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phantomphangphucker · 4 years ago

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Phic Phight: If Only You Had Compassion

Prompt Creator: @summerssixecho

The bad blood between humans and ghosts was going to come to a head eventually, and when it did everyone was going to get hurt.

Danny sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and leans back against the wall; staring at the news disbelievingly.

They had lost.

Lost the entire goddamn case. Because the American government had officially decided: Ghosts were not sentient. Ghosts were not beings. Ghosts did not have rights. And ghosts were a threat to the country. Meaning any and all instances of ghosts and anything -excluding weapons or other items used to combat, control, or harm ghosts- were illegal to exist, possess, or help.

Danny, they, had gone about this the human way. Had been respectful. And nice. And friendly. And it didn’t fucking work. They extended a hand and got fucking bit.

And of course, anyone who had been fighting for ghosts and their rights and safety were the first ones to come under fire and scrutiny. And with nearly all of Amity Park being on that list, it was no surprise the G.I.W. were coming here and banging on doors at record speed.

What’s worse? Danny had been the loudest voice. Of course he had. He had to be. He was fighting for his own goddamn rights after all; not that the government or his family knew that. But it wasn’t just that. No.

Danny Phantom was King. THE High King. This was something he had to deal with, had to handle. And well... the cards hadn’t landed in his favour. In their favour.

But that wasn’t the end of it, because on top of it, his parents couldn’t understand what he was doing, to the point that Danny had to just get out of that house.

Technically he was homeless now, but well, being a ghost rather negated that. He had a whole dimension if need be and could get by just goddamn fine on the streets.

In the end, Danny had lost pretty well all his respect and love for his parents. They had become the enemy too and he just couldn’t afford room to old sentimentality and dwelling on ‘what could have been’ if they had been better people and parents.

At least Danny had listened to his gut and firmly ordered all the ghosts back into the Infinite Realm. He didn’t have to worry about any full ghosts getting captured, tortured, dissected, and destroyed.

Elle was safely with the residents of the Far Frozen too, so no worries there.

And Vlad... Vlad could look after himself. Last he heard the man fully intended to blow up his entire mansion and lab should the case fall through, purely to stop the G.I.W. from getting their hands on anything. Money only went so far in protecting yourself and your assets after all. Danny didn’t doubt the man’s willingness to do it either.

So that just left Danny. The one who was really the most at risk. He was damn near the face of the case, of the campaign. He was a minor still, limiting his rights even further. His ‘parents’ were hunters, hunters that idolised the G.I.W. and worked with them gladly and eagerly.

And he was a true halfa. Exactly half and half. He couldn’t even hide himself from the Fenton’s janky scanners, hiding wasn’t an option.

But then again, hiding had never even been an option for him. Hiding wasn’t Phantom’s thing, wasn’t the Kings thing. For now though? He lays low. He watches. And he waits. Waits for the Observants to finally back him proper. For FrightKnight to rally and ready. And finally for ClockWork to give him that melancholic face that says there is no other option.

Because Danny played this like a human. Because Danny gave humanity a chance. Because Danny wanted to have faith in people. Because Danny had hoped his goddamn half-beating heart out.

Because Danny was scared. Because he was still a kid. Because he shouldn’t have to pick one or the other. Because he doesn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Well now there wasn’t much of a choice. He picked ghosts the day he took that crown. The day he agreed to apprentice under ClockWork instead of the Fenton’s. The day Danny Fenton became just a fabricated mask for Danny Phantom to hide behind.

And now everyone was going to have to play their part. Fulfil their role. Dance out repeating history on the world’s stage. Everyone was going to have to pay a price.

Because when you take away someone’s rights in your own eyes, then they take away yours in theirs.

Because when the government decides someone doesn’t get to exist, and then every other government falls in line because the military powerhouse that is America has decided, then that someone is going to thrash and bite and scream to get to exist.

That’s how its always been.

Survival of the fittest.

And humans? Humans weren’t the fittest by miles.

Because humanity had been given coexistence on a paper. Had been given peace on a paper. And had drawn weapons and scalpels and hate instead.

And for that, this means war.

And not just a skirmish or dispute. No. An all-out bloody war. A massive war. A war beyond anyone’s wildest imaginations or worst dreams.

Because what humanity didn’t know is there were laws that existed. Laws that already governed dead and mortal interaction and travel between the realms. The Oaths and Seals. Older than most of the Ancients and predating nearly all mortal life in the universe.

And one of those Seals states simply that any being of death or life could traverse between Realms freely without harm, threat, or unwilling containment from ruling bodies or any species as a whole.

To say ghosts couldn't exist here. It was such a direct blatant violation. There was no way around that. There really wasn’t. If it wasn’t acted on then it could be overlooked as someone making stupid laws and ignored. But that just wasn’t the case. Wouldn’t be. In that sense it was both blessing and curse that Amity would be targeted first. He had a chance to stop them. To hedge them at the gates.

To cut the Gordian knot.

To meet them at the doors to his lair and tell them what awaited them should they choose to pass. Should they choose to continue a damned and forsaken path.

It would mean revealing himself. Would mean ending the lies and double life. It would mean definitively and finally choosing a side. Choosing ghosts. But it was what had to be.

And if they choose to cross him?

Then it’s game over.

Because Amity was Phantom’s lair. The High Ghost Kings land. His people. His subjects. His. It would be treason. Would be a crime against the High Crown. Against not only the Seals but the Kings Decrees and the Law Of Ages as well. There would be no going back.

The punishment was death. Was absolute subjugation. Was the end of humanity's reign upon the earth.

Because in the eyes of the universe, humanity would have forfeited the right to stand as equals to the dead. They would become lesser and treated as such. Any human who refused to kneel and bow to the Infinite Realm, to him, would be summarily cut down and disposed of.

He didn’t want this. He truly didn’t.

But it wasn’t his choice to make.

It was humanities. The G.I.W.’s.

Danny had very little faith.

But at least he could try. He was a determined bastard to a fault. Even when he should probably give up. When it was probably a lost cause.

This was hopeless now. He knew it. But he had to try and when that failed... then he’ll fight. He’ll fight with a frown and tears screaming down his face. But he’ll damn well fight.

Because that’s who he is. What he is. Because if he doesn’t do this for the ghosts then he’ll do it for the humans he protects.

For Sam and Tucker, both nearly halfas themselves due to UnderGrowth and a past life lived.

For Star, Paulina, Dale, Brittney, Kwan, Ashley, Emilie, Todd, James, Dash, Mikey, Nathan, Rosalia, Jasper, and Carrie, so horribly contaminated by Spectra’s and Bertrand’s experiments.

For Jazz, who’s opinions and field of study made her a ‘threat to humanity’ all the same.

For Valerie, who’s nanobot suit ran on ectoplasm that she could never be separated from without her death.

For Lancer, and Trent, and Remi, and Testlauf, and Ishiyama, who all just knew too much.

For every citizen of his home, his lair. Because the G.I.W. would wipe them all out.

Because he was King.

It does not matter how a king cries nor mourns nor wishes things could be different. Because a king sees his people free before he grasps his own. Because a king knows his people safe before he dares relax. Because a king does not belong to himself but to the people he rules. Because they are the kings children dear and he must see them well. Because it is his duty to do what they can not and pay every price. Because a king can never fall unjustly. Because he is their hopes and dreams.

And though he cries and begs and weeps, his blade hand must stay steady and his sword must strike swift without mercy. Even if he wants to run, every friend and family dear he must be willing to sacrifice if the need arises. Even if that leaves him alone and in pain.

Because that is the cost of the crown.

And now Danny has to pay his dues.

Has to see himself a conqueror to the human world he once protected with everything in him.

He doesn’t want this but this is what the world has given him and he must walk with it.

Into a future that may be filled with hurt and pain. That’ll make him hate every breath he takes or the things he’s seen. Or maybe something beautiful will grow from the ashes. One can only hope.

He sighs and stands. What must be, must be. Running a messy hand through his hair and shaking a spray can. He may as well tag the place where he found things changed before he goes.

Goes to wait on the road.

Wait for the men in white suits to make their arrival.

Wait for the end result of the pain the mortal government chose to wrought.

Wait for Danny Fenton’s ending.

The spray cans psssshh is oddly loud. It hurts his ears.

The FrightKnight meets him outside the alleyway. He nods and Danny nods back. It is done. His army awaits him.

He wishes it didn’t.

He knows the humans have armies of their own. Awaiting retaliation or strike back perhaps. But those armies won’t see war. They won’t do battle or struggle to win. This won’t be two forces meeting to oppose each other. No. It will be more akin to an exterminator coming in with his toxic fumes and spraying down annihilation.

The Dread Army stood four billion strong.

That wasn’t a force humanity could face.

And the Dread were truly non-sentient. Casualties on their side was not of issue or concern. And should humanity somehow persevere and fight back. Then there would be so many more ghostly armies ready and waiting for his regretful and pain-filled command.

He senses the pulse from the Observants, sent out through the Infinite Realm’s ectoplasm and across the threshold of life and death.

They approve. And inside, he weeps.

He traces his fingers on the bricks, walls, and trash cans. Everyone is tucked inside. They know what’s coming as much as he does, just not what comes after. They see this as their end. Danny does too, but for different reasons.

He knows Sam, Tucker, Valerie, and Jazz are all hovering over the extractions waiting for his signal. Waiting to pull his lair into the Infinite Realm. Waiting to save them and leave him behind.

Amity will always be home. But it just won’t be the same. Not for him. He won’t be able to just be another citizen in their eyes or to them anymore. And his friends, they’ll have to look at him knowing that he’s was ultimately directly responsible for the demise of at least thirty percent of humanity.

And he’ll have to get used to that being reflected back at him in the mirror. And refusing to look at all was a weakness he couldn’t allow himself to have.

Stopping at the fountain, its waters reflecting gears and cogs and swaying necks of clocks. As it always had since everything began. As if the water was counting down to the end itself. Only Danny knew that was more fact than fiction.

Water flows like time after all. And no matter what it must continue on. For the sake of life. For the sake of growth. For the sake of time itself continuing on. For the sake of everything.

Danny sits on the edge and it is not his own reflection that greets him, a small mercy, but ClockWork’s.

They look old and tired and worn. Aged by the faults of humanity's actions and inactions. Aged by the weathering storm that is change and its cruelties. But above all else, aged by what they know must be and what they must ask of him.

All is as it should be.

And isn’t that an awful thing.

Danny can only look to the sky tinted faintly green and nod, carrying on his way. Changing everything with every step he takes. Aching more with each breath he takes. And becoming more king than hero with every inch the city limit grows closer.

A hero can fall and rise a king.

But is still a fall all the same.

Because a king does not do what is right. He does not do what is good. What is just. What is kind. He does what he must. Decides what is best.

Humanity decided what was best and lost the bet. They gambled against death.

But death...

Death always wins in the end.

It’s the house we all must rest on. It is the debt collector at the end of every tax season. It is our last breath or a snap of the neck at the end of the noose of our own creation. It is the bullet in the gun that we forged ourselves. It is the black screen left after the credits roll, only ghosts going home.

It was always going to be this way.

What will his ‘parents’ do. Will they die. Will they live. Will they force their way back to the mortal world and seek to strike him down. Will the town or ghosts see them hanged as an example. Will they accept reality and learn. He doesn’t know. In a way he doesn’t want to.

Regardless the town’s edge approaches and he finds himself standing on the precipice of everything he has ever known, everyone he has ever loved, every place that has ever housed him.

And now he steps forward to leave it behind. Says goodbye with resounding footsteps. Mourns the loss as the G.I.W.’s armoured vehicles and containment trucks drive toward him.

Toward death.

He wished they’d stop. Turn back. Change their minds. But knows they won’t.

Ignorance would be bliss.

The most decorated vehicle stops barely feet from him. The officer inside hoping out with a smirk that Danny hates down to the bottom of his guts.

“Well how nice for the worst of them to come greet us. What. Here to turn yourself in for your disgusting crimes against humanity“.

Danny honestly doesn’t care about their words. Not how they’re said nor what is said nor who says them.

It’s meaningless.

Danny shakes his head disappointedly, “I tried. I really tried. So sorry about this. But you leave me no choice”.

The man squints at him. Not that it matters.

Danny looks up at the sky, if he didn’t know better he’d say the clouds were swirling all centred around him and waiting for him to do as he must. As the crown commands. Sighing, “I don’t know why humans must make things so hard for themselves”, and lets his human form melt away without any flashy light show. Green energy pulsing out of his feet and shooting skyward like flaming arrows lighting up the funerary ship seeing a fallen warrior off.

The reaction is immediate. They open fire on him, pausing only when every single high anti-ecto round merely bounces of his green shield; the town behind him shimmering green before vanishing like wet oil wiped off canvas.

Danny shakes his head, “that isn’t how this is going to be. Sorry”, and takes one single step forward. Voice bellowing and sturdy though he feels like shaking apart into sand, “the American government, on behalf of the entirety of the human race, has designated that the ghost species is no longer allowed amongst them or on earth. As such, they, alongside the rest of humanity, have broken the True Kept Equivalent Co-Existence Fault Line Seal of the Exterial law of the Realms. Your options are as follows: revoke your illegal actions and halt your approach or continue on as you are knowing that your actions are an act of war and punishable by the immediate annihilation of thirty percent of humanity followed by the forced subjugation of your entire species. Furthermore, any actions of violence or harm taken against Amity Park, her citizens, or Daniel James Janus Fenton Phantom, will count as an act of treason and war against the High Ghost Sovereign, king of the entirety of the Infinite Realm; and is punishable by immediate death and I do mean your death”.

He stands there and stares. Waits for a response. The men take their time, but eventually...

One of them fires.

“There’s your ‘answer’, you lying ectoplasmic scum”.

Danny bats away the weapon, not even bothering with a shield. They would need nukes if they wanted to so much as scratch him.

He had all the Infinite Realm’s ectoplasm at his fingertips after all. And it sings to be used. To defend its lands and king. To strike down those who must be, for the prosperity and safety of its people.

And Danny gives it that.

He must after all. It is his place.

With merely a flick of his fingers the Dread Army make their debut. Some are here, some are elsewhere. But where ever they may be they bring down destruction and chaos and punishment.

You may think Danny wrong for placing all this on one man’s response, but in truth he, as Phantom, had informed every government of this reality already.

The decision was already made. The choice already set in stone.

He just thought that maybe...

Maybe.

These men before him would have some heart. Some soul. Some sense. Some compassion.

And choose to say no. And refuse to follow orders.

He would rather team up with humanity to stage a coup d’état against their respective governments than what has to transpire now.

The FrightKnight appears and gores the man who dared to fire at Phantom knowing the consequences of doing so. Danny forces himself to watch the man fall, knowing his orders and words and actions were as much the sword that killed him as the one his High Dread Knight wields.

The FrightKnight turns back to him and he knows there is sorrow in his helmeted eyes, for he knows his Knight knows he is not a hardened man nor a man at all.

Just a child with too much weight. Too much hope. Too much asked of him. Too much power at his fingertips. And too much of both life and death.

“Go”.

Danny does as he’s told, as he’s asked. Thankful to have even an ounce of personal responsibility lifted off his shoulders.

Humanity was never going down a good path. Never doing the right thing.

Damning the water they drank with oil and plastics.

Damning the air they breathed with tar and fumes.

Damning the earth that fed them with pavement and poisons.

Damning their fellow neighbouring mortal species with overhunting and stolen lands.

It was only a matter of time before they damned themselves with their ego and actions.

Nothing can survive if it burns every bridge around it.

Especially if the bridge it sets its sights on to burn is the bridge with death.

For only nothing lies where death can not be.

End.

Prompt: After a fierce legal battle to end experimentation on ectoplasmic entities, it's determined that, no, ghosts can't have any rights in the human world and possessing ghostly artifacts, materials, or organisms is illegal. With the GIW enforcing the new laws, starting with Amity Park, how will Danny avoid scrutiny?

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greensaplinggrace · 3 years ago

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In a recent malarklina post you mentioned having many headcanons 👀 Care to share with the class?

So I went over some character hcs for the three of them in this post! But here are a few that are specifically Malarklina. (Some of these are set in an Immortal!Mal AU and some aren't, sorry if it gets a bit confusing).

Aleksander has a competency kink and is attracted to Alina showing off her sun powers and Mal showing off his tracking abilities.

Alina makes them both little suns that follow them around to always light their path. This is especially meaningful to Aleksander, although he'd never admit it, because he used to be afraid of the dark as a child.

Mal reminds Aleksander of Luda, and he often goes into depressive states when considering the fact of Mal's mortality. Once Alina fully grasps the reality of the situation, she often suffers from them as well. During these times, Mal tries to be there for them as much as he can, but it's a heavy burden to bear alone.

They all have difficult relationships with gender and sexuality and at one point actually end up sitting down (completely by accident, because Aleksander is allergic to emotions) to talk about this aspect of their lives in more depth.

Aleksander usually sleeps in the middle because he's a) touch-starved and b) an attention whore, but they switch it up on occasion.

Mal is the most clingy sleeper in the history of sleepers. Aleksander and Alina have both woken up on more than one occasion to Mal literally laying fully on top of them and wrapped around them like an octopus. Aleksander likes the weight and usually just snuggles in deeper but Alina has to wiggle out of the way most of the time so she can breathe.

Mal likes Aleksander with short hair but Alina likes him with long hair. This is the source of many fights in their relationship, none of which Aleksander is actually apart of.

Alina and Aleksander both like Mal with longer hair and so he's press ganged into growing it out.

Mal and Alina love every single song Aleksander hates.

When Mal pisses Aleksander off it's no sex for a day even after a dozen apologies, but when Alina pisses him off all she has to do is say sorry and he'll just eat her out right then, not a care in the world.

Aleksander is very physically affectionate, but Mal and Alina have phases of liking it and disliking it, so they have to balance a way to take care of each other's needs without pushing boundaries.

Aleksander is directionally challenged because I said so and Mal and Alina constantly have to make sure he doesn't get lost.

Kissing scars has become a very intimate practice between them all.

Aleksander keeps an obsessively clean house but Alina's paint supplies get everywhere, that paired with Mal just shucking off his hunting outfits anywhere in the house and dumping his gardening/hunting supplies wherever's most convenient means that Aleksander is in a constant state of annoyance about their living situation.

Alina makes a Rule about Mal and Aleksander fighting after Mal straight up tackles Aleksander off the side of the roof when they're trying to figure out how to replace shillings.

They all spar with each other at least once every other day. This mostly started as a means of keeping themselves sharp in case of danger, but it quickly became a bonding routine of sorts. Turns out Aleksander has a lot of information stored up about fighting. That paired with Mal's military training makes for some very intense spars as well as the rapid growth of all three of them into some of the most dangerous fighters on the planet.

@mal-zoya now has me convinced that it will take at least 500 years for Mal and Aleksander to admit they love each other.

Aleksander likes it when they wear his clothes. Alina likes wearing Mal and Aleksander's clothes. There is a lot of clothing sharing going on. It gets to the point where the only way they can tell who's clothing is who's is based on color scheme and the quality of the cloth and occasionally (but not always) the size as well.

Mal and Alina infodump all the time about their passions and Aleksander eats it up. He loves it. He thinks his partners are the smartest people in the universe.

When Alina is suffering from artist's block she goes to Aleksander for inspiration. When she's inspired she goes to Mal to create.

Mal is generally the one who cooks all of their meals because Alina will get distracted when she's going on an art spree and Aleksander will just straight up forget he's a human sometimes. But when Mal doesn't do it Aleksander does it because he has Standards and he's not about to let his partners starve to death, thank you very much.

Aleksander and Mal used to cook plainer foods in the beginning of the relationship but they both slowly shake off some of the chains of their upbringings and previous ways of life to slowly try out more elaborate and lush recipes. Alina has come home on more than one occasion to see them collaborating on a new recipe Aleksander managed to flirt/finagle out of one of the old ladies from the nearby village.

Alina likes to ride out every day and sometimes ropes Aleksander or Mal into going with her. There are lots of picnics and packed lunches in their life. When they go to an especially scenic spot, she'll sit there for hours and draw.

Mal won't ever be able to fully understand the meaning of Alina's immortality. It would be impossible to, even with many explanations and having to deal with Aleksander's own traumas as a result. But that doesn't stop him from attempting to learn as much as he can to make things easier for both of his partners.

Alina attempts to join the local ladies' knitting group in the nearby village but hates it. Aleksander, on the other hand, finds it to be the most valuable source of gossip in the village. He rapidly becomes a part of the club and returns home with boatloads of gossip by the day. Alina and Mal have no idea what to do with literally any of this information, but Aleksander certainly does. Getting involved in small town drama is, in his opinion, one of the best things he ever decided to do. Mal and Alina are beginning to think he needs some therapy.

