rocks back and forth. Your ear pressed over her chest, a frantic thumping through your bones. Ice melting away until her heart beats anew, raw and fresh and wounded. Her voice softens, shedding the cold lethargy into something etched with grief. That familiar, untouchable voice, crumbling like a stone worn away by the rain.

“You once called me ‘Binah’.” Her fingers curl around your wrist, thumbing over the scar on your palm. It tingles, a mist you’ve felt before in your endless, repeating dreams. “As if it were the name of a person, and not a caged beast.”

She shifts once more, brushing her forehead against yours. “Call me that again,” your Sephirah murmurs, pleading. “Just once, before you leave me.”

“…” Your breath hitches, black spots dancing before your eyes. Her arms are warm, firm around your ailing body, blood soaking into her coat, dotting the iridescent black feathers at her collar. It smells of black tea, and feels like home.

There’s a tug at the corner of your lips, pulling slowly into a small, trembling smile. “…Bi… nah…”

Her hands shake violently. Curling against your face, digging briefly into your skin before going slack. Tiny droplets scatter across your face, glimmering and damp to the touch. Tears. Binah weeps, silently. Tilting her head, pressing a kiss to your temple, soft as silk and smudged with life.

“Wait for me.” Her gaze flashes, that familiar light at your fingertips. “I will find you again. No matter how long, no matter how many cycles we must endure. I would tear this world apart for you.”

“We will meet again, my assistant. My starlight.”

Binah remembers every loop. Each awakening, each rebirth. Sliding another needle through her brain, nestled within the broken tissue. The well’s water, the distant river flowing beneath her feet. Madness clawing at her skull, unable to break free. She remembers. But not for them. Not for him.

For you.

The sound of your laughter, ringing like bells. That smile on your face, meant only for her. Your fingers, curiously tracing the scars littering her skin. Ah, how far she had fallen. An Arbiter, in love. That very first cycle, when you had asked her rotting, degraded Meltdown if it was alright. Pathetic. Her fellow Arbiters would laugh at the mere thought. The cold, sadistic Garion drawn to someone, again and again, over and over.

Yet she was mesmerized by your light.

A warm, gentle thing, glowing even in the depths of that hellish facility. Treating her as someone instead of something, a life instead of a weapon, a soul instead of a monster. She reached- she grasped, cupping it in her hands- yet it always slipped away, winking out like a candle’s flame. Endlessly following the tiny star through the repeating weeks and days.

Binah remembers every loop. Each fickle moment of joy, each time you spoke her name. All of your deaths, bleeding out on the floor.

“Binah.”

“Assistant.”

Crushed by a sweet song.

“Binah…”

“Assistant?”

Skewered in the heart.

“Binah?”

“Assistant…”

Trapped behind the Rabbits’ door.

“Binah-!”

“…”

By her own clawed hands.

Preserved in her mind, clear as crystal and terribly vivid. A new, singular form of torture, knowing she could never save you. Despite her strength. Despite her desperation. Weak, chained Arbiter, drowning in her silent sorrow. Standing by the machine as light makes way for darkness, seven nights and seven days.

All to see you again, the one who gave her a name.

Now, there is nothing. An empty dream, floating in the endless abyss. Peaceful. Quiet. Yet her heart aches, hollowed out from the center. Craving the warmth that once took root between her ribs. Gifted by a hand kinder than her own.

Something flickers in the distance. A glimmer, twinkling just out of reach. Binah takes a step- one, two- then again. Following the strange, familiar shine, pages turning in her wake. Books tower around an infinite staircase, an audible murmur in the distance, and a novel of black and gold creaks open.

A blink, her face illuminated by swaying stars. A room stretches before her, lined with shelved and blackened trees, stellar crystals scattered about the floor and ceiling. Uneven and jagged, folded into mysterious constellations. The Patron Librarian of the Floor of Philosophy watches, quietly, as more books open. Groans and mutters of surprise echo around her, the employees- other librarians, under her command- rousing from their long slumber, materializing from their own books and papers.

Binah’s eyes sharpen. Observing the room with a watchful gaze, picking and plucking each face from her mutilated brain. Some familiar, some not- none who she wants to see. Her heart pounds. Unraveling its bindings, despair filling her veins. She had promised. Promised to search, for as long as it took, to weather the pain and torment until the end. It could not be torn away. Not now. Not when she’s finally clawed her way out of the dark.

She spies a figure, sitting near a tea table. Beautifully, hopelessly familiar, and Binah’s breath goes still.

You’re rubbing the sleep from your eyes, stretching your limbs. Whole, uninjured. Alive. Alive. Binah crosses the floor, joining your side in an instant. Staring down at you, long hair draping over her shoulder and dual earrings winking with tiny flashes of light. Her breath comes hurried and shallow, tracing something in her pocket- a little, lopsided star, made entirely of paper.

“My assistant,” she whispers, and her voice curls around your ears, all bird’s wings and dew. Your mouth falls open, an ocean of unlocked memories replaying in your head.

“Binah.”

Her expression crumples, letting out a low sob as she pulls you into her arms, so quiet that only you could hope to hear. Swaying on her feet, kissing your head as you cup her face in your palms, carefully wiping away the tears.

You’ve always been running. Chasing after that distant hope, the voice lingering at the edge of your mind. Finally catching up. Cradling it, her, in your hands, wrapped in her soft, comfortable cloak and soaking up the words she murmurs into your hair.

Your Sephirah. Your Patron Librarian.

“My assistant,” she repeats, rich tea mixed with honey. “My starlight.” Your cheeks warm, matching her rare smile with a beaming one of your own.

“My Binah.”

An employee and a Sephirah. An assistant and a Librarian. Through pain and suffering and countless cycles of blood. Safe in each other’s arms.

Never again to be parted.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Wishes on the New Year

Synopsis: On the cusp of midnight, you learn a beautiful new tradition.

Childe x Reader, Foul Legacy x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Fluff Warnings: Mentions of snow, military training, and fire

~ * ~

“Come on, this way!” Childe laughs with loud, rambunctious delight, pulling you insistently by the hand up the narrow path. Your feet stumble and slip on the ice, hidden sheets tugging at your boots from beneath the snow, mischievous and vexing. Just waiting for one wrong move to send you crashing down. But Childe’s grasp is tight, firm, never once letting you fall. He tugs until you pivot before him so he can scoop you into his arms as you yelp, chuckling all the way and unrelenting in his steady pace. Every so often he squeezes your arm, silent reassurance to quell your lingering nervousness. Down the streets of Morepesok, towards the outskirts where the ocean loomed in the distance, dark and treacherous, only broken by the houses lined near the shore and burning with warm candlelight from within. He drags you towards the most vibrant one, and the door swings open before he can even knock.

