#I’m mourning an experience I’ll never get I suppose

[peapod20001]

Dudee I literally can’t think I’ve just had no more shame no more fear no more dread on repeat since I woke up and not even all the lyrics fit my feeling so idk what the deal with that is

[kaitou-kid-my-beloved]

A Little Ghost in a Bowtie (@livmadart's Phantump Conan AU)

(Chapter four of four!) (Prev) (Ao3 link)

Ah. So that is why the pidgey thought they’d be able to get more information from Conan. Conan wasn’t just a bystander, an invisible pokemon that happened to witness the crime, he was the victim. Phantump was ghost type, and while ghost types often weren’t actually ghosts… in this case, the old legends proved to be true.

Heiji had run into a few ghost types born of human souls before, but usually those were old ghosts, with decades or longer experience as pokemon under their belts. The one in front of him, just a meter away, in pokemon terms he couldn’t be more than two months old.

Wow. Wow. Heiji could barely imagine.

It didn’t seem like Ran-chan knew- how could she? It’s not something people really think about anymore, and she wouldn’t have introduced him so cheerfully if she’d known… Heiji imagined for a second what it would be like, to die, and come back- only to watch everyone he loved mourn him… he imagined what it would be like to lose Kazuha, only for her to be right next to him and never know…

Well. Since it was him, he’d know, but if he didn’t have his ability…

Darn. He did not envy Kudo- or, Conan? He’d seemed happy with the name when Lucie had called him that- Heiji would have to ask his preference later.

“My memory after that is a little foggy, b’cause, y’know, head trauma, but I remember them mentioning that poison made by their organization, and then they left me there. And now I’m here,” Conan was still talking, and Heiji managed to just barely comprehend his words through his own imaginings.

“...Ah, I… see.” Lucie managed, apparently dealing with her own feelings on the matter. Conan looked at her for a moment, before sighing.

“Pidgey didn’t tell you who I was, did she?”

“No. No she didn't,” Lucie said, short and terse. Heiji wondered if he would have to stop her from finding that Pidgey, and beating her up for not giving them all the vital information.

“Whoops, I guess,” Conan shrugged, unconcerned. Heiji supposed that apathy was a coping mechanism.

“Hattori-kun? Are you alright?” Ran-chan asked, cocking her head in concern.

Heiji looked up- he’d become so focused on the pokemon’s conversation that he’d completely forgotten he’d been talking to someone too- frick. It happened every once in a while, and was always a little embarrassing to explain. Not only that, he supposed his face may have shown a little of the many emotions he was currently feeling.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine, totally fine,” He forced a smile on his face, mentally shaking himself off, and grounding himself to the moment.

“So, did you get what you needed?” She asked, offering him a wry smile.

“Oh yeah- I mean, yes. Yes I did,” He did his best not to look at the ghost of her best friend sitting in her lap.

“Well that’s good- I want to be of as much help as I can but… Well, Hattori-kun, I’m not going to tell you to stop investigating, because I know Shinichi wouldn’t have listened to me either, but, maybe be careful about all this? Don’t… Don’t bite off more than you can chew. For everyone else’s sake as much as your own.” Ran-chan squeezed her eyes shut, and held Conan closer to her. He was shaking- and he put his head down, curling his tail over his eyes.

Heiji gulped, taking in the weight of her words. Don’t end up like Shinichi. It was the opposite of what everyone had told him for so long, but they hit him right in the heart like no other message like it had. He could see exactly where being a reckless idiot had landed Kudo and for once… Yeah. He didn’t want that.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he won’t get into anything too bad,” Lucie growled, placing a paw on Heiji’s head.

“Well, it looks like your Lucario is on it!” Ran-chan laughed, standing up. “You’ll have to let me battle her sometime!

“Yes please, Heiji, can we do that?” Lucie barked happily, lightly cuffing him over the head as he stood up too.

“Maybe next time we’re in Saffron,” He said, in response to both of them.

“Hey, Conan,” Lucie called to Conan, who was still held firmly in Ran-chan’s grasp. “You’re a wild ‘mon, right? Meet us outside, there’s still some stuff we’d like to discuss with you,”

“Uh, okay?” Conan warbled, confused.