Mal starts a little farm outside of their cottage and Alina starts a flower garden. Alina also begins to amass a small library over time, with the help of Aleksander "is this an original text?! maybe so" Morozova. Mal is not expecting to come home one day to an entirely new room built into the house and a massive collection of books lining the walls.

Alina and Aleksander will use their powers actively all day. In fact, they both get so comfortable with summoning that they just start letting their emotions affect their summoning all the time. And so Mal has a very good indicator for whether or not his partners are upset or happy based on the way the shadows and lights flicker, much akin to the way people judge how their cats are feeling based on what their tails are doing.

Also, though, Mal just feels proud that they both trust him enough and feel comfortable enough around him and in their home to feel as if they don't need to watch themselves constantly.

Alina still likes mapmaking and, after a few years of peace where she starts to get restless, she slowly begins to do it again. Every two months or so she'll go out on a long trip to map a few of the nearby areas. She quickly builds up a side business of selling her personal maps to the people of whatever town they're living near.

Aleksander eventually opens up enough to share some of his past with Alina and Mal. He especially begins to engage more with the pieces of his culture that he had to forsake in order to assimilate over the years. Alina and Mal are always more than willing to help him puzzle through a half remembered recipe or a phrase in his native tongue that he's partially forgotten. They feel honored every time he shares a small piece of his history with them.

Nightmares are a common occurrence between all of them and whenever one happens a cuddle pile of epic proportions ensues. Also sometimes they talk about feelings have some pillow talk to work through things. Aleksander will also sometimes sing them back to sleep. His lullabies are haunting, but his singing voice is beautiful, and it usually does the trick. He refuses to sing for them outside of these moments, however.

Alina adores the height difference between her and her very tall partners. She thinks its fucking stellar.

Alina and Mal start up an orphanage on many occasions throughout the centuries. Alina loves kids and constantly helps them when she can. She mourns the fact that she won't ever be able to adopt without having to watch them grow old without her.

They've all discussed having kids at multiple points throughout their lives, and they all want to do so. But Aleksander wants to wait until Grisha persecution is no longer even the hint of an issue. Alina and Mal agree to wait, largely because they want some time to think on it too.

Mal tries to teach Alina how to shoot one day and she accidentally clips Aleksander as he's coming outside with lunch. He never lets her live it down and on more than one occasion attempts to use it for sympathy points, even hundreds of years later.

Aleksander is both the big spoon and the little spoon, but he likes being the big spoon (in reality he's a knife, of course). Mal likes being the little spoon but is often relegated to the big spoon, and Alina likes being both.

Alina paints a portrait of Mal and Aleksander cuddled up in bed once and no matter how much they entreat her to burn it she absolutely refuses to do so.

Aleksander is basically a walking, talking source of illegal activity, and he can't be taken anywhere anymore without expecting some sort of crime to take place.

Alina tries to adopt a little black cat one day and Aleksander gets outrageously jealous. He spends about two months being bitter, then another two months trying to chase it off, but the creature stays with them all until it dies of old age (and he'll never admit to privately grieving it's loss, although Mal and Alina both know it).

All of their communication skills are absolutely atrocious but Alina is the best. Mal is the second best. Aleksander doesn't even rank. Over time, they get into the habit of it, though. They practice at it painfully for years until they reach the point where healthy communication becomes second nature.

Mal proposes to Alina one day (after much talk between all three of them) and they get married. A couple years later they both propose to Aleksander (after zero talk, he is suitably surprised and also maybe a bit teary eyed). They have an illegal wedding on holy ground at midnight with a bribed and essentially kidnapped pastor.

Aleksander spends an excessive amount of money on Alina and Mal. He buys them things constantly and lavishes them with gifts. Alina loves it but it grates on Mal for a time until he realizes it isn't a means of manipulation as much as a love language and a shoddy attempt at communication and expressing feelings.

Once they reach the modern world (in an Immortal!Mal AU), they all get phones and send each other the most cursed texts in all of history. The group chat is a hellspace and the individual chats are just pure shittalking. Nowhere is free.

Shopping in the modern world consists of chaotic impulse buys and the excessive waste of money. They're all each other's impulse control, but they can't always go out together at the same time, so it's usually only in groups of two. Which means that when Alina's gone, Aleksander fills the cart with sweets. And when Mal is gone, Alina fills the cart with an inordinate amount of bananas (which are new) and microwavable easy to eat meals and paint supplies and oh! look at these pretty notebooks on display!. And when Aleksander is gone the cart its legitimately just a free for all. He comes home and there's mincemeat and apple pies cooking for some reason. Mal has a new apron. The fire alarm has been replaced. Turns out they stopped at an ikea on the way back and now they have a better dining table.

Alina is the best driver of them all. Aleksander goes way too fast but he never crashes. Mal refuses to even step foot in a car for about half a decade.

Aleksander is actually the one that gets into makeup. He quite enjoys it and thinks maybe his partners need to live a little for once. They both very firmly disagree.

Alina loses the tv remote constantly and it drives Mal absolutely wild. Sometimes Aleksander will steal it just to watch Mal go into a frenzy looking for it.

Alina builds up a large following for her art (and the art of her 'ancestors') over the centuries. Modern day Alina is basically famous, but luckily nobody knows her face.

#okay this got too long i had to stop alsjdflkjds #i got very carried away im so sorry #some of these are just plain aus but I Do Not Care #asks and answers #anon #malarklina #mymetas #shadow and bone #sab #grishaverse #alina starkov #aleksander morozova #the darkling #malyen oretsev #darklina #malina #myramblings #alina x darkling x mal #myhcs

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my-bated-breath · 4 years ago

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Do you think Aang and Katara would still end up together if Katara killed her mother’s killer? How would that affect their relationship?

Hey anon! Sorry it took me a while to answer your question, but the truth is that there is no clear trajectory regarding Kata/ang in this situation, especially when we take into account that Kata/ang in the show canon was abrupt and significantly underdeveloped. More specifically on Kata/ang, both Katara and Aang’s arcs were twisted to accommodate for their endgame romance, but while Katara’s arc reaches its culmination by the end of the Final Agni Kai, Aang’s character had become inconsistent in its direction throughout all of season 3.

As such, two conflicting outcomes can result from this hypothetical scenario — one outcome which upholds Aang’s flaws and stagnated growth, or another outcome which forces Aang into growing, accepting, and understanding, as was the original intent behind his character.

From a broader context, Aang’s entire journey since he woke up in the iceberg has been about him reconciling his airbender and Avatar identity, and by the end of season 2 when he is with the guru, Aang is on the cusp of fully accepting his Avatar responsibilities, of letting go of his selfish attachments (or in other words, his blinding biases).

Except Aang cannot let go as he hoped he would be able to. Because his attachment to Katara is selfish, but beyond that his attachment to Katara is a replacement for his attachment to the Air Nomads — and it draws him away from his duties as the Avatar, causing him to embrace an ideal he does not comprehend. After all, the Air Nomads were not perfectly pacifistic either.

Still, just as Aang refuses to recognize the complexity in the Air Nomads’ legacies, dismissing what he may deem as an act of violence, Aang refuses to recognize the complexity to Katara’s rage and compassion, to her violent and protective nature. In my meta “On Ideals and Idealization,” I elaborate on Aang’s idealization of Katara:

Aang loves Katara, yes, but he is in love with an idealized version of her. In his mind, he holds close the idea of a gentle Katara, a smiling Katara, a compassionate and all-loving Katara. Even though he has seen her darkest moments when she bloodbends Hama - arms bent in disjointed angles, fingers curled as if manipulating puppet strings - it does not tarnish his image of her because, at this moment, she is not the persecutor, but the persecuted.

After her experience with Hama, Aang is there to comfort her and help her come to terms with the terrifying power she now possesses. With her face streaked with tears and eyes widened with horror, it is clear that this is a power that Katara does not want, that it has been thrust onto her against her own will.

The conclusion that Aang draws from this is that Katara’s inner darkness is a separate entity from her inner light, and he perceives this acquired part of her as a blemish on her inherent goodness. As such, in “the Southern Raiders,” when he witnesses how Katara’s anger and grief drive her to hunt down her mother’s killer, he equates Katara seeking closure to Katara succumbing to darkness, tainting her purity and compassion in the process.

Thus, given Aang’s reaction to Katara’s bloodbending, he may be inclined to love her in a piteous, nearly-obligatory manner. He’ll love her as the victim who lost sight and control and he’ll love her as a being of compassion and pacificity, but nothing more. Just like in the Southern Raiders, he may magnanimously grant Katara his forgiveness and his continued love even when she never asked for it. And in the end, Aang and Katara will kiss on the balcony of Iroh’s tea shop, only this time it’s not only “the hero winning the girl,” but “the bright and cheerful boy fixing the broken girl” as well.

This is the ending where Aang clings onto idealization even when it renders him a hypocrite, in the same way he is a hypocrite for shouting at his friends for pushing him to kill Ozai when it is implied he killed thousands at sea in the Siege at the North Pole.

This is the ending where he does not grow.

Note: Aang retreating into a ball of earth as a narrative parallel to the beginning of the series when he was encased in a ball of ice would have been much more powerful if only Aang entered the Avatar State through character growth rather than by the power of the Pointy Rock of Destiny (TM).

Now, let’s consider an ending where Aang’s perspective broadens rather than narrows and where Aang unroots himself from the past, pulling free from stagnance. Let’s consider a hypothetical scenario in which Aang finds out Katara killed Yon Rha. How may he react?

He may not be able to at first, too torn between his belief that Katara only uses violence as a last resort and the reality that Katara uses violence as a means of agency as well. Revenge corrupts; it is a stain that cannot be washed away. There is no reconciling Katara’s previous compassionate and loving nature with this dark path she has now chosen.

Except this is Katara he’s talking about, Katara who he loves and gave up the Avatar State for. Surely there’s a way to save her, right? Yes, just as Aang told Katara before she left, forgiveness is the answer. And while Katara may not have chosen forgiveness in the end, Aang can guide her by example.

The next day, he approaches her with the offer to exempt her from her wrongdoings.

Katara, tired and mournful, looks down at Aang.

“What was so wrong about what I did?”

Inside she is hurting. There is truth to what Aang said, that revenge is poisonous both to the victim and the perpetrator, but it is not poisonous for the reasons he thinks it is. As George Orwell writes in his essay, “revenge is an act which you want to commit when you are powerless and because you are powerless: as soon as the sense of impotence is removed, the desire evaporates also” (Revenge is Sour). There’s no doubt that Yon Rha was despicable, and there’s only a little doubt in saying that his punishment should fit his crime — the only regret Katara may have here is that killing Yon Rha is a meaningless act, for she has already gained power over him in every meaning of the word. Revenge is only a gateway to senseless violence and hatred; it is not a slope from which there is no recovery, and given Katara’s emotional intelligence, she likely has or will recognize this. Although she may feel regret, she needs no one’s forgiveness.

Aang is shocked. “But violence is never the answer,” he stands by, he pleads by. His voice grows quieter. “You know that… you knew that, didn’t you?”

Katara answers him, but it’s all a blur. She says something about agency, protection, and justice. He remembers something about that too, about the fury that burned in her eyes when she declared, “I will never, ever, turn my back on the people who need me!” Then there was the hostility simmering in her glare towards Zuko, the way she muttered that she didn’t trust him, not when he could still hurt them — hurt Aang — again.

Because Katara’s anger and compassion do not simply split themselves into two identities. Instead, they coexist and coalesce into one. They drive each other; they feed into each other; they are two sides of the same coin.

Excerpt from my meta Rage, Compassion, and the Bridge in Between

The beloved ideal of Katara — the one that he thought was on the verge of being tainted, the one that never existed — shatters. But just because it’s broken doesn’t mean Aang doesn’t want to fix it. So in the days leading up to Sozin’s Comet, he tries to pick up the fragments to the Katara-he-knew and piece them together again, all the while avoiding Katara’s mournful (yet resolved) stare. He ignores the way Zuko and Katara share glances with a heaviness as if they were the only two people in the world, full of some significance he cannot grasp. Still, it haunts him like the way Zuko’s touch lingers on Katara’s shoulder or Katara’s hand brushes Zuko’s briefly whenever they don’t think anyone’s looking, reflecting a togetherness escaping loneliness.

But there’s no answer that arrives quick enough to save Aang from his doubt and confusion. All too soon, Sozin’s Comet is upon them, and Aang wanders to another world on the lion turtle's back — but this time when he listens to the past Avatars’ advice, his perspective undergoes a paradigm shift.

They are right. The Air Nomads that he prioritized, that blinded him to his duties — they do not exist. Their love is still there, pure and human but not all-encompassing, tucked in the corner of his heart. And Katara was the same. She was and is not all-loving or all-compassionate or all-anything, really, because she is more human than that.

This time Katara’s image shatters again. But Aang does not follow the falling pieces to the ground, desperate to find them and force them together again. No, he sees past the remains and sees Katara for who she is. For who she wants to be. For who she can be (around someone else), when she’s not compelled to take on the caretaker role just for him.

(And he thought he was so generous, offering to forgive him. But it was never his forgiveness to give in the first place.)

Aang lets go of his last attachment.

The last airbender lives on, but so does the Avatar.

#atla #atla meta #anti kataang #anti kataang meta #zutara #aang #katara #anti aang #of sorts?#my bated breath's posts #my bated breath analyzes #i kind of rewrote aang's arc in the finale in my mind and a little bit of that slipped through #anon you asked a hard question so i gave you a 1.5k+ meta in response #i hope it's everything you ever hoped it could be #anonymous ask #ask #is tumblr hiding this post from the tags again?

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heliads · 3 years ago

Text

Back to You (Part One)

Based on this request: “X-Men one-shot. Pietro is getting a hot dog in the park. He sees a girl playing her acoustic guitar and singing Chris Isaak’s song Wicked Game. Heart eyes ensue.”

masterlist / part two

On the day that he ruined his life, Peter Maximoff was walking through the park. He was there for something, but he couldn’t quite remember what. Not then, at least. She would tell him later. On that day, he was about to give up on figuring out just why he showed up there and go back to Xavier’s School, and then he saw her. There’s a girl sitting on a bench near him, playing some song on an acoustic guitar. It’s a familiar sight- feels like there are always performers in the area, but something about her makes Peter’s steps stray by her. Maybe it’s just because she’s really, really pretty, or it’s because she sounds so sad, and she’s looking directly at him.

If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say that she was singing directly to him, and that’s why she looks as if someone’s gone and broken her heart in two. Somehow, Peter feels like leaving now would be doing her a crime, so he waits, walking mindless circles around the paths in the park. He watches this girl out of the corner of his eye, and listens, and waits.

The song itself is quiet, full of heartbreak, all about not wanting to fall in love and how it all falls apart in the end. Later, the girl tells him that the song is ‘Wicked Game’ by Chris Isaak. Peter’s not sure why he’s thinking about this, now, either- everything about this girl seems to mess up his comprehension of time and when everything happened with her. Maybe that’s because he was -is- so utterly infatuated with her that he wasn’t keeping track of much else, but maybe it’s also because she was already there to see it all through. She knew everything, but he wouldn’t learn that until later.

That’s not the right time to say that, either. Peter needs to get this right. Even if she can look further in time and switch up all of the events before they happen, even if Y/N L/N can see him decide to approach her before he even entered the park in the first place, Peter wouldn’t have known that then. All he knew was the girl before him, the girl who was now regarding him as if having to mourn the loss of a recently departed lover.

Peter walked over to her. It wasn’t much of a conscious choice, just the feeling that he ought to do something, and so he did it. To be honest, Peter’s not sure that much of what he did with Y/N was really his choice. If she said something would happen, it was best to go along with it. Bad things happen when you falter from the prophecies.

He’s stumbling again, falling through the cracks. Peter needs to get this right if he wants to remember, if he wants to keep with Y/N’s directions. That’s the only way he’ll be able to make it through to the very end, how he’s going to get back home to Xavier’s School and his friends and most importantly, Y/N.

Peter doesn’t know this girl is Y/N L/N, not yet. What he does know is that he really should introduce himself to the girl with the guitar, and that he honestly wants to get to know her, but his feet keep dragging to a stop before he can make up his mind and force himself over to talk to her. It’s as if even his body knows that this is a bad idea, like this is his legs’ last attempt to save himself before Peter makes an incredibly important mistake.

That being said, Peter likes to pride himself on making incredibly important mistakes. This is why he dislodges the last strange shard of doubt in his head and completes the walk over to the girl. He doesn’t notice the way she almost sighs with relief when she sees him approach her, like even though she seems to know him, she wasn’t sure that he would truly go ahead and greet her.

The girl smiles at him. Peter can’t help but smile back. “Hi,” he says, feeling odd for introducing himself when this girl is looking at him with such a knowing expression, “I’m Peter.” The girl nods sagely. “Peter Maximoff.” Peter frowns. “Do I know you?” The girl’s smile falters. “I know you. You will know me, if that clears things up.” Peter stares. “It doesn’t, not really. Not at all. Do I get to ask for your name or will I learn that later too?”

The girl shrugs. “Actually, I think the time when you learn my name is supposed to be right now, so you’re good.” The strangest thing is that Peter actually doesn’t think she’s kidding or trying to be funny. She seems dead serious as she says this. “I’m Y/N, Y/N L/N.” Peter nods. For some reason, this makes sense, although he cannot explain why. “You’re a good singer, Y/N.”

Y/N grins up at him. “I’m glad you think so. I didn’t sing that song for just anyone, you know.” Peter feels like he’s stumbled in the middle of one of his fastest runs, grasping for steady footing beneath him. “Do I know you, really? Have we met before?” Y/N sighs, drawing one of her knees up to her chin. The way she looks there, nestled into herself on this park bench, makes it seem as if she’s in need of comfort, as if she’s about to start on some journey that she knows will hurt her.

“We’re meeting now. That’s what we’re supposed to do, I think.” She looks up at him now, with such piercing clarity that Peter almost wants to take a step back. “It’s my mutation. Yours is speed, mine is trying to make sense of random flashes I see of the future.” Peter looks at her in awe. “You’re a mutant, too? You can see the future.” Suddenly, it all makes sense- that’s why she keeps talking about him like she already knows him- she’s seeing the future.

Y/N nods. “It’s hard to make sense of it sometimes. I don’t know what’s in the past or the future or what’s happening right now.” She glances up at him doubtfully, as if expecting him to sigh in confusion and walk away. Instead, Peter just tosses her a casual grin and sits down beside her on the park bench. “Well, Miss Prophecy, if you know the future, where do we go from here? We’re supposed to be friends, aren’t we?”

Y/N laughs. For a second, Peter wants to slow down time again just to hear the laugh in every one of its notes, like he can track its progress just by watching the very air shimmer into gold wherever her voice touched it. “Well, I know that we talk for a while. You’ll meet up with me again, at some point. I can’t see everything, you know, just brief glimpses. There’s nothing else here, though. I think I’ve covered everything for today.”

She stands up now, stretching and starting to put her guitar back into its awaiting case. “I don’t want to stray too much from what I see. It’s one thing to see one pathway of the future, and an entirely different issue when the future starts changing and I have to keep remembering what’s actually going to happen and what would have happened before.” Peter shakes his head. “Wow. I got confused just from hearing that, I don’t know how you deal with it.”

Y/N smiles for a second, although it’s tinged with something bittersweet. “Well, in the future I have you to help me.” Peter nods, fighting the absurd desire to break out into a little dance of joy or happiness or something equally heartsick. Then another question occurs to him. “Wait- you said that song was for me, but it sounded sad, about wicked games and all that. What did I do that would make you think of that for me and not something, well, a little happier?”

Y/N’s smile runs away from her face as surely as a river down from the tallest of slopes. All of a sudden, she doesn’t look excited about the future but almost terrified, as if she dreads what must come at the end of everything. “We say goodbye. It’s not as I would want it to happen.” She shoulders her guitar case now, starting to walk briskly away. Peter’s not used to anyone being able to outpace him or leave him in the dust. Maybe it happens today because he doesn’t try to go after her, stuck behind in the wake of her desolate expression.

Peter finds Y/N in the same park the next day. She’s sitting on the exact same park bench, and when she visibly brightens to see him approach, Peter wonders if she’d been waiting for him to arrive. Maybe she saw him show up in the future. They end up spending an hour or two talking, doing nothing else except simply enjoying each other’s company. At the end, when they have to say goodbye again, Peter swears that Y/N looks even more upset than the day before. Maybe their final parting is drawing nearer than she would like.

They meet up a few more times, each time the same- happy memories until the last goodbye. At last, on the final day that they find each other in the park, Y/N only allows herself about five or so minutes of pleasantries before she looks at Peter one more time in abject despair and throws her face down into her hands. “I can’t do this.” These words aren’t directed at anyone, but Peter feels the need to address them all the same.