“Ajax!” A conglomerate of people fills the entryway, all with familiar tufts of ginger hair and smiles bright enough to rival the sun. The little ones swarm Childe- Ajax- yelling and clinging to him as he laughs once more, carefully setting you down on wobbly legs. You slip almost immediately, lunging for his sleeve with your heart pounding, and Ajax’s grin widens, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. An older woman with the same hair emerges from inside, eyes widening with a gasp as her gaze lands on you. “You must be the one Ajax wrote to us about!” She vigorously shakes your hand until your arm is nearly wrenched from its socket, bringing both of you into a fierce hug that audibly pops your spine, and you cough. “He- ahem- he wrote to you about me?” Your voice is hoarse, just barely trembling. “Yes, yes! Almost every letter this troublemaker sent us-” she ruffles Ajax’s hair, met with a strangled yell of outrage, “mentioned you! Calling you ‘his love’ and ‘his starlight’-” “Mama! Please!” he chokes, cheeks burning a deep red. “The first visit? Really?”

“You really expected me not to share your embarrassing stories?” The woman chortles, patting his shoulder. “Now come in, both of you! Out of the snow, you’ll catch a cold!” She ushers you indoors, warm air washing over you in a wave of comfort. You sigh with relief, ears defrosting as Ajax helps you with your heavy overcoat and the children are herded further in. “Your mother seems nice,” you remark in a murmur, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. Ajax grins, tapping the tip of your nose. “Told you she’d like you.” “Oh, shush.”

He nudges you into the kitchen, a hand resting gently around your waist. It’s abuzz with activity, chatter and music filling every corner of the room. Something bubbles over the fire, deliciously savory with the scent of familiar spices, the same Ajax uses in that famed seafood soup of his. His mother smiles and waves from beside an older man, clearly the father of the household, both of their fiery heads peppered with strands of gray. You could almost say it matched Ajax’s white streak, the hair that so often passes through your fingers on cold nights spent close. In an instant you’re surrounded on all sides, his siblings talking over one another as the older ones playfully prod you with question after question, the youngins clinging to your arms and legs. Any nerves still humming with tension in your chest melt away with each pat on the shoulder and friendly hug- Ajax was right, as usual. There’s nothing to worry about. One of the girls smiles brightly up at you, gripping the edge of your sleeve.

“Hi! I’m Tonia! I already know who you are!” she interrupts when you open your mouth to speak. “He wrote about you aaaall the time!” She waves several pieces of parchment crumpled in her fist, each penned in Ajax’s hasty scrawl and dotted with tiny drawings. “Can you really beat him in a race?” Ajax huffs, a bit flustered. “That was only once.” “Twice,” you correct with a hint of smugness, patting the young girl’s head. She beams and leans closer, craving more. “I just finished training those times!” “So did I!” “Alright, alright,” he groans, but there’s a smile threatening to tear his cheeks. “We’ll call it a draw. The next winner takes all.”

“Yeah, sure.” You shake your head, a laugh finally bubbling up as Teucer promptly tries to climb you like a tree, a few of Ajax’s older siblings guiding you to the table with indulgent grins on their faces. Joy, relief- a genuine sparkle in Ajax’s eye so rare to see, normally replaced by the gaze of a corpse. But now he’s laughing too, fingers laced with yours and fitting perfectly, like it’s meant to be there. His family breathes a silent sigh, infinitely grateful. The food is seemingly endless, a feast prepared from everyone’s hands, filled with the clink of silverware on dishes and a cacophony of voices. It’s somehow not awkward at all, despite your status as a newcomer- Ajax’s parents and siblings integrate you so seamlessly, as if you’ve always been there. Always been with Ajax, smitten and soft and hopelessly devoted to each other, the final remnants of doubt going up in smoke.

He catches your fond gaze and smirks, curling his little finger around yours. “Like the soup?” You hum, taking a careful sip. “It’s spicier than yours.” “Really? I’ll have to try harder, then.” She hides it well, but you swear you spot his mother biting her lip to muffle a fit of laughter. Ajax gently pulls you to your feet once the meal is over, a quick glance and wave from his mother as permission before he leads you out of the house and onto the back porch. Frost nips at your nose and fingertips, snowflakes silently drifting down to join the mounds of white already covering the landscape as you sit, pressed close against his side.

His hand lightly squeezes yours. The nails are longer, sharper. His eyes glint with tiny faceted sparks, ears pointed and tinged with deep purple. Two presences in one body, cupping your cheeks with a tender touch. Your heart eases, warms, relaxing into his grip. He presses something into your hand- a slip of paper and a charcoal pencil- flashing you another easy grin. “Write down your New Year’s wish, and we’ll burn it when the clock turns. It’s tradition! Supposed to help it come true.” “Huh.” You shrug, turning your attention down toward the parchment. It’s fascinating to learn about each nation’s practices, the superstitions and beliefs that add such color to life. You pause. Hesitate. What to write, what to write- putting hopes and dreams into words was a practice you never mastered, too many thoughts packed in your head.

Your pencil taps twice, then touches the paper. May we all be happy, healthy, and close to home. Also, I want to beat Ajax in another race. Mushy and sentimental, but it feels right. Ajax would tease you relentlessly if it wasn’t being burned soon enough. A chime rings through the air- then another, and another. Your head lifts as the clock strikes midnight. Another year gone by, a year of calluses and swords and training, of strong hands holding you close and horns bumping gently against your skull. One, two, three, all the way to twelve. The noise slowly fades, replaced by faint cheers of celebration.

There’s a tap on your shoulder. Ajax already holds a lit match, watching you with a soft, quiet gaze. The flame casts flickering light over his features, freckles like tiny constellations. It’d be concerning if it was anyone else- but this is Ajax. Childe, Tartaglia, Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers. Recklessness might as well be his middle name. You both hold your notes above the fire, watching them slowly curl and crinkle, glowing orange spreading across the surface and crumbling into ash. The match dies, winking out like a firefly, bringing silence with it.