“Well, Hattori-kun, it was nice to meet you- though when we see each other again I’d like it to be under happier circumstances,” Ran-chan said, a light smile on her face.

“Yeah, it was nice to meet you too,” he said, and he really did mean it. She seemed very nice- the sort of person Kazuha would be fast friends with.

He exited the agency with Lucie in tow, letting the afternoon sunlight fall on his face. He took a deep breath, and let it out. That had been… a lot.

“You said there’s more you wanted to talk about?”

Both Heiji and Lucie jumped this time. They leaned against each other to let the adrenaline pass as Conan faded into visibility in front of them.

“Does terrifying people just come naturally to ghost types??” Lucie hissed, taking a few steps back.

“Uh, I guess?” Conan blinked, as though seriously considering her query.

“Nevermind that- do you mind if we walk while we talk? I don’t want Ran-chan to think we’re just loitering outside,” Heiji said, sighing at Lucie’s words.

“I don’t mind- it’s not really like I have anything better to do,” He said, voice dry. “Though I’m mostly going to be talking to Lucie, anyway,” He sighed.

“Not exactly,” Heiji shrugged, starting off down the sidewalk. Conan paused, hesitating before following.

“...What?”

“It’s part of the reason we wanted to leave to talk to you more,” Lucie growled, a toothy grin splitting her muzzle. “Heiji can-”

“I can understand pokemon, yeah,” Heiji cut her off. She took a light hearted swipe at him, but it was worth it.

“You can-” Conan cut himself off, his blue eyes blowing wide. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I don’t really know why, it’s just something I’ve always been able to do,” Heiji shrugged nonchalantly as Conan put a nub of a hand up to his chin, thinking hard.

“It makes sense- since Lucie said that you came to the agency off of a tip that I was there, and that I would be able to tell you more about my case- but you couldn't have known to do that unless you also heard and understood that tip,” Conan mumbled to himself. It sounded… really eerie, with his whole echoing little kid voice thing he had going on. Heiji could say one thing though, he was definitely a detective.

“That’s right,” Lucie cut in. “Usually while Heiji is questioning people, I question local pokemon, and then we share notes!” She grinned. “It’s a system the police wish they could have,”

“The police don’t have my ability- most people don’t have my ability, so technically the things I learn from it I can only use as a framework since they’re not permissible in court,” Heiji sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Skill issue,” Lucie shrugged.

“Not entirely true, pokemon testimonies have been used in court cases before- especially in cases of ghost types like me, testifying at their own cases,” Conan started, “There’s just a lot of hoops you need to jump through in order to make it work, including finding multiple different avenues of determining testimony, and seeing if they all match up to determine what the pokemon is actually saying, so I mean, you could,” He said, flicking his tail absentmindedly.

“Been doing research?” Heiji raised an eyebrow.

“...Yes,” Conan sighed. “Listen, if death can’t stop me, bureaucracy won’t either,”

Heiji found himself laughing, despite the dark nature of the joke. Lucie was also snickering a bit, and Conan was smiling, so he didn’t feel bad about it.

“Speaking of that,” Lucie said, expertly steering conversation both exactly where they needed it to go, and to the most uncomfortable topic. “The men who killed you- you said you saw them again?” Lucie continued onwards, completely ignoring the concept of tact- though, that might be best for everyone for now.

“Oh, right,” Conan nodded. “I saw them on a train- Ran’s dad's friend was getting married, so they were taking a bullet train to Ecruteak. Those two guys just happened to be there- so I listened in on their conversations,” He said, floating a little ahead of Heiji and Lucie so he could face them while they walked.

Man, invisibility must be nice. Not that Heiji was willing to die to get it, just… it would be nice.

“That’s when I heard them mention their codenames,”

“Gin and Vodka, you said?” Lucie confirmed.

“Right- and I also heard them talking about how there was a bomb on the train, which is why I didn't follow them off at their stop,” He said, his eyes going a bit darker there at the end.