“Can’t do what? Y/N, what’s wrong?” When Y/N looks up at him again, her face is twisted as she tries to maintain control over herself. “It’s what has to happen, Peter, but I didn’t realize it would be so hard. I didn’t think you’d make it so difficult to lose you.” Peter stares at her, hand hovering over her back before he pulls her closer to him. “What do you mean? I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. Nothing can make me leave.” Even as he says this, Peter knows it’s not true. There’s nothing he can do against time, after all, and Y/N’s likely seen this through many times to know that.

She sighs, leaning against him. “By the end of today, my aunt is going to come visit you. She’s going to take you somewhere far away, and when it’s all over, you’re not going to remember who you are, not at all. All you’ll know is who she wants you to be.” Peter doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense. “What do you mean? Who is your aunt?” Y/N glances over at him again. This time, Peter is starting to realize that the fear in her eyes from before may not have been towards a vague happening in the past. It may take the physical form of her aunt, the one who is coming to take him away.

“She’s a witch. Her name is Agatha Harkness. She sent me here to make sure you would work for the plan, and then she’ll send you far from here, far from me.” Peter shakes his head. “Even if she tries to put me somewhere else, it won’t work. Yeah, I can run fast, but I can also run far. I’ll make my way back to you.” Y/N looks at him despondently. “You can’t run to me if you’re in another dimension, Peter. She’ll transport you there, and then I won’t be able to get you back. You’ll be put in place as the fake twin sister of this woman, Wanda, and you’ll live in her little sitcom paradise in a town called Westview. Even if she realizes you’re not real, Agatha has a backup story for you. You’re supposed to be some guy named Ralph. There’s no way you’ll be able to get out.”

Y/N drops her face into her hands again. Peter isn’t willing to let her go so easily, though. Witches be damned, he isn’t about to leave her for something like this. So, he sits forward, drawing Y/N close to him once more. “Then tell me how to fix it. You can see glimpses of the future, right? What do I have to do to break free of Agatha’s spell? Everyone has their loopholes. I’ll find hers.” Y/N nods once, then her gaze turns hazy. This must be what it takes to use her mutation.

She’s back in a few moments, face set in determination. “She’ll use a memory spell on you to keep you in her trance. All you have to do is remember who you are, and in the end, when it all breaks down, you’ll have to go to Wanda. She’ll be powerful enough by then, so if you ask her to send you back to your home dimension, she just might do it.” Peter nods, then frowns. “What do you mean, when it all breaks down? What’s going to happen?”

Y/N gives him a grim smile. “Agatha can’t hold Wanda forever. She wants to, but she can’t. Wanda will find a way to best my aunt, and then she’ll leave Westview. You have to find Wanda before that happens so she can get you out. Until then, you have to remember.” Peter nods, ready. “I can do that. I don’t intend on forgetting someone like you, Y/N.” Y/N laughs, although the sound is bitter. “I’m not sure that you have much of a choice about that. Agatha is a deeply skilled witch, Peter. I think this might be too much, even for you.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’ll find a way. She can’t hold me forever. I’m staying with you.” Y/N sighs. “And how will you do that? How can you fight back against her memory spell?” Peter gives her a lopsided half smile. “By having something good enough to remember.” With that, he leans forward and kisses her. He can feel Y/N stiffen in surprise for a second, and then she’s kissing him back. Yes, this will be hard. It might be one of the hardest things that Peter has ever done. But he isn’t willing to give up on Y/N so easily. She’s his future, his goal. If Y/N can see anything, she can see that Peter will come back to her.

peter maximoff tag list: multiverse main man @underc0vercryptid, @enchantedcruelsummer, @awaywiththe, @amourtentiaa, @elaineygrace

#peter maximoff #peter maximoff imagines #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff oneshot #quicksilver #quicksilver imagines #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver oneshot #xmen #xmen imagines #xmen x reader #xmen oneshot #xmen peter maximoff #xmen peter maximoff x reader #xmen peter maximoff oneshot

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justjessame · 3 years ago

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Glorious, Before the Burden - The Mourning ~ 13

Waking up after seeing Loki with Sylvie - adult Sylvie - I lay in bed and stared at my ceiling trying to understand. What - where were they? The morning dawned as I tried to make sense out of the senseless and I gave up. LISTENING was how I was supposed to get my magic in line to grow and evolve, not forcing myself to make things work into a box of logic when the logic was nowhere near where I was.

I got out of bed, letting it right itself as I dressed and fixed my hair - making up a schedule for my day. A trip to the village was in order since my cupboards were getting bare, my books were growing tiresome, and I needed to find some inspiration for what I should do next. As I stood in the kitchen getting a glass of water, staring out at my garden - I watched as once again a group of people wandered in to trample it - only this time they appeared out of the same type of doorway that Sylvie had.

Sighing deeply, I opened my door and stood with my arms crossed. The man with the crooked nose and white hair I’d seen Loki interacting with was among the barbarians ruining my garden.

“Do you MIND?” Stepping out onto the pathway, I raised my hand and they parted like water. “Do keep to the path, I’d rather not have to replant the damn garden every time one of your groups stomps through to demand an audience.”

He stepped forward, the leader clearly, and offered his hand. “I apologize, Miss -” I stared at his hand and then back at his face. Awkward silence prevailed and he dropped the hand. “You’re not as hospitable as I was expecting from the files. I guess that’s understandable given your current status.”

“Pardon?” Staring at him, he realized that he’d only made matters worse for himself. “Who precisely are you? All of you?”

“Right, sorry again.” He looked as if he might wish that anyone else had been in his place. “My name is Mobius M. Mobius, I’m an agent of the Time Variance Authority.”

“The Time Variance Authority?” I sounded as unimpressed as I felt. “And what authority does this particular agency have, AGENT Mobius?”

“I’m glad you asked that, Miss -” Again lacking, so he rushed on. “We’re tasked with keeping the Sacred Timeline intact and on track.”

“The Sacred Timeline, you say.” My eyebrow couldn’t be stopped from rising. “There are infinite timelines, Agent Mobius, which one of these infinite timelines has been deemed ‘sacred’?” He stared at me. “Why are you here, on my doorstep, while your fellows are tearing apart my garden?”

“Loki,” one word, one name, and yet it weighed more than the entire universe. “Your husband, well a variant of your husband - he’s killing our people.”

“And?” Not really my problem, given that he wasn’t MY Loki. My Loki was locked away on Asgard and I was trapped here. “What precisely do you want from me?”

“Information.” I laughed. “He has to be stopped, Miss -”

“First of all, Agent Mobius, I am not a ‘miss’.” I sighed. “I’ve been married for a very long time to my husband, and while we are not physically together, I can assure you we are still VERY MUCH MARRIED.” He swallowed so hard that I felt sure that his people could hear him even as they muttered amongst themselves. “Second of all, I cannot see why you would imagine that I would give information to such a ridiculous outfit such as an agency that is so fanciful as yours. Honestly, a Sacred Timeline? Have you no understanding whatsoever of how anything works?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I raised my hand and whatever he hoped to say caught in his throat. And as I stared into his eyes I saw something terribly tragic - this person had no idea who he truly was, none at all. Taking the hand I’d raised to stop him from uttering more nonsense, I touched his hand and saw that not only did he hope to gain my trust and cooperation in bringing this dangerous version of my husband to heel, but he also wished to keep me safe - even if he wasn’t entirely sure what I was in danger from at least not on the surface level of his current state.

Someone, a young woman with a rigid disposition and a darkness within her that was unmatched by the man before me, planned a very different way to correct the problem the Variant - that’s what they called the Loki, and others like my husband who strayed from their proper place in time - had created on their Sacred Timeline. A plot that the man before me had disagreed with so vocally that he’d been reset, but not well enough to get the urge to bring me onboard in his quest to fix the issue in his own way. How horrible, I thought, as I felt the confusion and betrayal he’d felt as a person he thought of as a friend had violated that trust to remove a piece of him - and how truly horrific that he didn’t know that his entire existence was built on a lie.

Removing my hand, I also released him from the silence I’d forced on him.

“Of course I understand -” he sighed, “What should I call you?” He smiled awkwardly and I returned it with a smile of my own. Why not, since he would lose this memory as well?

“Sigyn,” giving him my name was easy enough, but knowing that Loki - any version of him - AND Sylvie were running from people like these made my blood run cold. “You can call me Sigyn.”

Mobius didn’t stay much longer. He even managed to convince the troop he came with to stand outside the garden. And he found that I was true to my word, I would not give him information on my husband - Variant or not.

Before he, and the others, left - I removed the visit from their memories and the TempPad. Watching him disappear through the doorway I’d seen Sylvie disappear behind so many times in my childhood, I wondered what would become of him - this Mobius M. Mobius? Would he ever learn the truth about the lies that built his world and purpose? And how would he take it when he found out that the ONE person he thought he could trust the most, was the one he shouldn’t trust at all?

My schedule was thrown off by the visit from the Time Variance Authority. And using powers that I hadn’t used before, but somehow knew I had access to - LISTENING to my intuition, to what felt right instead of what I would normally do - had reminded me that I hadn’t broken my fast. Hungry and a touch tired, I went back to the kitchen to pick up where I’d left off when I witnessed my visitors’ arrival.

Sitting at the table, my cell phone next to me, eating absently while I contemplated what I saw through Mobius’ ruined memories. His companion, a superior to him - a judge named Ravonna - had told him she planned on erasing parts of Loki’s timeline, the parts she deemed most likely to set him on the path that would lead to his homicidal rampage. He’d argued against this course, reminding her that they still had no idea where this Variant had come from, and that meant that they hadn’t a clue as to which parts of the timeline should be wiped to be effective. The coldness in her face should have warned him, but he didn’t know her, not really. He simply thought he did, because of the process that created him.

The part she wishes to erase was me, Sigyn, the wife. Clearly erasing the most emotionally charged part of his timeline would work to break him - dull the blade and he’d be easier to prune. Mobius had argued that by that logic she should erase Frigga as well, or Thor - but Ravonna shook her head.

“No,” her smile grew in an almost reptilian way. “If you look through the files, if you WATCH it - what Loki feels for Sigyn, it goes far beyond simple affection or love, Mobius. Remove her from the equation, take her away and he has NOTHING to search for, nothing to yearn for, nothing to reach and grasp for - he’ll beg to be pruned.”

I’d felt sick, the way she’d considered it - as if breaking him apart and ripping me away from him was a game. As if watching him - I knew that these files weren’t simply written, that they were visual - she watched him in his cell in Asgard, watched as he saw the wraith of me visit him and how he felt tortured by it. And I knew she ENJOYED it. Unlike Frigga, who I felt did only what Odin asked, Ravonna wanted to see Loki in agony and begging for it to end so she could order it.

The only thing that gave me strength was the knowledge that she obviously didn’t KNOW Loki. Removing me from a file wouldn’t convince him that I was gone or break him - that equating that with the pain he was feeling in his cell in Asgard was the mistake of a sadistic amateur. If anything, removing me would make him MORE thirsty for a path to find out WHY I was removed and WHERE I was. Ravonna had done nothing to make her tiny little hope bear fruit, instead she made it more likely to go in the opposite direction.

If only I knew how Sylvie fit into the situation -

I set off for the village after my breakfast. Content that the weather was perfect for the walk, and that I could easily find everything I needed within walking distance of my home.

Books first, the small shop was owned by the second person to befriend me after Michael. A lovely young woman named Caroline who quickly learned the types of books that I most enjoyed and would tuck a few behind the counter for me, even though she knew I’d still wander the stacks and pluck a few more to add to the pile.

“You’re up and out early this morning, Margaret,” her smile was open and warm. “I had a feeling you’d be around today.” Reaching under the counter, she pulled out four books and set the on the counter. “I’ll keep them here for you while you browse.”

Shaking my head, my smile came easily as I roamed the aisles, gaze dancing across the spines of the books as I looked for anything that stood out and caught my attention. While I shopped, Caroline and I chatted, the shop being small enough that we didn’t have to raise our voices even when I was at the furthest point from the till. She asked about Micheal and I assured her that he was well, telling her that we’d spent the day before together.

“He dotes on you,” she was grinning as I joined her at the counter to pay. “We’re all happy you came home to keep him company. You keep him young.” My smile faltered, a reminder that I’d be leaving once I learned how to rejoin Loki - leaving Michael alone again.

“He’s incredibly kind,” I agreed, paying for my books. “And I’m glad I came home too.”

The rest of my shopping trip was much the same. Friendly reminders of how thankful everyone was that I’d “returned” to the family fold so Michael wasn’t alone any longer. The reminder of what I would be leaving was starting to cause me pinpricks of pain - but the piercing ache of being apart from my husband was overpowering. I could always visit Michael, it wasn’t as if I couldn’t come back.

At the cottage, once everything was put in its place, I chose not to return to the laptop and instead went to the garden to inspect the damage caused by Mobius and his group. A few bushes weren’t quite as bushy as they should be, several of the flower beds were smashed with boot prints, and the grass had divots that showed dirt where green should be.

Sighing heavily, I sat down on the bench and closed my eyes. The air was cool and the sun was trying to shine through a hazy cloud cover. A slight breeze ruffled my hair as I let the calm of my garden - damaged though it was - soothe my frayed nerves.

Perhaps it was the breeze. Maybe it was the scent of apples that blew in from somewhere. It could have been the hint of galbanum that tickled my nose. Whatever it was, somehow I wasn’t in the garden anymore - instead I was on a train unlike any train I’d ever been on - and there was Loki sitting across from Sylvie.

#loki #loki x sigyn #loki series #sigyn #alternate universe #angst #mobius m mobius

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blueburds · 4 years ago

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Of Old Relics and New Friendships

Summary: Altrethir returns from his recruitment mission, but comes back empty-handed. After settling back into base, he’s put to work. Words: 1,531

Theron took a sharp right in the Military Hangar and bumped into a couple of troops. He quickly expressed his apologies before jogging toward the elevator that’d take him to Altrethir’s personal landing zone. The Sith had finally returned from his recruitment mission, but due to Lana’s intel, the agent didn’t expect positive results.

He walked briskly down the metal bridge and onto the grassy plain where Altrethir’s ship landed. Steam hissed quietly from the vents as the ramp to the ship lowered. Theron’s heart skipped a beat when he saw his lover descend, his fists gently clenched in anticipation. Though difficult to tell from far away, Altrethir’s eyes were very much red and puffy. He wore a deadpanned expression, looking overall drained. Exhausted.

And Theron was there to meet him where the ramp met the grass. He connected the dots – it wasn’t difficult to, knowing that Thexia felt his mourning through some connection by the Force. Wordlessly the agent extended a hand, and Altrethir felt a violent churn in his gut. His pride wanted to refuse compassion, to reject it entirely and to be just by himself until he felt better. But he’d already been by himself for the entire trip home; he made only one call to confirm he was on his way back to Odessen. He didn’t even speak with Theron during that call.

After a moment of hesitation, he caved. The Sith pressed himself into his beloved’s arms and lowered his head against the crook of his neck. Theron embraced him with a protective, warm hold. Altrethir wept quietly into the fabric of his jacket.

• • •

It was mid-day; four hours had passed since Altrethir returned, and those four hours he spent collecting himself, trying to get back into his work. Aside from Theron, Lana and Thexia, no one else suspected a thing. That was what he hoped, anyway. Perhaps he was more quiet or broody than usual but no one questioned him. He’d still catch Theron’s glances from across the room; the man was concerned, but Altrethir didn’t mind. He was managing.

Taking a datapad and a totemic relic discovered by Hylo Visz’s team, the sorcerer turned and walked down the metal steps of the meeting room, heading toward the laboratory. His eyes were glued to the words on his tablet, mainly using his Force senses to guide him. But before he could reach the lab, he felt someone approaching. So he slowed the pace of his walk, looking up from the datapad and turning, “Is there something I may help you with?”

A shorter Twi’lek woman halted just feet before him, not expecting him to stop. Her skin, he noted, was the same shade of blue his own flesh was before his mutations of the Force. And her eyes, too, were the same purple hue of his uncorrupted irises. She backed up a couple of steps, “Uh- hi. Sorry, I couldn’t help but see what you’re carrying,” she gestured to the relic, and Altrethir carefully turned it within his hand. “You’re gonna take that to the lab to be picked apart and studied?”

“It will be researched by my most trusted archaeologist. He has a certain fondness for artifacts; it will be in good hands, I assure you.”

“Assurance is appreciated, but... I mean,” she huffed, muttering something to herself under her breath, “I can’t believe I’m asking, but would you consider selling it to me?”

Altrethir lofted a brow, “Of what value does this hold to you?”

The woman gave him a quizzical look, lightly canting her head to the side, “You don’t-…? Sorry- that's rude of me to assume. I figured you out of everyone here would know,” she waved a hand dismissively and gestured once more to the relic, “That’s a Kalikori. It’s something that holds a lot of sentimental value to Twi’lek families; it’s an heirloom that’s passed down generation after generation.” She pointed to one of the cubed beads dangling from the side, “A parent adds onto it, then their child does, and so on.”

The Sith’s interest was specifically piqued because he never heard of such a tradition, despite being of Twi’lek heritage himself. His parents certainly didn’t possess one of these, which lead him to consider the possibility of it being destroyed, stolen, or the concept being false altogether.

“Can you confirm that your word holds true?”

She huffed in amusement, “Show it to your archaeologist. I mean, if he’s more experienced in that sort of stuff than you, he’d definitely recognize it.”

“Very well,” Altrethir beckoned her to follow, resuming his path toward the laboratory. They walked a number of steps in silence before he spoke up once more, “You know who I am, but what do I call you?”

“Vette,” she replied, keeping up with his pace, “Just Vette.”

• • •

“Good day to you, my lord! It’s always delightful to see you.”

“Doctor Drellik,” Altrethir gave a nod with a faint smile upon his lips, “This artifact was brought to my attention recently. I wanted you to take a look at it.”

“Of course, of course! Let’s see, hm?” Doctor Talos Drellik gingerly took the totem-like relic from the Sith’s hands, turning it about carefully within his grasp. “A wooden base and cubes, but the beads look to be crafted from a sort of clay. These markings also appear Twi’leki,” he muttered as he examined it. “I do believe this is an old Kalikori, my lord! I- oh, dear. It’s not yours, is it? If that’s the case, take it back, by all means. It must be nerve-wracking to see someone else handling something so precious to you.”

Vette shot Altrethir an “I told you so” type of smirk.

“No, this does not belong to me,” the Sith took the Kalikori from the other man, “In fact, I regret to say that I’m unfamiliar with what it represents.”

Doctor Drellik smiled eagerly, thrilled to delve further into their discussion of artifacts, “Well, it’s uncertain of when exactly the tradition began. Twi’lek families pass them down through their generations, a parent adding beads onto the totem. So, this bead,” he pointed to a cube on the Kalikori that dangled at the end of the left chain, “appears to be the newest addition. Perhaps a parent was already planning to hand it down to their child?”

“A likely theory. I received it from Hylo’s crew, and she said they found it during a raid on one of Arcann’s cargo ships.”

“Then that opens up further possibilities as to how the Eternal Empire found it!”

“Or they stole it,” Vette grumbled.

“In any case, it’s not exactly some key to unlocking a super weapon, an ancient vault or anything of the sort,” Doctor Drellik continued, “What you do with it is up to you, my lord.”

Altrethir nodded, “I shall figure that out for myself. Thank you for your time – I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Anytime, my lord! If you’ve need for any other artifact inspections, you know who to ask.”

The two Twi’lek took their leave and stepped into the hallway connecting to the main meeting room. Altrethir examined the writing upon the beads, feeling a hint of shame that he couldn’t even read it. For one who wanted nothing else than to free his people, he certainly was ignorant to his own culture.

“Do we have a deal, then? I’ve got about a couple thousand credits I can pay for it,” Vette asked, interrupting his thoughts. Altrethir’s gaze softened and shifted toward her. And slowly, he passed the relic toward the woman. She blinked, “Uh- hang on, I think I’ve got all my money on me.”

“Payment is not necessary. This belongs to you, does it not?”

Vette gave a meek laugh but shook her head, “Good guess, but no. I know who it does belong to and I wanted to return it to them.”

“How kind,” he smiled faintly as she took it.

“I, uh, I wanna say: I was never huge into Sith politics, but I know what you stand for. Or, stood for. Darth Nox, right? You were the only voice of reason on the Dark Council. I never really saw Sith objecting the use of slaves in the Empire.”

“I know what the environment of slavery is like first-hand. I will always condemn the practice.”

“Yeah. I get it, believe me. That’s all to say that I admired you. I guess I still do, considering what all just happened.”

“You flatter me, truly. To be honest, my ears would always pick up on the rumors, the gossip the Council spread about me. Seldom did I receive direct positive feedback. But I never let that deter me from my goal.”

“That’s good, though. You knew you were doing the right thing despite what your peers might’ve told you.”

Altrethir smiled softly and gave her a small pat on her shoulder, “That’s what’s most important. I’ve work to tend to, but this discussion was most pleasant. I hope that we may have another opportunity to talk.”