“…What did you wish for?” you ask after a moment, and Ajax snickers, a slightly feral purr in his voice. “That’s a secret, obviously. It won’t come true if I say it.” “Heh, I bet I could guess.” “Oh, really?” He tilts his head playfully. “Then, do tell.” You laugh, the sound tickling your throat in butterfly brushes, leaning forward and gently poking his nose. “That’s a secret. Obviously.”

Ajax gasps, mock offended, “Cheeky! How dare you turn my words back onto me!” It melts into a chuckle as he brushes his lips over your forehead, your eyes, the bridge of your nose. “Fine, fine. Keep your- our secrets,” he whispers, voice deeper and rumbling. His eyes gleam, black bleeding slowly into the sclera. “…Someone wants to see you.” It's said gentle and soft, finally full of acceptance. You nod, and he shifts briefly away as harmless crackling stars engulf his body, twinkling once before they vanish. Foul Legacy stares at you, purring loud enough to wake the dead. His cheek presses against yours, nudging up under your chin and draping his claws over your waist as his wings flutter, glittering with countless galaxies and dreams reflected in the evening moon. He traces the length of your spine, each segment something warm and precious beneath his grasp, even more than the two wishes Ajax wrote down on his paper- one for each of them, yet saying the same thing.

There’s little else he wants apart from you, his warm flower against the endless cold of the Abyss. Legacy lifts you, cradling you against his chest to watch the stars, snowflakes peppering his armor and lilac fur. Brushing his maw against your temple as you adjust, a beast so violent taught sweetness by your love. You sigh happily and crane your head back, staring into his crystalline eye. "Thank you for bringing me here," you murmur. "Your family is wonderful. You're wonderful." He croons, and the faintest whisper of two voices reach your ears. One strong and bold, the other quiet, more growling. Both meltingly soft with affection and joy, settling deep and soothing into your bones. “Happy New Year.” “We love you.”

[wifefiction]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Freddie/Grace (Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical) Characters: Grace (Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical), Freddie (Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical) Additional Tags: Making Out, Grinding, dom/sub dynamics, Hair-pulling, Marking, Scratching, Biting, Hickies, Licking, Hatless!Fred, Light Puppy Play, Dorks in Love, Vaginal Fingering, Finger Sucking, Tit Sucking, Porn with Feelings, Grace's choker | Freddie's collar Summary:

Grace has a grand idea: What if she got in Freddie's lap and they made out?

Or

They make out on a couch and Grace gets a little possessive. Freddie is excited to show how obedient she can be.

*This fic was originally rated M, but is now rated E for chapter 2.

[sketchy-scribs-n-doods]

Yo I know I already sent you something this week but I really like this line: "He was an antiseptic, and he was going to get rid of the /disease/ that was called jacksepticeye." Kind of sounds off to me, but I like it anyway, and I can deal with it in the editing stage. - wifi

Hey man, feel free to send me as much stuff as you like! I love your writing and ideas, and even just talking to you. ^^

That said, yes p l e a s e, that was one of my favorite parts of that imagine I wrote, the idea that, originally, Anti-Chase (I’m gonna call him that to avoid confusion) thinks that he’s in the right and is doing good by going after Jack. Thinking that Jack is like a spreading disease, people carrying him and believing him to be a good person, but what kind of good person would create someone like Chase, failure in life and failing in love, and then abandon him to rot like he was nothing? Of course then, in his anger and betrayel, Anti-Chase believes that Jack must be a virus, masking himself as something good. I love the whole double meaning with the word virus here, because there’s septic, implying infection and disease, which would require (badum!) antiseptics, but a virus could also be a computer virus spreading from computer to computer, and in the context of Anti-Chase’s delusions, Jack would be a Trojan Horse virus, something damaging pretending to be good.

Aaaaah, sorry for rambling on wifi anon, I just really love this idea/theory hhhnnn-

Message me about it whenever you like man! ^-^

[binah-beloved]

Asclepius

Outis x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of fire and burning

~ * ~

A soldier leaves her beloved, one sunny, heartless day. Standing in the hallway, hand in her pocket, casual and tense. Her eyes sharpen into points at the corners, all angular and amber brown turning fiery as dusk dawns. Yet so soft, regarding you with nothing but tender resignation. Everything is ready. Her clothes, neatly folded, waiting by the door. The forms, inked with perfect penmanship, folded in her pocket. Her watch, ticking smoothly, strapped onto her wrist. Everything is ready. Everything but her heart. She stands behind, resting her head on your shoulder as her arms wrap around your waist. A delicacy in the motions, calloused fingers pressing gently against skin with a soft sigh. You won’t look at her. Won’t hardly speak to her.

“…You know I have to.” Your hands pause in silken thread. “…You don’t.” “I do.” “You don’t.” “I should.” “…” Your fingers curl in the fabric, smooth and black and hemmed for another. “…I hate it.” “I know,” her voice is a sigh, stroking a hand over your hair. “I’ll be fine. I’m a soldier.” “You’re a medic.” “I’m both.” “I know. Just…” The bite falters in your voice, shoulders slumping. “I can’t help but worry. You know that. And it’s so- so far away, not like all the other times…” “…Hey.” Her hand slides down, cupping your cheek and tilting your head to meet her eyes, glimmering and sparking so sweetly. “I’ll be okay. I’m trained for this. I promise, I’ll come back.” “…” You stare, smoky citrine and two rings of gold in her ear, mirroring the matching set on your shared hands. “…You better keep that promise, Odysseus.”

She just chuckles softly, expression crinkling and brightening around the edges. The same way you smile, in all your genuine delight that you kindly share with a nobody like her. “Of course. Just wait for me. I’ll be back before you know it.” Her thumb traces gentle circles over your skin, a murmur of touch. “Wait for me. Wait under the olive tree. That’s where I’ll be, okay?” Your own fingertips ghost across her watch, the fragment of time you wrapped and tied with a ribbon just for her. “…I’ll wait. For as long as I need to.” “And I’ll come back, no matter how long it takes me.” A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, leaning your head against hers and pecking the bridge of her nose. “I love you, Ody.” Odysseus smiles back, gentle and open, only for you. “And I love you, my muse. For eternity, on the open sea.”

