#A Crumpled Memento

[lonely-cowboy]

HEY HEY CAN I REQUEST ANYTHING FLUFFY W CONNOR X FEM READER

YOU WORK IS SO GOODDD

MY DARLINGS FORGIVE ME

requests started coming in hot right as i started my midterms so pls forgive me for taking so long to get through my requests (which i'm loving btw i'm so excited to get to all of them)

with that being said i'll stop yapping and let you read in peace

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framed

pairing: connor (rk800) x f!reader

summary: you're very confused when you find a photograph of yourself on connor's desk.

word count: 1k

warnings: none

author's note: i said i'm done yapping and i mean it i have nothing to say. (except i do wanna say this was inspired by the person that said my connor was very you are in love coded bc that made me happy and got me thinking)

masterlist ⟡ requests

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“What do androids do in their free time, anyway?”

“Plot against humanity? I dunno.”

Hank’s laugh came out in a quiet huff, one that indicated he didn’t think your answer was too far from the truth. 

You had come into the precinct hoping to interview Hank and Connor on their latest investigation surrounding a human cult determined to wipe out every single android. As head journalist for the Detroit Free Press, you were desperate to get word before everyone else. And as Connor’s friend, you were sure you could sweet-talk it out of him. 

But when you got to the precinct, Connor was, strangely, nowhere to be found. Usually, he trailed behind Hank like a lost puppy, but not even Hank knew of Connor’s whereabouts. His unusual absence only led to conversations about what the hell an android could be doing on his lonesome. Neither of you had any clue.

“Have a seat, kid,” Hank offered, nudging his chin over to Connor’s desk. “You know he’d feel bad if you were standin’ around waiting for him.” 

Rounding the table, you took a seat in Connor’s chair. You sat stiffly with your hands atop your thighs, the exact same way Connor would. The realization made you chuckle softly to yourself. Even when he wasn’t here, his presence always made itself known in the subtlest of ways.

Your eyes wandered across Connor’s desk, noticing that it was relatively barren. Hank’s desk was littered with mementos– old donut boxes, Detroit Gears merchandise, anti-android propaganda that he’d crumpled up and intended to trash. But Connor’s desk was plain and organized. A single blue pen sat exactly parallel to his recent case file that had been neatly folded. On top of his case file was a quarter like the one he always fidgeted with. You wondered idly how many quarters he had lying around, having never seen him without one. But the only belonging of actual interest was a picture frame right beside his terminal.

Your brows furrowed as your gaze latched onto the photograph. You were staring directly at a picture of yourself.

Believing it to be a trick of the light, you reached for the picture frame and brought it closer. Sure enough, it was you.  

You stared at a version of yourself who was mid-laugh. You could almost hear your own laughter ringing in your ears. It was that genuine kind of laughter, you knew. The kind that was an obnoxious cackle you always wanted to hide. Why on earth would Connor have a picture like that framed?

Come to think of it, where did Connor even get this picture? You didn’t recognize it at all. You couldn’t even place where it was taken. There were zero clues in the photograph as you were the only focus. Nothing else, just you.

You were about to ask Hank about it when a voice over your shoulder startled you, “I really like that picture.”

An inhuman yelp escaped your lips as you spun around in Connor’s chair. You found him looking down at you with a pleasant smile, not even remotely embarrassed to be caught having a photo of you.

“Why… what even… what?” you stammered.

Connor cocked his head curiously, waiting for you to get your words out. But you couldn’t. You were so utterly confused that your brain couldn’t remember a single word in existence. You just stared at Connor with a gaping mouth, holding the picture up for his viewing pleasure. 

When you didn’t say anything, Connor’s eyebrows furrowed for only a moment before easing. An endearing habit of his that made your heart flutter. He definitely was not helping you find the right words. 

“I’d like to clear your confusion as best I can, but… I’m afraid I don’t understand its cause,” Connor said gently.

From behind, you heard Hank’s quiet snort. He wasn’t helping either.

“Well… Connor,” you started slowly like you were gradually putting the puzzle pieces together. No matter how hard you tried, the pieces weren’t fitting. “Why do you have a picture of me?”

The corners of his lips raised into a small grin, his hands moving to clasp in front of him. You knew this stance to mean he was about to tell a story.

“I asked Lieutenant Anderson about the keepsakes on his desk. I was curious as to why these particular items were objects of significance and what classified them as such,” Connor explained cheerfully. “As I recall, he said ‘I don’t know, they’re just alright, I guess.’ Perhaps my interpretation was incorrect, but I took that to mean those items made him happy.”

Connor’s smile widened slightly. That meant he was finished. He didn’t clear any of your confusion.

“Okay…?” you prompted.

“I wanted to do something similar. I thought it could help me accommodate to deviancy, so I decided to surround myself with things that make me happy.”

Your mouth clamped shut as your confused look turned to one of shock. You were almost sure you hadn’t heard him right, but another laugh (hidden behind a cough) from Hank made you confident that you had.

“I… make you happy?” you clarified.

“Yes,” Connor answered curtly. There was another long pause as you waited for Connor to continue. He seemed to get the hint by now, elaborating further. “I always enjoy your company. I look forward to seeing you when we have scheduled plans. This wasn’t a scheduled visit, so I was pleased to see you were here. It made me smile. Seeing you makes me smile.”

With all his talk of smiling, you couldn’t help cracking one of your own. Seeing your smile made Connor brighten.

“Like that,” he said. “If I could photograph and frame you right now, I would.”

You were so giddy with affection that you couldn’t help but laugh. You had never known Connor to be so poetic with his words.

“You know, Connor,” you said with careless laughter. “I came here to sweet-talk you into an interview for the Press. But here you are sweet-talking me.”

Connor looked pleased with himself, standing a little straighter. “I hope that made you smile.”

“It certainly did.”

[asimpforthe80s]

Found You, Andrei

Starring: Nikto x bestfriend!Reader

Warnings: mentions of: torture, going to the gulag, and Russian speaking. Smut: Reader riding him, unprotected p in v, and stroking his cock.

"I'm going on a mission," he said softly and leaned against the railing of the bridge, the dark and cold, murky waters of the Neva reflected in his pale blue eyes. He didn't explain anything — as usual because of his never-ending top secret assignments — but his words sounded like a death sentence this time.

"I won't be able to keep in touch for quite some time. I'll text you on your old number when I get back. Don't throw it away, рыбка."

He smiled faintly at you, trying to cheer you up a little when he saw an anxiety in your eyes. He squeezed your palm, putting a small photo card into it: there was an image of the two of you, smiling carelessly under a snow-covered scarlet mountain-ash. "You'll wait for me, won't you?" It was the last time you saw him.

You nervously smoothed out the crumpled corner of a worn photo, waiting for the next landing. The image faded a long time ago, but this is the only memento that was left of your dear friend. 6 years. 6 long years of searching, sleepless nights, smoked cigarettes, and endless stress. You've lost all your friends and family, sold all your possessions, and learned how to hold a gun. You have transferred from one PMC to another and visited, perhaps, every God-forsaken corner of the world. Hell, you even ended up in the Gulag, thinking that he was there, and managed to escape, taking advantage of the turmoil due to the escape of some crazy guy named Makarov. Now, you are one of the operators of the Shadow Company. You are stripped of your previous life completely, your ID is fake, and you don't even know if your dear friend is still alive. There's only a small bit of hope smoldering inside you.

Doing an intelligence mission, you split from the rest of the group to search through the abandoned gas factory. You ran into Nikto when you were storming a building. He now wore a mask, but you immediately recognized his icy blue eyes. It was your dear friend, your Andrei ... But he looked very changed. He was... Different.. Damaged… Broken.

"Nikto.." you said, instantly hugging him without caring about the danger signs in your head. The hug was unexpected, but not unwanted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, like they remembered how to do it despite everything. But he pulled away quickly, almost roughly, as if afraid that you'd see something in his face. Or maybe just afraid of feeling something.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was cold, detached. Yet, there was a hint of something else underneath, a flicker of warmth that made you wonder if it was real or just your imagination. "Go back to the others."

His hand reached out to push you gently, but there was no force behind it. Just a silent plea for you to leave before things got worse. Before he hurt you. "Nikto, you're coming with me." You said roughly, a complete contrast to the you he knew. "I'm not letting you disappear for 6 years only to find you and leave you again." You growled, grabbing his hand. "Nyet..." Nikto started to protest, but the grip on his hand was firm. A shiver went down his spine at the sound of your voice - it was different. Rougher. Harder. Not the soft, gentle voice he was used to hearing. But there was something else too - a hint of demand, of command.

And then he felt the hand on his, firm and unyielding. And he knew. He knew that this was it. That whatever wall he had built around himself was about to come crashing down. And he was terrified. But he also couldn't bring himself to pull away. Because despite everything, he needed this. Needed you. "You can take that new fucking attitude and burn it in hell.." you whispered as you started dragging him with you, taking him to your team. The roughness in your voice, the way you dragged him along, it was all so unlike you. But there was something about it that stirred something deep within him. Something primal and raw. As if a part of him was waking up after years of slumber.

"Nyet!" He protested again, but it came out more like a growl. He let you drag him, his body moving automatically as he followed you towards the others. But his mind was screaming at him, telling him to stop. Telling him that this wasn't right. That he should stay hidden, stay safe. But the feel of your hand on his, the sound of your voice, it was too much. Too compelling. "ты пойдешь со мной, хочешь ты этого или нет, Никто." You said, speaking his native language, 'you will come with me whether you like it or not, Nikto'.

The harshness of your words, spoken in his mother tongue, hit him like a punch to the gut. It was like a key turning in a lock, unlocking doors he thought he had sealed off forever. For a moment, he stood there, frozen, staring at you with wide, unblinking eyes.

Then, slowly, he nodded. He didn't know why he was agreeing to this. Didn't know why he was following you. All he knew was that he had to. Had to be with you. Even if it meant risking everything.

"Da..." He finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "Я... я хочу с тобой." He said, 'I... I want to be with you. You nodded. "Good.. cause I'm not letting you leave again, lyubimaya." The word 'lyubimaya', which translated to 'beloved', hit him like a punch to the stomach. It was a word he hadn't heard in years. Years of pain and torment had erased any semblance of love from his life. And yet, there it was. Coming from you. And it wasn't just in your tone, but in your touch. Your grip on his hand was almost possessive, as if you were staking your claim on him.

"Lyubimaya?" He repeated the word, tasting it on his lips. It was bitter but not unpleasant. For some reason, it made him want to lean into your touch instead of pulling away. "Yes, lyubimaya.." You repeated, taking him inside your team's extraction helicopter. The interior of the helicopter was warm and cozy compared to the cold outside. There was a sense of camaraderie among the men, a bond that could only be formed through shared experiences and dangers. Seeing you among them, giving orders, made his heart swell with pride. You belonged here. You were meant to be leading these men, not stuck in some office job.

As he sat next to you, he felt a strange sense of contentment wash over him. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. Maybe never. And for some reason, it scared him. "когда мы вернемся на базу, ты поешь, а потом мы пойдем в мое общежитие. ты займешь мою постель без разговоров." You said, telling him that when you got back to base, he was gonna eat, go back to your dorm, and take your bed without discussion. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and laden with meaning. His post. His bed. You were claiming him. Marking him as yours in front of everyone. And for some reason, it thrilled him. Excited him.

"Dа..." He murmured, nodding slowly. "Я... я буду делать так, как ты сказала." He would do as you said. Without question. Without hesitation. Because in that moment, he would do anything for you. "Good, Andrei.." You mumbled, saying his real name. The use of his real name hit him like a punch to the gut. Andrei. A name he hadn't heard in years. A name that was as foreign to him now as if it were another language entirely. Yet, hearing it fall from your lips sent a shiver down his spine. A good shiver. One that made his heart race and his breath hitch.

"Andrei..." He echoed, testing the word on his tongue. It felt strange. Heavy. But also comforting. Like coming home after a long journey. "You're safe with us.." you said, still not letting go of his hand. Your words hit him like a bolt of lightning, searing through the fog of his mind and touching something deep within him. Safe. You were saying he was safe. With you. With your team.

The idea was so alien to him, so foreign, that for a moment, he couldn't comprehend it. Couldn't believe it. But then, he felt it. The tension easing from his shoulders. The tight knot in his stomach loosened. He was safe. Here. With you. "Now.. let me see you.." you murmured, reaching for his mask. Your fingers brushed against his mask, and for a moment, he tensed up. But then, he realized that you weren't going to hurt him. That you wouldn't do anything to harm him. So, he let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. He waited. Waited for the pain. Waited for the fear. But it never came. Instead, all he felt was your gentle touch. And it was... nice. Comforting. Almost soothing. As you took off his mask, you saw the many, many scars of his previous torture. Placing a soft hand on his cheek, you tried to assure him that he was safe and no one would hurt him. At least no one from your base. "Oh, Andrei.." you whispered softly in that voice he knew. Not in that rough and demanding voice he heard earlier. Your touch was soft, almost reverential as you traced the scars on his face. Each line and mark told a story of pain and suffering. But they didn't scare you. They didn't make you flinch away. They made you care. And that care...it was overwhelming. It was too much. Too intense. But at the same time, it was exactly what he needed.

"Oh, Andrei..." The way you said his name. It was like a caress. A promise. A vow. It was a name that held so much weight. So much meaning. And hearing it from your lips was... intoxicating. "любовь моя.. тебе больно.. столько шрамов.. дорогая.." you mumbled, pulling him in for a hug he so desperately needed. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The warmth of your body against his own was like a balm to his soul. It was comforting. Reassuring. It was something he craved. Needed. Desperately.

"Да..." He agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Больно... Больно много." It hurt. A lot. But as you held him, he found himself relaxing. Letting go of the fear. Of the pain. Just for a moment. "And that's okay.. A... Andrei.." you whispered with a soft stutter, taking off your own mask, discarding it on the floor along with his. Your mask hitting the floor brought him back to reality. Back to the harshness of their situation. But seeing you discard your mask too...it meant something. It meant trust. Loyalty. Friendship. Family. All things he'd been denied for so long.