“Yeah- absolutely,” Vette replied, a bit dumbfounded. She couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off her face, “Stay safe out there.”

#swtor fanfiction #fanfiction #this was meant to be a chapter in TRWWO but it just. didn't fit?#it's just fluff & not really all that relevant to the plot so i thought it more appropriate to post it here #takes place right after Justice by Arson

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theholycovenantrpg · 4 years ago

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In the beginning was RAHMIEL, an ANGEL loyal to the cause of the ANGELS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as THE ADVISOR to the KINGDOM OF CAELUM. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

He serves as the Advisor to the Kingdom of Caelum -- is their steward, their ward, and their assurance that they will thrive. His subjects trust in his determination to be a voice of the people, but moreover they count on the knowledge and wisdom that he has accumulated over the eons that he has spent at God’s side. When Michael is unable to visit other kingdoms, they send Rahmiel in their stead. It is because, wherever he travels, there is the assurance that the angel will be able to slip from the grasps of any malevolence that might threaten him. This is owed to Rahmiel’s siren-like abilities -- whenever he sings, it is as though all who hear him are placed under a trance of utter ecstasy, unable to do anything other than slip into bliss at the sound of his voice. Even God was subjected to this unique defenselessness, which is in part why he kept the angel tethered to his side. Only those who are prepared for the assault are able to keep their wits about them through studious concentration -- but who would ever want themselves to be deprived of such serene divinity?

THE HISTORY.

He was born from the sound of laughter -- unrepentant and bold laughter. The mouth that it came from was not one filled with merriment and giddiness, no, it was the laughter born of unabated grief. The embodiment of defiance in the face of God, spurred by loss and made all the louder by the fury that belied it. He had cursed them with mortality -- taking from them their children, their kin, those that they loved -- and in turn, they had howled with wide mouths and aching cheeks. From that, he was born, spun into being by God whose fascination with such a display of dissent needed to be made tangible in the form of Rahmiel; a creature of boldness and melancholy, of insolence and mourning. He was a creature of conflict and God had thought nothing more of the curse of his creation than the satisfaction of knowing He had the power to do so. So Rahmiel was left to his own devices, an immortal creature with an endless existence and no purpose to be found within it, aside from swallowing down the grief of humanity and wondering when the fleeting joy to be found within it were to diminish before mourning overwhelmed them again. Beside God he wandered, the ceaselessness of his own existence weighing heavier upon his shoulders than the wings that clung to his bent back. With wearied hands, he rendered the tale of humanity -- from the inception of all creation to their lowliest of ages, and with forlorn lips he sang of their hardships and glory. And mankind heard it and listened, they heard it and felt within their hearts longing for more.

And so he gave them more. As a scribe of God he was trusted, so much so that no one thought to question when he would steal away what divinity there was and share it with the artisans of mankind. He gave to the composers and musicians, to the sculptors and artists what remnants of divinity that he could -- bidding them to inspire and create sights of beauty. Seeing that he was an angel, they owed it all to God, thinking that He was the one to praise for this blessing. But it was only ever Rahmiel who thought to give them something good and beautiful in all the frightful despair that they had to bear. Bit by bit what grief had been on the precipice of devouring him began to abate until it became easier to let that mischievous little grin pull at his lips, let that light of grace flicker in his eyes once more. Though no human ever sang his praises or created hymns and litanies to him in offering, he was content to hear their merriment and see hope within them -- even in the midst of their wars, famines, and disasters. God turned no eye to them, thought nothing of the fact that his praises were now rising from the earth and pervading the kingdom of heaven. He merely thought that He was finally receiving the love and adoration that was owed to Him, while Rahmiel merely looked on, fingers dancing on the strings of his instruments peacefully.

It was easy for him to pluck at the strings of his instruments while the world began to fray at its edges. None of his brethren paid him any mind, nor he them -- passing the eons by rendering God’s and mortal’s stories in ink, creating poems and ballads of their great conquests and demises. He watched idly as his brethren’s dissent began to stir among the ranks, watched as God’s pride began to blind Him to His own ego and obsession. For his perceived faithfulness, he was granted the title of Cherubim, an honor that was to be appreciated and reverently received. Rahmiel, however, thought nothing of it -- he cared not about titles or honors, he knew that there would be no need to pay them any mind. Why should he when the kingdom was rotten at its roots? There was no honor to be taken in a throne that was built on artificial gold, nor was there any pleasure in basking in a society that was smothered in its own self-importance. So when Michael rallied its people into a better age, Rahmiel merely looked on in wonder at the beauty that could be wrought from utter decimation. There was something beautiful about the undoing of things, just as much as there was unsightliness to be found in the act of creation. He remembered the taste of the words on his tongue when he saw the inception of the new world. He remembered how potent they were, how quickly they came.

The world’s new covenant was Rahmiel’s own remaking. No longer was he quietly observing from the heavens, content to do nothing more than look on -- no, Rahmiel wanted to shape the world into something far better than it had been before. There was no place for tyrants or dictators, not within the utopia that they were all determined to create. He no longer remained quiet about the knowledge that he held from his days by God’s side, instead he reveled in his cunning and stratagem, becoming a rather formidable weapon among the angels. At Michael’s behest he took on the title of advisor, bending their ear on matters of importance -- the shadow behind the throne that shaped the kingdom into something far more beautiful than God could have fashioned. Now, though, he sees the seeds of tyranny being sown, sees the undoing of centuries of bloodshed and sacrifices made in the name of peace. He no longer questions how mortals managed to persevere in the face of despair. He knows too intimately the savage determination to continue in the face of darkness and defeat. Just as he knows the beauty that can live on despite all of it. This world is his and under his watchful eye it shall thrive.

THE CONNECTIONS.

GABRIEL: Champion. Within the pearly gates of heaven, not many had taken note of the friendship that had been fostered between Rahmiel and Gabriel. The two of them had been rather intrigued by the indulgences that humanity had taken for themselves, and had thought to mirror it within the serene kingdom. Upon that penchant for mischief they had built with one another a partnership that has lasted the test of differing loyalties and the overthrowing of monarchies that were thought to be eternal. Rahmiel had resigned himself to the notion of solitude, being God’s confidante and scribe, and yet within Gabriel he had found kinship. This is why Rahmiel has offered his services as the eyes and ears of Gabriel where his reach is less influential than he would prefer. With the freedom to pass between the kingdoms comes invaluable opportunities to create ties and alliances -- all of which Gabriel knows is necessary for ensuring peace within the Holy Land and throughout the New World, so that the testament that they are creating is less bloody than the one they had left behind. Rahmiel trusts in his vision, in the heart that lies within the Sun’s chest and in the future that they can create.

EVANGELINE TRAME: Reprieve. There is a certain levity to their interactions, a certain freshness that Evangeline has about her. He knows, of course, why this must be. How could one not find the illustrious Eve utterly and completely captivating? He derives an entirely unique pleasure from their conversations, mischievous and wily as he slips in little phrases that tie into the life she had once lived. Though it always gives her pause, she seems just as delighted by his company as she is with his. There are secrets, no doubt, that she tries to coax out of him, keen to be let in on the joke that only one party seems to enjoy. Yet, he always takes care to mind his tongue so that it does not loose the truths that she is not quite yet ready to endure. There are times where he cannot help but let his concern slide, curious as to the nightmares or memories that might chase her into the long hours of the night, when she is no doubt at her most vulnerable to their assaults. But, until the revelation of her old life comes to light, he is all too happy to continue on with the little game that they play.

JUDAS: Ploy. He knows what Judas thinks of him -- how the great betrayer had witnessed his complacency when he was shackled to his pen and paper in the heavens. Judas thought of the angel as overlooked -- as someone not properly used and consistently placed into the shadows so as to make room for the more glory-ridden creatures. And Rahmiel lets him continue to drown himself in his own delusion, so as to ensure that there is always opportunity for glimpsing into the mechanisms and politics of the realm of Infernum. In their encounters Rahmiel can’t help but contemplate how easily Judas’ tongue wags, on the blindness that he exhibits. Perhaps in the comfort of his power he has grown lax, but the path that is being paved by the demon’s folly. It would be a rather comedic story to write, he thinks, about how an angel betrayed the great betrayer.

ORIAS: Tale. They are a creature that thousands of stories might muse upon -- they might be rendered as a sweet witch that is more akin to a saint, or perhaps depict them as something more grotesque. Regardless, Rahmiel can never tire of the conversations that occur between them, delving into the wonder and mystery of their abilities as well as the many encounters that he has witnessed with their worshippers. Though it may be his unfailing ability to romanticize things, but Rahmiel cannot help but take comfort in their existence. God had never accounted for many things, but the vastness and unknowability of their capabilities is perhaps the greatest of them all. He understands that they likely do not think much of their meetings, but he cannot help but treasure each and every one of them. Every word that slips from their lips, every demonstration of their power, and every time they bid him good night -- he treasures it all. More than they could ever hope to understand.

Rahmiel is portrayed by Diego Luna and was written by ROSEY. He is currently OPEN.

#literate rp #fantasy rp #lsrpg #new rp #rpg #om #o #m #a #rahmiel

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darker-soft-starker · 5 years ago

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Can I request a starker no-powers au where Peter watches construction worker Tony from his bedroom window as the older man works across the street ?

His name is Tony.

Peter knows this tidbit because he heard it yelled once or twice as he’d walked by the construction lot, the same dark haired man perking up at the name.

Work had begun on the old house across from Peter a few weeks ago. The weathered colonial used to belong to old Christiansen, a bitter and lonely man who used to yell at Peter as a kid for the frisbees that used to land on his lawn.

When the elderly man had passed no immediate family had come to claim the property, and for three months while his estate was settled it stood empty.

One day, a brother and sister duo, estranged cousins of the late William Christiansen arrived to declare the property as theirs, as so declared in his Will.

A month later the old property was being gutted by heavy machinery. Bricks tumbled into a splintered, woodwork carcass, noisy bobcats scraped and upended the earth until a new landscape was formed.

Once the last of old Christiansen house had been razed, there stood the skeletons of three, tiny townhouses, cluttered close on the same lot.

In the beginning, Peter had only watched the proceedings with a vague sense of interest. He’d mourned the disappearance of the old house and quietly seethed at the likely uptick in traffic three new houses would bring.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, walking home early from his last class of the semester, that he notices the crew of workers wrapping up for the afternoon. The weight of academia off his shoulders and in no hurry, Peter had peered curiously at the workmen and their seamless teamwork.

Just as his fill is fulled Peter’s attention is hooked by a man emerging from the bare bones of one of houses. A sagging bag of concrete is slung over broad shoulders, biceps exposed from the cut of his shirt. Peter doesn’t mean to stare at the sway of the mans hips as he moves, lugging the bag around like it doesn’t weigh a thing.

He must be staring longer than he thinks - the man abbreviates his path, sunglasses sliding down his nose to wink at Peter lasciviously before continuing on his way.

Struck, Peter’s heart had skipped a beat at the attention, mind replaying the way the mans eyes crinkled in the corners, the easy confidence of his smile.

That had started it all, really.

Sat by the bedroom window that overlooks the street, Peter props his hand on his chin and looks out upon the building site in the waning sunlight.

It’s been six days since the guy, now known as Tony, winked at him. It’s been six days, each one spent with his free time by his bedroom window, watching as the man lumbers logs of timber around over his shoulders like they were matchsticks, watching the smooth swivel of his torso as he strikes old drywall with a sledgehammer.

Window cracked upon ever so slightly, the good-natured banter amongst the crew can be heard between the music and the mayhem. Tony quips and cracks witty one-liners and in his colleagues respond in kind.

And so summer begins.

—-

Having an active construction crew in close proximity to your sleeping quarters eliminates the ability to lie in, Peter quickly discovers. He’s heard more AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Cold Chisel and Dr. Hook in the last few weeks than he’s heard in his entire twenty-one years.

Once, Mrs Cunningham from three doors down tried to scold them for the bass laden 9:00am wake-up-call, but Tony’s scathing, insouciant response was to tell her to contact her local council.

She didn’t come back.

May also grumbles at the noise and disruption, but Peter still catches her swaying her hips and mumbling to lyrics on the odd occasion, so he thinks she doesn’t really mind all that much.

Nonetheless, it provides adequate gossip fodder for the old neighbourhood. It hadn’t really changed in the last fifty years, the same families growing up and out and back in again. So, whether it be bemoaning the line of trucks that clutter the street, querying the one woman who works among the crew or her pegasus emblazoned truck - or the inevitable unsightliness of the yet-to-be finished project - it gave everyone something to talk about.

Personally, Peter has never had such incentive so to study until now.

Oh yes, his window allows the perfect sum of sun into his bedroom for poring over textbooks. If anyone asks, he’s being proactive. Just trying to get a head start on next semesters readings.

And maybe when he looks up from his books he has the perfect view of the worksite across his house. There’s nothing shifty about it, just people watching during a study break.

Maybe he procrastinates and watches too long, long enough to hear the entire EP of an obscure band Peter has never heard before. It’s not his fault the crew sometimes use their hammers to amusedly imitate drumsticks or sing vulgar renditions of the tunes on their playlist.

Mostly, Peter finds it endearing how Tony appears to oscillate between the most theatrical or the most withdrawn, depending on the day.

Peter tries not to feel all Rear Window about it. There’s just something weirdly magnetic about the way the man moves so animatedly and is almost never still. Even sat upon the curb for a break, cigarette dangling between his lips, he’s captivating.

There are worse ways to pass the summer, right?

It’s not weird, no matter what Ned says.

“It’s kinda weird,” Ned says, sat beside Peter on one of the wooden chairs on the front porch.

“It is not,” Peter insists, bringing a pretzel to his mouth, snapping it in half with his teeth. He chews thoughtfully, gaze once again drawn across the street to the site. “I’m just making sure that they’re, y’know, doing it properly.”

“What, their jobs?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, licking the salt off around his lips. “That.”

“With all your experience and expertise in construction?”

Peter grins, offering the bag out to Ned who takes a handful. “Hey, I built some mean Lego back in the day, didn’t I?”

“My mistake,” Ned rolls his eyes, directing his attention back to the noisy site. “So, which one are you hot for?”

“What?”

“Which one has you hot and bothered.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “I’m not hot for any of them.”

Neds eyes slide over to him in a glare laden with such scathing judgement it makes Peter feel like he’d just sinned in church. He shrinks back in his chair.

“….The one with the black hair,” Peter replies meekly.

With renewed interest Ned peers back over, rising up on his seat a little. The grimace on his face once he settles back down is telling, however unappreciated. Ned’s never shared Peter’s predilection towards older men.

“Gross, but okay. Are you going to ask him out?”

Peter snorts incredulously, shoving a handful of pretzels into his mouth to avoid answering the question.

“Dude,” his friend prods. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“Yes,” Peter answers defensively. “Last week he said ‘hey, watch out’ so I wouldn’t walk into my letterbox, and I said ‘thanks’.”

The stink eye returns. After years of friendship that’s all that is needed for Peter receive the condemning message, properly cowed. They fall back into staring out at the lot, transfixed by the shrill screech of the buzzsaws.

It’s not that Peter is never going to say anything, he just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. How precisely does one approach an older man to tell him you’d like to bang his fine ass, but would also like to pet his hair and take care of him long-term?

Something about the guy makes a giddiness swell in his chest, reminiscent of his boyhood crushes where he would doodle hearts in his notebooks and find reasons to be in the same room as his infatuation.

“Gotta suck working in this heat though,” Ned says, interrupting his thoughts.

“You’re right,” Peter nods, an idea forming in his brain. “It would.”

Standing up suddenly and startling Ned, Peter rushes back inside the house, into the blissful airconditioning and aims for the kitchen.

Ned finds him there after following his bee-line, torso half emerged in one of the lower cupboards as he rummages through it.

“Peter?”

He studiously ignores his friend in favour of hyperextending his arm into the bowels of the dusty cupboard, crowing with delight when he finally grasps the still-sealed stack of plastic cups.

Quick as a fox, he fills each with water from the sink, placing cubes of ice from the freezer in each. Hands trembling with excitement he places them all on a tray and nods at his friend who only extends him a look of fond exasperation.

Anticipation sets his nerves aflutter, his feet flighty as he carefully balances the tray out the front door, Ned trailing behind him.

His face flushes as he crosses the lawn, hands tightly clutched around the handles as he mentally rehearses an introduction.

I’m Peter Parker, I bring some water - no, wait - I’m Peter, you’re really hot and I’d like you to drink my fluids - definitely not - I am Peter and I have water, you must be thirsty - better.

All his efforts are for naught in the end.

Upon pausing to check the road is clear he catches sight of old Mrs Carrington and her young, pouting grandson carrying perspiring pitchers of lemonade and a tray of sandwiches into the lot. The workers suspend their work to greet them with surprised glee, and Peter feels his own smile dropping off his face.

He looks down at his own pitiful offerings, the ice having all but melted in the cheap, plastic cups, bobbing sadly as they lose form.

“Better luck next time,” Ned says from behind him, patting his back in consolation.

Peter nods. Yeah, next time.

—

Unwilling to be disheartened, Peter tries his hand the following day. A renewed vigour jumpstarts his efforts early, already in the kitchen before the guttural vocals of Thunderstruck start playing.

Ned’s right. He’s an adult now - there are no lockers to leave love notes, no one is going to ask him to the prom. This is what real adults do - they see who they like, they ask them out. Simple.

But Peter has never been a locker love-note kinda guy. He wouldn’t know how to craft a slick pick-up line, doesn’t have the arresting good looks that do the talking for him.

Eager not to be bested by an ailing octogenarian again, Peter uses an entire loaf of bread and a full pound of half-price bacon to create a veritable tower of BLT’s. With their one sharp knife he cuts them into perfect angles, remembering the amputee he’s seen on site he ensures they can be gripped easily with a single hand.

The only two pitchers they own are poured full with freshly-squeezed orange juice, Peter’s wrists working themselves into a strain to drain the fruits dry.

May stumbles in sometime around nine in her sleep clothes, hair wild like a lion’s mane. She fixes him an odd stare as she fumbles for a cup of coffee.

“A bit hungry, Pete?”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” is all he says, shaking his head and adding a plate of apple slices to a tray for good measure. “By the way, we’re out of bacon.”

It must require a lot of energy doing all that work, Peter thinks. It gives him a warm feeling, providing, thinking his efforts might go some way into nourishing someone else. He’s a Parker through-and-through after all.

Even if the guy doesn’t like him that way - it’s fresh, good food. Far better than that delivery truck thing he sometimes sees stationed out the front of the site that sells greasy, microwaved meals. At least the whole crew will have something wholesome and heartfelt, if nothing else.

Stomach squirming pleasantly Peter lifts the two trays, balancing the items precariously as waddles on, opening the front door with a kick his foot.

This is it. He’s finally going to have a reason to say hello, to introduce himself, maybe ask Tony out on a date, if he’s single and willing. Peter smiles to himself as he imagines having the guts to do it in front of the entire crew.

It takes a bit of coordination to get down the porch steps without spilling anything, eyes trained on the ground for any impediments, but he makes it - this is it.

Except, when he looks up from his feet to glance across the street his heart sinks.

Mrs Dawes from four doors down is already there. She’s set up a fucking portable table and brought a feast; sautéed vegetables, breakfast potatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. All accompanied by fruit salad and a variety of brightly colored smoothies. As appetizers.

Appetizers.

From where he is rooted in spot Peter can hear her say with all honey sweet modesty: Oh, it’s no problem! You are doing such a good job, it’s my absolute pleasure.

Looking at his own offerings Peter can’t help but pout, a feeling of inadequacy sinking down his spine. Briefly, he entertains the idea of coming back for the lunch period instead, but knows by then the apples and lettuce will be an unpleasant brown, the bread soggy.

Shoulders slumping, he sighs and turns on his heel, looking up at his house with weary consideration. His arms are beginning to hurt with the weight of his aborted efforts.

A dark, doleful strain of self-pity wells up inside him before his gaze slides to the house next door. Mrs Martinez has four kids home for the summer and her husband is still on tour - suddenly his heart is twinging for a whole other reason.

Diverting his course, Peter rings their doorbell instead.

He can’t be too disheartened he decides later that afternoon, taking a break from his laptop to stare outside the bedroom window again.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

—

It doesn’t occur to Peter the next day, halfway through icing a luscious three-tiered chocolate cake, that it is Saturday.

Mournfully, he eats the cake himself.

—-

The next attempt at wooing - at providing - comes Monday morning.

This time Peter is prepared. He’d already gone to the store the night before, had bought everything he required with a too-eager swipe of his credit card - and okay, sure, he’s going to have to cover a few extra shifts at the bookstore, but it’s worth it, right?

If all else fails, at least someone will appreciate the food - if not his neighbours then at least he and his aunt will have food for the week.