A sinner taps her foot impatiently, staring out the window with a pinched brow. Finally- finally. It’s been far too long, too many years and too many stops on this wretched vessel of a bus. All the people, her “coworkers”, matter little to how long she’s waited and yearned to return. The long route home. She huffs, a bittersweet smirk flashing and fading within a blink. Useless, all of them- including her. After all, who needs medical skills when a clock can turn back time and heal all wounds without a trace? All that’s left is military training, enforced internally to the highest degree. She has to be useful. She must. She needs to survive. The devilish thing carries her and the others who exist very little, down winding, twisting roads that all look the same. So, so close. She’s waited this long, hasn’t she? So very long. Ah, but some have waited longer, in their immortality- she doesn’t care. They can all go hang. All that matters are these familiar streets, the remnants of smoke floating in the air. A hand presses to her chest, dizzy and fluttering and so, so hopeful.

The bus slows, gently. She’ll admit that child is an exemplary driver, sometimes. A firm ticking noise, too loud for her liking, and with a wave of a hand and the hiss of the doors they all disembark once again. A routine, at this point. Not the type she enjoys, not something quiet and soft and enjoyable in its repeatability. She marches, as usual, posture stiff and unyielding. For once, her attention is not on the clock-headed Manager, or supervising the others in their idiocy. Her gaze strays, raking over houses and landmarks, pebbles dotting the sidewalks and grass grown far past its prime. Watching for that glowing branch, she snaps to the rest of them, glaring in that familiar way. A lie. She’s grown into the role, every word a lopsided truth or construction. Soon, soon she’ll be back where she never has to lie, needs only to speak the sweet, lingering truth, murmurs of I missed you and I love you.

The air sticks and burns the back of her neck as the grip on her kopis tightens into a vice, buildings and walls looming around her before she spots it and her heart gives a sudden jolt- there, that path, that little path she made just so life would be easier, the ghost of these very boot soles still upon them. Her eyes widen, breath hitching in her throat and veering to the side, away from that group and the golden shine. A chorus of confusion and anger rings out behind her, hands reaching out to grab her wrist. Her head tilts back briefly, and she sprints. Traitor. Deserter. Backstabber. Those words mean nothing, and never will. The blackened soil crumbles beneath her steps, shoving dry, weeping branches aside with a brilliant smile she had nearly forgotten. “I’m home! I’m-” The words die in an instant, acid in her throat.

Ash covers the pavement, coating it in smears of charcoal and dust, the stones cracked and worn. The gardens you so deeply adored are gone, rotted and burned away, the windows you sat by while weaving shattered into twinkling specks. The house you built together, her hands and yours, crumbled, disintegrated, consumed. Falling apart at the seams, the wood a fragile, hollow skeleton of a structure and scattered with unidentifiable debris- a dull shine, a flash of color, that could have been both a sword or a tapestry, crafted by pairs of familiar hands. There’s nothing left. Hasn’t been, not for years. Dread pools in her gut, icy fragments littering her spine as her feet carry her, trembling, towards the back. Towards the tree you insisted that you plant. It would provide shade, see. Somewhere to sit, to eat and drink together. Somewhere safe and comforting and smelling of her and you. “Wait for me, under the olive tree.” The branches twist upwards and out, bare and black and dead, seeping some foul, corroded secretion, thick as tar and twice as molten. Nothing, no one, waits for her, apart from acrid piles of soot and decay, the bark crumbling into dust beneath a desperate touch.

Her hand creeps up, shaking violently, covering her mouth as bile rises in her throat. “No… I promised… you promised…” Needle-thin fractures spread across the surface of her watch as she stumbles and collapses, its blissfully soft, gentle ticking coming to a halt. She could vomit. It burns, aches, a hand wrapping around her heart and crushing it, blades upon blades through her chest. Vaguely she hears footsteps run up behind her through ringing ears, the quiet, distant gasps of horror, and the sinner merely weeps harder. All her efforts, all her suffering, the time wasted and lost for naught, swept away like the ashes and wind beneath her knees.

No one to welcome her home. No one to curl up against in the dead of winter. No one to hug, to kiss, to shower with all her gentle affection, to bare her heart to. No one, for you perished, awaiting her return in your lonesome. Did it hurt, she wonders, as you burned to death? Tick, tick. <Outis…> No one to call her Odysseus anymore, in that sweet, wonderous tone. No one to love her. No one to pass on with. Leaving nobody but Outis behind, to drown in the bitter cold ocean. And Outis, the sinner, the failure, clutches her head and screams.

[binah-beloved]

Arbiters Do Not Believe in Tears

Binah x Reader Android AU Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Descriptions of small injuries and death

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Androids do not feel. It is not an opinion, it is a fact, told constantly to everyone and anyone. Androids do not have capacity for emotions. They are here to use, to be used, to serve those who bought and own them because they can never be anything but owned. You know this. The world knows this. Everybody knows this, and those who believe otherwise are called foolish, tearing an inevitable cackling laugh from people’s throats as they slap the table, how stupid and silly, how naive! They’re words you ponder as you continue your life’s work of creating and welding and repairing, your dingy house filled with bits of metal, bobs you found tossed aside. One person’s junk is another’s treasure, although some would call you an idiot for thinking you could make something out of nothing. But nothing is never nothing. And perhaps you are an idiot, or stupid, or silly, or foolish or naive, or perhaps some combination of everything, when you pull a discarded android out under the scrapheap.

Black, gold, and porcelain, once pristine and now tarnished. The interlocked hexagons immediately mark the android as an Arbiter class, models only available to the wealthiest and most influential people. Yet this one has been thrown away and left to rot, rust decorating her elegant features, and a frown flits across your face. Someone must have been very frivolous, or perhaps very cruel, to toss aside an Arbiter android without a thought. It’s not surprising. Those types are all fat old fools, after all. Nothing to it but resources, you try to tell yourself. But your hands lay flat on the android’s shoulders and refuse to curl, taking not one bit of metal from her. The gears in your head turn, fingers tracing and examining every patch of rust and severed wire and those closed eyes, neutral and silent. “Fixable.” Your voice comes out in a whisper, carefully hefting her onto your back and hurrying away, just as the sun begins to set.