"Da..." He nodded, finally opening his eyes to look at you. Really look at you. No mask. No disguise. Just you. His friend. His family. You were crying.. but.. matching. The both of you had so many scars. "Just like we used to.. we're matching.." You cried. Your tears stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. He just stood there, soaking in the sight of you. Of your tears. Of your scars. Matching. Just like old times. Only now, it wasn't just physical scars. It was emotional ones, too. Scars from the past. From the pain. From the loss.

"But why?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are we like this? Why did we have to become this?" You chuckled, drying your tears. "I wanted to find you.. I got desperate.. so I joined the same shit you did.. even went to the fucking gulag.." you cried. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Gulag. Fucking gulag. That place was hell on earth. And you went there. For him. Because you were desperate. Because you wanted to find him. Him. The monster that was Nikto.

"And you found me..." He muttered, feeling an odd mix of emotions. Pride. Relief. Fear. Guilt. All swirling around inside him like a storm. "I- I searched so many places.. и я наконец нашел тебя.." you said. Your words echoed in his mind. I finally found you. Those words were like a balm to his broken soul. A sign that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't alone anymore. That someone cared enough to look for him. To risk everything to find him.

"I'm sorry..." He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry for dragging you into this mess." You chuckled as you cried. "No, no, it's nothing.." you said. Your chuckle was like a slap in the face. It was unexpected. Unexpectedly human. Unexpectedly real. And it pissed him off. Made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the world. Angry at fate. But mostly, angry at himself for bringing you into this nightmare.

"No, it's not nothing," he growled, his voice low and gruff. "It's everything." You sighed. "Andrei.. it was worth it.. so many missions.. willingly going to the fucking gulag.. getting abducted and tortured during a mission.. fuck.. it was all for you.." you said. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Tortured. Abducted. Willingly going to the gulag. All for him. For the monster that he'd become.

"Я не достоин этого," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I am not worthy of this.' You shook your head. "No, you are.. it was worth it.. cause I found you.." Your denial was like a knife twisting in his gut. Found me. Those words echoed in his mind. Over and over again. Like a mantra. Like a prayer. They were soothing. Comforting. They made him feel less alone. Less like a monster.

But they also filled him with guilt. With shame. With regret. Regret for turning you into this. For making you go through all of this. You hugged him once more. But this time it was more for your sake. You needed him just as much as he needed you. Your hug was like a lifeline. It pulled him out of the darkness. Out of the abyss. Even if only for a moment. It felt good. Too good. Dangerous almost.

But still, he allowed himself to enjoy it. To let himself be comforted. Because sometimes, you need to be weak. To let yourself be vulnerable. Especially when you've been hurt as much as he had.

The silence hung heavy in the air. Heavy with unspoken words. Unspoken regrets. Unspoken fears. It was comfortable. Almost peaceful. Almost. His thoughts kept drifting back to those moments. Moments where he was just... human. Not a monster. Not a killer. Just a man. A man who was scared. Who was lonely. Who missed someone. Someone who was sitting next to him right now. The silence was comforting. Familiar. The two of you were sitting on your bed, still in full uniform. "Want something more comfortable?" You asked quietly. Your offer hung in the air between them, a beacon of normalcy amidst the chaos. A simple question. An invitation to shed the weight of their uniforms, symbols of duty, and responsibility. He looked down at his clothes, then back up at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Da," he murmured, standing up abruptly. He began to undress, peeling away the layers of his identity - the uniform, the medals, the badges. Each piece was thrown carelessly onto the floor until he stood before you in nothing but his underwear. You nodded and went to get something more comfortable for him. Coming back, you had an oversized t-shirt and a paid of sweatpants. Which reminded him of something.. fuck. Those were his clothes. His clothes before he joined whatever the fuck he had joined. "Here." You said, handing him the clothes before going to change to something more comfortable, yourself. Your words were like a punch in the gut. A reminder of who he used to be. Of the life he'd left behind. He took the clothes from your hands without saying anything. Slipping into them, he could almost pretend he was back there. Back home. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he watched you change, he couldn't help but notice how natural it seemed. How comfortable. Like you belonged here. Like you were supposed to be here. With him. A man and a woman changed together like it was normal. But it didn't seem weird. It felt normal. It felt like the time before the military. The sight of you changing in front of him, so casual and unaffected, brought back memories. Memories of simpler times. Times before the military. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

For a moment, he forgot about the scars. About the pain. About the guilt. He just saw you. Naked. Vulnerable. Human. And it was beautiful. It was perfect. The feeling of the soft fabric against his skin was comforting. Familiar. It was like putting on an old pair of shoes. Worn in. Broken in. Perfectly fitting. It was a part of him. Or rather, it was a part of who he used to be. Before. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he sat back down on the bed, he couldn't help but notice how different things were. How strange it felt. Yet, somehow, it also felt right. As you took off your shirt, he could see all the scars. Everywhere. Even your perfectly round tits had scars of torture. Your body was a canvas of pain. Every inch of your skin told a story. A story of torture. Of suffering. Of resilience. But he wasn't looking at the scars. He was looking at you. At the way your body moved. The way your muscles shifted under your skin. The way your nipples hardened slightly in the cool air of the room.

It was a fucking turn-on. Despite everything. Despite the scars. Despite the pain. You blushed as he stared at you. "What are you looking at?" You asked softly, not realizing that he was hard as a rock under the sweatpants. His gaze lingered on your body, drinking in every detail. The curve of your hips. The swell of your breasts. The way your skin glowed in the dim light of the room. He was hard. Rock-hard. But he didn't move. Didn't speak. He just kept staring.

You were beautiful. Perfect. Untouched. And he wanted you. Wanted you more than he'd ever wanted anyone or anything. You noticed his hardness pressing against the material of the sweatpants. "Fuck, Andrei..." You mumbled, biting your lower lip. Your curse made him shiver. Made him want to reach out and touch you. Made him want to take you. Right there. On the bed. Against the wall. Anywhere. Just to feel you. To hear you moan. To taste you. Fuck, to taste you.

But he didn't move. Couldn't move. Not yet. "I need you..." You whispered, closing the distance between both of you. You leaned in and kissed him softly at first, but then with passion. Your confession broke the dam. The floodgates opened. He pulled you closer, crushing his lips against yours. His tongue darted out, exploring the warmth of your mouth. His hands roamed over your body, tracing the contours of your muscles. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving marks.

And still, he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he finally had you. You moaned into his mouth as he explored your body with his hands. You pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, grinding your crotch against his hardness. The shift in positions only fueled his desire. Your weight on top of him, your body grinding against his, it was all too much. He groaned into your mouth, the sound muffled by your kiss. His hands found their way to your ass, squeezing the soft flesh.

He needed more. Needed to feel you. Needed to be inside you. His hands on your ass made you grind harder against his cock. You reached down and pulled down his pants, pulling out his hardness. You stroked it a few times, feeling it pulse in your hand. Your touch on his length made him gasp. Made him thrust up into your hand. He was hard. So fucking hard. Ready. Waiting. Wanting.

His hands found their way to your hips, gripping them tightly. He pulled you closer, aligning his length with your entrance. He was ready. More than ready. Your body was shaking with anticipation. You grinded against his cock, teasing yourself before slowly lowering yourself onto him. Inch by agonizing inch until you were fully seated on his lap. The sensation of you enveloping him was indescribable. He groaned, his head thrown back against the pillow. His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you to move. To ride him. To fuck him.

He was yours. All yours. You started moving on him, your body rocking against his. Each movement brought a new wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. You felt full. Satiated. Complete.

And you liked it. God, how you liked it. Each roll of your hips sent jolts of pleasure shooting straight to his dick. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. All he could do was feel. Feel you. Feel your body moving on top of him. Feel your walls clenching around him. Your movements became faster, more desperate. You were chasing that climax, that release. You wanted it so badly. Needed it. Craved it. His breathing grew ragged, and his grip on your hips tightened. He could feel his climax approaching, like a freight train bearing down on him. It was inevitable. Imminent.

And he wanted you to feel it. Wanted you to feel him. Your movements became erratic as your orgasm approached. You clenched your teeth, trying to hold back the tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume you. But it was no use. It was too powerful. Too intense. "Andrei..!" You moaned as you reached your climax. Your cry of ecstasy pushed him over the edge. His own orgasm ripped through him, making his vision blur and his breath hitch. He threw his head back, his jaw clenched tight as he rode out the waves of pleasure.

And when it was over, he was left panting. Left spent. Left sated. You collapsed onto him, your body trembling from the intensity of your orgasms. You laid there, catching your breath while your body slowly returned to normal. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His body was covered in sweat, but he didn't care. He just held you. Held you tight. And for once, he felt... complete. You lay there in silence, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. You snuggled against him, your body fitting perfectly against his. You closed your eyes, contentment washing over you. For once, he let himself relax. Let himself enjoy the moment. Enjoy you. His arms tightened around you instinctively, as if afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent filled your senses, making you want to stay here forever. You felt safe. Comforted. Loved. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing in his ears. He could feel you nuzzling into his neck, could feel your breaths against his skin. And it felt... right. Perfect, even.

For once, he allowed himself to believe that maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.

[lick-me-lennon22]

How you comfort them when they're upset

(hello!! apologies to anon, as i know this is a little late :( I hope you all enjoy regardless and please remember to take care of yourselves ✨️)

John

John tends to internalize his emotions, putting on a brave face even when he's struggling inside

he'll withdraw into himself and become rather cold and distant

he's often weighed down by his own expectations of himself, as well as his unprocessed grief and regret

you recognize his need for space, but understand the importance of gentle reassurance and are always there to lend a shoulder to cry on

John sat on the edge of your shared bed, his head hung in his hands. His mind was filled with memories of the past and words left unsaid. Tears welled up in his eyes as he wrestled with feelings of isolation and regret, mentally beating himself up over things he'd said or done- things he knew he couldn't change but nonetheless couldn't let go.

You had noticed John's uncharacteristically withdrawn behavior and already sensed something wasn't right, quietly entering the room to check on him. Drawn by the heaviness in John's demeanor, you approached and sat beside him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a wordless gesture of support.

Your presence alone was enough to comfort him, but though you didn't need to say anything, you felt compelled to nonetheless. You gently coaxed him out of his shell with soft words and comforting touches, reassuring him that it's okay to be vulnerable

"I'm here for you, John." you whispered, and that alone was enough for the dam to break as tears began to roll down his cheeks. In the silence of the room, you held him close for as long as he needed, allowing him to release his pent-up emotions in the safety of your embrace.

Paul

Paul wears his heart on his sleeve, becoming visibly and obviously emotional when upset

interpersonal conflicts and creative challenges tend to get the better of him, and he often feels misunderstood by others

he is rather sensitive to criticism and often takes negative feedback to heart, especially when it comes to his work

you offer him a warm embrace and someone to lean on, showering him with praise and reminding him of his incredible talents

Paul sat at his piano surrounded by crumpled scraps of paper, staring out the window and lost deep in thought. He felt completely and utterly stuck, overwhelmed by his cluttered mind and unable to find inspiration for his next song. Frustration bubbled him inside of him, and tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his green doe eyes.

Noticing his extended absence, you entered the room and called out for his attention. "Paulie? Are you alright in here?" Met with the sight of Paul sat at his piano, surrounded by paper scraps, eyes watery and lip quivering, you immediately realized what was happening in his mind.

You walked over and sat beside him, gently placing your hands atop his. You guided them to the keys, starting with a soft and simple tune and encouraging him to follow your lead.

As you played around with notes and tunes, the weight of Paul's perfectionism lifted and he found reprieve from his oppressive thoughts, finally beginning to relax. The freedom and joy you brought to his work renewed his creative spark and the two of you spent hours creating beautiful melodies, playing for a perfect audience of two.

George

George becomes even more quiet and contemplative when upset, retreating into his own thoughts and emotions and becoming withdrawn

he carries with him a lingering sense of existential crisis and often struggles with feeling disconnected from his purpose

you're always there to offer words of wisdom and a new perspective just as he does for you, helping him find peace and reconnect with what matters most to him

George sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, photographs and mementos from his past scattered around him. As strong as he is, he had been holding onto these feelings for too long, avoiding the painful process of reflection. Each image brought back a flood of bittersweet memories, and tears stained his cheeks as he mourned the passage of time. He began to ponder further, sending himself spiraling and becoming overwhelmed by the swirling thoughts occupying his mind.

Looking up from your place on the bed, you could instantly tell something was amiss. You slowly stood and walked over to George, taking a seat beside him on the floor and wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders. After a few moments of peaceful silence, you pointed to one of the more joyful photographs.

"Why don't you tell me the story behind this one?" you suggested, and George obliged. Throughout the evening, you and George remained huddled together on the floor as he detailed every precious memory captured in the keepsakes and photos.

When it was finally time to wind down for bed, George found himself feeling noticeably lighter, and endlessly grateful to have you in his life.

Ringo

Ringo's optimistic outlook can become bogged down by self-doubt, feeling inadequate in his talents or insecure about his place in the world

he masks his emotions with humor, cracking jokes even when he's feeling down and deflecting his sadness with laughter

despite his best efforts, you see through his facade and know just when he's in need of a little extra praise

through your unwavering support, you always help to lift his spirits and restore his confidence

Ringo sat alone in his dressing room, trembling with nerves before a big performance. He felt overwhelmed by the pressures of fame and the constant scrutiny of the public eye. The pressure of the spotlight felt suffocating and doubt crept into his mind, tears threatening to spill over as he fought to control his anxiety. He found himself feeling utterly terrified and frozen in place, longing only for a moment of peace and understanding.

Sensing his distress, you knocked softly on the door before entering with a sympathetic smile on your face. You walked over and knelt beside him, helping him lace up his boots. He watched you intently, admiring your thoughtfulness and focusing on your precise movements to distract his racing mind.

When you'd finished the job, you placed a gentle hand on his clothed thigh and gave a supportive squeeze. "You've got this, Ritchie. Knock 'em dead," you reassured, following up with a kiss on the cheek.

With your encouragement, Ringo took a deep breath and found the strength to leave the dressing room with his head held high, ready to give it his all.

[sashaisready]

This Must Be The Place: Chapter 10 - I'm just an animal looking for a home

Biker!Bucky x Femme Reader

Back at your beloved late grandmother's home to pack up her house, you have a run-in with the town's biker gang 'The Howling Commandos' and find yourself entangled with the metal armed President.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Angst, betrayal mentions of grief, mentions of abandoned animals

I'm so sorry...is all I can say....