The Parkers are not particularly renowned for their prowess in the kitchen, if he’s honest. Their friends and family are treated to many an over-seasoned dish or charcoaled toast to have any sort of claim over that domain.

But the one thing they can master is the work of Peters great grandmother, a recipe handed down from generation to generation, perfected over decades - a bastardized version of goulash, brimming with hearty beef chunks bought especially from the butcher, copious potatoes and carrots, noodles, some secret spices. It’s a home-run every time.

The key is to pour your heart and soul into it, his family would always say, that was the most special ingredient. Sure, stock and a generous helping of paprika were crucial, but it was the love you put into it that made the meal a veritable gustatory delight.

Maybe it’s the fond memories that make it anything but a chore, a highlight reel of his childhood playing as he cooks. When the stew is finally done simmering Peter prepares a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery, cutting it into satisfyingly thick slices, adding a side of oil. He has homemade iced tea ready in the fridge, and a bowl of diced watermelon as a palette cleanser.

To round it all off he has chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, still gooey and soft in the centre.

By lunch time he was done. Sweating a little from the steam, Peter transfers the goulash into a big, portable container and beams proudly down at his work.

Everything has his soul infused into it, like he was taught. He has a really good feeling about it this time.

Eager anticipation makes his stomach swoop. He double checks his reflection in the glass cabinets, attempting to tame his wayward curls into something a little less wayward, baring his teeth to make sure nothing is stuck in between them.

Finally, he smooths down the cotton of his tee he gives himself a shake. He’s going to do it this time. Mrs Dawes is at work and Mrs Carrington is at her crochet group. He’s checked, all the schedules line up - it’s his time.

So he grabs the two trays, food precariously towering upon each other in a quivering porcelain pyramid and takes slow, cautious steps towards the front door.

To save the trays from hitting the unlatched door he turns backwards to use the breadth of his back to push the door open, carefully reversing onto the porch.

“I have a delivery for –”

Peter whirls around quickly.

It’s a mistake because the next thing he does is roughly collide with a solid body, the trays under his arms slipping from his grasp. Everything goes crashing to the ground with a shriek of shattering porcelain and the sad gurgling of all the upended liquid.

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry,” the mailman says, but Peter doesn’t hear him, staring in abject horror at the food splattered all over the porch.

None of it salvageable.

He spent eighty dollars and four hours on this. He poured his heart into this. He was going to share this, he was gonna -

“It’s not meant to be,” he whispers to himself, slowly lowering himself into a squat, holding his hands out uselessly.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up in sorrow at the greying FedEx worker. “It’s not meant to be,” he repeats.

“Um… I just need you to sign for this.”

Peter wordlessly takes the small parcel and signs the E-POD, still staring at the perverse Jackson Pollock impression all over the woodwork. The parcel isn’t even for him.

Once the mailman has left and the fast-food truck has pulled up to the construction site with a giddy toot of it’s horn, Peter has accepted it.

It’s just not meant to be.

—

“You taking up bird watching or something?” May asks from where she is leant against his doorway three days later.

Peter shakes his head, abandoning his forlorn gaze to give his attention to her.

“Or something. What’s up?”

May holds up a stack of envelopes and smiles wryly. “We keep getting Mrs Carringtons mail.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s her mistake or the mailman though.”

“Probably the mailman,” Peter mutters.

She shrugs. “In any case, I gotta get ready for work. Would you be able to take these over to her?”

“Sure,” Peter says, stretching as he stands, taking the stack from her hands.

She sniffs him subtly. “It will do you good to get out of this room. It smells in here.”

Taking his aunt’s comments to heart he freshens up in the bathroom first, brushing the grime off his teeth and fixing his appearance, making himself feel somewhat presentable.

Cooped up indoors all day didn’t prepare him for how exceptionally balmy the weather was outside, sweat already forming at his hairline by the time he crosses the road. He studiously ignores the urge to look over at the construction site as he makes his way to his neighbor, however conditioned he is to do so at the Black Sabbath riffs playing through the air.

Mrs Carrington greets him with a smile when he knocks and invites him inside. She has her frail fingers circled around his wrist before he can begin to decline the offer, pulling him in, already talking a mile a minute.

Inside, it smells overwhelmingly like potpourri and her floral perfume.

“Thank you for bringing these over,” she says, leading him to the kitchen. “I don’t know why it keeps happening. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs C,” Peter assures, setting the mail on the counter.

She dodders past him to grab a cling-wrapped plate, holding it out to him with trembling hands, her gait noticeably uneven.

“Would you do me another favor?” She implores earnestly, pressing the plate into his hands. “Would you take these to those hard working folks next door, please? I’d go myself, but my hip…”

Clutching the plate, he looks through the layers of transparent cling-wrap to spot a dozen or so home-baked lemon slices.

His heartbeat accelerates, thinking that he’s finally going to talk to get a chance. But of all the moments he’d imagined, it wasn’t here and now, clutching an elderly lady’s sickly sweet lemon treats arranged on a floral plate.

When he looks back up to see her eager expression he knows he can’t turn her down.

“Yeah, sure thing, Mrs C - can I help with anything else?”

She squeezes the outside of his hands gratefully. “You’re a good boy, just this is fine. You help yourself to one too, okay?”

“Sure.”

Despite Peter’s protests, she walks him to her door, patting his back gratefully as he departs. He waves her off with his free hand, pretending like his nerves doesn’t have his stomach doing somersaults.

Pulse pounding, he enters through a gap in the construction site fencing, immediately drawn to the dark haired man that caught his attention all those weeks ago.

A few of the others notice his approach and tell him to watch his step, but Peter can’t hear them over the booming echo of his heart in his ears.

Tony straightens from where he’d been penciling in marks on a long slat of timber, crossing his arms over his chest as Peter nears. The movement shows off the impressive swell of his biceps and for a moment makes him forget why he’s there.

“Umm, hi,” Peter says.

Tony slides his sunglasses upon his crown to look at Peter, the full attention of his big, brown eyes making Peter’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat.

The man smiles, slow and appreciatively, stance loosening when Peter smiles back.

“Hi yourself,” Tony responds, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“P-Peter. Parker. I’m… Peter Parker.”

The mans grin at his inelegant introduction has Peter’s face flaming, his hands shaking.

“Nice to finally meet you, Peter Parker. I’ve seen you around, but you never come and say hello like the rest of your neighbors.”

“You have?”

Tony nods, ambling closer. “I didn’t know if I should be offended or not.”

“Oh, I –”

“I forgive you, in case that was an apology,” Tony interrupts. “So, what do we owe this pleasure?”

Heartfelt explanations rise and are arrested in his throat, recalling the humiliating discomfort of all his failed attempts at courting. Instead, he extends the plate to Tony, holding it out like a sacrificial offering.

Tony accepts it, looking dubiously down at the garrish floral design before looking back at Peter.

“You make these yourself, doll?”

Stomach squirming at the attention, Peter shakes his head. “No, uh… my neighbour –”

“Oh thank god,” Tony says, indelicately dropping the plate on the nearby worktable. “Everyone in this neighbourhood is crazy nice or whatever - I have never been more well fed in my life –“

“Don’t lie,” one of the workers yells from behind them. “I’ve seen your high school photos.”

“Hey fuck you, Barnes,” Tony calls back, shaking his head. “Anyway, baby fat aside, I didn’t want to break your heart when I say I’m definitely more of a beef and potatoes kind of guy.”

“You are?” Peter perks up. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I make a mean goulash. It’s really good.”

“That so?” Tony scratches his beard, stepping closer. “I do like goulash.”

Steeling his nerves Peter inches forward, he can smell the sweat and musk from the man and the pursuing undertones of nicotine and cologne.

“Maybe I could make it for you sometime.”

“Like on a date?” Tony asks, dipping his chin to catch Peters eyes.

Heat floods his insides when he nods. “Yeah…you could come over? I’ll cook for you.”

Tony’s fingers comes up to toy with the cigarette tucked behind his ear, nestled amongst the black hair. He twirls it deftly between two calloused fingers, a crooked smile illuminating his features as he drinks Peter in.

“I’d like that a lot, Peter Parker.”

“That’s good. I mean - y’now, me too.”

The smirk Tony sends him is utterly devilish, corrupting Peter in the best of ways.

“Wish you’d come by and asked sooner, darling. Woulda given me more time to appreciate your pretty face.”

Cocking his head, Peters mouth stretches into a grin.

“Guess it was never the right time.”

—-

Two days later Tony knocks on his door donned in form-fitting dark denim and a button-down shirt. His usually wild hair is neatly combed back and arranged into a quaint quiff.

A smile breaks out on Peters face when notices the bouquet of red roses held in one of Tony’s hands, a box of expensive chocolates occupying in the other.

“Not the most original,” Tony concedes, kissing Peter on the cheek when he lets him in, passing the gifts over. “But it’s still heartfelt, I assure you.”

Tony looks at him with genuine fondness that Peter doesn’t have to taste to know it’s true. Peter leans in to place a chaste, tentative kiss on the corner of the mans mouth.

“It’s perfect.”

#starker #starker fic #fluff #tw: food #reluctantly loving thy neighbour #construction worker tony

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bitter-sweet-farmgirl · 4 years ago

Text

Trials of a Queen

Loki dies tragically on the battlefield, and Lily vows to find the killer and get revenge for the death of Loki. After several long years of searching and near escapes, she tracks down the person she believes killed Loki. But before she can kill them, Loki appears and stops her, revealing that he was never dead, that it was all a ruse to see if she would stay true to him. That was an Asgardian custom, to see if the woman was worthy to be their wife.

MASTERLIST

OC(s) Used: Lily

Warning(s): Miscarriage

Word Count: 1,354

~~~~

"Loki, no!" I screamed, watching in horror as he fell to an enemy sword. My heart seemed to stop entirely, my body suddenly doused with a horrible, icy-cold chill that sent shivers down my back.

Laying aside any thought of battle, I ran to his side, falling to my knees next to his prone figure. "My love, please hold on. We just need to get you to the palace." I choked out between my shuddering sobs.

Loki smiled faintly, his porcelain cheeks paling beyond normal standards as crimson stained his clothing. Weakly, his hand grasped my own, trying to comfort me. "Lily-" He began, but his voice was quiet, fading.

His breath rattled in his throat as his eyes slowly clouded over; his heaving chest falling, never to rise again.

Disbelieving horror filled me, and I took a trembling breath, still clutching Loki's limp hand between my own, hoping that warmth would fill it again, that this was just another of his pranks.

But he remained still, unmoving as his body grew stiff and cold under the cheerless rays of the Asgardian sun. Leaving me alone, griefstricken to mourn him.

~~~~~~

2 years later....

I darted silently between the rows of wooden crates. I could hear the loud, rapid breathing of my prey directly ahead; there was no escaping me now.

I had waited two long years for this day; for when I could finally hunt down the scum that killed Loki, and give them the payment they deserved for such a horrible deed. Two long years where I mourned for Loki with every breath that I took, the ache of his loss still strong within my heart.

Heading in for the kill, I pounced on the person before me, knocking them to the hard, cold concrete floor of the warehouse we were in. Silver flashed in the scarce beams of sunlight leaking through the dusty windows as I drew my dagger.

Ensuring that my entire weight was upon their weakly struggling body, I raised the silver weapon high in the air, smiling for the first time in two years, albeit in a grim manner, at my triumph. Now justice would be served, and my beloved would be avenged.

Just as my dagger began its plunge downwards, straight towards my prey's heart, a sudden voice stopped me.

"Lily!" It called, and instantly tears stung my eyes, the melancholy familiarness of it made the ache in my heart throb more painfully. I had heard that voice many times in the course of the past two years, and by now had learned to ignore its phantom calls.

"It's just a hallucination. ��He's not here." I muttered to myself, taking a deep breath, and repositioning my dagger, my arm falling again as the weapon began another attempt to take a life.

"Lily, stop. I'm not a hallucination, I'm right here, my love."

That voice again. Why did it still torment me? Why couldn't I just forget all the pain, the anguish I had suffered through?

But curiosity got the better of me, and I relaxed the arm holding the dagger, slowly twisting around to look behind me, towards the source of the noise.

He stood there, looking exactly the same as I remembered him. Tall, with long curly black hair cascading onto his shoulders. He still wore the same sad smile I remembered him wearing in the battle.

I shuddered at the sight, tears brimming in my eyes as I looked at him, the enemy beneath me forgotten.

Then, as if in a trance, I stood up, walking slowly towards Loki's figure. Stopping right in front of him, I looked at him sadly, wishing that he actually stood before me, that he still walked the same paths as me. But something was very different about this hallucination. Normally, he faded away as I approached him; but as I now stood before him, he still retained a solid form.

"You've normally faded away by now." I murmured softly, my eyes raking over each and every one of his features, taking the time to re-etch them into my memory.

Loki frowned, the expression foreign on his face. "My love, I am right here. I will not fade away from you." He whispered softly, and my eyes widened slightly. Hesitantly, I reached out a trembling hand towards his gaunt cheek.

My fingers connected with the warm, comforting flesh that I knew as Loki's. A startled gasp fled

my lips, and I quickly raised my other hand to frame his face. "Loki?" I breathed, unable to believe what I was seeing and feeling.

Loki smiled, leaning in to kiss me gently. I hungrily returned his embrace, curling myself closer against his lean body, allowing his arms to encircle me, gently pressing on the small of my back.

Pulling away, I rested my forehead on his, my eyes closed in bliss. "I thought you were dead." I whispered, and Loki's chest rumbled against mine as he laughed softly.

"I had to pretend I was, my love. It is the Asgardian custom to do such a thing to their beloved, to see if they will remain true." He murmured, and I recoiled away from him, escaping his arms.

"Loki? Does that mean?" I asked quietly, and he nodded silently, grinning at me. My hand flew to my mouth as Loki held out a hand towards me, a thin golden band lying in its center.

"Will you do me the honor of becoming my queen, Lily of Midgard?" He asked softly, blue eyes showing the slightest hint of nervousness.

Taking a moment to breath and steady my rapidly pounding heart, I nodded. "Yes, Loki." I managed to croak out, allowing him to slip the band onto my finger. Loki then raised my hand to his lips, kissing it gently.

