ғᴏʀᴍ ɪs ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴏʀᴀʀʏ, sᴘɪʀɪᴛ ɪs ᴇ

I know I’m no longer active here ( the Zen muse has been dead ;0; but you can catch me on discord nonetheless @ Indecisive#6701   ) BUT I’m popping in to ask for some retweets on a #transcrowdfund post!

I’ve got some pretty expensive stuff coming up, so retweets/donations will help a lot! I also have video commissions open!

— 回 = PATCHING A WOUND .

✧*:･ﾟ| HE is not known for recklessness or anger. For PAIN, be it in inflicting or receiving. Yet battles hold no mercy to the restless scientist, the world does not care about the SUFFERING he’s felt, about the clawing, scratching, screaming inside his skull. Siebren fought, tried his best to protect Zenyatta: BUT AT WHAT COST?

THE omnic is regarded with soft eyes, a gentle grey like northern seas or the sky on a mildly cloudy day. He wants to push the other AWAY, wants not to gaze upon metal features that manage to look worried. But something in him aches; it is SHAME in himself, in his broken mind.

it means i want to be here, i really do 

it means that i have, whether i like it or not, more important things to do than roleplay at the moment

it means that replies are going to sit for a moment

WHAT IT DOESN’T MEAN:

that i care any less

that i don’t want to talk / plot with you

that you aren’t allowed to IM me or ask for my disco

Please include if you want answers for a particular verse or ship.

✧*:･ﾟ| AN unusual cadence rising and falling in the air, a pleasant melody ringing between the two. Stars alight in the sky, thinking in CASCADING patterns like a waterfall of cosmic proportions. In the distance, owls and crickets contribute to the song, unknowingly albeit, for only Siebren and Zenyatta can truly hear. They sit side by side, darkness reigning but slowly giving up its hold to the morning light instead. A hand snakes out to catch another, fingers WEAVING with each other upon stone. The silence is powerful, and yet, not existent in the slightest.

HE is thankful that words pierce the HARMONIES between them, for if he closes off, the melodies grow unbearable, the universe frighteningly prevalent in his weak mind. A miserable existence cowering before all of time and space. And yet, this is different. This is easier. Small talk whispered from man to man on the early morning breeze.

❝I know it.❞ When he responds, it is resolute and full of CONVICTION. Legs hook beneath him, head a cant as he gauges Zen’s response. He’s seen glimpses, and truth be told, he can’t say for certain that his companion was in those glimpses, but faith would NOT be faith if one relied entirely on fact. He repeats his words, this time with eyes focused entirely upon the other. ❝I KNOW IT.❞

✧*:･ﾟ| THE endless expanse of space fills the eyes of the intrepid pair, from every inch of their viewing platform stars visibly TWINKLING without interference of jealous humans and their artificial lights. The sight never grows old, never seems strange. Like a lover’s touch, this breath of starlight is. Like a prayer to the UNIVERSE herself, cradling the old astrophysicist to her bosom. He watches those stars, counting them … and when he loses his place … he counts them again … and again … and again …

IT isn’t the PERFECT environment to raise a child, not when there’s another home somewhere on that blue-green marble of a planet. He wants to do what’s right for Zenyatta, but the calling of his work makes it difficult, gives him a struggle – like he’s being judged by God for his decisions. But the boy on the verge of manhood looks at him, all smiles and open heart, and maybe he has done RIGHT.

RIGHT, but not perfect, however, for as fingers trace the upper half of Earth’s surface reflecting in the station’s observation window, a curl of a frown crosses his lips. ‘ I miss being home ’, and yes there is a home down there, among picturesque windmills and fields of tulips, of Amsterdam and her canals and great proud museums, of his own laboratory, likely collecting DUST. Siebren sighs, pulls Zenyatta close, and presses lips to the top of the head.

✧*:･ﾟ| DARKNESS crawls against his fragile skin, shadows clinging beneath his eyes and at the corners of his sharp mouth. A SORROWFUL thought of which he ruminates upon, the shame and fear of a memory he’d much rather contain within an ironclad vault than contend with again. An itching of the underside of skin, as if weevils may burst forth and feed on his tears. Hands curl into fists, half moon indentations of short nails digging into skin.