You didn’t tell Bucky how you felt.

How could you?

You had both agreed to enter into a casual, physical relationship, no commitments – no labels or heavy stuff. And it wasn’t just that you wanted to explore if it could turn into something more…you were in love with this man! You’d tried your best to deny your feelings, to remind yourself it was casual – a mantra you repeated to yourself over and over in your head like a prayer.

But praying wasn’t working.

You continued the same dance with him. The same routine, the same dynamic. Every tender kiss he gave you, every knowing look, every sweet word. Hell, even the teasing had you hooked. You were in too deep, foolishly wading further and further in, despite the rising water threatening to swallow you whole.

Not to mention the added complication of only being here temporarily…

You knew you should break it off. Withdraw from him and protect your heart. Even quit the bar to ensure you didn’t get hurt further down the line. But every time you tried, your resolve faltered as he smiled at you, as he scooped your hair behind your ear, and suddenly you were back in his arms as he weighted you like an anchor. Every part of you screamed to leave, to preserve yourself and protect your peace, but you simply couldn’t pull away. You never were very good at resisting temptation. And you always fell hard.

You tried to channel your energy into other things. Productive things. Distracting yourself from your inner turmoil. In the background you continued to chip away at Granny’s house: donating her belongings, putting stuff on local free pages, painting walls, varnishing wood, sorting her photos and keeping them safe. You still hadn’t fixed the damn fence yet, but you’d bought the wood at least. It was shaping up well.

One afternoon you were sorting through a closet upstairs, killing time before your bar shift and doing your best to keep your mind off you-know-who. As you stacked boxes and vacuumed dust, you came across a shoebox of mementos stuffed under some winter blankets. Pressed flowers, letters from Granny’s friends, souvenirs she’d bought on vacations. You smiled to yourself, always happy to find a piece of her as you rummaged. It felt wrong to throw this stuff out, this was a life lived.

At the very bottom of the box laid a musty, discoloured envelope. You picked it up, inspecting the yellowed paper. Written across the front, in Granny’s instantly recognisable scrawl, read ‘For the animal shelter’. You nearly choked up as you opened it, finding a stack of old bills sealed inside. Crumpled and worn dollars, mainly small bills, she must’ve added a buck or two here and there every time she had change. You counted it carefully – around $175 in total, meticulously grown over what might’ve been months...maybe years.

Granny had loved all animals, but she had a deep affection for cats and dogs. Especially the senior ones, the disabled ones, the ‘difficult’ ones that nobody else wanted. You knew the shelter in town well, she volunteered there years ago and would often drag moody, teenage you along with her – not stoked to be mopping up elderly dogs’ pee or getting scratched up by some feral cat. But Granny loved them all, even if she did take more bites and scratches to her arms than you’d expect an elderly lady to manage.

$175 was hardly an earth-shattering sum of money, but it was a physical reminder of Granny’s passion for animals. Adding a dollar ever so often from her pension, the odd cleaning job she sometimes did around town – this was a labour of love. You closed the envelope back up and held it tightly to your chest as you felt the tears swim in your eyes, the least you could do was get it to the shelter for her.

You got to work – calling the shelter and explaining, the lady on the phone remembered your Granny and was delighted to hear from you. You shared anecdotes about Granny’s shelter days, laughing fondly about how fearless she was when giving the cats their baths, wearing oven mitts like armour. It felt good, like a piece of her was still with you.

You agreed you’d drop the cash off and hung up, carefully removing the wad from the envelope, and putting it in your purse. But after getting swept up in a myriad of tasks – cleaning, painting, organising, (occasional Bucky pining), the day got away from you. Before you knew it, it was dusk – and your shift was starting shortly. You threw on some jeans and a flannel shirt, grabbing your purse and heading out to your car. You’d go to the shelter tomorrow, instead.

As you sat in the driver’s seat, your phone buzzed. You picked it up and read the message from a number you didn’t recognise.

Hey…It’s Peter, from the snake pit? I asked you for your number a few weeks ago? From the plant...you probably get hit on all the time so I wanted to specify. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, I thought I lost the napkin you wrote your number on but just found it again. I’d still love to hang out if you wanna?

You smiled to yourself. You’d forgotten about Peter!

Bucky had made sure of that.

You still liked him, but now the plot had thickened with Bucky you couldn’t really meet up. If you were honest, your heart was with another man…even if you weren’t sure how it was all going to pan out. It would be wrong to lead Peter on while you were…distracted.

You didn’t have the bandwidth to compose an eloquent text that said all that kindly, so you put your phone down and made a mental note to respond later.

*

The Snake Pit was already pretty busy when you arrived, a steady thrum of activity at the bar as Tom panickily tried to keep up with the beers being ordered by a large group of rambunctious guys. One was dressed in a pink and fluffy tutu, but nothing surprised you working here. You greeted Steve as you moved behind the bar and jumped into work. He was holding a security camera again.

“Bachelor party,” he said nonchalantly as he fiddled with a screwdriver. “Been here a while”.

“I figured,” you laughed as you gestured to the man in the pink. “Looks fun”.

Steve grunted in response and carried on with his task.

“Camera gone again?”

“Mm. We got the repair guy coming tomorrow. Just seeing if I can get it working for tonight as we got a blind spot over the bar”.

“Damn thing,” you muttered as you moved to serve another customer.

Bucky suddenly appeared from the back office, shooting you a warm smile as he passed.

“Hey, Sugar,” he said softly.

“Hey Buck. Busy tonight,” you replied as you gave the customer his drink. You felt a surge of butterflies as Bucky beamed at you.

“How we like it. Let me know if you need any help back here, okay Sug? Happy to jump in and save you if needed,” he grinned as he leaned over the bar and looked at you devilishly.

You nodded bashfully as he winked and headed over to the rest of the MC in their usual corner.

As you looked back at Steve, he was watching you questioningly.

“What?” you asked, a little sharper than intended as you felt his piercing gaze.

Steve didn’t respond, he just looked over at Bucky then back at you. He knows, he definitely knows. You felt your face flush, but Steve didn’t elaborate – going back to his broken camera as if nothing had been said.

*

The night rumbled on; all business as usual. Steve couldn’t get the camera working so eventually took up his usual post in the corner booth, overseeing the kingdom.

The bachelor party kept you busy, ordering huge rounds at a time – multiple shots and mixed drinks. At one point, feeling a little overwhelmed, you glanced over at Bucky who was already looking over in your direction. You didn’t say anything, but he saw the fatigue on your face and nodded – making his way over. Wordlessly he slipped between you and Tom, easing the workload, and taking a few orders. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze under the bar, a silent thank-you for coming to help. His eyes met yours and he smiled, and for a second it was just the two of you there – the noise of the bar fading to silence as you looked at one another.

The night continued, the MC playing pool and darts and laughing as they mingled with the customers. Even Amber had turned up at some point, which surprised you, but she seemed to be having fun with her friends and didn’t try to talk to Bucky. Thor had somehow ended up wearing the pink tutu from the bachelor party, which made you laugh.

You worked alongside Bucky who would steal touches every chance he got, your waist…your hip…and you’d make conspiratorial eye contact before going back to work. It all felt right and easy, like it had always been the two of you here.

Maybe it was the energy of the room, or working shoulder to shoulder to Bucky, your sheer exhaustion, or the emotional punch of Granny’s shelter money earlier…but you found yourself hurtling towards a decision.

You were going to tell Bucky how you felt.

If he rejected you…that would hurt. But at least you’d know you tried. You wouldn’t always wonder what might have been, you wouldn’t beat yourself up years later about the question mark hovering over the one that got away. You’d be living your truth, that was the most important thing. Granny had taught you that. You owed it to her memory.

And if he reciprocated your feelings? What did that mean for you leaving?

Well…that was a little more complicated. But you’d figure it out.

“My place tonight, Sug?” Bucky whispered in your ear as you restocked the bottle fridge.

You nodded as you stood up, smiling as he cheekily patted your ass and glanced around to check he had gone unseen. You elbowed him playfully. “Down, boy”.

*

You felt yourself buzzing as the night drew to a close, practically vibrating with anticipation. You didn’t know exactly what you were going to say, you were just going to be honest and tell him everything. You felt a mix of nausea and excitement as you cleaned up.

“Gotta go…I got an early morning,” Tom said urgently as he rushed past you.

“Okay. See ya!” you shot back cheerily as he hastily waved and catapulted out of the door.

You wiped down the bar as Bucky cashed out the register. A few members of the MC sat on bar stools, sipping after-hours beers and shooting the shit. Amber and the girls were there too, giggling with Thor and admiring the tutu he was somehow still wearing all these hours later.

“All good?” Steve asked Bucky.

You looked up, surprised to see Bucky’s brow furrowed as he peered between the cash bags and a handful of receipts.

“The register is down some…” he muttered as he looked back at the receipts. “Nearly a couple hundred bucks…”

Steve mirrored his friend’s frown. “Weird…” he commented as he moved to look himself, picking up the receipts. “Normally we can be out $20-30 if someone hit the wrong button once or twice…but that’s a lot…”

“Yeah. Must be a mistake…” Bucky grumbled and turned to you. “Sug, were you aware of any register fuck-ups tonight?” his voice was calm, not accusatory. “Any chance Tom put through a glass of wine as a bottle or something?”

You furrowed your brow, shaking your head. “Normally Tom tells me if he makes a mistake…and he’s been much better, lately. It was busy tonight so its possible mistakes were made, but I can’t think of anything that would cause such a large discrepancy…”

Bucky shrugged as Steve began to re-count the bills. “I’m sure there’s an explanation…maybe I’m just terrible at math,” he winked at you roguishly.

You smiled fondly at him as you contained to wipe up and Bucky disappeared into the back.

“Oohh who’s got sticky fingers??” joked Sam from his bar stool as he elbowed Scott. “Someone helping themselves to a lil’ bonus?”

The group laughed and mock accused each other. You began to giggle as Sam dramatically mimed a burglar stance and pretended to lean over the register to pilfer cash. One of the girls pretended to be a cop, chasing him around the bar with a box of napkins.

Everyone’s laughter and merriment was halted when Bucky suddenly re-emerged, shouting your name so loudly that each head snapped to look in his direction. The entire room was now silent as he stood facing you.

You felt your blood run cold. The tone he had used was never one you’d heard from him before. It was…icy and soulless. Even when he’d been mad at you he’d never called to you liked that. You blinked in confusion as he glared at you, his face an angry snarl. There were no traces of the softness and affection you’d seen in those same eyes just minutes before. This was the President of the Howling Commandos MC addressing you, not Bucky.

“Buck…” you started but he cut you off, lobbing your purse onto the bar in front of you.

You stared at it in confusion as he suddenly dipped his hand inside, throwing its contents out as you could only stare, your bewilderment fusing you to the spot and rendering you speechless. Your keys, your wallet, your water bottle all bouncing off the bar as the group began to protest.

“Bucky man what the fu-”

“Dude! Not cool! What?”

And then silence as he held up what he’d been looking for.

A wad of cash.

The room went silent again bar a few gasps and mumbled whispers. Your heart fell into your stomach as you realised what he thought it was.

“Bucky…that’s not-” you futilely tried to explain.

“What? It’s not what?” he barked as he slammed the cash onto the bar. His eyes were ablaze with rage. “Not the cash you stole from the register? Just a pile of bills that made its way into your bag?”

“No! No! It’s my Granny’s! I found it at her house!” you shot back desperately, your voice high from the horror of the accusation. “She wanted to donate it…I found it in an envelope in her closet. I was going to drop it off today but I lost track of time and-”

“Save it,” he warned through gritted teeth. “Don’t lie to my face. Don’t try and use your dead grandmother to cover up your lie”.

You blanched, your face crumpling as you took a step back in horror. How…how could he think this of you? How could he say that?

“I’m not lying,” you said softly.

“Can we check the security footage?” Sam asked calmly. “If she says she didn’t do it…the footage will show that-”

“That camera’s out,” Steve interjected monotonously. “Blind spot”.

“And she knew that…” Bucky snarled.

“I didn’t do it,” you squeaked out, the humiliation swelling as tears fell down your face. You could feel the collective gaze of the Howling Commandos on you but were too mortified to look at them.

“If she says she didn’t do it…” Nat reasoned, but Bucky cut her off as he glared at you.

“I can’t believe you’d do this. After everything. I give you a job here. I get you all set up. I trusted you…I…I…” he looked pained, running his hand through his hair.

You thought he was going to say something about the two of you, but you watched him swallow and look around, then he suddenly seemed to remember the others were there. You tried to explain yourself, babbling with objection but he continued to talk over you.

“I…And you lied to my face about it? And even now I’m holding the money and you still deny it? And you know the worst thing? If you needed cash…I would’ve helped you out. If you had just asked rather than stuck your hand in the register…Shit. Is this the first time? Or just the first time you got caught? Have you been doing it since day one?”

“Buck…” Steve said, his tone difficult to establish.

Your insides swirled as your eyes focused on the discarded purse in front of you. You simply couldn’t believe he would do this to you. In front of everyone. Did he really think you were a thief? That you were capable of such a thing? That you’d lay in his bed and kiss him awake each morning, hold him tightly and whisper sweet nothings to him, then steal a few dollars from his business? Did he really think you’d risk your job and your relationship with him for less than two hundred bucks? Did he think you’d do that to the person you loved?

Well. Yes. Clearly, he did.

Your heartbreak became something hotter as your tears felt warm on your face. You thought about the betrayal of him digging through your bag in the back office, despite being sweet as pie to you beforehand. How he didn’t believe you, didn’t even want to hear you out. It was clear he had never trusted you. Even after everything. It suddenly hit you that he could never return your feelings, not if this is how he treated you.

Your hands twisted into fists at your sides, and you finally looked up at him, your face flushed, your hairline sweaty.

“I didn’t do it,” you told him flatly. He scoffed and tried to interrupt but you kept going, your voice starting to even out as your anger focused and grounded you.

“I told you. That money is for the animal shelter. Don’t believe me? Call them. I spoke to them about it today. I told them I was dropping off $175 in cash from Granny”.