"Shall we return to Asgard then, my queen?" He asked, smiling the most beautiful, stunning smile I had ever seen cross his face.

~~~~~~

Later that night, Loki and I lay curled up together in his long vacated chambers. I was snuggled up against his warm torso as he held me in a protective embrace; one that I had sorely missed.

But I couldn't relax, not with a certain memory plaguing me. Something that I had meant to tell Loki before the battle, but had never gotten the chance to.

"Loki?" I asked softly, and he hummed lazily in response, his fingertips brushing gently against my face as he traced random patterns on my skin. "Do you remember when I called you into my room just before the battle?"

"Yeah, what about it?" He answered, continuing with his tracings across my arm.

"I never told you why I called you in there. The battle interrupted us before I could do so." I whispered, and Loki suddenly stopped his tracings.

"Go on," he murmured.

I hesitated a moment before continuing. "I was going to tell you that I was pregnant." I said softly, and Loki sat up abruptly, his bare chest illuminated in the moonlight.

"You were pregnant? Where is the child?" He asked, staring hard at me with his piercing blue eyes.

I blinked rapidly up at him, biting my lip. "Loki, I lost the baby. It was right after the battle, and your..." I trailed off, "the healer's said it was because of the stress I was experiencing."

As I spoke, Loki grew somber, and settled himself back down on the mattress. He pulled me closer to him, burying his face in my hair. "I'm sorry, Lils. I didn't know, I should have been there for you." He muttered against my brown tresses.

"It wasn't your fault, Loki. You didn't know." I murmured back, relaxing in his embrace and resting my head in the crook of his neck.

"But I still should have been there." He countered, leaving me silent. One could never win against Loki when it came to games such as this.

Feigning exhaustion, I yawned. Loki noticed this, and stopped talking, resuming his gentle pattern tracing on my skin as I drifted off into the best sleep I'd had in several years.

#Loki x oc #loki laufeyson #loki #loki laufeyson x oc #marvel #the avengers #avengers oc #asgard #loki dies but is resurrected #loki clones #fluff #angst #fanfic #fanfiction

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meganshinsou-tm · 5 years ago

Text

technicolor. (f)

☙ pairing: bakugou x reader

☙ theme: soulmate au

☙ cw/tw: profanity, slight angst not really though, mention of death (side chara), rough baku, pro-hero baku

☙ a/n-request: Uhmm, how about some Prohero!Bakugou X Villain!Reader soulmate au? The one where touching brings the world into color? I live for the angst of hero loving villain, to be honest. I would really it if she has a mind reading quirk.

Villains Backstory: Your entire life up until now was normal. You grew up well taken care of and loved by your single father, happy and full of hope. That changed though when he was torn from your life so suddenly, leaving you all alone with no clue what to do anymore. Heartbreak and mourning consumed you, all your logical thinking went out the window. Soon you had blown through every penny you had giving your father the funeral he deserved, what were you to do now in order to live? You needed something of value, something that would be enough to get you through another day. That’s how you drastically became the worst wannabe villain ever, and that’s how you met your soulmate, Katsuki Bakugou.

Bakugou scanned the alleyways, crimson eyes sharp around each corner. The more time it took to find you the more pissed off he got. The pro-hero was ready to go home, have dinner and drinks alone then turn into bed. But no, some fucking maniacal woman kept evading him after she poorly attempted to rob a jewelry store. Bakugou had only caught of glimpse of you before you took off, dropping the bag of jewels and weapon in your hands but he knew who you were. Being that his world was still black and white you’d figure his task would be difficult, not knowing what color your skin, hair or eyes were, but over the years he learned to have a very good photographic memory and your face, it was burned into his brain for some reason. The fact that he didn’t know all the colors that made up you drove him mad and he raged over that! Ever since the first time he saw you, those black and white eyes and that scared face never left his mind or dreams. He hated it, he hated you.

You were a poor excuse for a villain, you had yet to make a successful name for yourself. You only committed petty crimes such as theft. Sometimes you’d get away with it and others you ran away in fear like today. You had to of just now decided to follow the villainous path, judging by your poor skills. Bakugou also had yet to learn your quirk. You were a fast little shit, maybe it was super-speed? Every time he got close enough to touch you, even after using his own quirk to propel himself, you’d push harder and escape his grasp by mere inches. He knew nothing about you and it haunted him for some reason, caused him to feel lonely but why the fuck did it!

“Ah! Where are you shitty girl!!!”

Just as Bakugou yelled, he heard a crash, making his head snap in the direction it came from.

“Alright, stop fucking with my head! I’ve got you now!”

Using his quirk, the blonde propelled himself in the direction of the crash. Sure enough there you were, on your hands and knees surround by massive boxes and plastic barrels. You seemed to have run into them and fell. Your back was facing him and you slowly stumbled to your feet. He was about to run after you again until he heard a cry. It wasn’t sad, but it held a lot of pain, resentment - loathing. Bakugou knew that kind of cry, all too well. His heart started to shatter as he slowly and quietly walked towards you.

“Shitty villain or not…I have to – I need to help her,” he thought.

“I don’t fucking need your help! Just go away! I don’t feel like hearing it today!”

You suddenly cried out and went to run off again, but you tripped on your shoes and fell over, landing on one of the barrels and crashing to the ground as it rolled out from under you.

Bakugou froze in place, his red eyes wide. “Did I say that out loud?” He questioned himself.

“God, do you ever shut up! Do you not have any friends or something? Is that why you think to yourself so much?”

You asked him through gritted teeth as you tried to sit up on your palms, hissing as you felt a massive sting down your arm.

“Goddammit,” you cried out seeing the skin of your forearm looking mangled from skidding across the concrete so much.

“Hah!” Bakugou grit his teeth and cut you a glare that could kill.

Huffing and puffing he stomped his way over to your limp and pathetic body, you weren’t going anywhere this time! Once he stood above you, you looked up at him, smirking and rolling your eyes before turning away from him. This made the hero’s blood boil and steam emit from his ears. He growled lowly and gripped you roughly by the elbow, yanking you from the ground as a profanity left your mouth. Then out of nowhere you both gasped sharply, your black and white world suddenly going full technicolor. Blasts of vivids flashed before your eyes in small blurry dots before finally clearing. Bakugou dropped you instantly, backtracking and stumbling, falling flat on his ass across from you. His eyes widened and his heart thumped in his chest hard. You were frantically looking around, taking in all the new colors and then you fucking did it.

You looked at him!

Katsuki grunted as your vivid hues glimmered in his direction. Your hair was a bright and shiny (h/c), it looked so soft. Your skin, it was flawless, well except for the gnarly road rash you had on your arm. Other than that, it was warm and your cheeks.

“Fuck, fuck – fuuuck!”

Your brows furrowed at him, “You have a bad fucking potty mouth you know that!”

Your voice spoke to him with a confidence, that fear that he had saw every time he chased you, it was gone.

“You’re one to fucking talk! I didn’t even say anything, how the hell do you know what I’m think – wait! You’ve got to be shitting me!”

“Looks like you finally caught on. I can read your mind moron!” You smirked and wiped the dirt and tears from your face.

“I’ll kill you!”

Bakugou yelled and jumped to his feet, storming over to you again.

You smiled and waited for him to grab your elbow again, which he did but not as roughly. He held you by the front of your shirt, making the tip of your toes barely leave the ground as he held you inches from his face. Your (e/c) eyes widened as you took in the depth of his own crimson eyes, a pretty deep red that faded out into orange when the sun hit them just right. Now that you could finally see the colors that made up this man, you were finding yourself drawn to them. Why wouldn’t you be though, this asshole apparently was your soulmate. He gave you such a mean and intimidating look, the same look that had you shaking in your boots every time he chased you but now, it was kind of cute.

“No you won’t Bakugou!”

Katsuki grunted and gripped your shirt tighter. You made his blood boil before, but now, his blood was literally evaporating! His grip loosened, you were in fact right. In your world, everyone came out of the womb only seeing in black and white, the second you touched your so called soulmate, the world would then explode in color, exactly the way it did just a few minutes ago. But what kind of fucked up world would pair him up with a villain, well … sort of villain?

“What are you doing?” Katsuki questioned.

You blinked, taken back by his question. “What do you mean?”

“You’re obviously not an accomplished villain, more like a fledgling. You’re fucking shitty at whatever it is you’re doing, but you keep on. Why?”

You looked away from Bakugou, “Why does it matter? You said it yourself, I’m a shitty villain.”

Those thoughts, they didn’t bother you at first, now they held so much hurt. Your soul mate was a pro-hero, a hero that had been after you. There was no way this would work. Bakugou seemed like the type of man that needed someone just as equally powerful and smart to stand beside him, which wasn’t you. So why, why was fate doing this to your already broken heart.

Katsuki growled and shook you, making you look at him with teary eyes that you didn’t even realize you had.

“Shit, she’s crying. Fuck what do I do! Wait, fuck, stop it!” Bakugou basically screamed at you in his thoughts as you stared at him, listening to it all.

He shook his head and growled, for once he stopped thinking and his body acted, closing the short distance between your mouths. You squealed at first from how rough and harsh the hero kissed you, but once he got over his anger and confusion, his mouth softened on yours and his grip on you loosened. He slowly lowered you back, flat on your feet and both his hands cupped your face as he continued you to kiss you. Your eyelids fluttered shut and you accepted your mates first display of affection. Your small hands braced on his chest as you kissed back, slowly your heart started to come alive for the first time in what felt like decades. Katsuki’s lips were warm and they felt strong and protective. You hummed with content as he tugged on your bottom lip with his teeth. The hero himself felt complete, like the void in his life was starting to slowly be filled. Nothing felt wrong, it felt right. Breaking the kiss he looked at your confused and lost face. That was it, you were indeed lost, that’s why you were so bad at being - well bad!

Clicking his tongue, Bakugou smirked down at you.

“It matters because you are a shitty villain, actually hardly even a villain at that. You’re more like an annoyance to the police force and they just want you out of their hair. So that means there’s a chance at saving you and if you’re my soulmate then you bet your ass I’m going to save you. Now, tell me what your fucking deal is so I can fix it!”

Your eyes blinked at Bakugou, his crimson ones glaring back. He was serious, 110% serious. He was also concerned and worried, you could tell from his voice and his thoughts. You chuckled at how quickly he kept forgetting your quirk. Your mourning heart was slowly starting to mend, maybe Bakugou was more than your soulmate, maybe he was your something of value, something that would be enough to get you through another day.

#bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou x reader #soulmate au #answered request #request #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader #fluff

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diveronarpg · 4 years ago

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Congratulations, LISSA! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO. Admin Minnie: Our Bellamy has come home at last, and I am so excited to welcome you as well, Lissa! Your application was, in a word, gorgeous. I could viscerally feel Bellamy’s heartache and his struggles with every line, and you mapped out a beautiful peacemaker who has yet to find peace within himself. While I read and reread your prose several times, it was your passion for Bellamy that really made this an easy decision. The level of thoughtfulness and care, Lissa, was next level, truly. It became very clear to us how deeply you loved Bellamy, and I’m so excited to see Bellamy blossom on our dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER .

ALIAS:

Lissa.

AGE:

21.

PREFERRED PRONOUNS:

She/her.

ACTIVITY LEVEL:

My time is limited because of university and my part-time internship. However, I’d say I’m able to pop up twice/thrice a week, more or less!

TIMEZONE:

GMT -3.

HOW DID YOU FIND THE RP?

I found this RP some time ago, so I can’t say for sure. Probably through the tags, though!

OTHER RP ACCOUNTS:

https://dantesinfcrno.tumblr.com/.

IN CHARACTER .

CHARACTER:

Benvolio as Bellamy Santo Domingo.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

“ WAR-BEGOTTEN. ” ╱ “ HIS KICKING A MEANS OF DEFENSE FROM CRUELTY. ”

NATURE VERSUS NURTURE, an undying question with no solutions, a concept with a spectrum that falters and crumbles in the hands of Bellamy: a boy, born amidst carnage, picking flowers in haunted fields and gifting beauty upon the world like a stolen flame only pertinent to deities. He wears no crown of laurels upon waves of untamed hair, but every spring spats thorns before his feet. Bellamy cradles them, plunges them against his veins, his chest, his neck, puncturing his flesh with words whispered by fated winds. Kindness is dangerous as a sharp blade, if wielded with enough precision. He refuses, time and time again, this visceral call from the woods, from the ivory castles that know of corpses and festering. He refuses, vices and sins unbecoming of him –– but they are already there, lurking in the shadows since air reached his lungs for the first time. Bellamy pretends not to see it, but those who stare deep into his eyes can recognize the Stygian darkness that swims underneath honeyed warmth. A flame is still scorching, no matter how domesticated.

IN AN INTERLUDE, he swears there will never be carmine stains in his fingers. He lays awake at night, however –– the blood his heart pumps might as well not be his own; might have been harvested off the bodies buried beneath Verona’s sacrilegious grounds. Bellamy wonders, a heavy conscience his first determining trait, if he is not punishment from the heavens to the Santo Domingo lineage, if he is not a life sentence determined by God to appease the remnant lambs saved from slaughter. As he moves through the Montagues, through his own people, Bellamy looks in a mirror, and sees nothing. He has always been a ghost, meant to carry what no one desires to hold close.

BELLAMY IS NOT A SLAUGHTERHOUSE of the likes of his father: he is a morgue, eerie place of eternal unrest. Battlecries do not linger in his tongue as prayers do; his knuckles suffer a lesser offense than his guts once a punch is thrown. Violence is a betrayal to the murdered saints that crawl through his spine, and once again–– Bellamy refuses to bow before his birthright. In a world of dog eats dog, he opts to remain alive until his last breath is stolen from his lungs, his canines and claws kept safely hidden underneath trained porcelain touch. To be made out of steel, and not crush all tender things that take root in his soul –– is it foolish, or is it admirable? The looks of pity are the only answer he has ever gotten.

“ POETIC AND PHILOSOPHICAL SOUL OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS. ” ╱ “ CURSED WITH GENTLENESS. ”

KINDNESS & WEAKNESS, he learns, are not the same. Mercy is a weapon like any other, and Bellamy learns how to use it. They do not see it ; and dismissal becomes a habit for this ruinous shrine Bellamy dares call his body. He supposes, amidst war, it’s a privilege to have surprise by one’s side: no one expects the quietest of children to strike with such ravenous fury, hellfire blazing against raw flesh. Bellamy doesn’t speak of grief, of this century-old wound that has found a nest inside of his lungs, of this monstrous butterfly learning how to morph itself into anger.

I YEARN FOR PEACE. I yield. I must provide diplomacy for a world eager to end in flames. He repeats such verses as if they’re the poetry he is so fond of –– because the truth is, gentle elegance is a decision he has taken much before he could stand on his own legs. He is an absurdity, an oxymoron, an anomaly. Is that such a terrible thing to be? Is he in the wrong, to still mourn over those who wished to see him dead? He prays, quietly into the dead of night. He prays, and the world listens, but only for a moment. This is all the hope he has, and is it not an exit wound worse than any other? Relentless wishing upon a star, begging for a deity to descend from paradise and provide salvation–– in the end of this path, Bellamy forces himself to become Pariah & Messiah (if not him, who else would find reason amongst blasphemous madness? who else would shamefully bow their head before the cross, and beg for their sins to be forgiven?).

THE CURSE THEY SPEAK OF IS A BLESSING IN DISGUISE, for Montagues & Capulets alike are far too consumed by the fiery flames of murderous passion to understand the gravity of each battle they initiate. Bellamy has run out of ways to explain the weight of the blood that paints cobbled streets red ; decides to act as a fortress for his people (this entire city, plagued by a tale of two selfish families). PEACEMAKER, they say, as if it’s an insult –– as if his loyalty doesn’t lie deeper than any other soldier’s ; as if he has not sworn down his life for the chance Verona might see the sun rise in shades of joyous amber ; as if he hasn’t halted his existence to serve & protect.

BELLAMY DOES NOT offer words enlaced with poison to those who subdue him –– his throat aches with screams locked in for too long, but he dares not speak unless he delivers alluring arguments that might lead all out of danger. This is what he has never chosen for himself, and yet–– he bears it. For his father, for his brothers, for Roman and Marcelo, for the warriors that spit on the paths he follows with religious diligence, for the mothers in this nightmarish town that provides no comfort to their sons but death.

THE MIND HE HAS CULTIVATED, albeit mocked by many, is a powerful companion to the tender heart he has crafted with mangled hands. Innocence is vulgar in a world like this –– but Bellamy’s good will is not one borne out of naiveté. This is what both armies do not understand: Bellamy is not moved by his kindness, nor is he propelled by volatile emotions –– what blooms underneath the tender facade is a deliberate choice he will take, time and time again, funded on principles that have raised Athens from the ground up. This is what he will not abdicate. This is what no one sees, for he is more ghost than man, more mind than matter: amidst wicked and tempestuous men, Bellamy raises himself above raging waves, an unmovable marble tower.

HE, OF COURSE, STILL PICKS UP A DAGGER ╱ a gun, infiltrating loveless troops in order to conquer peace. There is no other way, he has realized. Perhaps crumbling is necessary for rebirth ; perhaps some sins can only be washed out with blood. As Francis Butler once said, “the nation that will insist on drawing a broad line of demarcation between the fighting man and the thinking man is liable to find its fighting done by fools and its thinking done by cowards,” so Bellamy goes to the front lines ; not with the blind desire to create chaos ╱ but to make change. If the weight of the pen is not enough, he will find a way to be heard.

“ SINS OF OMISSION. ” ╱ “ PUT OUT THE FIRES. ” ╱

“ SELF-LOATHING. ”

BELLAMY DOES NOT REST, his mind unable to encounter a moment of quiet. When will this end? He could only ever sleep once he turned his back to Verona, bloodshed no longer marring his door –– but still, he woke up in a cold sweat at least once a week, and it felt like betrayal, deep down in his bones. ATLAS could never hide his true nature, for the Earth would still weigh heavily down his shoulders. He wasn’t missed, of course, too much of an oddity, with idealist visions that somehow disturbed the choleric landscape they lived in. And yet, as he traveled around the globe, as he became renowned for his grasp of law & justice, insatisfaction was in the back of his mind. What if–– they died? What if–– Marcelo disappeared one night? What if–– Roman could not handle life on his own? What if––. No amount of change was capable of drowning this out, when the city that has birthed him was still ablaze. You have become selfish. He would stare at open windows, and the desire to book a flight would bellow inside of his every vein. Embrace your fate, for cowardice is unbecoming of a Santo Domingo.

BITTER ONCE HE LEAVES, bitter once he returns. Is there anything he could do, to prevent this miserable tale of a prodigal child coming back to a nest they’d long forsaken? No matter how many books he has memorized, there are no words that can explain this feeling –– no one can comprehend him, for his scars are invisible to most. He stands, tall and proud, but darkness comes for him, and he howls to the moon, for it is the only being who understands his pain. You, too, fester in ruby shades against your will. You, too, become eclipsed by a purpose much larger you could ever hope to be. You, too, are still following the footsteps of the sun. Bellamy can no longer abstain from this war, so he wears adamantine armour (a brilliant mind, a beautiful smile, poignant words). Some days, it’s easier to pretend he is no longer holy. Some days, he drowns the taste of copper from his tongue with wine. Some days, he cries –– for those he killed ; for his own spirit, mutilated. Most days, he becomes a sacred image made out of steel: I am no angel, but I can try, I must try.

“ BELLAMY MAY BE BORN INTO WAR, MAY HAVE BEEN BRED INTO IT, BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN HE WILL HAVE TO SUBMIT TO IT — NO, HE WILL FIGHT. ”

( ADDENDUM . ) In the novel, Benvolio is a static character, lacking much depth beyond his diplomatic role, as he is often the only voice of reason amidst a vicious crowd led by a herd mentality. I aim to translate his wish for peace as his primary motivation, but root it deeper –– the system in which Bellamy was raised in should have, in theory, destroyed all tenderness his nature would have provided him with. So where does it come from? How has he protected this piece of himself, even when surrounded by death? Bellamy is a strong character –– not only because of his physique, but because his mind is a fortress. I believe his philosophical spirit has always pushed Bellamy to see life beyond the walls of his own home. I believe the love he felt specifically for Roman and Marcelo urged him to value humanity much more than any other soldier of his kind. His gentleness has always been a choice: not always a conscious one, but a choice nonetheless. But no one has only one principle to follow, and morality is a grey and temptatious thing. Bellamy might not be easily led to a fight, but he has always been a protector –– his self-loathing and the ingrained idea that his life is worth less combine to form this selfless persona, sometimes to the point of toxicity, to the detriment of his own being, willing to do it all for whomever is in need.

What is most intriguing to me, concerning Bellamy, is that he is a paradox in more ways than one, which creates a multitude of paths he could take. He strives for peace, but is still fighting a war. In his core, he believes this conflict is useless and only acts as a catalyst for more pain, but since he desires to protect his loved ones (which includes the mob he was raised in, his family and friends, but might as well include a stranger in trouble) & honor his name, he came back to Verona as soon as he was summoned. He has been altruistic for so long it has worn him out, and now selfishness claws at his bones (he has left once, and perhaps he still thinks too often about doing so again –– Bellamy dreams of forgetting this city, wakes up and tries to repent for wishing to find an identity that goes beyond his occupation inside the Montague ranks). The kindness he chooses to exude is in high contrast to the anger that boils on his blood like a second skin –– he is tired of this game, he is exhausted of worrying and burying everyone that has once made him smile (and what does it take, for a guardian angel to turn his back on his people? What does it take, for a god to abandon his creations to bloodshed, and finally allow forgetfulness to consume his brain? I feel like Bellamy is constantly on the edge of an abyss, staring into the void, the point of no return daring him to step further). It almost feels like his body and his mind are disjointed, and his own wishes have been suppressed in order for him to fill in the shoes his family needs him to.

I don’t think Bellamy is moved by passion and intense emotions, even though his biggest motivators are linked to the people he cares about –– in fact, he cares so much about them, that he has always been willing to die by the sword if it meant his father and mother would be safe, if it meant Roman and Marcelo could enjoy a longer and happier life. He is not a cowardly man, never had the chance to be, even when the world became his home –– I envision that Bellamy has seen and lived many tragedies, probably had his hands on a few of them. It will weigh down on his back, on his shoulders. This type of character will always carry an omen on their bodies, no matter how hard they try to wash it out. I think this is a cycle that shackles Bellamy down and he still isn’t sure if he can break free from it (or even if he wants to do so, for being selfish has brought him unbearable guilt during his travels & Bellamy can’t forgive himself for straying away from the path delineated for him since birth): he was raised to be lethal, and he remains in this dark setting where flowers can not bloom, trying to force the petals to come out anyway, trying to grasp the sun and gift it to Verona, and the inevitable failing of this turns him disgusted by his own reflection, desperate to prove himself and justify his existence by doing his duty for the name Montague.

WHAT IS A FUTURE PLOT IDEA YOU HAVE IN MIND FOR THE CHARACTER?