“Wow, yeah that’s a good reason,” Heiji nodded.

“Yikes,” Lucie agreed.

“Luckily I was able to cause enough of a ruckus to get the bomb out of the train in time, but it was close there for a second,” He breathed a latent sigh of relief.

“That’s… yeah,” Heiji just nodded. He wasn’t sure how else to respond to that.

Heiji was a good highschool detective, sure, but he was starting to see why Shinichi Kudo was hailed as the best of them. Heiji had dealt with homicide after homicide, theft after theft after assault- but he’d never dealt with terrorists; never dealt with bomb threats, never dealt with syndicates, and never dealt with his own death. Kudo had seen and dealt with all of that, and just got up, and kept going.

He had died, and had still gotten up, and kept at it.

Heiji was a little mad at how much he respected the heck out of him for it. This was supposed to be someone he hated. But, well… It was always the name he’d hated- hated how it loomed over him, it was that reputation and the legend surrounding him that Heiji hated. But the person?

Heiji hated the name Shinichi Kudo, but he didn’t hate the name Conan; and he didn’t think Conan hated it either.

“Hey… Conan?” Heiji asked.

“Yeah?” The little ghost looked up at him, blue eyes shining in the sun.

“Do you… do you want me to tell her?”

Conan froze, staring at him. Slowly, he lowered his eyes down to the pavement. His nubs came to rest on that bowtie of his around his neck- and Heiji didn’t have to wonder who gave it to him.

“...No, I don’t want you to tell her,” He sighed.

“Why not?” Lucie asked, and Heiji elbowed her, just barely missing impaling his arm on her chest spike.

“She’s been through enough- she doesn’t need to go through… this too,” He said, his voice coming out in an echoey, pained keen.

Yeah. He’d been broken down, but he just… kept getting back up. Heiji really did find himself respecting this little, barely two month old pokemon.

“Well then… I guess I won’t,” Heiji sighed, putting his arms behind his head. “She told us to be careful, and we will, but I’m seeing this through to the end. And hey, maybe you will get to testify in court one day,” Conan snorted, but he raised his head, so Heiji counted it as a win.

“If you ever need anything else, you know where to find me. I’m a bit personally invested in this one, if you can imagine,” Conan smirked at him, and Heiji wondered if he’d made this many dark jokes before he’d died, or if this was a recent thing.

“Aaand we’re typically hanging around in Goldenrod if you ever need anything,” Lucie said, patting Conan on the head with a paw. “Just ask any pokemon, and they’ll tell you where to find us!”

“Thanks… I think I’ll take you up on that,” He laughed, and started drifting off back toward the agency.

“See you later, I guess,” Heiji said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, don’t die before I see you next!” Conan laughed, before fading away.

“Yeah, I’ll… Do my best,” Heiji responded, not sure if Conan was still there or not.

“So… feel like heading home and getting a lecture about running off to another city without permission?” Lucie asked.

“... Y’know what? I kinda am, actually,”

[docholligay]

this was all @thoughtfulfuri's dream i just basically wrote it down. It's not great, but it's somethin, and I'm happy with that!

I don’t like to lie to you. 

It’s not who I am, even to people I don’t like, and you’re one of the people I like very much. I never cultivated a real gift for it, though, like me and most things, I can manage, in a pinch. This is a pinch, if there ever was one. 

“It’ll be fine. ‘Ow long ‘ave you know me? I can survive anything, it’s just that you need to ‘urry, right? Right, that’s all. I’ll be waiting.” 

See, the problem is, you’re a bit of an idealist, when it comes to the subject of me. I suppose I don’t blame you, since mostly it works out. I can survive anything, because I’ve survived everything. So far. I’ve been ripped through time twice, shot, all sorts of things that were meant to kill me, and just didn’t. I lived, anyhow. I do. 

Maybe I still will. Maybe I’m not lying. I don’t want to be lying, I don’t want to die, but I am fully capable of assembling evidence and coming up with a decent idea of the situation. Things have looked bad for me before, but Win, that’s the thing about flipping a coin. Coming up heads doesn’t make heads or tails more likely. It’s just..chance. 