You picked up the bills and pushed them into his chest. “Look at them. Look at how old they are, how they’re obviously stale and untouched. They’re not fresh out of a register from some guy’s wallet, they’re old and they’ve clearly been in stored somewhere a bundle for a while”.

You snatched them away and forced them into Steve’s hands. “See?”

He looked down at them, his brows furrowed with concern as one of his fingers ran over the crease of the pile. His eyes flickered to Bucky then back to you. “They do look kinda old…”

Bucky didn’t speak, but you saw a suggestion of panic in his eyes.

“I don’t steal. And I don’t need this job,” you barked, throwing the cleaning rag onto the ground. “I don’t work for people who don’t trust me. Maybe ask your buddy Tom about this, the guy who still can’t get through a shift without at least one fuck up, who also knew about the camera, and and zoomed outta here like he’d just been paroled”.

“Tom wouldn’t…” began Bucky but you cut him off again, your tone dripping with venom.

“Stick this job up your ass. Stick your head up your ass. And keep the damn cash. I’ll fund the donation myself”.

You threw the cash at Bucky who flinched. His eyes suddenly wouldn’t meet yours. You then picked up the tossed items from your purse and quickly shoved them all back in, your hands shaking. You wiped your eyes on the the back of your hand and looked up at the MC, who all stared back at you solemnly. Their expressions ranged from confusion to pity.

You nodded at them, then made your way to the door on wobbly legs.

“Wait…” called out a voice.

You turned, coming face to face with Amber who watched you with interest. Your heart sank. You couldn’t take anything else. Alright. She won. Take him. Just leave you be.

“I believe you,” she said gently, then offered a small, sad smile.

You smiled back as you choked on your surprise, chewing on the sides of your mouth as you tried to stop the tears. Who would’ve thought she’d be your one ally?

“Thank you, Amber”, you managed quietly.

Bucky had his back to you, seemingly unable to face you. Coward, you thought.

And then you were gone.

[sorrowsofsilence]

memento mori • n.s

pairing: noah sebastian x gn!reader

words: 1.6k

warnings: ANGST, grief, loss, death, mourning (this is kinda heavy, please do not feel like you need to read im getting out feelings)

summary: "if you're watching this, im dead."

note: i think i was feeling some kinda way because i don't really know where this came from lol, but here's a quick little blurb if you enjoy angst <3

THIS IS A FANFICTION USING A REAL PERSON IN A FICTIONAL SCENARIO! I AM NOT IMPLYING THEY WOULD ACT THIS WAY OR DO THE THINGS IN MY FANFICTION- IT IS FOR FUN, AND IT IS SIMPLY FICTION! <3

I sat in front of my computer screen, shell-shocked as the haunting words of his last video echoed in my ears.

"If you're watching this, I'm dead."

My heart clenched at his words, chest tightening as my breath caught in my throat. My room around me felt cold, too large and too empty, even with the myriad of knick-knacks and photos that adorned every available surface.

With trembling hand I reached out a to replay the video, but hesitated before I could do it. His face was frozen on the screen, eyes full of sorrow and resignation. A face I had fallen in love with; a stranger’s face that had brought so much unanticipated joy into my life.

His voice echoed through the silence again, the words heavy with grief and regret.

For what? For whom?

Refreshing the page, I watched his face light up the screen- his brown eyes warm and laughing, a stark contrast to the somber look from the end of the video. I watched as he talked about his day, his love for music, his appreciation of movies and games. It was all so normal, so Noah. It was easy to forget, just for a moment, what the end of the video would bring.

Then came the shift, where his bright demeanour began to fall away, replaced by a solemnity that felt unnatural on his usually vibrant face.

"I have some news," he began, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his words. Even though I’d already heard him say it, part of me still hoped the next words out of his mouth would be different.

"But before I tell you," he said with a long pause, staring directly into the camera as if he knew I was watching, “I want you to remember the fun we had. I want you to remember the laughter, the joy...how I always kicked ass at super smash," His voice wavered with a stiff laugh, vulnerable and raw.

"I want you to remember me as I was, not as I will be."

My vision blurred with tears as his gaze bore into mine through the screen. Pulling my knees to my chest in an attempt at comfort while sitting at my desk, I choked back the tears that threatened to spill.

His words, even though for thousands, felt painfully intimate; like we were alone in an empty world, sharing a private moment of heart-wrenched farewell.

The long-haired brunette continued, "If you're watching this, I'm dead."

The harsh reality of his words hit me again like a physical blow, the tears falling as saliva grew in my mouth, lips quickening.

I watched his face crumple with sorrow before he collected himself, taking a deep breath. An inked hand came up to rub his face, as though he was struggling with words.

"There's no easy way to say it," he said, voice trembling with held-back tears, "I've been sick for a while... I didn't want anyone to worry. So, I kept it to myself."

Taking my sleeve, I rubbed my eyes as he continued.

"But now..." His voice wavered, "Now, I'm gone."

I watched in helpless agony as he tried to smile through his tears, a raw attempt to offer comfort, that he may have needed more.

The image of Noah, smiling despite everything, was a painful reminder of just how much I had lost; what the people in his life had lost.

“And I’m sorry.”

And here he was, apologizing to us for dying.

His brave facade crumbled then, and he broke down, weeping openly on screen. Noah’s sobs echoed through the quiet room, filling the spaces between my cries. I wanted to reach out to comfort him, but he was no longer there…only his digital ghost remained, memorialized within the code.

"I don't want you to mourn me," he said, his voice merely a whisper. "I want you to celebrate me for the life I've lived, and not the life I've lost."

His words knotted in my chest, a cruel irony in the face of the anguish that strung me. How was I to celebrate him? When every fibre of my being felt shredded by grief?

"You’ve been my friends," he continued softly, “and in a weird way, my family. You’ve joined streams with me through my best and worst times. I read every comment, every message; you didn’t know it but you gave me strength and laughter when I needed it most.”

Tears welled anew in my eyes. The impact of his sincere words left my heart racing, and limbs warming in misery.

"I need you to promise me something," he choked out after a moment, his gaze unwavering from the camera.

I sniffed, wiping my eyes again, his plea holding an intensity that made it impossible for me to look away

"Promise me you won't let my story end with my death," he said, sharing a small smile.

His voice tremored, yet it was filled with a surprising steeliness. "Promise me that you'll remember the joy, the laughter... the love."

His eyes held a fervour that pierced my heart; a vow exchanged under the silent witness of testimonial sorrow.

"I want you to take whatever you’ve found in my videos. Every smile, every piece of advice- every Mortal Kombat combo,” He paused, swallowing harshly with a dismissed laugh. "I want you... I want you to live."

The weight of his words hung in the air like a solemn promise. Live. He wanted me to live, us - fully and completely

"Love generously," he whispered, "Don’t take being here for granted.”

Noah smiled, nodding towards me, “You are worthy, and you are cherished. You make an impact on this earth, whether you believe so or not. You have a purpose.”

I continued to sob as his words flowed out of the speakers, dancing through the room in a mournful ballad.

His brown eyes bore into mine from the screen as he tucked a strand of brunette hair behind his ears.

"But most of all," he added, his voice barely more than a whisper now, "I want you to know that even though I'm not physically here anymore, I'll always be with you."

His words wrapped around my body in a comforting hug, and I squeezed my knees closer to my chest. As I rested my chin upon them, letting the tears stain my jeans I shared a bitter smile with the man I appreciated more than life itself.

The finality of Noah’s message was there – stark and painful – yet beneath it was an underlying message of hope and resilience.

"Thank you," he smiled after a pause, wiping away his cheeks with the sleeve of his black hoodie, "Thank you for being a part of my journey."

The screen blanked as the video ended, leaving me alone in the silence.

A sense of loss washed over me, raw and broken, desolate and despondent.

I sat there for a while longer, holding my body as his words echoed in my mind.

'Love generously. You are worthy. You have a purpose.’

The sentiment clung to the edges of my consciousness, like a mantra slowly seeping into my being.

My steps felt heavy and slow when I found the strength to leave my room, each one an effort to move forward.

Grief was insidious like that, invading every thought and action with its hollow grasp, embellishing its roots deep beneath the skin of heartache.

Yet, was I allowed to mourn someone who was ultimately in the end, a stranger?

But when I crawled back up the stairs, into the safety of my room, I crawled into bed and let myself open his channel once again.

Unwanted tears welled up again as I glanced at the screen, scrolling through the various streams and uploads. For so long, it had been my window to Noah - his thoughts, his creations, his heart-warming smiles.

Now, it was merely a screen- the end of the illusion that I had been a part of his life, even though we were strangers separated by thousands of miles.

The digital veil was a beautiful thing; allowing us to feel a brief sense of connection- until it’s pulled away.

And although we were strangers, he reached out to us in his most vulnerable moment.

He had shared his pain, his fear, and ultimately his hope for those of us left behind.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I hovered my thumb over another video title - 'Noah's Adventures: Ocean with the Boys’.

When I hit play, there he was. Alive. Vibrant.

His infectious smile tugged at my heartstrings as he pointed excitedly at the stunning sunset around him, knocking into his best friends. The brunette’s laughter filled my room, dispelling the stifling silence that had taken hold of my heart.

With every passing second of the video, I cried, my chest aching as my throat tightened with grief and pain- yet nostalgia and laughter as I smiled with him.

"Ya boy Noah here," he said with that familiar twinkle in his eyes, "Me and the gang thought a picnic would be a good idea,”

He then held up a container of sacramental bread, his bizarre favourite snack.

“I got jesus bones, Nick’s got the vodka.”

The chorus of laughter that erupted as Noah smiled cheekily into the camera left my heart aching at the sight of his friends- his family.

I mourned for them, too.

This was the Noah he wanted us to remember: full of life.

As the video drew to an end, the screen filled the brilliant hues of orange and purple splashed across the sky, as if painted by an ardent artist.

Noah looked at the camera with a serene smile.

"Life is a masterpiece," he said, out of breath as he stood upon the hill, capturing the water behind him, "Each day is a new brush stroke adding to its beauty.”

The video ended with a shot of the sky, Noah's laughter dancing into the twilight.

His last phrase lingered into the silence:

"Remember to appreciate it."

memento mori.

tags:

@thefallennightmare @xxkittenkissesxx @deathblacksmoke @nyxisnotok @anameunmusical

@sitkowski @sammyjoeee @cookiesupplier @th4t-em0-k1d @dsireland86

@whenthesummerdies @spicywhenspeaking @veronicaphoenix @lma1986 @calleyx13

@somewhere-diamond @auratheopossumwitch @blackveilomens @skulliecadaver-blog @silentglassbreak

@darkmxgician @sprokat @thatchickwiththecamera @reyadawn @xserenax-13

@philomenie @into-the-grey @amelia-acero @blend-in-with-the-madness @rumoured-whispers

@anything-more-than-human @blacksoul-27 @sweetwombatpizza

[synthetickitsune]

The8 (Seventeen) | Bookmark fluff | 0.8k | gn!reader

“You kept this?” 

His voice is as soft as the sound of rain filling the room. Fresh scent flows in through the open window. The gray light makes him look younger, somehow. Not much, just enough, just by a couple of years - the age he was when he’s given you the wildflower he's so carefully holding. 

He twirls the dried flower between his fingers. The faded blue petals are as fragile as your trust has been back then. They could be crumpled any moment but unlike back then, you know that Minghao would never do such a thing. 

His eyes are filled with wonder. Like this he looks ethereal - a being not of this world, colliding with it and discovering its beauty for the first time. He holds the relic of your past with so much care, so much love, it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully.

“Of course,” you smile, sitting down next to him. He was meant to bring you the book he holds open in his other hand but he must have gotten distracted by the familiar soft blue peaking out. “It's the first one you got me.”

It would be impossible to preserve all the flowers he's given you through the years but the first one held too much significance. The memory of his smile - one that was genuine and so carefree under the summer sky - as he oh so gently put the flower behind your ear was too precious not to keep a memento of. 

He finally looks at you, only taking his eyes of the dried flower in his hand with great difficulty. He looks as awestruck as he did when he first picked it up. You chuckle, shuffling closer to him. When you reach to cover his hand with yours, he eyes you warily. Like you would try to damage the token turned bookmark.

“Why?” he asks, voice barely heard over the falling rain.

“Just because,” you shrug, then: “It felt surreal, like something out of a book and I think it was the first time I saw you smile for real, so…” 

You trail off. He frowns, his lips form a hint of a pout. You know what he wants to say before he actually does. 

“It was the first time,” you smirk, “Before that you were always too polite and tense.” 

“I was nervous,” he admits, his pout melting into a soft smile, “I never thought you’d keep it.” 

“It's a nice memory and I'm a nostalgic person,” you smile and lean into him, “I hope you don't mind.” 

“I was just surprised,” he hums. A beat later, as if he wants to get back at you, he continues: “I wouldn't think you of all people would manage without crushing it.”

“Hey!” you protest, slipping away from him, fully intending to sulk. He's quick but cautious as he wraps his arms around you, mindful of the blossom now in your hand. It's much harder to be upset with your back against his chest and his silky voice speaking right into your ear. 

“I'm just joking,” he says with a long squeeze. His arms engulf you so entirely and nicely. If you focus, you can feel his heart beating in his chest. “It's nice that you care.”

“Wouldn't think you would find it anything but cute,” you tease some back but settle in his arms and close your eyes. You take in his warmth and the slight chill creeping in from the open window. This is why you wanted to read in the first place. Today's ambience was just perfect but now you’re too comfortable being hugged by him to move. 

“I like to feel loved and appreciated,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “And this makes me feel that way.” 

He takes the flower from your hand again and places it gently between the pages where it belongs. He closes the book, to your surprise, and puts it back on the night table.

“Come here,” he says, moving to sit higher on the bed, his back against the headboard. You do, and he surprises you again when he opens his arms for you to snuggle into. And then he just holds you. It's not unheard of, but it’s certainly rare. You think you understand, though. So you give into his hug, melt against him as he holds you and his lips meet the top of your head.

Later, after he’s had his fill, he hands you the book again and carefully places the dried flower to the side. He holds you as you read, reading something himself on his phone. You try to keep your heart from fluttering too hard. Minghao doesn't like to read on his phone but this evening he can't be bothered to let you go if only for a minute.