GODHOOD. Verona is a city of sinners, and Bellamy’s hands are not devoid of their own –– however, in them, there is a gentleness carved out not from the absence of violence, but despite it ; a temple raised in the name of Agape, as Bellamy becomes a god, ready to purge & forgive, to kiss the feet of those who have walked upon a dirtied path & purify them. Odin Bello is not the first to use the Santo Domingo’s ears as a confessionary, and he certainly won’t be the last –– there is something in his eyes that prompts people to open up ; to make offerings and sacrifices in exchange of honeyed prayers, for it’s the holiest thing Verona has to offer (a boy still, whose halo is faded ╱ whose body’s a litany of mysteries and nocturnal waves). This is the closest to peace they can get, half-angel at their doorstep, wings bled dry, gunpowder on his hands –– it is sublime as it is terrifying, and some can not bear it (Rafaella, for one, seems to be terrorized by his very image, insistent on driving him away as he pleads for her to see the light: where in God’s name is the child I’ve met, don’t you wish to forge a kinder ending to us all?). In his search for peace, Bellamy has long forgotten his own humanity –– he’s always had to bury it in order to fulfill his role as a son, as a warrior, as a scholar, as a peacemaker (there is no space for him to simply be, and he often wanders around Verona, searching for an exit ╱ the world has not given him an answer, neither has the mob). What is he, but a weapon? What is he, but a forsaken deity? Bellamy has crossed oceans and continents, and still–– he isn’t seen. Is there one to embrace him fully, vices & virtues, blood moon & sunshine? Is there a way for Santo Domingo to dissolve himself of his own existence, but without guilt? The thoughts often haunt him –– but alas, he has to rise in the morning, for his own life is not the heaviest weight he has to carry.

( ADDENDUM . ) Unlike the two other plots I will lay out in the next sections, this one is directed inwards. Bellamy, in my perception, has always seen himself in relation to others –– how he can help, what can he do for them, how his existence can be a tool for others to improve their own lives. He has always filled in a role: his motivations are genuine, but how does one push forward, when dedicating all of their energies to everyone but themselves? I think Bellamy had his time away from home & from the traditional boxes he had to fit himself into, but still–– it was marred by so much guilt and the constant stress of receiving dire news, because Bellamy had always been aware Verona would not change its ways, especially not with him gone. So many of his frustrations are still boiling underneath his skin –– he is out of place, he hasn’t found himself, he doesn’t feel like he can fully pursue his dreams & wants because it would mean letting someone else down. He is still the soldier that put all of his desires on hold in the name of honouring his ancestors, and while he takes pride on this, on his family–– it is oh, so unfulfilling, to aim for peace and come back to war, to raise your voice and not be heard.

I’m very invested in my character’s psyches, and I fully believe every character has many layers that deserve to be explored with utmost dedication –– no one is merely one thing, and it would be quite sad to portray any fictional being as such. I want to explore Bellamy’s vision of the family he so loves, and for which he has given up so much for, how adoration balances itself out with the bitterness he tries to drown so desperately, how he dedicates himself to his job & position even though he feels disgusted by posing as a bodyguard, when the loyalty of those he protects is bought with money and not with the respect he preaches all living creatures should be deserving of. I want to see beyond his quest for peace –– will he ever let his guard down? Will there ever be someone he trusts, beyond the feud that extends over Verona? Will Bellamy find understanding, someone he can speak to, someone that crawls underneath his skin and finds he is so much more than a peacekeeper? Most importantly, will Bellamy discover himself? Will he find his strength to power through this reality he never wished to come back to? Where will he find it? How will it transform him? Is love capable of holding him up, moving him forward? Will the hunger for more break his heart, will the ugliness of bloodshed turn him sour at last?

BROTHERS IN ARMS. Bellamy is a man of the past –– his core survives on sweet memories of a flourishing spring that will never come back. Laughter, juvenile & booming, was something he could only share with Roman and Marcelo, the two friends he feels actually belong to him, with him. Bellamy has never dared to utter his adoration aloud to either of them, has never admitted he’d rather die than see them perish. The love he has given them was perhaps lukewarm, when compared to these two feisty demons with hellfire for hearts: Bellamy’s affection was a tender kiss to the temples, soft massages to erase their aches, a moment of quiet as he wiped the sweat from their foreheads. He never promised to remain by their side, but in his chest–– he knows his place is right beside them, perhaps below them, but still close. And Bellamy has thrown that to the wind once he up and left, consumed with a selfish desire to live as a person, and not a warrior born out of a patronym. He loves them, will always love them most of all –– but maybe that is not enough. Maybe there is an abyss in between them, an ocean separating their souls. Lucky for them, Bellamy is willing to cross it with undeterred determination –– anything to safely tuck them away inside his rib cage ; his drive to protect grows stronger when near them (is there anything he wouldn’t do for these remembrances of boyhood? He is scared of discovering there isn’t, so he blinds himself once Marcelo comes by, once Roman’s cologne reaches his nose). The tally of his sins would grow & grow, and the only ones that would make such fate bearable would be his brothers.

( ADDENDUM . ) Bellamy’s friendship with Roman and Marcelo is one of the things I’m extra eager to explore! First and foremost, because I am sure, beyond Bellamy’s immediate family, these two are his most important people & there is very little he wouldn’t do for them. And, boy, would I like to discover what the limits of this friendship are! Is there a line Bellamy, the loyal Patroclus to these two Achilles, would not cross, even when concerning the people closest to his heart? Would he ever forsake them in the name of his morals? Alternatively, what absurdities would he commit on their names? What lengths would he cover, to see both of them living a long and happy life?

In the book, Benvolio is in a lower position than Mercutio and Romeo –– which is mirrored here, so it opens up a myriad of possibilities. Italian mafias are known for a strict code of conduct & sense of hierarchy, and they also work as famiglias, obviously. So I picture that, although they were raised together, there was always a thin line separating them: Bellamy always considered himself less than Roman and Marcelo, and was satisfied to occupy this lower rank & serve them in any way he could. It interests me in the sense that, even though they’re his closest friends & probably the few people that have always accepted him (because this is another one of his struggles –– both his “softer” personality and his gender identity are probably strange concepts to his traditional family in the same manner, and acceptance is not something Bellamy has ever had plentiful of), I still think Bellamy tries and holds himself back with them –– there are parts of him that are occulted, and purposefully so, from the ones he loves most. So I’m thinking, once he left, it was probably a huge shock for Roman and Marcelo –– no one saw it coming. Of course Bellamy did his best to remain in contact, but still, dissidence is dissidence. So how do they receive him back? Have Roman and Marcelo ever actually seen Bellamy with the same eyes he sees himself with? How much of an abyss has originated in between them, after these four years of distance?

BLOODHOUND. Loyalty and obedience, when combined, are quite a dangerous threat to one’s honesty and commitment to good deeds, especially when an involvement with the mob is concerned. His continuous absence has not gone unnoticed –– and many have frowned upon his return. Bellamy, a soldier? he has heard them laugh. Bellamy, a fighter? he has felt their scorn from the weight of the stares that follow him as he steps into a room. It brings him sick nostalgia ; one that leaves his stomach turned upside down. The children that used to sneer at him for taking care of stray dogs & cats are now his companions in this senseless war (and yet they all seem too eager to see Bellamy fail –– they doubt him, untrust creating a wall between them. More than isolating, it’s demeaning to a man who is willing to give out his life to honor his father’s ╱ a man who has slashed all of his hopes & dreams to fulfill a path that does not belong to him). The bellicose bickering within the ranks, however, does not disturb him –– Benvolio does not get the credit he is deserving of, for hiding so well underneath porcelain features. These soldiers have nothing on the silent storm that builds inside of Benvolio –– his heritage has always been written out in shallow graves, tainted by fate ; by the numerous gods of Death. Now, he is forced to reach for it, to hold it (it scorches his fingers, it gifts him endless agony, but he lets it have its rightful place next to his beating heart). How far into umbriferous rivers can he sink? ╱ What is the limit of this painful allegiance to his own name? Bellamy does not sleep, for all his nights are wasted away in wondering –– what will I become? And that is perhaps the only murder he is not ready to commit.

( ADDENDUM . ) Concerning this point, I’d like to explore a few paths. Firstly, how was Bellamy received back by the Montagues? He was never a figure on the receiving end of much respect, since his quest for peace turned him into a black sheep of sorts, but surely leaving amidst a war was not an act appreciated by many. Are there suspicions of him? Is he a victim of something similar to military abuse from his peers? Trust was certainly lost, and Bellamy is willing to take the steps to conquer it back –– not for himself, but in the name of his poor father, who deserves as much. The point is, how far is he willing to go for this acceptance? Better yet, in order to show the loyalty that he has always cherished for his parents & for the Montagues, is Bellamy willing to go against his principles? Of course, he is wearing their armour while vouching for peace, but this is not a plan that can be considered definitive.

He is merely a soldier, but would he go against the hierarchy he was raised to respect, if he felt the orders given were unjust? Spoiler alert: I think he certainly would, which would only make the trust he is desperate to regain even more of a distant perspective. I think Bellamy would struggle to try to maintain the scales even, to find a balance between obedience and his principles –– but that won’t work forever, and, at some point, he will have to decide what reigns (and that is one more inner turmoil for him to face). This is something that will always be at the core of his development, in my opinion, and it can fluctuate.

For example, Bellamy is a scholar. I see him as the observing type, listening before he speaks. He tries to understand people to the best of his ability. So, of course, he will interact with Capulets and, instead of seeing them as the enemy, he will more likely take a humanist approach. These are individuals, with their own families & struggles, not beasts to be slaughtered –– this is where Odin Bello comes in, for I think he’ll be a very important piece for Bellamy’s development in this sense, because the Santo Domingo willfully trusts people, no matter their background (everyone should have a second chance, should they not?). He is not ignorant or unaware of how this can end, but he is certainly a character with the most disposition to understand someone coming from a different place than he is.

If the time comes where he has to end one of them (and I’d like him to –– whether because it’s a request from Roman or Marcelo themselves, or a decision Bellamy comes to in order to defend them, because his protective nature is not just for show, and it definitely has darker roots), it would be a large blow to his constitution as a person. I don’t think Bellamy would ever forgive himself, and guilt would consume him –– it’s a great source to explore the underlying shadows he has, his self-hatred, and where would those things lead him (would he leave? Would he consider himself, at one point, far too gone & take a leap into war? Would he take his own life? Would he ever betray the Montagues to save another?).

I think this is intriguing as well, because Bellamy’s motivations are directed outwardly –– to achieve peace for the city, to save his loved ones from pain, so on and so forth. So his relationships to others will be determinants to the paths he’d take –– because it’s an instinct of his, to think of others before himself. But, then again, can he be convinced to embrace his selfishness? Can he turn his back to them all, if enough buttons are pushed? Everyone has a breaking point, and Bellamy seems to outright neglect his needs and limitations in order to step in for others –– which means a breakdown is in order, but also that it will take plenty of build-up!

ARE YOU COMFORTABLE WITH KILLING OFF YOUR CHARACTER?

Yes, for sure, if it serves a purpose!

IN DEPTH .

IN-CHARACTER INTERVIEW:

› WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE PLACE IN VERONA? ‹

CARAMEL-HUED IRISES meet the ethereal roof of the Cathedral of Verona –– it used to be his favorite place, even when the Capulets reigned over it, for it raised Bellamy closer to a God he could hear ╱ could understand better than he could a war that tinged his family with nonsensical losses and burials, hollowed out spaces carved on their roots as the sunset started resembling more a battleground than a kingdom of beauty. Bellamy recalls the singing that used to echo inside luxurious walls, filling his heart with choirs of warm voices (the boy swore he could feel an angel’s grasp touching his hands, inviting him to reach higher ╱ he never did, terrified of the consequences of holiness, but perhaps he was gifted with a martyr’s heart, and was that not much heavier?). Now, however, the Montague mark has erased memories of saints & softness alike –– there is always a dulled tud to be heard ; a silent ache overflowing from his bones. Bellamy taps his pen against the question he posed against himself: it was a heavy blow too soon since his return, but the Santo Domingo only knows kindness to wounds that do not belong to him. There is a heavy sigh as mulls over his options –– even his home is a lie, one that bears a dismantled innocence he’d rather avoid. In the corner of his notebook, Bellamy writes down, cursive letters delineated with delicacy: “ the library. ” It is no different than the church, for the countless shelves boast about the Montague heritage –– in Verona, there is nowhere to turn, for every piece of the city tells a story not in ink, but with blood (he tries to tell himself he does not hate this, that a part of him does not fester once he walks outside, breathes in the air soaked with death). When Bellamy sinks into immeasurable knowledge, however, it’s easier to forget the reality that awaits him outside the Montague’s fortress –– even as a man, as a soldier, Bellamy lingers in empty rooms, a stack of books by his side as the hours come and go (he does not distract himself with the noises outside, with the possibilities with sharp claws, as poets and philosophers and theorists feed him sublime words). What else could he ask for, but this make-shift serenity?

› WHAT DOES YOUR TYPICAL DAY LOOK LIKE? ‹

IT IS PATHETIC OF HIM, to gather the unstopping questions he received upon his return & write them down to pin answers proper enough (underneath his skin, however, the truth lurks as a viper: you can only spit out honesty to yourself, face half-eclipsed, in secret ╱ no one desires to hear you once the pleasant river that flows down your tongue stanches ; once the corpses start floating up from the depths of your soul to the shore of your lips, disfigured & dismembered, like the crude words you never let out). His handwriting seems to stare into his soul, calloused fingers trembling as his mind splits –– the facade, his candor, the middle-ground that is as unsatisfying as what Bellamy has to offer. He is twenty-four, a degree in law under his belt with a specialization on international relations –– but he is a bodyguard ╱ a soldier (it all depends on who asks) ; and his most prized possession is no longer his mind, but the strength of his brawl. Bellamy finds it strange, even, that they trust his hands to protect –– most days are accompanied by the weighty stare of his peers, as if he is not a pacifist but instead a grenade. It is almost demeaning, for a man of the law to stand by people, but only for a price (as if any life can be monetized ; as if that is not a sin by itself). His mere stance inside the Montague ranks make him a corrupted figure, unclean –– it’s worth it, he mumbles under his breath, it’s what I was made for (his heart seems to rebel with the strength of a caged bird as he steps further into this organization).

His days are spent idly, almost –– his fists are always clenched ; bile is always clinging to his throat, acidic & nauseating. There is no beauty to uncover in Verona, no enthralling tales waiting to be discovered. –––– I spend all of my days trying to be heard, even though I am well aware soldiers are not supposed to have mouths. –––– he whispers to himself, a tender smile forming on his lips (it’s an instinct, more than a reflection of joy). One day, perhaps, his fight will be worth it –– at least, that’s what he tells himself, in order to have half an hour of rest every dawn.

› WHAT HAS BEEN YOUR BIGGEST MISTAKE THUS FAR? ‹

IT’S A QUESTION THAT HAUNTS HIM SINCE CHILDHOOD, for Bellamy often wonders what he could’ve done differently –– is there any choice he could’ve taken, that would spare him of these results? No matter the frequency with which he falls into these pits, the conclusion he comes to tends to be the same: fate would have been kinder only if he had been born under a different name, far away from the plagued streets of Italy –– but since he is a Santo Domingo, the list of his mistakes extends itself much further than the date of his genesis, going back to the first man to shed their skin in the honour of a Montague and not their own. Bellamy’s nails dig through the palms of his hands –– it throbs, but it’s the subdued ache that he is used to welcoming with open arms (he does not pity himself, for his low worth is a fact ingrained on the insides of his thighs and his teeth). –––– What mistake have I not made? –––– he wonders aloud, and his voice echoes and shatters inside this chamber of forgiveness (but even God has abandoned him, no glories to be bestowed upon Bellamy’s solitary altar). His eyes are closed once he starts scribbling, uninterrupted consciousness as he lists his regrets: tearing apart my mother’s womb ; surviving the trials humanity forced upon a frail child’s body ; laughing when I shouldn’t have ; refusing to smile when I should’ve ; abandoning the city that gifted me all I have ; returning to the place that crushed my hopes ; being too tender ╱ being too harsh ; simply being –– not a fleshed warrior, not a kinder deity (just Bellamy, a fine friend, and nothing more).

› WHAT HAS BEEN THE MOST DIFFICULT TASK ASKED OF YOU? ‹

TO STOP VALUING LIFE, is what he writes down, without much thought. As a combatant, one must first learn how to fall (how to perish) before picking up a sword or lifting their fists. As a protector, Bellamy grew up listening that his life was no more than a shield to his king –– and perhaps, he never truly learned how to give this up, this desire to become more than these red threads of fate ordered him to be (more than carnage, this was his reason for leaving, was it not? To find the parts of Bellamy Santo Domingo that extended beyond mob ranks & fancy nomenclatures for murderers). His dilemma was a sword with multiple edges, and it ended nested inside his chest, puncturing his heart –– no one seemed to mean a thing for the war that raged on, no matter how beloved ; entire families could be wiped clean and left without a proper ending ; kind strangers could become his next target (and, oh, perhaps the smile Bellamy had given them was more ominous than an act of docility ; perhaps he has more claws and canines than he wants to admit).

› WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE WAR BETWEEN THE CAPULETS AND THE MONTAGUES? ‹

I WANT IT TO END, and the words are furious, burning against paper –– his pulse seems to strike with force against his jugular (Bellamy feels every beat, and in his mind, there’s always the awareness it might be his last). –––– It has gone for far too long, it is not worth it –– it has never been. –––– he is a preacher to no one but himself in this moment, solitude providing him an outlet for the emotions he so adores to bottle up, muttering under his breath as the light inside his eyes flickers (it can’t go out, but God –– how to keep a candle ablaze when the winds blow harsher with each new day? How to maintain the warmth inside his muscles when winter consumes him whole? How, how, how?). Bellamy pushes against the current, but his legs are paralysed and frozen ╱ phantom limbs, as he tries not to succumb to the ghostly nature that has followed his every step. Bellamy writes, and writes, and writes –– he has also ran away, he has also tried to become someone else. But now, he is determined to fight –– he isn’t sure of the how or when, but the gun already weighs in the palm of his hand. Time is ticking ; eyes bore into his back. I WANT IT TO END, AND I WILL END IT (and, oh, Lord, what is the cost of this one more choice?).

IN-CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE:

EXTRAS:

Pinterest board.

#accepted #accepted: benvolio

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jafndaegur · 5 years ago

Text

Sesskag Week: Day One

Enough to Catch Her Eye

Sesskag Week 2019 | Carnations: Fascination, distinction, love ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Sesshomaru stood on the precipice that loomed over the valley. From here, he had one of the best vantage points, just shy of the sky, overlooking the Inuyasha village. The battle with Naraku was coming to a draw, he could practically sense it’s close. Scents of miasma and ichor imposed on the outskirts of this territory and it pricked at the instincts of his inner youkai. He wanted to lash out against the damnable hanyou that sought to rule all. That was his job. Conquest was his purpose, and anyone that sought the same path needed to be vanquished. But patience and strategy required he wait—if anything, all he needed were bodies to distract Naraku. And his half-brother’s pack would serve just as such.

At least that’s what he told himself.

“Lord Sesshomaru?” The voice grasped at his hearing and nudged him away from his current train of thought.

His brow lifted. “Woman?”

“Kagome,” she, Inuyasha’s second wench, reminded while approaching. Toting along the contraption she called a ‘bicycle’, she stood beside him. He allowed this and cast a side-glance along her figure. Her body emanated fatigue and her eyes hooded slightly—she leaned forward on the metal object, the front of her shoulders brushing against an odd bunch of flowers resting in the basket of her vehicle.

Sesshomaru’s nose twitched and he stared at the colorful puffy blooms. He had never seen or smelled such flora before. He was not entirely pleased by the strange intrusion of fragrance, but he wasn’t entirely offended either. Just confused.

The girl caught his gaze and smiled gently. She put some distance between herself and the flowers. He watched with interest as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and the shy flutter in the avoidance of her glance.

“They were given to me while I was leaving,” Kagome told him, pulling away and walking down the beaten path that twisted down the side of the outcropping through the forest to the village.

“A rather straightforward courting gift,” Sesshomaru found himself saying. And by someone who is not Inuyasha.

“Courting gift?” She hid her mouth behind her hand, and he was fairly certain she was laughing at him.

He should behead her.

“Hojo is a nice guy and all, but any fascination is for the most part one-sided,” Kagome shook her head with amusement.

Sesshomaru huffed. “So you will deny another male’s advances for your unrequited fancies toward my half-brother?”

“Hey,” she shot him a look of red-faced anger that slowly seeped into a resigned simper.

He waited for her to speak—she always did.

“You know, I felt bad that I accepted these for as much as I didn’t have a say in their gifting.” Her pale fingertips caressed the fringes of fragile petals. “But when I came back, I thought I saw the glow of Kikyo’s soul-stealers for just one moment…even though I know that’s not the case anymore.”

Ah yes. The undead miko who had finally passed on: Inuyasha’s first wench.

“He’s still in mourning, y’know?” she whispered, before exhaling with a stern determination. “Me lingering around would be unfair to him. And I’m tired of waiting for that distinct and brilliant moment where our eyes will meet, and he’ll just see me. Nothing else.”

Sesshomaru hummed and picked the bouquet from the basket. “This Sesshomaru has never seen such flowers before.”

“They’re from the western mainlands, I’m not sure how far you would have to travel just to see them though.”

Rare flowers. He tilted his head thoughtfully. But not enough to catch her eye. Perhaps it was not something so simple as just the blooms winning her attention.

They both trailed into silence save for the metallic creaking and thumping of the bicycle along the rocky ground. Maybe it was the odd amiable quiet. Maybe it was the way their sights had just flickered to one another’s and met in the shelter of the night. But the Western Lord for once felt a peace. He was content with her, in her companionship.

The girl must have noticed the same thing, because she bumped his arm lightly with her shoulders.

“You should be careful when you hold those Lord Sesshomaru,” her eyes shimmered and reflected the starlight of the night wonderfully. “Those are very affection conveying flowers.”

Sesshomaru stopped. His gaze perused the fluffy blooms. The dark red pleased his sense of aesthetic, and the delicate waver and crinkle of the waxy petals made him appreciate the puffs. Their scents were soft, with a subtle perfume, nowhere near as stickily candied as some flowers. This was pure, and only he saw it the way it truly was.

“I was going to give it to Inuyasha,” Kagome hurriedly said, her face showing a quick flash of fear for the consequence of her quip. “I figured he could place them at the shrine he made for Kiky—”

“You should keep them,” Sesshomaru interjected, his voice rumbling slightly in his chest. He proffered the bunch to her instead of returning them to their previous spot. A small, near invisible grin traced its way upon his lips as he watched her large doe eyes widen in confusion. He did not wait for her response. He rather tenderly slipped the flowers into her arms.

“If not as a gift from that human male from earlier,” he continued, “then accept them as a gift from this one.”