“I can’t leave you, Lena.” 

“Well, you can’t take me neither. They ‘ave me CA. Couldn’t if we wanted to, love, so you just take the escape, and, and then you’ll come back.” 

I didn’t lie, then. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to. This cage is trapping me here, and keeping me alive. What’s that saying, between the devil and deep blue sea? Well, I’ve been to the bottom of the sea more than once, and it’s cold and it’s lonely and I spent the whole time wishing I’d died instead, so I might as well try the devil. 

She will kill me, though. I’m done for. I’ll be lucky if all she does is kill me. Now that you’re gone she’ll be able to convince them it’s all can be done with me. That the risk is too high to keep me alive. She will get permission to dismantle me brick by brick, and I’m trying not to imagine what that’s going to feel like. I can’t imagine it, because I need you to go, and for you to go, I need you to think I’m not afraid. 

“I can wait, I can work into the--”

“No! You can’t, Winston! This is the only chance either of us ‘ave! Please! You will just doom us both.” 

I’m annoyed with you, right? I’m not afraid, just annoyed, because you’ll come back. And you will. I know you will, I’ve never doubted you, same as I knew you’d be looking when Doomfist sent me spiraling. It’s just I’ll be gone by then. The gravestone at East London has been carved for years, but I’ve never laid in it. So that’ll be a new experience. It’ll save you all the trouble of deciding what to do. 

“Are you sure?”

You sounded so strained. The plastic at the wall of my cage is cheap and foggy, and I can just barely see your eyes. You’ve always taken care of me. I hope I’ve done the same. I put my hand up on the plastic of the wall, and gave a big grin. 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in all me life, Win. Go. Come back, quick as you can. I’m waiting and the food ‘ere is rubbish.” 

“Okay. okay.” 

It was almost a whisper. I looked up at the clock, at the time drawing in when the rescue crew would be in position, and Winston would be safe. I could know I’d done that at least, as well as sit and plan the thousand annoying and nasty things I would say while I was being tortured to death. I hope I die before she comes up with a single good comeback. I hope she gets angry thinking about it in her shower the next day. I hope someone is sitting in the corner writing them down so I can have a big article, maybe even a pamphlet, titled, ‘Lena Oxton Died Very Brave and Also Funny, One Liners on Page Eleven, Nation Mourns Star Pilot’s Sick Burns.’ 

“Win. It’s time.” 

“I love you, Lena. I’m so sorry.” 

I wanted to tell you so many things right then. I wanted to tell you I loved you, and to take care of Em. Let her take care of you. I wanted to tell you to watch after Fareeha, who will take this personally whatever she says, and how all that rage she just tamps down inside her is going to pop, and without me there, I’m afraid no one will be able to help her. To let everyone have fun at Christmas. I don’t want a ruined Christmas, never on my account. Tell the little ones I love them. It was a good life, tell everyone, even if I wanted a bit more time. I always want more, don’t I? Tell Florrie I wasn’t afraid, she’ll worry I was. I hope she hadn’t started on my jumper. 

Tell Emily to find someone else. I’ll be offended if she doesn’t, tell her that, I wanted to say. 

But I couldn’t say any of that. Because then, you wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t say goodbye, because you couldn’t say it. 

“You can thank me by ‘aving some takeaway ready. I could murder an Indian right now.” 

You smiled, a little and I’ll take that as victory. Then you did what I bloody well told you to and scuttled back to where the rescue crew was going to enter. There was a lot of noise, and fire, but the swearing I heard over the crackle of the radio tells me that you made it. I know that you’re safe. A guard has come to make sure I’m still here. I can hear voices in the hallway, and I hear ‘Tracer,’ and the unlocking of the laboratory next door tells me what’s coming next. 

I don’t regret it. My only other choice was to let you die with me, and I would never do that to you. What a payment that would be, for everything you’ve done. I’m not built that way, and so I apologize for the lie. I knew they would never get here in time. I hope Ang lies too, I hope she tells you they killed me quickly. I’ve seen her do it before. Lies can be the greatest kindness some of us ever know. 