[vaporwavebeach-writes]

Kinktober Day 18 (Body Modification)

Victor Zsasz x Reader (NSFW)

(1,152 Words)

Summary: Zsasz makes his mark

Warnings/Tags: 18+, female reader (I got self indulgent sorry LMAO), knifeplay, bloodplay, scarification, penetrative sex, love confessions (yeah, I got REALLY self indulgent), aftercare, fluff (SLAYYY)

Notes: God, I love him. I got SO self indulgent with this one bc I’ve been having a shitty week. All my mutuals should’ve seen this one coming LMAO anyway, enjoy the fic!!!

-

Victor Zsasz loves to make his mark. Most infamously known, are the vast array of tally marks that are carved into his skin. Every mark, a symbol of every life he’s ever taken; every light that’s been snuffed out. In his mind, the marks serve as mementos; being made in the moment as a reminder for a lifetime. It’s an act of permanence. It’s an act of devotion.

So to him, it only makes sense to mark you just as he marks himself.

Apprehension and anticipation linger all around you. You sit there, completely still. Your upper half is completely exposed to him, save for your bra, leaving every inch of your blank, unmarked flesh in his view. Your shirt is discarded, laying in a crumpled pile on the floor. The soft sound of Victor’s footsteps fill you ears, pacing slowly behind you. Suspense and excitement fill your stomach. A deep inhale makes its way into your chest when you feel the cold metal of his switchblade touch your skin.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” his voice is honest, firm, yet comforting. “This is gonna hurt…” you can feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, smoothing down your arm. “…A lot.”

“I appreciate you doing this Victor,” you turn to look at him. “But honestly, I’m a little scared.”

He stands over you. The blade, lightly trails along your chest, just below your collarbone, where you assume the mark will be made, your nerves spike, but you choose to swallow them down, knowing this is how Victor expresses love, in his own, sick way- not that you minded. He kneels, making his way down to your level. His hand guides you chin down to gaze into his dark eyes, filled with reassurance.

“I can promise you,” you feel his thumb gently rub over your cheek, “The pain won’t last long.”

His gaze is intense. Taking a deep breath in, you nod. “I trust you.”

He lets out a grin, tucking your hair behind you ear. He plants a soft kiss to your cheek where he was caressing over it. “Attagirl.”

Your heart flutters at his assurance. For someone so keen on sadism, getting off on the pain of others, Victor was being surprisingly comforting with you.

You can feel his body looming over you, feeling his head look over you to find the exact spot where he would mark you. He makes contact with your eyes, giving each other nodded approval to do it.

The metal is cold and exceedingly sharp. You can hardly feel it when he cuts you. The sensation almost feels pleasant as the blade glides through your flesh. You feel yourself bite back a shriek when he digs the knife deeper into your skin, making sure the cut will leave a lasting scar. Your breath hitches in your chest as he continues dragging the knife into you. Fresh crimson spills out from the cuts being left in the blade’s wake.

“God,” Victor lets out a soft growl, “I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now.”

He’s in awe of the blood trickling down your chest. It coats your chest, running down, nearly dripping down to your bra. You let out an abrupt whimper, unable to hold in the increasing pain.

“Fuck!” you cry out. Your bra strap slips past your shoulder. You feel Victor’s body directly behind you, almost in an hug. His hand smoothes your shoulder firmly, comforting.

“It’s okay,” He hushes you. “I know, I know.”

Those next few seconds, the pain is excruciating. You get up, turning around and steadying yourself on him, wanting nothing more to be enveloped in his embrace. Your eyes meet his, gazing at each other for just a second before crashing your lips together.

You feel yourself being carried over to the bed, feeling Victor’s hungry grasp taking off your already disarrayed bra. You suck in a harsh breath, feeling his tongue lick up the blood that dripped down your tits.

“You did so well,” Victor praises as he devours your bloodied flesh, slowly trailing downward, “I’m proud of you, taking that like a champ.”

“Oh god, V-Victor,” you whimper. You feel your pants being slipped off from under you. Your cunt aches, dripping with arousal as Victor thumbs your clit through your underwear. “I fucking need you.”

Victor gazes at you, carnally. His eyelids are hooded, lust swirling within his eyes. He pulls out a condom from his pocket, tearing the wrapper quickly with his teeth. He urgently slides the rubber onto his cock and eases himself inside you.

You can feel Victor’s body on top of yours, being careful to avoid the cut-up area of your chest. He positions himself, leaning on his shoulders to look at you. He rocks into you slowly, feeling your soaked cunt clench around his cock. As he picks up the pace, he presses his lips to yours feeling yourself moan into his mouth. His tongue feels heavenly and you feel yourself melting into him, letting out a hushed breath when he bites your lip, pulling away.

“You like that?” He asks breathlessly

“Y-yes,” you grunt out tenderly. “You feel fucking amazing.”

Victor chuckled, rolling his hips. You feel your cunt flutter around him as he continues to fuck you. You grip onto him tightly, nails sure to leave some marks on his back. He lets out an amorous groan, enjoying the way you hurt him.

“I love what you do to me,” Victor moans. His pace is rapid, hitting the deepest parts of you, making it hard to keep yourself quiet. You can feel your orgasm swiftly approaching, and judging by his pace- utterly frantic, so could Victor. “Your my girl, and I fucking love you.”

You’re taken aback by his abrupt confession, but honestly? You feel the same. Your hand drops down to your clit, rubbing it quickly, desperate for release. You cry out after he hits a particularly sensitive spot, once again slamming your mouth to his as you ride out your orgasm. He thrusts himself deep into you, a guttural groan escaping his lips as his orgasm isn’t far behind yours.

When all is said and done, you’re completely fucked out, disheveled, and exhausted. The air grows thick, heavy around you as he crashes onto your uncut side.

“Thank you,” you breathe out. “You are so good to me.”

Victor smiles, pressing a loving kiss to your lips. He runs a hand through your hair, before holding out a hand, pulling you up. He turns around, grabbing some towels and antibiotics for the cut “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Hey Victor,” he looks over at you, head cocked curiously. “I love you too.”

You couldn’t wait for the cut to heal. The healed scar in the shape of a heart would soon be a testament to the love you have for one another.

[trishacollins]

Memento Mori

It was possible, Marinette reflected, to live with only half of her soul.

Brutal, sure, devastating. But possible.

She could live. She could get up. She could still get up without his hand to help her to her feet.

She was staggering, stumbling steps that led her forward.

(To a world without him, a world where there was no Chat Noir waiting for her, no laughing cat to lift her spirits. Alone echoed in her soul.)

She didn't know what Gabriel Agreste hoped to gain from the memorial. But she both hated him for it and appreciated it.

There was no grave for her kitty, no body to mourn, no place but the spot where he died to be close to him.

Adrien looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and hands shaking slightly.

She landed next to him, and his eyes flickered in her direction before his body turned to her. "Ladybug."

She inclined her head slightly, not willing to risk her voice with speaking. She was going to cry today; nothing would stop it. The grief that had been festering inside her would have a public outlet.

She didn't want to be here. She couldn't stay away, couldn't refuse to honor her partner. She had wanted to be able to experience the statue privately, but grand gestures demanded an audience. The press was all around her.

"The charm." He said slowly, as though he was struggling with the words.

The wristband. Black and green braided ribbon, a bell, a pawprint. "Marinette." She cleared the lump in her throat. "Marinette made them for her class. She-" her voice died, eyes burning.

"I'm sorry." Adrien looked miserable. "Ladybug- I." He twisted the ring on his finger back and forth.

The skin was red around it. It was clearly not the first time.

She felt the hollowness of the smile she offered him and saw the emptiness in the answering smile.

"Ladybug." Mr. Agreste stepped closer, and she watched him, wary. "We are sympathetic towards your loss; all of Paris mourns with you. I hope that this memorial-" He reached for her hand, and she pulled it away.

She didn't want to be touched. Not right now. Not today.

Mr. Agreste dropped the hand, exhaling and glancing at his son.

Adrien refused to look at him, eyes fixed on her feet.

"I hope this memorial eases your pain." Mr. Agreste said.

She jerked her head in a small nod. She was still bleeding; the wound was sluggish. But still it bled.

She hated him for making her do this. She shouldn't hate him. He was the reason the memorial was here.

But she hated him.

She turned away from both of them, shoulders hunched inwards. Félix was leaning against the stage, a bit away from them, his eyes like Adrien's- and yet nothing like them. Félix's gaze was accessing everything and everyone around him, and they only belatedly landed on her.

Her fists twisted at her sides, the sharpness of her breath searing through her lungs.

She wondered how many hits it would take to destroy his smugness. Her anger was more accessible than her grief, feet carrying her to stand above him.

"You shouldn't be here." She hissed. "This never would have happened without you. This is *your* fault."

Félix studied her, lips pursing slightly. "This was not my play."

"You still caused it." She spat. "You as good as killed him yourself."

There was a shift of weight behind her, a foot scuff, an indrawn breath. 

And her stupid heart stuttered, her mind playing the cruelest trick. Ladybug and Chat Noir knew each other- a sixth sense. 

She was sure he was a step behind her for just a moment, backing her up.

But it was Adrien. Adrien looked so concerned when her face crumpled, her knees shook, and the sob tore through her. She clapped a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound but knew Adrien and Félix heard the pained noise.

Something passed between them too quickly for her to follow.

"I can't." She whispered when Adrien started to reach for her. Her yoyo caught above them, and she lifted from the stage and out of sight. 

~*~

Félix had not been consulted about Adrien's outro as Chat Noir - if he had, he probably would have objected strenuously to it.

It was an impulsive decision on the part of Gabriel. Impulsive and wrong, honestly. Now, they had made an enemy of Ladybug.

They could have used Chat Noir to get the earrings.

They could have used Chat Noir to find out who she was. As often as the pair had switched Miraculous, it would have been easy to have Adrien walk away with both of them, make the wish, and put everything back to rights.

But Gabriel had done this - to punish Adrien, maybe. To establish his claim on his son once and for all. Felix didn't know what the man had been thinking, and Gabriel hadn't been able to give him an answer.

Not that Gabriel had even told him what was happening; Felix had just gotten the delightful experience of waking up to a flood of suicidal ideation swamping his mind and a grieving Adrien screaming in the middle of it all.

A part of Adrien hadn't stopped screaming since, even though he outwardly seemed fine. He still wasn't sure if Adrien would bother to wake up one day, willing himself to stop breathing.

Like an animal gnawing off its leg to get out of a trap.

Gabriel's choice had ripped through Adrien like a wrecking ball. Adrien's grief roiled through his mind; he was sure he could hear it even without the Peacock currently under his jacket.

Watching him interact with Ladybug - feeling him interacting, the pulse radiating from them - he wanted to curse.

He had thought Adrien had been bad before.

Adrien was never going to be able to forgive this, and Gabriel was a fool if he thought it would ever be possible for Adrien to let this go.

Ladybug saw him, and he tensed as the hero stalked to him.

Her blame was expected - perhaps even deserved - Adrien's guilt was also expected.

The way he dropped into her shadow was as if he belonged there, and her stance shifted to accept him there until she realized she had done it. It was unexpected.

Adrien's defeat as she swept away from them, the way his body hitched forward, the half step, the slight crouch- as though he had been about to follow her.

He was not transformed; he wouldn't even be wearing the ring if Plagg hadn't threatened to Cataclysm it if Gabriel tried to remove it from Adrien. Whatever instincts the Miraculous gave him should be at their lowest.

Gabriel had put them in a situation. One he doubted his uncle had a clue about the depth of.

His eyes found his uncle across the stage, but Gabriel only had eyes for the line of Adrien's shoulders. 

"Adrien."

Adrien's head dropped, shoulders slumping as he curled into himself. "Not now, Felix."

The most alive he had been in the past few months, and now the poisoned grief was back.

Damn.

*~*

His father was standing close behind him, almost invasive. But Adrien had eyes only for Ladybug's form curled up on the rooftop.

It had been the closest he had been to her since...since.

Tears burned at his eyes, and he blinked them away, refusing to look at his father as he turned around.

He didn't want the stupid statue. Whatever his father thought the statue would do, all that it had done was make him angry.

It was a statue to a lie. He wasn't dead.

Dead would be finished, done.

This wasn't alive; he was still breathing, but his life had ended.

"Adrien." His father touched his shoulder.

He pulled away, walking to the edge of the stage.

"It's not even a good statue," Felix muttered.

He snorted because it was better than sobbing. "I hate you."

"Less than anyone else right now." Felix was right, but. Telling him that.

He didn't want....he didn't.

"I don't want to be here." He whispered.

"Ten more minutes?" Felix offered.

His eyes found Ladybug, locking onto her, his entire existence centered on her. She had been so close. The closest he had been in months.

He was hurting her. He was still hurting her, even though he was gone. 

The presentation continued without them, and he never took his eyes away from Ladybug.

His Lady.

'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

'She can't hear you.' Felix's voice was quiet in his head.

The ceremony was solemn; nobody applauded when the cover was removed from the statue.

Adrien didn't look at it. He just kept his eyes on Ladybug and watched her watch. His heart reached for her. 

Because his hands no longer could.

For @wackus-bonkus-maximus who is kindly allowing me to play in her sandbox while I work out my brain block for my own.

[omnicom]

Pokeshipping Week 2023

Day 4: Ash's Hat

Y'know, following my idea for the previous day's theme, it seems like Ash is giving Misty all kinds of stuff! 😆 But hey, at least it ain't junk!

No yeah, whenever the mention of Ash's old hat comes up, I always think about how he should gift it to Misty as a parallel memento to the handkerchief she gave him back at the end of MasterQuest (OS) and also since she tried to win that hat as well through the mail-in sweepstakes (EP025). Consider it my personal headcanon~ (〜￣▽￣)〜

Art © Crumpled-Hakui

Like what you see? Want art like this of your own? Check out my art commission post here and send me an email or private message! Thanks for stopping by!

