formallybready
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Summary
The Universe is kind.
To respawn in every short dream, players are woven anew. Every individual wound is stitched closed in the interim before waking and every blemish is buffed into perfect health. The players body is a unique craft of self, always exactly as they wish it, always restored in full.
So why then, after losing its form in years past, does Feinberg’s skin subbornly remain composite alloys? Why are these stupid scars part of his immutable self?
Returning to the overworld should have swept everything away. Instead, he finds himself drawn back to an aching old wound buried under the muck and sediment of a spring bed.
The downpour outside hasn’t been so heavy in months.
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Give Me Your Hand/s (in the more explicit sense) by formallybready
Fandoms: I Am Your Beast (Video Game)
07 Dec 2024
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Alphonse is familiar with this repeating cycle of nightmares. One intrusive memory nagging, creeping in, until he is torn from sleep with it fully realised in minds eye, breath caught, heart racing, hands fisted in the sheets. Then with it fully embedded, it lies in wait for the moment he closes his eyes and succumbs again.
Byron, in the wreckage. One intrusive impulse made true with the knife in his hand.
In reality, Byron lies mere inches from those same hands in the warm covers of their bed. Alphonse cannot trust them. He also... cannot sleep.
But maybe, when Byron wakes from another nightmare of his own, the solution he hastily proposes might just work far better than either of them could ever expect.
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V.II is ambushed out on patrol and before official backup can be sent out, Freud has already jumped into LOCKSMITH and is on his way. Who's going to stop him anyways? Snail? Certainly not.
It doesn't serve to examine why he would leave for him too closely. Thinking brings up things all too old and familiar.
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Begrudgingly Abide By My Property Damage by formallybready
Fandoms: Armored Core (Video Games)
24 Oct 2023
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It's horribly late at night, late enough, with, perhaps- enough work left to complete on Snails desk that he might just put up with Freud to avoid having to squint through any more measly pt6 size print.
Freud of course, has predicted this font size fatigue well ahead of time.