I’ll tell you a truth here, though, in my head, where you won’t hear it. 

I am a little afraid.

[bluedalahorse]

I have already had it with this heat and also my inability to write in this heat and also with the clutter in my apartment that I can’t clean up because of the heat. Fuck every oil executive and climate change denialist who says summer is always like this because it is NOT.

And also I am realizing that I’m going to have to radically accept that the Fandom In Question will never be as ensemble-minded as it once was, or as ensemble-minded as I hoped it could be someday. I think I’m going to have to radically accept the amatonormativity and the monoshipping and the strict moral rankings of characters and the focus on romcom tropes that do very little for me personally. Maybe I will get to that place where I can accept that I’m a fan but I’m not really part of the fandom, because the fandom’s focus feels narrower and narrower by the day.

And that’s fine. I can radically accept it eventually. Especially since I have good one-on-one friendships with people and I still have people to talk to about my thing on discord and in DMs. And maybe I’ll stick with it and write those fanfics I wanted to write for my select audience of five sickos, or maybe I won’t and it will be okay. I do kind of want a way to mourn the fanfics I will never write—I think with my original writing I’m much better at saying to myself, this didn’t pan out but it’s okay and I was able to use these ideas elsewhere. But fanfics are about a relationship to a text, about expressing love for it and trying to find the other people who love it the way you do. And some of my fanfics died because of External Life Stuff, but some of them died because this place and its heightened moralizing rhetoric had a way of putting me in a shame spiral. I’m not in that shame spiral now (far from it, I’m really just in a stupid stupid heat spiral) but I think it’s bullshit that I had to go through that.

There will be other writings, both fanfic and original. There will be other communities to join and more people to talk to. And maybe there will be days below 90 degrees again.

Tl;dr I have curated my experience on my dash until there were no more things to experience. How am I supposed to let go?

[beetlejuce]

would like to make one thing clear: every time I’ve said some variation of “the female bond is a lie, girls’ girls are a myth created by white cishet neurotypical gender-conforming mainstream liberals, women are not exempt from being able to spew absolutely vile misogyny,” etc, this does come from genuine observation, experience, and gender criticism. Despite that, I fear that I have come across as a misogynist myself, so I would like to make something clear.

I acknowledge that while a lot of these blanket statements come from my own observations of living as an ugly, autistic, tomboyish girl for 20 years and the trauma I have from that, I admit that some of this is also me projecting my insecurities from having grown up a "failed" girl— and being absolutely ostracized for it. Many of it comes from analyzing the pain I’ve gone through myself, but there's a small part of me that mourns the supposed "girlhood" that I could never acheive.

Even still. No amount of girl power, no amount of makeup, no amount of flattering clothing, no amount of trying to connect with girls (who would otherwise ridicule me) could make me enjoy the construct of "womanhood." Who would choose this? Does anyone actually like this?

And that’s not even getting into how much I’ve been hated, bullied, despised, for daring to express a different form of girlhood that deviated from the norm. Where I’m from, if you’re not the unattainable Latina baddie standard, you might as well be an ogre. Time to die alone. The people who’ve absolutely tormented me throughout my childhood, about 90% of them have been girls. What I say doesn’t come from nowhere, and honestly? I’d be lying if I said I never held some resentment towards certain women.

I will say, just because I personally never got along with women for the crime of being an unattractive, socially inept tomboy among them, and have a lot of unresolved trauma, doesn’t mean I won’t fight for their basic human rights. It doesn’t mean I don’t love women as a category of people, and the amazing women I’ve met throughout my life. Because as a transgender male, many of their rights are mine to fight for as well.

I felt like some of my inner turmoil from being 10 years old and Public Enemy No. 1 slips through at times, and I’m very sorry for that. I’ll do better in the future.

[freedvmrouge]

Sam Wilson

Word Count: 530

Tags & Warnings: POV Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Pre-Slash, Steve dealing with his son's return from the 'dead' ( Ian Rogers ) and Sam telling him he's allowed to be happy

Summary: Post-Captain America: Cold War, canon divergence, where after Ian comes back into their lives, Sam finds Steve at his favorite bar.