[howdyrat]

Percy's box - baby teeth

Percy has formed a collection over the years, filling up a box full of items that remind him of all the tiny moments that came from different stages of life. Doing it for Molly soon turned into mementos for himself. It started with Molly, being a busy women with many children to take care of, trying to collect things from each child in different grades was difficult. She would become forgetful and throw it out thinking it was clutter, or didn't have the energy to put it away and it got damaged. Being tossed by an unaware sibling or tired Arthur, the possibilities went on. Percy felt like it was his job to protect the items, he found some joy in collecting things for himself, his brothers, and sister. A couple of baby teeth kept in small containers with chicken scratch labeled names. Most were knocked out from the rough housing (Twins) mixed with clumsiness(Bill, Charlie, & Ron), but in Ginny's case a string and doorknob. Drawings of a stick figure family on yellow tinted pages that showed them all holding hands (Ron). Funny notes made by the Twins inviting Percy to their blanket fort, and small notes left from their dad in the morning written to their mum. Baby clothing folded and hidden away so the treads wouldn't unravel with overuse or be given away. He kept the items in a shrunken box underneath his bed sometimes he locks his door and reminisces about his childhood. There are things from his older brothers that are nestled deep in-between clothing and papers. The paper achievements from Hogwarts and crumpled pictures taken on Arthur's muggle camera dug out from the back of stuffy closets. Percy's favorite item is the hand sewn mouse he made as the Weasley family's pet because they couldn't afford one.

[chemdisaster]

cat dad au fic! in which kitten comforts scar. few things you need to know for context - "the isaacs" is a silly name scar gave to the heroes who would bully him, kitten uses a bunch of neos, of which i'm using xit/xitself in this fic, and for a few years when scar first found kitten he was under a lot of stress with work and they both had a bad time. that is all

"I like this one." 

Scar hums as Kitten hands him another picture. In this one, the two of them are dressed up as Hotguy, both laughing as a tiny Kitten points a fake arrow at his chest. Touching his finger to the cascading reds and oranges, he inhales the smell of memories and watches the echoes flash by. 

"I have captured you, Hotguy! Give up if you know what's good for you!" 

"No! Never! You won't catch the tail end of my whiskers, Catguy!"

"Not if I use my special bow! You're dead, Hotguy! I will capture you and I'll—"

As joy rings out in the silent air of reminiscence, a smile warmed with time spreads on his face.

"Yeah. I like this one, too."

Carefully setting the photograph aside, Scar moves on to the next one. With Ari out this afternoon, he and Kitten spontaneously decided to clear out some old boxes—and the nostalgia is hitting like nothing else. 

Surrounded by various papers and bundles and scraps, they sit side by side on the floor of his room and exchange quiet comments as they pass around mementos of years past. The atmosphere is peaceful, hushed, and looking from the tiny kitten on the photographs to the grown up cat next to him, Scar can't help but marvel at how long it's been. 

He never thought he'd get here. 

Stifling a laugh into his palm over the picture of small Kitten with a rubber fish and a beard of foam, Scar adds it to the growing collection. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he looks over at Kitten—

And his heart skips a beat. 

Centred in Kitten's padded hands is an assortment of crumpled papers, familiar as anything Scar wouldn't like to recall. Delicately smoothed out and held together with years old tape, the grid pattern has faded away, but he doesn't need to see the scribbles to immediately recognise them and everything that came with.

 

Art of Kitten that xit was never meant to see jumping at him from the frayed scraps, Scar asks, "Are those...?"

"Hm?" Kitten makes a noise that's more cat than anything. "Oh, these? Yeah, you—you drew them for me, didn't you? I remember I kept finding them in your bag."

"Yeah, I remember you kept going through my things like a nosy feline," Scar jokingly gripes. His grin thins at the edges, "I—I do remember these, yeah."

Drawing on patrols, sketch after sketch to block out the mocking, the insults—getting the drawings ripped from him and torn into tiny pieces right in front of his eyes. Sinking to his knees and cradling the pieces in his hands, tears littering the floor.

He kept them as a reminder of his failures. He never thought they would ever become anything more.

"Why were they torn?" Kitten asks after a while of Scar silently staring at his lap. "Did you not like them?"

Scar doesn't reply. Kitten knows about the mistreatment his old team would put him through, but somehow it still feels shameful, even after all these years, to acknowledge that it happened. That he let it happen, and let it go on for as long as it did because he was too weak to stand up for himself. 

Too bad to realise how that weakness was impacting the people around him.

"Scar."

"I did like them," he says suddenly, vehemence splitting from his tongue. "I liked them so much. It's just, I would always draw on missions and I'd get distracted and, well," Scar shrugs, smiling like it's all right past the bitter lump in his throat, "the Isaacs didn't like that."

"Oh."

He doesn't know why it means so much to him. They're only drawings. Stupid doodles of Kitten to chase away the self-loathing that never really left. They're not even good. And yet here he is, decades past and still getting emotional over things that don't matter. It doesn't matter.

He doesn't matter.

"I thought you were the one who tore them," Kitten blurts out. "I thought you didn't like them, and that's why you tore them. I," he breaks off, his tail curls around his legs. 

"Back when I was a kid, I thought it was because you didn't like me."

Guilt grips Scar's chest. All those years ago, when Kitten would curl up in front of a closed door—the drawings were an attempt at something good. To show him how much he appreciated him when words wouldn't come. And he ruined that, and now he's ruined what was meant to be a simple cozy afternoon.

He ruins everything, he's always known. Somehow it still hurts.

 

.

.

.

.

.

Kitten is worried about Scar.

Has been for a while now, and the torn drawings are only the start of it.

The few years during which little bits of tape would stick to his claws were hard on them both, and even years later xit can't stop the cold dark grey of abandonment from creeping up when xit thinks of that awful time. Staying up late waiting for Scar to come home, only to fall asleep and wake the next day to an empty flat—it was soul-sucking.

But he healed. He's not there anymore. Lately, he's not so sure about Scar.

A good few minutes pass before xit decides to speak up.

"It was really hard for you back then, wasn't it?"

Focus sinking into nowhere, Scar jerks as he breaks out of his daze. 

"Huh, what?" 

"Those first few years. When it was just you and me. Taking care of a child while working the way you did at the time can't have been easy," Kitten probes. He doesn't expect anything but the deflection he's come to know, and he wishes Scar would be honest with him. 

He wishes Scar would be honest with himself. 

"Well, I mean—there were some rough patches, yeah," his friend stammers out. "But—"

"You would cry yourself to sleep."

Scar's head shoots up, the dark bags under his eyes never seemed more prominent.

"I heard. Every time."

He looks down, "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologise," Kitten says quickly. "Just...we keep talking about what it was like for me, yeah? But we never talk about what it was like for you."    

Abruptly, Scar gets up and walks over to the bed, sitting down, rocking back and forth as he pulls his sleeves over his fingers. 

"It's—it doesn't matter. I'm okay now."

Kitten follows, clambering up next to him and peering past the curtain of brown hair at the face hidden beneath. 

"I'm not sure you are."

Scar's expression crumples for a split second.

"Don't worry about me, Kitten," he says. "I'll—it's not your job to look after me."

Kitten scoots closer, xits tail lays itself over his back. Scar doesn't speak and xit doesn't either; words are difficult and xit's content to sit here staring at the old wallpaper, making out dirty kitchens and wine-stained floors in the peeling vinyl. Stillness can hold all the sentences within its grasp, he's learned—he'll never ask for more than what the quiet can give him.

Outside, damning clouds begin to gather as a shuddering inhale stumbles its way out of Scar's lungs.

"Sometimes it felt like it was all for nothing."

The confession breaks the silence, but does not break the gentle swishing motions of Kitten's tail against his spine. 

"It was just—so difficult," he continues, letters spilling out of his mouth like an avalanche of wretched revelations. "Nothing was working. I spread myself thin every day and I still just constantly felt like I was doing it for nothing. And I'm—I'm sorry."

Scar's hands thrust upwards, he trips over another inhale. 

"I tried so hard to do what was best for you and I just ended up hurting you—every time. And I just," he bends his head, swipes at his eyes, "maybe I'm not meant to be good. Maybe it would be better if I just...wasn't."

His features twist, eyebrows inching higher on his forehead; he looks devastated, wrought with grief for what could have been, what he should have been and everything he never was. Decades of regret play in the creases of his skin as he tugs on his hair, blinking rapidly in the way he always does—the way that always fails. 

Kitten was never one for words, but in this moment he thinks that maybe what he struggles to give is what Scar needs. He needs to exist, and touch not meant to hurt can only do so much.

Stillness can hold all the sentences within its grasp, but phantom promises won't stitch up an age-old wound.

"Scar, you did—so much for me," xit says, and Scar's back jumps in a tremor. "For so many people. I wouldn't be here if you weren't."

Eyes squeezed shut, the other emits a low noise, "I hurt you." 

"You talked to me and gave me drawings and found me a therapist. You did more to help than anyone else ever could."

Scar shakes his head, shakes it like Kitten's words are incomprehensible, impossible to believe, and maybe they are. Leaning forward, trembling hands lifting to press to his chin, he curls in on himself, shoulders hunching like a plea—a plea for Kitten to stop saying things that he can't, won't let himself believe are real.

Kitten does not relent. 

"Look, I know you have this fear in you that you'll hurt anyone you rely on but that's not true. You deserve support, that's what we're here for."

"No, I—these are my own struggles, and I—I can deal with it—" 

Scar's voice bounces up like marbles off the wooden floor; the tears he's desperately wiping off his cheeks render his assurances anything but genuine. Clouds descending in the streams of his despair, he's never looked more damaged.

"You took care of me for so long," Kitten says softly, reaching out for a man who won't let himself accept that love never had to be earned. "Let yourself be taken care of, too."

As his friend continues to shake his head in denial, he thinks of a rainy evening, a door left ajar, a room filled with muffled sobs—and he thinks of two friends, both hurt by the world, both having found healing within each other. 

"I like your ears. Remember?"

Scar slumps, defeated. Loud, uncontrollable weeping tears through him like a wildfire and Kitten pulls him close, rubbing a clawed hand over his back, muttering, "Relax. You don't have to be strong all the time."

Raking his claws over quivering vertebrae, listening to choked cries get suppressed against his rumbling chest, he leans back against the blankets and pulls Scar with him, carding thin fingers through long brown strands as his friend settles, trembling, atop his body. Scar's hands are freezing cold, the wire under his feet looms ever farther down below— 

And Kitten knows in this moment that all that he needs is for someone to make sense of him. And xit knows that, finally, xit understands.

And when Scar drapes himself over xit in an instinctual, unguarded yearning to be near, xit drops xits head into the crook of his neck and doesn't look up and begs that this moment would never end. Kitten's heart may not shine, but he would give all the gold in his possession to mend the cracks of Scar's tainted soul.

And as he drifts to a doze with his friend in his arms, he thinks back to the torn drawings—taped together, hidden away as something to be treasured. And xit thinks, maybe broken doesn't have to be forever. 

Under Kitten's hold, for the first time in years, Scar starts to believe that maybe everything he did wasn't for nothing.

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XI): The Last Conversations of One Melissa Scully

Melissa Scully is not long for this meta series; but what she does contribute is a rather intriguing peek into Scully's psyche-- exposing how drawn her sister was to radical or "out there" ideas long before Scully admitted it to herself-- as well as the funny confirmation that both her sister and her mother find Melissa's antics aggravating.

SEASON 2'S ABDUCTION FALLOUT

The effects of Scully’s abduction silently punctuate her resolutions throughout Season 2, spurring her to appear stronger than her capabilities (Firewalker’s “Mulder, I appreciate your concern. But I’m ready. I want to work” and Irresistible’s “I’m not having trouble, Mulder. I’m fine. Really”), an extension of her denial in Beyond the Sea but with more mature fragility. (Both are, of course, symptoms of growing up in a Naval household with an eagerness to please a father that respected perfection in himself.)

Although Scully references her experience on the brink of death once in Dod Kalm--“Mulder, when they found me, after the doctors and even my family had given up, I experienced something I never told you about. Even now it’s hard to find the words. But there’s one thing I’m certain of: as certain as I am of this life, we have nothing to fear when it’s over"-- the theme of her loss plays heavily upon the rest of the Season, be it Mulder's overprotective streak or her resolution to appear stronger than her capabilities (i.e. Firewalker, Irresistible, Our Town, etc.)

This response stems back to her childhood: wanting to please her Naval father, she internalized and emulated his efforts to achieve perfection in himself. In The Blessing Way, Scully is told that her self-perceived failures would be considered strengths by the late captain; but it takes years for her to embrace that truth for herself.

Digging a little deeper, we find that, although she relates tidbits of her time in the beyond, Scully leaves out her communion with Melissa, Nurse Owens, and especially her father-- still not able, at this point, to accept those parts of her experience.

MULDER'S DEATH AND SCULLY'S SHAME

Anasazi and The Blessing Way are a whirlwind for Scully, leaving her vulnerable, bashed, and beaten down when all her efforts are seemingly in vain.

After being put on leave from the FBI and “losing” the tape her partner died for, Scully stumbles to her mother’s house, ashamed and wavering in her convictions. 

When her mother opens the door, Scully is lightly tapping at her right thigh with her shoes, an attempt to focus on that repetition rather than her stampeding emotions, and attempts to keep a semblance of control through her tearful confession (without much success.)

Maggie welcomes her with a gentle “Dana…”; and Scully forces a practiced smile as she breathes an answering, "Hi, Mom."

Taking in her daughter’s fragile stance and barefoot condition, Maggie asks, “What’re you doing with your shoes?”

It's a tell-tale sign that all is not well: despite the various difficulties in the field or at home, Scully has never voluntarily taken off her shoes unless in extremities; and her mother, knowing these prim and proper habits, immediately intuits something serious has happened.

“They, uh, they started to give me blisters…” Scully warbles, lifting and dropping her shoes as more of her facade cracks, reality cruelly setting in.  

Her mother’s incredulous, “You walked here this time of night?” breaks the last of her escape from reality: there is nowhere else to escape, no other distraction on hand to keep her emotions at bay; and Scully can no longer pretend that everything is alright as long as she puts one foot in front of the other (a method she’d tried and failed to use in Beyond the Sea-- and will again in Memento Mori, Elegy, Gethsemane, and Redux.) 

Her composure melts completely, face crumpling as she moves into Maggie’s arms to simultaneously seek comfort and hide from her own vulnerability. It’s a signature of Scully's the audience and Mulder were introduced to in Season 1's Pilot and Season 2's Irresistible; and is now confirmed to have been her coping mechanism stemming from childhood.