“But,” her voice squeaked out in a meek and shaky tone. “I…I told you, these flowers are a symbol of affection…of love.”

“Hn.” He blinked slowly.

A dust of rose swept along the bridge of her nose and highlighted the dawn-pink of her round lips.

Breathing in the gentle tang of her hopeful scent, Sesshomaru bent down. “I know.”

#sesskag #skw2019 #skw2019d1 #sesshomaru x kagome #back on my shenanigans #goodness gracious i love this ship #carnations #sesskagweek2019

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friendlybowlofsoup · 5 years ago

Note

Hellloooo~ I was wondering how would ROs react if MC that they thought has passed away but return to them after a few days

Hiya! Sorry again for the wait, I get busy here and there so I can’t always answer RO asks as efficiently as I want to, plus if I don’t take breaks from writing now and then, I burn out super fast 人(_ _*)

For this ask, MC cannot die normally due to their condition, but I wrote these as if they weren’t tainted in order to keep it spoiler-free.

Also, I wanted to make it a little longer than usual! It’s been a while since I got practice for angst, so I wanted to see how much I could write. This won’t be the norm from now on though, I’d never get anything done if every ask took this long to write

(｡T ω T｡)

Posting under the cut for space~

Edit: alright, format for mobile should be fixed

–

Qiu dreads to see his dreams turn to nightmares. His future with you, his endless time promised by your side—your smile, your voice, the patterns of love you traced upon his skin—they twist in his sleep, warping into taunts. Into mockery. Into shade. He’s haunted by the happiness that lingers in his sleep, by the fantasies that shouldn’t have been fantasies, and wakes with his own claws on his skin, his own blood vanishing from the sheets.

And then you return. Just like that. You return like air to inflate his lungs. Like a ghost returned to reap your dues. He recoils, jerks away from your touch, amber eyes wild and red and unfocused. Feathers you’ve never seen, wings you thought he’d tucked away for good, unfurl as he whips away, but you catch him before he can fly.

Maybe it’s your chi that brings him back, the clarity of it that no illusion could fake. Or perhaps his heart just knows. Either way, he bites hard into his lip and crushes you against his chest, curling you with him until you both collapse onto the floor.

And he cries. He cries, he cries, he cries.

–

An tries to move forward, as she has always done, but nothing seems to stick, her being is stuck in suspense, like a vessel in a windless sea. It takes time. Healing takes time. Forgetting your love takes time. She wants it to quicken. She also wants it to slow. She holds your memory deep in her chest, holds onto the words she knows you said, and turns them over and over in her mind to engrave them forevermore into her soul.

So lost in herself, she never felt you approach. Your hands fall upon her cheeks, hands she still knows so well, and her gaze sweeps up. Like a ship roused to life, she jolts unsteadily, but you catch her, and she falls against you instead. Her body shakes, shrinks, and peonies bloom by your very feet as you sink her into your arms.

Her voice calls out to you, cries out, and everything seems to shift again. The world spins at her feet, the clouds spiral in the sky, because you are here, you are alive, and she can move again. Finally, she can move again.

–

Min He traps herself in her own skin. Rain, wind and deluge pour down the mountain—her gasps become thunder, her cries into lightning. She seeks a way out, a way out of the endless rebound of nightmares of you begging for salvation, a way out of the guilt, regret, shame for never being enough. The shrine is a prison, keeps her from the world, from the soaked earth that mourns your loss and desires her blood.

Then she feels you in her domain once more. Your soul, bright and lively and glowing even when drenched, calls for her and she flees that wooden cell. Wash and mud soak her hair, turning it to lead. Trees and brush snag on her sleeves, tripping her to the merciless ground. But she runs, she flies, until she sees you again.

Your skin splits when she kisses you, and bruises will blossom where her fingers dig into your neck, but it is a merciful pain. It speaks of gratitude, of promises, of a second chance she will surely, surely fulfill.

–

Kaski drowns. Your love was his sun, was his daybreak over mist, a break between the clouds he thought he loved so much. Without you, the dam spills over. Memories of past, memories of you, it all spills and mixes, bringing back the taste of singed fur, broken glass, and human blood. It becomes impossible to remember you without the sight of a black flame. Impossible to not see you lying in a pool of blood, dying a death that was not originally yours. He slogs through the dredge of emotions, gagging on tragedy he thought had long since healed.

You appear, one day, without notice. Green eyes, the color of moss, meet yours. He squints, blinded and head-splitting, reeling back even as you approach. But you catch up to him, as certain as the sun will always melt away the dew, and your hand rests gently on the inside of his arm.

He falls against you. His head slams into your shoulders and your knees buckles, but he refuses to let go. He refuses to even speak. He keeps you there, in his grasp, for hours and hours, like a drowned man sprawled under the sun, seeking to dry.

–

Xinyi doesn’t believe you to be really gone. Everything goes too smoothly, his village runs too nonchalantly, and though he cries and cries, the world never notices your absence. You were everything to him, more than a mere dream, more than some specter he had pledged his life to. You were real in his arms, solid when you kissed him, warm when you cherished him. You disappearance meant more than an unravelling of chi, more than rampant energy returning the earth, yet no one else seems to know that. He is the only one.

He’s not facing you when you find him, at last. His shoulders spike when you hold them, shiver when you breathe against his skin, and hunch when you whisper his name.

He sobs into your hands as the both of you slip to the ground. The realization of your supposed death hits him then, swirling with the relief that he had been right this whole time. But he knows now that if you were to go, it would be the same. It terrifies him, that normality, and haunts him, long after he confirms that you’re safe and returned.

–

Hiemi tells herself this was meant to be, that she should have known, that she was foolish to think otherwise. She seals away her tears, fights away the heartache, uses it all to fuel her broiling hatred for the world. You turn into a martyr for her long dead ambitions, the excuse she always needed, and though it rips her heart to know what she’s doing to your memory, her path is already so far along its journey.

That is, until you meet her along the road. She recognizes you instantly, your colors and patterns had not yet faded, and her steps stop entirely. You’re glowing with vitality, with vibrant, consistent shades—too solid to be a ghost returned to haunt her.

She wavers. Her limbs, normally nimble and quick, grow numb as anger gives way to fatigue, and you catch her, though just barely. Her arms squeeze your waist, her voice rambles until it grows hoarse, until nothing is coherent any longer, until it fades to silence and you’re both left holding each other in the middle of the road.

–

Go Ro must burn away your presence, yet it seems only your belongings remain unscathed in his shrine. Flowers wilt, papers set ablaze, but your clothes, your gifts, the places you’ve touched remain. Each day he reaches to destroy them, to turn them to ash, and each day, they survive. They sit there, glaring at him, and the more he destroys the rest of his shrine, the more mocking they seem to become, growing less as reminders of you and more into symbols of his weakness.

You return, just a mere couple days after your disappearance, to a shrine that smells of smoke. Black scorch marks are seared menacingly into the gate, and the flowers have all but dried up, save for the ones in the pavilion you had so tenderly cared for. You reach for them, for their tender petals, but you never manage to touch them.

Skin hot enough to brand. Eyes that drip scarlet gold. Lips that taste of blood, of teeth, of fire and ash and wasted camellia bloom. Go Ro hears not your need for breath, not your questions of the state of his shrine—his ears have searched for your heartbeat, loud and pounding against his, and presses and presses against you until it quickens, until it confirms that you are well, alive, and present.

–

Chun has seen a hundred deaths, enough to know how yours must have been. The imagery never fades. Did you unravel softly in the moonlight, thinking of her and those you loved? Or did you go clinging to life, holding onto flesh that vanished before your eyes, spitting at the image of the sun that is said to haunt the sight of the dying? One hundred possibilities spin endlessly in her mind, your death occurs over and over and over for her—each new one she encounters, your face shadows theirs, until she can hardly remember how you were when you were alive.

She thinks you are a cruel imitator. Some other spirit who has faked your countenance to take advantage of her, and she lashes out. She spits vitriol, blue-gray eyes turning to ice, and snaps her hands out of yours. It takes time, takes you to remind her of memories that only the two of you could have known, before she finally breaks.

And break she does. The cycle cracks, your death throes no longer gape from afar, and though it will haunt her forevermore in her dreams, at least when she wakes, she finds solace in your arms, in your grasp, in the reality that you have not left her at all.

–

Spider feels time slip between his fingers, coagulated and uneven, set askance by the void of your absence. Seconds are eternities, yet hours pass in blinks. He wastes away at the bar, at the corners of the street, at the harassment of others. His own blood, his own useless chi spill endlessly from his body, repelling all others, excluding him from crowds. He’d have given this all to you if he could. His worthless vitality, this unfriendly gift of salvation, if he had been there to save you, he’d had given it all up for you.

He’s half unconscious when you find him, hunched and beaten and bleeding. It hurts you to approach him—his chi peels away at your skin and eats the edges of your existence, but it hurts more to see him loll his head in your direction, eyes unfocused and cloudy. You nurse him back to health, even when no one will give you a room, when no one will sell you the medication, you bring him back until he wakes.

And he punches you. He hurls you both to the ground, his body heaving and hulking and straining as he pins you beneath him, reopening all the wounds you had so painstakingly tried to heal, but it is his tears that falls on you rather than blood. He sobs, clenching your collar with a weak, trembling fist, and his forehead falls against yours.

#RO Ask #Angst #idk i was kinda in the mood for this last night so here we are #ft. five hours of simping with kenshi yonezu #((if you like longer pieces for ROs feel free to hit me with asks for single characters))

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leagueofidiots · 5 years ago

Note

People keep referencing the one chapter of you're NNWM, what happened??

Shigadabi, but my subconcious was shipping Spinnerdabi on main in retrospect/ Magnetmagic briefly

Song fic for Billie Eillish's Listen Before I Go

Last two chapters, needs a little context, but all the important stuff is explained

I'll also include the chapter after because I'd feel bad if I didn't

WARNING!! I'M VERY SERIOUS!! THERE IS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT HERE!! I EVEN TRIGGERED MYSELF WHILE WRITING THIS, AND THAT IS VERY RARE!! BE SMARTER THAN ME, AND MAKE SURE YOU'RE NOT SITTING ALONE IN A DARK HOUSE AFTER SKIPPING TWO MEALS!! HUG A PILLOW!! GET SOME WATER!! BE CAREFUL!! 💜

•Take me to the rooftop•

Tomura's asleep next to me, face still turned up to the stars. We've been up here for about two hours, but he finally fell asleep.

The promised celebration was nice. We had it as soon as I was well enough to be close to normal as I could, which only took about a week. They learned how to make a few things from what Hawks gave us before the battle, which I ended up eating some of to make them happy.

They did end up having to take me to Ujiko. My burns spread, now uneven again. He says he'll bring my aesthetic back next time I go in to get my staples fixed. I agreed. There will be no next time, after all.

•I wanna see the world when I stop breathing, turning blue•

After Tomura brought me up here, we simply talked. No unnecessary emotional dumps. No tears. No drama. Just simple things.

And now he lies next to me, a bandage he tied around his pinkie allowing him to grasp my hand in his own. It's nice, I'll admit. Breathing in the cool air as I sense his every small movement.

The stars are beautiful tonight. We snuffed the flame of our lantern, though that was nice too, just to see them better. The city lights make it so there aren't many, but it's still a good night for the sky.

•Tell me love is endless, don't be so pretentious•

Careful not to wake him, I carefully pry my hand from my boyfriend's. I'll do what I need to do, but I'd rather him not be awake for this. It's my time, no matter what.

I'm ready for the end, and apparently whoever it is that decides my fate agrees. All I can hope for is that Tomura doesn't blame himself when they find me dead on the sidewalk tomorrow.

What will they do? At least I'm not their leader, but I do still have an influence on the league. Even as useless as I am now, surely they'll still react.

Standing at the edge. It's coming. The end of it all. I'll never have to think about any of it ever again. The brutal training my father put me through. My mother going insane. Burning. Ujiko's experiments. The streets practically eating me alive. Giran's guidance into crime. Killing my father only a week ago.

•Leave me like you do•

The news has been all over the case. Endeavor and Hawks found dead. Witnesses say it was Dabi that killed them. Both burnt to a crisp, Hawks with half-grown-in wings.

Dabi's body hasn't been found, not even a trace. They think he might have burned too, that the black and purple flames seen from outside the wall of blue may have consumed him entirely, taking even his ashes with him.

•If you need me, wanna see me•

And they're right. Dabi's dead. Lost in the flames. Dabi carried rage and purpose, and all he stood for was taken with my piercings and my skin.

Touya died with his innocence, along with his weakness. And now Dabi has followed with all of his anger. Everything that fuelled him, that kept him going, is gone now. So now I am nameless.

•Better hurry 'cause I'm leaving soon•

I wonder what they'll do when I'm really dead. Will the news care? Or will it just pass by like anything else?

They certainly care about the rest of the Todorokis. The thoughts of my mother and siblings make more sense to me than my own at this point.

Rei Todoroki. Wife of Enji Todoroki. Recently released from the mental asylum. Deep in grief. She's planning the funeral for a month from the day of his death. Their deaths. She's set up a shrine for her late husband next to the front door, though reports say it's more for his identity as a hero than the shrine for her son.

•Sorry can't save me now•

Fuyumi Todoroki. The daughter of Enji Todoroki. She says she can't grasp that her brother is dead. She says she feels it in her soul that he isn't. That it's freeing, her father's death.

•Sorry I don't know how•

Natsuo Todoroki. The son of Enji Todoroki. He's avoided all reporters. Hasn't left his room since getting the news. His family says that he and Touya Todoroki used to be close, and Natsuo was elated to hear he wasn't dead. All that is gone now. That his only consolation is that his family is safe from the pro hero.

•Sorry there's no way out•

Shoto Todoroki. Son of Enji Todoroki. He's been busy with school, so not a lot of reporters have been able to talk to him, but his grades are suffering. UA is considering making him take a year off to focus on his mental health.

•But down•

The family as a whole is in general agreement. It's a tragedy to them. Both deaths. And while Endeavor may have had a negative influence on them in life, and they feel safer with him gone, they still mourn his death.

And while it's a painful blow that Touya has died again as Dabi, it is also a good thing. He had turned villain after all. It's for the best.

Well, I guess they'll really get what they wanted. Touya, Dabi, and whoever I am now are about to be long gone.

•Down•

What were my last moments with each of them? I want to think of each of them before I go. I at least owe each of them a thought.

•Taste me, these salty tears on my cheeks•

Start easy. Eri and Butt. They were together on the couch, weren't they? Yeah.

Eri was tired. Once it hit around nine, she lay down on the couch, calling up the dog to curl up next to each other. There was almost a smile on her face as she drifted off, and Compress carried her in.

•That's what a year-long headache does to you•

Hawks. He had done things, after all. And it was my fault he was gone. Even if he was a traitor, he still did the best that a pro hero could do. It's not him I'm mad at. Was mad at.

His last moment was spent trying to get Endeavor to stop. For legal reasons, surely not because he cared at all. And then my father just had to burn him up, like everyone else in his way.

•I'm not okay, I feel so scattered•

Compress. Where had he been?

His date with Magne had been postponed once I ended up injured. He'd said I was more important. Like I had any importance. After he'd taken Eri to her room, he'd gone to bed, saying he wanted to rest for the date.

I wonder if they'll move it again when they find me? I hope not.

•Don't say I'm all that matters•

Kurogiri. Tomura was right, he really is good.

His last action towards me was pretty simple. Before he went to bed, he gave me a pack of beers that we'd ended up taking to the roof. Told me not to drink too much.

I probably should have respected that wish more. I'm on my fifth can. I don't regret it though.

•Leave me, déjà vu•

Spinner.

His last action hadn't been anything much. Just said good night. Still, before that he'd told me off to the side how proud he was of how much of their food I'd eaten.

•If you need me, wanna see me•

Magne. Bless her, I wish I'd said goodbye to them.

Tonight she was having problems with her stomach, so she spent her evening in her room. The last I saw of her was her smile as we did each others' eye liner.

She was very helpful during my healing process. Brought me the closest to normal out of anyone.

•You better hurry, I'm leaving soon•

Toga. What will Toga think of me when she sees? Will she hate me?

Toga spent most of her time singing karaoke with Jin. My final memory of her is the sound of her cheery voice as she spun around, nearly forcing her hairbrush down her throat as a makeshift microphone.

What was the song? I wasn't listening. I wish I had been so I could hum it to myself now.

•Sorry can't save me now•

Jin. I'm a terrible person.

After most people had gone to bed, he'd pulled me aside. Asked if I was okay. That it was okay if I wasn't. And you know what I did?

I lied.

And he'd smiled. Like I'd said something amazing. And he spent the next five minutes saying how happy he was that I was happy.

He'll definitely hate me when he finds me.

•Sorry I don't know how•

And Tomura.

Tomura.

Before he'd slept, he'd looked me straight in the eye, my hand closed gently in his, and he'd said he loved me. That he needed me.

I'm so selfish.

His red eyes shone beautifully as he'd said it, filling me with butterflies. They'd died as soon as he broke eye contact, but it was the first thing I'd felt since the attack.

I'd told him that I needed him too.

•Sorry there's no way out•

I'm glad I saw them all. That I can recall what our final words were. Their last smiles at me. That I can picture them all in my mind. It'll help me when it's time.

There's no way I'd be strong enough without it. Even now, a foot away from the ledge, I'm scared. The end.

•But down•

The end has always been a comfort. Something to look forward to. Whenever my head got dark, and I couldn't see a way out, I just reminded myself that there was an end that drew closer with every second.

•Down•

And here it is. Waiting for me a short drop and a few seconds away. Since getting up has already felt like an eternity, but the six steps from where I started aren't that far compared to the path of life I've been lost on for so long.

•Call my friends and tell them that I love them•

The league helped me find it. Find life. They showed me where I was, and they've led me to this point. I'll have to thank them when we all end up dead and I see them again. If I see them again.

•And I'll miss them•

Even before Shigaraki bribed us with those dumb gifts to stay in the bar and treat it like a home, I considered them a safe place. Safer anyway.

•But I'm not sorry•

And they kept me on the path I needed to be on. Kept me alive. For the most part, kept my additional burns to a minimum.

The streets never did that. They left me to defend those younger than me, even if only by a few years, at the cost of my life if need be.

•Call my friends and tell them that I love them•

If not for the league, if not for seeing that newscast when I did, Endeavor would still be alive and active as a hero. Life would still be a spiral with no clear end in sight.

•And I'll miss them•

I step onto the edge of the roof, looking down at the end. Like in storybooks. The villain dies, and they all lived happily ever after.

The End.

•Sorry•

I drape one leg over, closing my eyes. I'm ready for it. My ending. I lean forward.

And just as my eyes snap open and a feeling of paralyzing panic fills me with regret, it happens.

A hand, one finger bandaged, reaches out and grabs my wrist, leaving me dangling by a foot and an arm off the roof of the bar.

Shigaraki's arms feel strong. So strong compared to me. After he caught me, he didn't waste a second getting me down from the roof. I can't say I wanted to stay up there.

My whole life led up to that moment. Everything I went through was just to end it all. And then I didn't want to. Right at the last second. Is that weakness?

Shigaraki's heavy breathing of panic and sobs managed to wake somebody up, and eventually they've all filed out to the scene of the two of us sitting on the floor, Tomura holding onto me tightly, my sight fixed firmly into the distance.

"Shiggy, what's wrong?" asks Magne, rubbing her eyes.

He doesn't answer, still clutching onto me, and I can't find it in myself to answer. "Be careful of Dabi's burns," warns Kurogiri.

I can't feel them. Even if I could, I don't think I'd care. He's anchoring me, and right now I desperately need that hold on reality. Still, he loosens his death grip.

"Did something happen?" asks Spinner, his hair cascading around his face.

"Well obviously something happened. No, they look peachy!" Jin plops down in front of us. "Dabi, did you…?"

I finally snap my gaze to him, staring at his masked face. "I'm sorry, Bubaigawara, I just---"

His arms wrap around me too, pressing my face into his shoulder. "You don't have to be sorry," he says in a broken voice. I wait for his contradiction, but it doesn't come.

I hear Compress kneel behind us, pressing his hand on Shigaraki's shoulder. "He's okay, Tomura. We'll look out for him."

My boyfriend's body shakes, his available fingernails digging into my chest through the front of my shirt. "Dabi, please don't, please, you said you loved me, please don't leave me," says his quiet voice.

I feel awful. I hurt him for nothing. And Jin. And I can feel in the air that the rest of the league is slowly figuring it out too. It didn't even come to anything but hurt.

"Dabi, I swear, you need to stop being so blind," says Toga, sitting behind Twice. "You know that we love you, right?"

"I know," I whisper. "I know. I'm sorry."

Kurogiri sits to the side of me Tomura doesn't take up. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. You just wanted the easy way out of your suffering. There's nothing so terrible about wanting it to stop. I just hope you'll learn someday that we can help you end it in a way that will let you keep going after that."

I nod, reaching up one of my hands to place over Tomura's. Geez, I'm crying. Again.

"And even if it's selfish of us," says Magne, sitting herself next to Shigaraki. "You're good to have around. And not just for your quirk, either, so don't start that nonsense again."

Tomura grabs my straying hand. "Don't you ever pull that crap again."

I squeeze his hand. "I won't. I swear. Thank you for catching me." And I mean it. There's something in me now that I think I've been stuffing down.

I love these people. And while it does scare me because of all that's happened with those I've loved and trusted before, I don't think it'll end like that this time. I love them. And I want to keep going, even if for a while it's only because I have them, that's okay.

I love them enough that I want to keep living. To keep trying. Past all the pain.

"I wish you'd told us before now," says Spinner, tying his hair back to keep it out of his eyes. "Maybe we could have helped before it got to this."

"No, I knew," says Twice, face still pressed into my shirt, dampening it with his hot tears. "I knew, and all I did was give him a little slap on the wrist. You people are just blind!"

"No," I say, bringing my other hand to his back. "It's not any of your faults. If anything, you guys already helped a lot. Please don't blame yourselves for this."

Magne ruffles my hair gently. "It's nobody's fault. Sometimes things are just like that. What's important is that you're still here with us, and nobody got hurt."

"Did you want to talk about it?" asks Kurogiri.

I shake my head. "Nothing new. I just had it set in my mind as the only option. It got to be too much a while ago, and that's what I decided, so then once Endeavor was dead...I just sort of went on auto-pilot."

Toga smiles at me faintly. "Well, don't worry about it. Just a week ago I killed a guy on a whim; we all do weird stuff sometimes. That was a bad example, huh?"

Shigaraki grunts. "It kind of was. I'm in a weird mood though, so I'll allow it."

The next hour is spent in silence as Tomura cries the rest of his feelings out and we simply sit in the bar. It's not the same, but it's good. I feel lighter.

The next day brings awkwardness and hangovers, but it really doesn't matter. We're all just sort of happy to be around each other. Grateful.

Magne and Compress do end up going on that date, and they end up having a lot of fun apparently. Whatever Sako did must have been very impressive, with the amount of blushing Kenji was doing when they came back.

Tomura and I go on an official date too, a few days later. It's very nice. I really do love him.

And now, it doesn't really matter what we're doing as a group, or where or next mission will take us, because regardless of whatever it is, we're doing it together. And really, that's all I've ever wanted in a family.

#nanowrimo #writing

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