It becomes a personal project of yours, an attempt to repair a disabled Arbiter as you scrounge around for different parts to use. You’re not even sure what metal she’s made of, something high quality and cold and much, much too expensive for you to even have a chance of glimpsing, but slowly your list fills with checkmarks and new cuts join old scars on your hands from your work. Gloves cost too much, and your fingers are essentially dead in feeling anyways. The android sits on your workbench, the corpse of an effigy, and doesn’t move. In truth, you’re not expecting her to be alive. The rational part of your brain keeps repeating the facts, over and over. Clearly, she was shut down. She can’t be repaired. She will never wake up. You’re excellent at not listening to those thoughts, letting your body methodically move while you keep your mind blank apart from the spark of hope twinkling in the center. Maybe, just maybe, your skills will suffice. Maybe. There’s a twitch from her fingers, and you pause, breath dying in your chest. They move again, more this time, slowly curling and uncurling into a fist before the android’s body jolts and clicking whirs fill the room as symphonic noise. Slowly, she sits upright, and slowly, you take a few steps back, unable to keep yourself from staring as her golden earring sways. Her eyes open like a splash of midnight, and she’s staring directly back at you, voice coming out flat and cold.

“I am Arbiter model 008, designation Garion. What are your orders?” You open your mouth, then close it again, not her original owner nor another member of the elite. You could say nothing. You could simply keep your mouth shut, and she would leave as an Arbiter to find a new directive. You could turn your back and pretend like you saw nothing. But you know and she knows that there’s nowhere for her now. “…Stay a while.” And she does. She becomes a constant shadow, watching you silently from a corner in your little, decrepit house. For several days the android simply stands there, doing and saying nothing but observing your every movement. Occasionally you look up from your work, meeting her bored black gaze, and you wave. At first there’s nothing, but gradually her head tilts at your small actions and the kind smile you give her. One day, she waves back, stiff and a little awkward, but it makes you perk up nonetheless. She moves closer, more freely, beginning to explore the house when you’re bent over pieces of metal and solder, before standing directly behind you and watching you work with a flicker of interest, although she rarely answers to her designated title. Something is disconnected, unfitting, and you take to simply calling her “Dear” from the pool of sweet sincerity in your heart. You answer when she asks questions, not berating or sneering but giving her a nod and swift demonstrations and free reign to examine anything she wants. So she sits, the nameless android, and reads every book you have to offer, cold fingers tracing over one word again and again. It’s that word she holds close to her when she approaches you one day, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. 

“…I would like for you to call me Binah, from now on.” She’s amazed at her audacity to request something as an android, a tool, a weapon to be used. What’s more incredible is your response, a nod and a gentle agreement that it suits her. For the first time, Binah smiles a little. Binah is never apart from you after that. Wherever you go, she goes, even if it’s simply to find more supplies or to watch the stars come out. She’s always there, a quiet, constant presence by your side. There are flashes and glints of feeling, slowly, as she begins to separate things she likes and dislikes and learn, always learning more and more with keen interest. She likes the night sky, books, the scent of tea. She despises too much noise, too many people, those who never listen. You, she finds, she likes immensely.

She never tells you this verbally, but you know when her fingers curl around yours and your hand presses against her cool cheek, eliciting a shudder as she practically melts against your touch. Some people ask if she’s yours when they see her behind you, carefully watching for any threats. You always deny it, every time. The thought of being Binah’s owner makes your stomach turn, seeing and accompanying her during her growing sentience and awareness as an individual. But she interrupts you one day when that familiar question rises again, answering with a monotonous yes and an icy glare until the person who asked runs off in a panic. You blink, turning to look at her only for cool, heavy arms to wrap around your waist, her hand over your beating, human heart. “I am yours, and you are mine. If you will have me.” Her words are firm and laced with certainty, the gentle touch of her fingers betraying her hidden, developing emotions. You stare at Binah and merely nod, and she softens briefly to bump her forehead against yours.

You were told that androids couldn’t do a lot of things. They don’t feel, don’t form attachments, don’t understand bonds or gentleness. Everything is proven wrong, to your delight. It has never felt so good to be wrong, wrong about each “fact” that tried to force its way into your head. Wrong, except for one. Androids cannot die. Not in the way that humans do. Everyone knows this. Binah knows this. You knew this. They could be shut down, or lose their directive, but Arbiters were made to survive. You had told her about death, your fingers laced with hers during your evening walk. “Humans rot underground, but I like to think that eventually we grow into flowers again. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Yes. It would be nice. Her words go unspoken.

Binah stands in the rain, wrapped in the coat you made for her after she discarded the golden hexagons to remain with you. Of course, there’s no cold to her, but you loved and she loved the fabric, the way you would tuck yourself into the front while she was still wearing it. She idly twists her rings; one, two, three; resting on her favorite on the left hand. “I am Arbiter model 008, designation Garion. What are your orders?” Her voice is as apathetic and even as the day you first met, drizzle clouding her vision and wetting her synthetic hair. You always told her it was soft and smooth, and she couldn’t help but lean against your hands whenever you pet it. “…I am Arbiter model 008, designation Garion. What are your orders?” Her fingers lace together and grip hard, the same crushing force that has killed countless people, yet treated you so gently. She always was fond of caressing your face, feeling the way your skin dipped under her careful touch. Fascinating. Wonderful. Human.

“…I am Binah, your android. Please…” Instinctively, she reaches out for your presence, trembling minutely and unable to keep the repressed waver out of her tone. “…What are your orders…?” Androids also cannot cry. Almost none of them are made with it in mind, even less so Arbiters who are made to kill and maim. But Binah feels, and wishes that she could so. “…I miss you.” The rain weeps in exchange, and a lone android sinks to her knees in the flower field where you’re buried. 