Matron Scully scoops her up unhesitatingly, worriedly questioning her baby girl until Scully admits, heartbroken, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Dad would be so ashamed of me", and breaks down into an onslaught of constrained tears and grief.

MELISSA FUMBLES THE BALL

The Blessing Way has a notorious deleted scene; and this analysis would not be complete, I believe, without including it. Not only does it align perfectly with canon, but it also reinforces the interpersonal dynamics present in One Breath; and is, therefore, vital to the Scully Family meta series.

After Scully has poured her heart out, Maggie does her best to glue her daughter back together. “I don’t see how you can fault yourself. You had to make a choice-- you did what you thought was right.” 

“No,” Scully negates, voice wavering, eyes turned aside, “I did what I thought was right for my partner.” 

Their interaction is incredibly telling not only of Scully’s Starbuck complex but also of her modus operandi when acting outside of known variables: trusting another person’s judgment over her own. This kneejerk reaction can be used healthily if she follows her own intuition as well (e.g. Anasazi and All Things); but if Scully distrusts or doubts her intuition, she kneejerks to an opposite reaction, shutting down and seeking purchase wherever she can (The Blessing Way, Never Again, and also All Things.) This aspect of her personality isn’t resolved until Season 7 when Scully saves Daniel Waterston’s life by relying solely on her instincts; but until then, Mulder and her family act as the solid foundation upon which she builds herself... until, until.  

"Wouldn't Mulder have done the same for you?"

That sentence is two-fold interesting: not only does Maggie call Mulder "Mulder" here instead of "Fox"-- likely due to a scripting error or perhaps in deference to her daughter's pet peeve-- but she also places complete faith in the man that shouldered her daughter's disappearance and recovery alongside the family. It's a simple, touching nod to Mulder's impact and the bond she shares with him.

“Yes, but that’s exactly it, Mom! I behaved exactly how Mulder would have behaved-- I lied and I countermanded my superiors because I thought that the pursuit of the truth was more important.”  

Maggie listens, unruffled. “And wasn’t it?” she asks, showing her naturally rebellious streak that is not deterred or dissuaded by protocol, rules, and regulations-- completely opposite to the obedient military wife one could easily attribute to her. 

“I don’t know what the truth is,” Scully admits. “But as far as the FBI is concerned, the truth is that if all of their agents behaved this way… they wouldn’t be able to do their job. And they’re right.”  

Maggie knows what her daughter won't, can't say out loud; and cuts through the doublespeak to give the assurance she could not in Beyond the Sea: “Dana, if you’re really worried what your father would think of you… I think that he would see that there’s no right choice… and no wrong one.”  

From Scully's view, the disobedience to her superiors outweighs the pursuit of the truth, at least to her father. But in light of Maggie's revelation and rejection of that notion, it leaves the audience-- and her daughter-- wondering how well Scully knew, or thought she knew, the late captain. As strict and striving and ladder climbing as he seems to be, at a glance, Captain Scully was also a man who stood by his principles and married a woman prouder of her husband's personal achievements than his professional ones, willingly carrying on his legacy to their children after his death.

Though comforting in its nuance, this thought is at odds with what Scully supposed of her father, failing to alleviate her doubts long after this conversation ends. Not until she irons out her own internal struggles can Scully accept the wisdom her mother provides.

Reaching out to draw in Scully's chin, Maggie adds, “He would have been very proud and supportive of his daughter.” 

Another interesting sidenote: Maggie’s action and Scully’s response is another proof of Mulder's instincts to draw her attention back by gently maneuvering her chin or face. Without being told, Mr. VCU Golden Boy divined a second method of comfort stemming back to his partner's childhood (as if those two’s connection wasn't spooky enough.) 

Scully still clings to her naysayings. “Mom, there was a right choice to make. And I didn’t make it. I went with Mulder to New Mexico--” 

They’re both interrupted by the door opening abruptly, her eyes blinking in vexation as she prepares for a domestic intrusion.  

Melissa barges in, halts, and treads carefully forward as Scully seamlessly picks up the thread she’d dropped a moment ago: “I never should have let him go off by himself. He was in no condition…” 

This sets up the dynamic present not only in The Blessing Way but also throughout the show: Scully is reluctant to offer up information unprompted to her mother, but does not seem to share the same reticence with her sister (no matter how meddlesome or pushy Melissa tends to be.) 

Melissa pulls a psychic prediction out of her hat-- “Something happened to the man you work with, hasn’t it?”-- and smiles, elated, over the talent of her sixth sense.

Maggie, as usual, tries to cut off her older daughter’s intuitions… which means that even a woman who believes in her own loosely psychic dreams barely tolerates Melissa’s enthusiastic tirades (post here.) 

“Melissa, please.” 

“No,” her daughter continues, “no, I’ve been feeling it for the last couple days. He’s become ill or something.” 

Scully, predictably, looks annoyed at her wound being so blindly poked at. 

Melissa predictions raises an interesting point: if Melissa can sense when Mulder is gravely ill or on the verge of death, does she channel it through her sister, like Maggie did when predicting her daughter’s abduction? If so, that further proves my "Scully is a conduit" theory (posts here and here.) 

Maggie, noticing that Scully has shut down after Melissa’s speech (and fed up herself), announces “I’m going to go make coffee” before stalking away to take a breather. 

Melissa hesitates, reading the tension in the room while internally debating if she should probe further; but, incorrigibly, she decides not to let the matter rest.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” 

Scully keeps her sister in the peripheral, sighing as she prepares herself for the impending conversation.  

“Melissa, Mulder is very likely dead.” Even after seeing the smoke billowing out of a train car, even though she believes it herself, Scully still won’t admit to what can’t be proven. 

Melissa pauses, stares into the middle distance as she searches for something, and pronounces, “No-- you don’t believe that.” 

“No, I do.” Scully insists. 

“I’m getting very strong feelings otherwise.” 

Scully looks almost frightened by her sister's denial. The fear of the unknown is driven by Scully’s fear of not truly knowing herself; and she avoids what she cannot understand-- her father’s death, her memories, her endless line, her cancer, etc.-- but can’t stop feeling until her concerns are addressed (in this case, through Melissa’s insistence; in other cases, through Ed Jerse or Daniel Waterston's false leads or Mulder's insistence that she face facts.)

“I wish it weren’t true…” Scully begins, wobbling over gathering tears. 

“No! No, Honey, it’s more than that--” Melissa ecstatically reassures, kneeling beside her sister and rambling in her enthusiasm. Here, she can help; and she intends to do so. “You’re radiating, Dana.”  

However, the bonding moment is lost when she mentions, “You have a connection with him that’s still strong, powerful,” hitting on two things Scully doesn’t want to own: the depth of her love for Mulder and her current disbelief in her own intuition (which is still whispering that Mulder alive.) 

“Melissa. Don’t do this.”  

Melissa recalibrates, but insists. “Well, I know what I feel.” 

“Fine, we’ll leave it at that,” Scully snaps, getting up as fast as she possibly can, “because you have no sensitivity to my feelings.” 

“Oh, Dana.… I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t feel so sure.” After a second of empathetic silence, Melissa again insists, “You need a second opinion.” 

“This isn’t a medical condition, Melissa. It is a statement of fact-- it is either true or it isn’t.” 

Melissa tries to salvage the conversation, but accidentally hits nerve after nerve in her unwieldy use of the truth: “...you may even be feeling responsible right now, but if you could just see through your guilt and your anger, then maybe you can look past this Western empiricism.”  

Predictably, her sister does not relent: “I’ll make sure to consult my taro cards when I’m out looking for a new job, thank you.” 

Casting her eyes to the heavens (a tic often used in fractious conversations with her sister), Scully doubles back to chastise and more accurately vent her feelings. “Melissa, I have lost somebody.”  

Even though Melissa wisely shuts her mouth rather than doubling down, the brief second she'd pondered it nettles her sister further.

“I would like to deal with it in my own way.” 

Again, Melissa stays silent (against her better judgment), allowing Scully to have the last word before following in Maggie's footsteps by walking swiftly away.  

Once Scully is no longer in sight, Melissa grips her forehead, clasps her arms around each other, and turns inward, reflecting on Dana's throbbing wound and, perhaps, how she could have handled the situation better. 

DENIAL AND UNWIELDY TRUTH

When Scully finds the chip in her neck, her desperation drives her back to Melissa, another proof that she and her sister's bond is tighter than any temporary annoyance or fight between them.

But it also begs the question: Why not her mother? 

When Scully reaches out to Maggie-- The Blessing Way, Wetwired, Redux II, A Christmas Carol, etc.-- it is only when she is on her last leg and has given up and given in, seeking maternal comfort in a "weak" moment of strong, human emotion. These moments, however, are fleeting when compared to the times she reaches out to Mulder and Melissa; but if we look closely, a pattern emerges. When Scully needs to be encouraged to fight her battles, she seeks out Mulder or Melissa; when she needs to bind up her wounds and heal, she finds Maggie. Overtime, Mulder takes on both of these roles, becoming both tender protector and immovable truth pursuer; but the shift truly begins after Emily Sims's death, carrying through the events of Season 5 and onward (and widening the gulf begun between mother and daughter during Memento Mori.)

“I don’t even know how long its been in there,” Scully tells Melissa, shaken by another layer in the many unknown layers lingering from her abduction. “I have absolutely no recollection of it being put there.” 

“That is frightening,” her sister agrees, while Scully visibly shakes at the opposite end of the table.  

Both sisters know how terrifying this: Scully relies on what she knows and can prove; which ties her memory directly into her understanding of the world, either through knowledge of its mechanics or direct, first-hand experience. To have that taken was one of the greatest evils inflicted on Scully; but the fear of recovering even more traumatizing memories keeps her in a paralyzing stasis, too fearful to face how much she has lost and too fearful to reclaim what little she can.

“Dana, this is very serious-- you’ve gotta find out… what this is.” 

Scully’s shift from shaking tower of strength to bothered and inflexible little sister goes unnoticed-- or ignored-- as Melissa twists the chip back and forth in scrutinizing study.

“I don’t have access to the FBI labs,” Scully begins before Melissa, stunned at her sister’s priorities, redirects with, “No, I’m talking about access to your own memories.” 

This is stage one Melissa: so focused on uncovering a particular truth that she obliviously steamrolls over the other person’s silent objections-- tactless in her fervor. Any attempts to cut her off only escalates her feverish insistence-- “I mean, obviously you have buried this so deep you can’t consciously recall it."

Scully visibly struggles to press her emotions and fears down in order to shut the conversation down-- “Melissa.”

“I know someone who can help you--”

“NO!” yells Scully, slapping the table hard enough to shake the dishes. In her anger she betrayed weakness; and both she and Melissa know it. 

Melissa, hurt but sympathetic, swallows her own frustrated feelings and shifts into stage two: purposeful pushing of another person’s boundaries (ala confronting Mulder in his apartment in One Breath)-- measuredly pointing out a weakness with an honest rebuke.  

“What are you so afraid of, Dana?”

“You’re afraid you might actually learn something about yourself?”

This pulls Scully up short, tapping into the perpetual struggle she’s warred with since Beyond the Sea (and that won’t put to rest until ourobors tattoos and Buddhist temples.)  

“I mean, you are so shut off to the possibility there could be any other explanation except for your rigid, scientific view of the world.”  

Scully swallows down her fears once again, angrily ping-ponging back and forth between rebuttal or allowance. Ultimately, the words stick-- perhaps echoing her later partner’s own confrontations or guidance-- and she slowly lowers her defenses, walking closer to (but not toward) her sister. 

Melissa continues: “You’re carrying so much grief and fear that you can’t see that… that you’ve built up these walls around your true feelings and the memory of what really happened.” 

Scully is too exhausted to keep fighting, having flailed nonstop against herself and her beliefs and her convictions since Mulder’s death; and at Melissa's “Just do this for me" she acquiesces, expelling more fear in a rushing outtake of air.

Melissa isn’t satisfied with a non-answer, pressing further with an “As your sister. Please” until Scully’s face shifts into firm resolution. 

As we know, Scully bails on the regression hypnosis; but this this scene highlighted a key aspect of her of her relationship with Melissa, especially when contrasted to her ones with Maggie and Mulder:

It established her sister as the person Scully gravitated to for advice: even if Melissa's words were chafing or unintelligible, she still sought out that comforting, “bigger picture” perspective, the same one her partner has provided since the Pilot. Before she even met Mulder, Scully had a thirst for other perspectives, and was more open to taking in and heeding “out there” opinions than she liked (likes) to let on.  

Maggie Scully was not her daughter’s confidante. Throughout the series, Scully avoids life-changing decision talk with her mother (joining the FBI, giving credence to her mother’s dreams, telling her directly about the cancer diagnosis or the baby’s sex, etc.); and, as previously mentioned, that begins to widen the gulf between mother and daughter. Maggie feels loved when her loved ones share their personal feelings and struggles with her-- which Melissa and Bill Scully seem to do more freely (we’ll get to that) and Dana does not. Why is this the case? Perhaps it has something to do with Maggie's gossiping tendency (which we shall hit upon in Gethsemane), or perhaps it's because of the strict lines she draws in and around her personal life.

Scully does not want crossover in her life: her family and friends are organized into two categories-- comfort or confidante-- and stay in those categories for their protection and her sanity. Maggie Scully is her mother, not her confidante; Melissa is her confidante, not her mother; and when the two try to cross into areas not offered to them, Scully gets annoyed and withholds even more information. Mulder, it seems, is the only person to peel back the dividing line between the two; and even then, not without resistance and patience (Memento Mori, for example.) It’s part of Scully’s fear of letting her walls completely down (as explained in her monologue to the social worker in A Christmas Carol); and part of the mystery of Mulder, who is the perfect combination of Maggie’s comfort and Melissa’s persistence: helpful and supportive but truthfully exacting. 

THE LAST CONVERSATION

Melissa calls after the mytharc plot kicks up to dangerous levels for Scully, eager to help her sister process whatever was uncovered in the (ditched) hypnosis session. 

"Hello?" Scully asks, on-edge; but walks back from her paranoid greeting when Melissa responds, “Dana? It’s your sister.” 

Melissa’s “Hi-- where’ve you been?” implies she’s been calling for a day, maybe more, in worry when Scully left her high and dry after their talk.

“I, uh, I had to go to Boston. For a funeral.” 

“Well, I was worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t heard from you since you saw Dr. Pomerantz.” 

Scully immediately tenses, knocking herself mentally over the head for forgetting; then realizes she either has to face Melissa's scrutiny now or slough off her concerns for a more convenient time.

“Missy, something strange happened to me today," she says, admitting her panic over strange events that were unfolding in her life.

Anticipating and accepting her sister’s offer to drive over, Scully ends the call with renewed resolve: having turned a new, hopeful leaf after her vision from Mulder, she is-- more than ever-- ready to listen to her intuition, open her heart, and confide her fears and feelings to someone else. 

That openness follows her to a reunion with Mulder… but clams up, once again, after her innocent decisions lead to the death of her sister.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[stcpidcupid]

in  april,  the  pre-release  single  MANIAC  set  the  stage  for  STUPID  CUPID's  highly  anticipated  mini  album.  the  company  teased  the  comeback  with  a  brief  snippet  of  the  song,  reassuring  fans  that  all  members  were  in  top  form  and  ready  to  deliver  a  flawless  performance.  over  the  course  of  four  weeks,  the  song  was  promoted  extensively,  building  excitement  for  the  upcoming  album  release.

MANIAC  was  produced  entirely  by  H.EUI,  also  known  as  MIGHTY  DEVIL's  HERO.  its  release  was  met  with  great  enthusiasm,  quickly  accumulating  millions  of  views  and  garnering  widespread  acclaim.  despite  facing  tough  competition,  the  song  managed  to  secure  four  wins  during  its  promotional  period,  maintaining  the  group's  strong  track  record.  while  it  fell  short  of  surpassing  their  previous  pre-released  single,  which  accumulated  eight  music  show  wins  in  total,  MANIAC  nonetheless  solidified  the group's  position  as  a  powerhouse  in  the  industry.

tracklist.

MANIAC ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ — ( written by H.EUI, prod. by H.EUI )

the music video analysis.

the  music  video  opens  with  a  dark,  atmospheric  scene  where  shadows  dance  against  a  backdrop  of  flickering  candlelight.  we  then  see  the  members  of  STUPID  CUPID,  each  embodying  a  different  facet  of  obsession,  surrounded  by  lavish  surroundings.

as  the  music  begins,  the  scene  transitions  to  a  house surrounded by vines,  where  the  members  are  depicted  in  various  scenarios  that  illustrate  different  forms  of  obsession.  one  member,  JEANNE,  is  seen  meticulously  arranging  photographs  of  her  love  interest,  while  another  —VIVA—  stares  longingly  at  a  locked  door,  symbolising  the  desire  to  possess  what  lies  beyond.  TOMIE  is  shown  lost  in  a  reverie,  surrounded  by  scattered  photographs  and  mementoes  of  her  love  interest.  her  gaze  is  distant  and  unfocused  as  she  retreats  further  into  her  own  world,  oblivious  to  the  outside  surroundings. 

in  CHESKA's  scene,  she's  shown  in  a  dimly  lit  room  adorned  with  flickering  candles  and  scattered  with  handwritten  notes  and  crumpled  papers.  she's  shown  engaging  in  repetitive  rituals,  such  as  writing  love  letters  or  composing  messages  on  her  phone,  only  to  delete  them  and  start  over  again  in  a  desperate  quest  for  perfection. 

AIMEE's  seems  to  be  the  most  heartbreaking  one,  as  broken  objects  are  scattered  around  her  room.  these  represent  the  aftermath  of  a  heated  argument,  with  shadows  cast  against  the  walls  mimicking  the  silhouette  of  a  looming  rival.  most  of  the  broken  things  are  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  signalling  that  it  was  she  who  started  the  fight. 

interwoven  with  these  scenes  are  shots  of  the  group  performing  the  song  in  a  dimly  lit  room,  their  intense  gazes  and  dynamic  choreography  adding  to  the  sense  of  urgency  and  desire.

as  the  song  reaches  its  climax,  the  scenes  escalate  in  intensity,  with  flashes  of  the  members  obsessively  counting  down  the  moments  until  they  can  be  reunited  with  their  object  of  desire.  the  house  becomes  a  maze  of  mirrors,  reflecting  their  fragmented  psyche  and  inner  turmoil.

finally,  as  the  music  fades  out,  we  see  the  members  standing  in  front of the house,  their  expressions  a  mix  of  longing  and  determination.  the  camera  pans  out,  revealing  it's  engulfed  in  flames,  a  visual  representation  of  the  destructive  power  of  obsession.

the  music  video  shows  a  lingering  shot  of  the  house  burning  against  the  night  sky,  leaving  viewers  with  a  sense  of  unease  and  the  haunting  melody  of  MANIAC  echoing  in  their  minds. the last couple of seconds of the music video is silent, with the sound of fire slightly heard in the background, when suddenly a melodic whistle is heard before the scene shows members turning around when the video cuts off.

[iirulancorrino]

Movies that attempt something different, that recognize that less can indeed be more, are thus easily taken to task. “It’s so subjective!” and “It omits a crucial P.O.V.!” are assumed to be substantive criticisms rather than essentially value-neutral statements. We are sometimes told, in matters of art and storytelling, that depiction is not endorsement; we are not reminded nearly as often that omission is not erasure. But because viewers of course cannot be trusted to know any history or muster any empathy on their own — and if anything unites those who criticize “Oppenheimer” on representational grounds, it’s their reflexive assumption of the audience’s stupidity — anything that isn’t explicitly shown onscreen is denigrated as a dodge or an oversight, rather than a carefully considered decision. A film like “Oppenheimer” offers a welcome challenge to these assumptions. Like nearly all Nolan’s movies, from “Memento” to “Dunkirk,” it’s a crafty exercise in radical subjectivity and narrative misdirection, in which the most significant subjects — lost memories, lost time, lost loves — often are invisible and all the more powerful for it. We can certainly imagine a version of “Oppenheimer” that tossed in a few startling but desultory minutes of Japanese destruction footage. Such a version might have flirted with kitsch, but it might well have satisfied the representational completists in the audience. It also would have reduced Hiroshima and Nagasaki to a piddling afterthought; Nolan treats them instead as a profound absence, an indictment by silence. That’s true even in one of the movie’s most powerful and contested sequences. Not long after news of Hiroshima’s destruction arrives, Oppenheimer gives a would-be-triumphant speech to a euphoric Los Alamos crowd, only for his words to turn to dust in his mouth. For a moment, Nolan abandons realism altogether — but not, crucially, Oppenheimer’s perspective — to embrace a hallucinatory horror-movie expressionism. A piercing scream erupts in the crowd; a woman’s face crumples and flutters, like a paper mask about to disintegrate. The crowd is there and then suddenly, with much sonic rumbling, image blurring and an obliterating flash of white light, it is not. For “Oppenheimer’s” detractors, this sequence constitutes its most grievous act of erasure: Even in the movie’s one evocation of nuclear disaster, the true victims have been obscured and whitewashed. The absence of Japanese faces and bodies in these visions is indeed striking. It’s also consistent with Nolan’s strict representational parameters, and it produces a tension, even a contradiction, that the movie wants us to recognize and wrestle with. Is Oppenheimer trying (and failing) to imagine the hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians murdered by the weapon he devised? Or is he envisioning some hypothetical doomsday scenario still to come? I think the answer is a blur of both, and also something more: In this moment, one of the movie’s most abstract, Nolan advances a longer view of his protagonist’s history and his future. Oppenheimer’s blindness to Japanese victims and survivors foreshadows his own stubborn inability to confront the consequences of his actions in years to come. He will speak out against nuclear weaponry, but he will never apologize for the atomic bombings of Japan — not even when he visits Tokyo and Osaka in 1960 and is questioned by a reporter about his perspective now. “I do not think coming to Japan changed my sense of anguish about my part in this whole piece of history,” he will respond. “Nor has it fully made me regret my responsibility for the technical success of the enterprise.” Talk about compartmentalization. That episode, by the way, doesn’t find its way into “Oppenheimer,” which knows better than to offer itself up as the last word on anything. To the end, Nolan trusts us to seek out and think about history for ourselves. If we elect not to, that’s on us.

[spontaneousglitterbees]

Click for higher quality! [AU Masterpost]

More Kokichi and Miu! I know K1-B0 is winning the poll but this made sense to me as a kind of preamble to that bit of exposition. Something about pieces of the people you've cared about staying with you.

So. Does Miu have a tattoo?

She's currently drawing it on with a marker every morning. Helps keep up morale while she focuses on building an entire android body from scratch. The machining on the parts alone is a pain in the ass, no matter how well you've mapped out the mechanisms. Hard to prototype with mostly-custom parts and very little patience.

An incomplete list of Kokichi's Room details under the cut:

This was during the game, for the record; his HPA room is also a mess, but it is a different kind of mess

The minimization of floorspace with wrappers and crumpled papers, despite his having a wastebasket, because they make noise when stepped on and it will be that much harder to try to kill him in his sleep

His contact case on the side table

Put up a drawing to hide his initial notes on the wall; he didn't fully realize they might be able to see him even in his room for a bit and then couldn't stop thinking about it

Books for Research Purposes and stray pencils, since even though he has a desk he usually lays on the floor to Scheme

Key stays in the desk drawer with miscellaneous junk he picks up around the school; he picks his lock open to keep tabs on whether or not anyone else has tried the same thing from the sound of the tumblers. this is why he's noticed miu's lock starting to fatigue

Tendency to Stack Things on Other Things (boxes, cup-stain on those boxes from setting drinks there while he draws on the floor, totes of miscellaneous items that make the room harder for not-him to navigate, beginnings of a Laundry Chair)

Probably sleeps in that chair more than the actual bed-he-does-not-make, thus it also being where he hoards soda from the cafeteria (it's right in front of the whiteboard, which isn't in frame but is there)

The horsehead goes under his pillow when he isn't there (unless he's presenting his room to be found after his possible death, of course, in which case adjacent his 'this-is-not-a-will' he also makes his bed)

Hides his monopad and a flashlight (flashback-light? unclear) in/next to the frame of his bed. Also snacks.

Mementos from each case and each killer, bold are canon:

Kaede's hairclips, the camera, the drone (offscreen), the last pictures of Rantaro

Kirumi's glove and the innertube (and those might be the piranhas in the white totes? i couldn't confirm)

One of Kiyo's many masks, the séance book, wax Rantaro

Gonta's glasses, a VR headset, the bottle of poison Miu tried to plant on him

No chapter five, since well. Well.

THOUGH the pattern has continued! In the form of Kaito's jacket, which he wears occasionally.

[mysticstarlightduck]

OC Bag Game!

Thanks for the tag, @kaylinalexanderbooks (here)!

Rules: Name five things your OC would have in a backpack or any bag at school.

I'll go with some of the cast from Supernova Initiative and Enchanted Illusions.

(Since my characters live in a either fantasy or sci-fi world and are not school-aged, Imma just go with the contents of their regular bags to make this easier)

(Supernova Initiative)

Jack Tithus

Mint bubblegum

Ammo and chargers for his guns

A miniature first aid pack/painkillers

A holo-picture of him and Cassie

Sweet and crunchy energy bars

A to-go bottle of chocolate milk

Cassie Tithus

Extra parts for her projects and robots

Scrunchies for her hair + hair dye packets

A pocket knife/box cutter

An old, skrunkly plushie

An extra tablet

Inflatable neck pillow

Aleks Keldora

The "face-changer" (his high tech mask that can turn him into anyone's lookalike)

Dozens of stolen IDs, documents and government papers

A handmade drawing of his mothers

Tiny explosives and big explosives

A bottle of nail polish

Vesper Foxx

Self-repair kit for her cyborg implants

A bunch of extra parts in case she needs to replace something

The bracelet her little sister gave her for her birthday

Knives. So many knives. And guns. Don't forget the guns, and poison gas grenades.

A list of the names of each member of the mercenary crew she is hunting down

Artemis Zreeth

Leather gloves and old goggles

Cheesy snacks

His father's old scarf

Star-dust cigarettes

Eyeliner

A foldable speeder bike that becomes a tiny disk when deactivated

Pax Stellaryn

Void Program study material

Crumpled notes, messy journals and glitter pens

His diary

A picture of his cat riding a floating skateboard (don't ask lol)

Sour candy, and lollipops

Ethean Mirannir

Extra uniform

Pilot gear and an emergency kit for his spaceship

A holo-picture of his whole family and him during his graduation day seven year ago

Neon markers and a drawing sketchbook

Fidget toy for anxiety relief

(Enchanted Illusions)

Augustus Grimmure

Bloodstained handkerchief

A small dagger

Necromancy tome of spells and his journal

Recipe for instant magical coffee

An engagement ring he has yet to give Harriet

A bag of cookies from his grandma

Harriet Sharppe

Dainty silk gloves

Extra painkillers in case her cousin forgets

Pocket knife

The latest book she is reading

Lip balm

Chocolate bar

Agatha Greenwoods

Her overflowing journal, containing clues of the case she's trying to solve

A crumpled but well loved picture of her father

Sleep medicine

Switchblade

An extra change of clothes

Cailean Telkerly

His late brother's broken pocketwatch

Worn out brass knuckles and a pocket pistol

Multiple kinds of currency, all stolen

A bottle of cologne

Crumpled candy papers

Falsified documents for any given occasion

Sam Delaways

Snacks and extra food

A dusty old jacket

Very little spare change/copper coins, on good days

A bunch of useless knickknacks he proudly collects

His brothers' plushies when they don't want to carry them

Evangeline Daemitya

Her drawing sketchbook and a travel case for her pens and pencils

A locket with a picture of her and her father

Her intricate coinpurse

An enchanted rapier that becomes a tiny ring when not being used

Poison bottles and a botany guide

Tagging: @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @oh-no-another-idea, @littleladymab, @little-peril-stories

@the-ellia-west, @winterandwords, @cowboybrunch, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites

@leave-her-a-tome, @writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@lassiesandiego, @thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams and OPEN TAG