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

-request

Because of Childe’s birthday recently I had a thought, would Legacy have had the same birthday as Childe? Would Legacy know what a birthday is? What about decorating, would Legacy help with decorating? I’m just imagining balloons and glitter everywhere at this point, and probably other shiny things

this year's birthday art was the best thing ever, i am humbly asking for Hoyoverse to give us Foul Legacy birthday art

~ * ~ Foul Legacy's Birthday HCs

Foul Legacy x Reader Genre: Fluff Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: None

~ * ~

-Foul Legacy doesn’t actually know when his birthday is!! He was more focused on survival than celebration before Childe- Ajax, then- tumbled into the Abyss -It’s only after he ascends to the surface of Teyvat clinging to a mortal’s mind does he learn what birthdays are -He doesn’t really understand at first. Isn’t everyone born? Legacy doesn’t see the point in celebrating something that’s natural and normal -Or, rather, he doesn’t see the need to celebrate HIS birthday. It’s only when Ajax’s first birthday with him rolls around that it sinks in. Ajax is alive and here, Legacy is HAPPY that Ajax was born -There’s a burst of excited, overwhelmed chirps and chitters in the back of Ajax’s head, and he has to hold back laughter as Legacy essentially scrambles around his brain happily -Even so, he still never celebrated his own birthday. He was content just watching his host receive his yearly congratulations; as Childe, Tartaglia, and Ajax -It’s you who decides to finally give him his own little celebration, just a day after Ajax’s. The Harbinger is delighted at the idea, an enormous grin spreading across his face when you ask him to help -Legacy can vaguely sense his thoughts and eagerness, but they’re frustratingly locked away as Childe sometimes does. He can almost SEE his smug grin in his head, letting out an irritated huff -You and Childe spend the whole day preparing- well, YOU do, he helps as much as he can before he’s dragged off to work by his sheepish subordinates even on the weekend, laughing and waving all the while -There are streamers and sparkling ornaments and tiny stars everywhere- no balloons. They terrify the both of you when they pop, and Foul Legacy has claws made to pierce the toughest hides. As something extra special you gather some shiny stones from your rock shelf and place them here and there, chunks of glittering colorful inedible candy -You’re just done setting up when the door opens again, the sun nearly below the horizon in an array of bright reds, oranges, and purples. There’s a crackling static sound as Childe allows Foul Legacy to take control, a pair of crimson horns peeking inside with a curious trill -He lets out a yelp of surprise at the new decorations; you spread your hands with a smile and a singsong “Surprise!” like a mischievous magician, and Legacy’s single crystalline eye goes wide with awe -In less than two seconds you’re suddenly scooped off the floor, his head bumping against yours as he nuzzles and purrs, overjoyed and wings aflutter. Tonight is for him? Just for him? And Ajax doesn’t mind at all? You laugh, smooching his masked cheek with a nod, and Legacy is beside himself with delight -He LOVES sweet treats, especially when you let him taste test something new you tried making, so of course you had to whip up a cake for him to munch on. Although at the moment he seems more engrossed in nibbling and licking your cheek. Eventually you'll get him to take a bite of the pastry, and are met with satisfied coos and a rumble so strong it makes you physically vibrate -All he really needs and wants to have an amazing day is to be near you, so he nudges you over to the couch and promptly snuggles against you, his head pressed into your lap and watching you adoringly. There’s a streamer or two tangled in his horns and claws, the very tip of his tongue sticking out from his fanged maw

-You show Legacy your rock collection. He’s seen it before, but he loves seeing it again and again and hearing you talk about each stone. The purple amethyst from Inazuma is his now, as a little gift, and displayed proudly in his blanket nest room, right next to the tiny glass narwhal you got Ajax. Legacy is extremely careful, they’d both be safest in there -Speaking of blankets, you spent all week making a new, thick quilt for him to bundle himself into, all embroidered with little constellations and whales. His eye glows happily when you present it to him, immediately attempting to crawl underneath it with a muffled chitter of delight -He gently bumps your cheek when you put on some music to play, shaking out his lilac fluff and holding out a hand for you to take, to dance with him. There’s some distant memory of how Ajax would dance at home, and neither of you are well coordinated enough to not end up in a pile on the floor, overcome with beautiful and grumbling laughter

-Playfully you stick a few star-shaped stickers on Legacy’s face, and ponder- if he wore a party hat, would he wear one between his horns or two on top of his horns? You’ll have to ask him next year, when you can find or make decent little hats for the both of you, just like you’ll ask if he wants to help with the decorating, too. This year was a surprise, but you can bet on the Adepti that you’ll be doing it every year afterwards -He shifts in your lap, a yawn pulled from his mouth and showing all his sharp teeth like a cat as he rumbles and croons tiredly, smushing his face against your legs. You put in the effort to celebrate, to make him feel as special as you think he is, and that makes today the perfect birthday

-It’s actually better that you didn’t celebrate it on the same day as Ajax’s birthday- you’re very particular in how you planned everything, not wanting either of your two beloveds to get overshadowed by the other -Foul Legacy still doesn’t know what day he was actually born, and never will. But for all he cares, his real birthday is the day you decided to celebrate him in his entirety

[binah-beloved]

Decay Amidst the Seafoam

Queequeg x Reader Mermaid AU Pronouns: Gender Neutral Warnings: Description of injuries

~ * ~

There’s froth on the waves today. That’s good. It means you can see the water’s color, a deep blue rather than fog and gray flecks. It’s temperamental, the ocean. Always, even on the brightest of days and the clearest of nights, it rages just beneath the surface. You’ve learned to love it in a way, nurture rather than fight its unrelenting anger like so many of your crewmates. It’s more peaceful that way. More grateful, the both of you. No matter where you went or what you did, you were always drawn back to the sea in the end, the waves tugging at your feet and thoughts. So you board a ship headed for the end of the world, in pursuit of the whales and stingrays and jellyfish. Where it’s going isn’t important. You’re happiest with the breeze in your hair and the smell of salt in the air. There’s nowhere better than here, despite the distance and lonesome days.

Fishing is commonplace. Nets and hooks and harpoons to catch and kill even the strongest beasts. Although those creatures are rarely seen- the traps fill mostly with ordinary fish and crabs to be sold at various docks and shores. Occasionally a fish will be too small, those are the ones you like the most. The tiny, writhing things you cup in your hands and slip back into the ocean, to grow and live and thrive. They wriggle once they hit the water, splashing over your fingers and disappearing through the murky waves, and you smile, waving goodbye. Goodbye, goodbye, farewell. Live happy and free. The sound of yelling and shouts reaches your ears, a morning with the sun high in the sky. For a moment you barely spare a glance, busily knotting ropes together, but the commotion increases and heightens and jabs at your senses until you clap your hands down and rise to your feet, blocking out the noise with your palms. A coworker rushes and tugs on your arm, yanking you in the direction of the horrid din. It’s loud and awful and you hate it, but there’s a crowd surrounding one of the nets whispering about how they don’t want to deal with it, make you deal with it.

You’re pushed forward and come face-to-face with a very trapped, livid sea monster. A mermaid- maybe, that would be the right term. You’re not sure. Siren, perhaps? Whatever the word, the poor creature thrashes and struggles, her long tail tangled and jerking in the tight grip of the net. She growls viciously at you and everyone, a low, threateningly guttural sound, but there’s blood on her face and valleys of crushed scales where the ropes wrap around her and you can’t help but approach, holding your hands up where she can see them. A spark of fear flashes through her eyes, all brown and gold and narrow, but she bares her teeth and hisses deeper, ragged fins flaring in sharp lines. You sigh, turning and shooing the rest of the crew away with a quick motion. They stare in disbelief, more worried about their potential catch, and you give them a steely look that sends them scampering and trickling away until it’s just you. Just you and an angry, scared mercreature.

Perhaps your captain wasn’t lying when she called you an excellent candidate for successor. The sea beast shuffles away from you when you look back, pressed against the rail of the ship. Her chest rises and falls, too quickly, and slowly you kneel and sit on the deck, hands upturned. She’s taller when you’re sitting. Overall, too, her long tail curled in coils of dark green scales. You don’t mention the tattoos and scars littering her body, the claws that lash out and graze your skin; fixing your gaze with hers, you sit a little ways away and speak quietly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I need to get close to help, alright?”

It does little to curve the fear in her eyes, but her talons curl into her webbed hands and she sits, silently, watching your every move. You try not to stare. Really, you try. You focus on the ropes and net, the stains of blood against algae and beige. But your gaze still contains a hint of awe as you gingerly unwind her fins, meticulous around the crushed scales until you finally pull and toss the net to the side. A soft, relieved sound escapes her, a combination of a sigh and a whimper, and for a moment longer the mermaid observes you with a piercing stare, almost curious as her breaths slow and steady. Then she shakes out her dark braids and bows her head slightly to you, leaping over the side and back into the sea without a word. Droplets of water hit your face, and you blink and sit in shock with the world quiet all around you apart from the distant cries of the gulls.

The sun begins to set in fiery orange and pink. It’s replaced by deep twilight and stars, and the ship sails onward. Goodbye, goodbye, farewell. I hope I see you again. The next night is met with cold winds and clouds, all the rabble packed away in the cabins while you tidy up outside. The ropes are rough and twined. You’re used to it. There are constellations of calluses on your palms and a few on your arms. They’re like tiny treasures, gemstones that don’t sparkle but rather help you grip your tools, the harpoons and knives and hammers and screwdrivers around the ship. The boat rocks, once, and you continue neatly wrapping the ropes you braided together. You hear a splash somewhere from behind, then a thud. It’s not quiet, louder than when an unfortunate bird accidentally flies directly into the mast. A pair of familiar brown-gold eyes meet your own and you automatically stumble back from a cold jolt of surprise.

The merbeast’s ears flick when you fall into a sit, pointed and webbed with a dark green tinge, just like her scales, her long tail draped messily over the railing. All you can do is sit, mouth slightly open, as she slowly shifts and inches towards you, tilting her head. Her tail slithers almost like a snake, the fins torn, riddled with holes and approaching you cautiously from across the deck until she’s only a foot or so away. She’s still taller. Looming over you, gaze sharp and keenly aware. You don’t dare move- there are two outcomes, one ending in her fear and the other ending in your blood being spilled. Neither sound appealing. So instead you simply stare at each other, even though your wrists are beginning to burn from how your hands are bent against the deck. The creature’s ears twitch once more, and light as a feather her tail fin brushes against one of your legs before withdrawing again.

You blink. She blinks. Slowly you raise a hand and give her a cautious wave, and she mimics the gesture, fingers much stronger than your own. You can’t help how your lips curve into a small, genuine smile, and the mermaid’s dark eyes glint with something curious and satisfied. She returns the next evening. And the next. And the next, the wounds from that dreaded net healing day by day. Always at night, and always when everyone else has gone off to bed, with the same splash and thump. For a bit you think she might be scoping out you as a potential meal, but she only sits by you and watches intently. Whatever you do, whether it’s work or rope weaving or something calm like reading, she stares and observes. She doesn’t directly touch you- not for a while, apart from light grazes from her tail and hair, merely drawing ever so slightly closer with each visit. Sometimes you’ll idly talk to her and she listens in silence. You ask her lighthearted questions, and she tips her head with no response. It’s alright. Her presence alone is oddly comfortable, and gradually her stiff posture relaxes until her braids often drift over your skin.

You ask her what her name is, every day, and she says nothing until a week and one night have passed. “Queequeg.” Her voice is quiet and deep and initially you think you imagined it. But she repeats the word firmly and follows it by very gently nudging her head against your shoulder. “Queequeg.” That evening her tail curls lightly around you, and you see her smile, and it’s small and warm and safe.

Queequeg seems to have deemed you the same, habitually wrapping herself more and more around your body each day until she’s practically snuggling with you, entirely unashamed. She still doesn’t talk much, preferring to hear your voice instead, but when she does it’s soft and careful, like her mouth isn’t used to the words. You’re allowed to touch her as well, running your fingers over her scales and webbed hands and ears, the ropes knotted around her arms and wrists, and when you reach her cheek Queequeg’s eyes close and she nuzzles into your palm with a subtle purr. And she does the same to you, cupping your face in her claws and bumping her forehead against yours, pressing the tip of your noses together.

Her eyes shine with some sort of tender delight, and you can’t help but smile back. Her favorite resting place is your lap, her head pressing to your legs as you idly fiddle with her long braids. She did them herself, she tells you with a hint of pride, even the gold cuffs, and you hum as she lightly bites and nibbles your fingers, leaving faint indents behind. “You’re silly,” you mumble to her, rubbing a thumb beneath her eyes. Silly and sweet and gentle for such a ferocious, intimidating creature. She simply bares her sharp teeth at you without a hint of malice, the stars coming out up above.

Queequeg loves the sunset and the stars. They make fiery colors and silver in her hair and eyes, across her glinting scales. She watches the sky, and you watch her with all your attention. You do your best to recount any stories of constellations you’ve heard to her, even if you’ve forgotten. There are stories from her, too, whispered in halting sentences as she grips her arms, digging at the tattoos she despises. The scars speckled across her dark skin become clearer, more vivid, but she clasps your hands in hers and meets your eyes with a firm stare. “Listen. I tell you. Trust you.” You suck in a breath, only able to nod, and she brings your hands up and holds them to her forehead, then her lips.

She calls you hers on that chilly evening, ears lowering in a rare show of nervousness. But you just lean up and kiss her forehead, Queequeg’s breath catching as she cuddles insistently closer to you. The ship doesn’t feel so lonesome anymore, not with a constant friend beneath the waves. Your crewmates wonder and ask how you went from quiet and withdrawn to happy overnight. Still quiet, but happy. And you just shrug with a laugh, that you don’t really know, and they clap you on the shoulders and laugh along with you. They don’t have to know. They’ve all forgotten the peculiar sea monster in the net, by now. You and Queequeg are each other’s special secret.

One day you encounter a whale and it sends everyone into a tizzy. It rips the sky and sea apart, the lightning illuminating the pouring, drenching rain as you and your coworkers scramble to right the ship and not be swallowed by foam and saltwater. It’s loud, so horribly loud, and you wish Queequeg was here to hold you tightly against her chest and block out the noise. Your captain hollers for you to get away, the madness gleaming in her eyes sending a strike of fear into your bones where it sits and settles to corrode. The moment the ship flees from the whale, the storm tapers off into a steady drizzle, a few stains of blood across the deck yet no one worse for wear as gray clouds blanket overhead. That night, Queequeg is nowhere to be found.

You fret, unable to stop yourself. You’ve always worried, been a worrier, and Queequeg is yours. She’s yours, and you’re hers. You spend hours pacing the deck, snapping your head towards the water at any noise only to be met with disappointment, unable to sleep. She doesn’t reappear the next night. Or the ones after that. Your crewmates observe your lethargy and dampened mood with concern, always giving you something to do or work on. In a way, you’re grateful. It distracts you from the hollow, nauseating pit in your stomach. Perhaps they know that, too. Days pass into weeks, into months. Still, no Queequeg. Maybe, you think while choking back tears, she left and forgot about you. Maybe she realized you’re too different. In your loneliest moments, you unearth your last shred of hope and dream otherwise. Goodbye, goodbye, farewell. I miss you.

The wind bats your face, crisp and fresh and smelling like the sea you’ve always loved as your shoes hit the deck, a length of rope in your hands. It’s practice, you say to the others. A special knot you learned from someone. You never tell them who, exactly, but they agree it’s the sturdiest knot that’s been tied. The rope you carry is new, just braided, and the waves splash as you absentmindedly study the new calluses on your skin. Something tackles you, sending your body flying and colliding hard against the wood. You groan in pain, head spinning. An equally distressed growl reaches your ears.

That something is on top of your prone body, draped across and covering almost every inch. It’s long with dark scales, but covered in a horrid white membrane, spreading like veins. Your captain calls it Pallidification. It comes from that whale and eats away at the body and mind, slowly, until you devolve into nothing but a hungry, empty thing. But it’s a familiar face; familiar eyes, familiar ropes now practically fused to the body, familiar braids even though they’re stuck together by pale muck.

Queequeg stares down at you, breathing heavily. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilating and claws holding your shoulders in a vice grip before she abruptly pulls you even closer and holds you tight. A pitiful whine slips from her mouth and cracks your heart in two, her voice garbled and incoherent except for one word. Your name. Which she repeats over and over, holding your cheeks and crying. You, you, you- it’s all she says, pressing close and ignoring your stunned and terrified coworkers. Queequeg coughs, violently, the pallid membrane having engulfed her throat, and buries her face into your shoulder, trembling. All you can do is hug her back, running a hand over her spine, trying not to sob yourself. She shudders under your delicate touch, desperately digging her claws into your clothes with broken croons and gasps; small, quiet, heart wrenching noises.

One brave crewmate takes a step closer, and Queequeg’s fins flare as she whips around and snarls at him. They all back away with a whisper, a few running off to find the captain, but Queequeg’s attention has returned to you and you alone, nudging your hand pleadingly with tears tracking down her features. They’re blurred and warped from the Pallidification, the tattoos she so hated and the scars you spent hours tracing over vanishing as the white tissue consumes her, slowly. She still leans into your palm when you caress her face, gripping you with unspoken words.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

The rest of the crew disperses to search for the captain, to capture this strange pallid creature. It’ll lead them toward the whale, the whale they’ve begun pursuing ever since the captain laid eyes upon it. Then the voyage will be over. Everything will end. So they leave you with the monster behind on the deck- it acts oddly docile when it’s focused on only you- to knock against the captain’s door, smelling the smoke from her pipe. It, it, it. They call her an it. Your arms tighten as you frown.

Queequeg slumps in your arms, twining her tail around your leg. The dark green scales you love are coated in white, chewing away at her from the inside out. She used to put her chin atop your head. Now she bumps under your jaw, curling into a tight coil and trying to cling to you, trying to become smaller and disappear because it hurts, everything hurts and she couldn’t get to you and when she finally opened her eyes again you were gone. Now she barely remembers anything other than the pallid, the pallid and the pain and you, you, always you. You alone kept her marginally sane. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave, don’t make her leave. She nuzzles against your collarbone with an exhausted sigh, fiddling with your hand until she carefully laces your fingers with her webbed ones.

She needs to go, now, or the captain will arrive with her chains and mad grin. But she refuses to. Not without you. Never without you, not again. Queequeg glances between you and the ocean, tugging on your arm. She lets out another pleading noise, hollow and echoing like whalesong. You- she’s only safe with you. It’s not safe for you here, not anymore. Those people were looking at you, like you were something to be dealt with. It’s not safe.

You hesitate again, and Queequeg’s eyes soften at the splinters of fear in your expression. Her hand cups the back of your head, pallid claws settled gently on your hair as she guides you towards her and tenderly presses her lips against yours. A purr hum through her chest when she pulls away, the sound unsteady and weaker than the last time you heard it. But it’s there and her hand is on your cheek and Queequeg leans in to bump her forehead against yours, one of her braids coming free of the pale membrane.

“Mine.” You’re hers, and she’s yours. A peculiar, loving pair. By the time the crew returns with the captain in tow, nothing remains but a few veins of white infection and the crashing turbulence of foamy sea waves. Goodbye, goodbye. Farewell.