For @steverogersbingo R3 / March Monthly Adoptables

“Did you know about him this whole time?” Steve asked, beer in hand as the strobing lights came and went.

“Not the whole time, no.” Sam paused to take a swing of his own cooled beverage. “We were a bit busy, as you can probably guess, but he wasn’t ready either.”

Steve dropped his eyes to the table, the abandoned menu sat teetering over the edge. He plucked it out of its precarious position and stood it up on the opposite corner. They’d already ordered something.

In the meantime, he wasn’t quite sure how to feel. He was elated, surely, but he’d spent so long in mourning. How could one turn that off?

Ian was well and alive, and he was delighted.

Why did it feel like extra weight was packed onto his shoulders?

“He wasn’t sure how you would take it,” Sam continued. “From the sounds of it, y’all had a good time catching up.”

“We did,” Steve answered with a reassuring nod. “We did. I didn’t think I’d ever get that chance again—to hug him, to ask him how he was doing.”

Sam looked at him, then, a little more closely. The man had years of experience reading him. It was as if all he had to do was push a button and all his secrets were right there for the taking. Steve had never felt good with lying, even lying by omission, but honesty came easy with Sam, as did so many other things.

It was apt, he supposed, that Sam would find him holed up here—the same bar he last took Sharon on a date with. Steve wasn’t sure if the universe was trying to tell him something with that.

“It’s okay to be happy, y’know.” 

Confused, he looked at Sam with furrowed brows. He could hear the waiter pick up their orders now, already on their way over. Steve took the chance to think that statement over.

“Thank you,” they’d both said to the waiter in unison, friendly smiles on their faces all the while.

“Ian’s still finding himself, so he’ll be here and there,” Sam waved a hand between the world and themselves. Steve is inordinately pleased with that news. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t chicken out in giving you his number. Kid’s still nervous.”

“I’m glad he has you, Sam—that you’re partners and you’re friends,” Steve said earnestly. “You’re family, always have been.”

Sam stopped and put down his burger, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and leaned back in his seat. The man looked at Steve with a quirk of his lips, something between and smirk and smile.

“You have permission to be happy, Rogers,” Sam reiterated, and he was glowing as he said it—as if he saw something in Steve before he could even recognize it in himself. “You get that, right?”

Steve let his own smile curve onto his lips, finally letting the music from the jukebox flow into his ears as a sweet melody instead of background noise. He looked at Sam, sitting across from him in this booth in the corner of his favorite bar, and he knew right then that he had another reason to be happy. 

[hunterofthehunters]

15) Adios

Lots of thoughts from this one. Content warning, I’m gonna talk about a pet that passed away, along with other thoughts.

A few years back, when I was still in college, I had a dog. First dog that was ever really my responsibility. My friend, my family, my buddy. 

Beautiful black lab named Hana. Smart dog, listened really well, had a bark as loud as a dog three times her size. And she was already pretty big. She had a habit of following me around everywhere, always wanted to be with me. Whenever I’d do my pacing when thinking about something while writing, or anything really, she’d always be right up my butt. Bumped into me a few times, almost made me trip. I got mad at her sometimes for that. But she’d always give me that sweet look, and it’d be right back to how things were. Loved that dog.

She got cancer less than a year after we got her. Young dog. Raised her from being just this little pup. Felt like we’d had her for years. Gone, just like that. 

I remember sitting by her in our living room that summer, while she was sick. Lost a retail job that I was balancing in-between work because I just couldn’t handle coming and going every day after sleeping next to her, seeing her suffer, wondering if things would ever get better. They did. We had hope for a bit that she’d fully recover, even. 

Then it came back. And she died within the week. 

I remember not wanting to do anything that month. I just couldn’t. I was lucky it happened during summer break. I might’ve flunked college completely if I didn’t have the time to grieve. 

I remember when they made the decision to put her to sleep. I didn’t want to. But she was hurting. And she couldn’t take any more. 

I never went with them when they left. I kept hoping some miracle would happen, but it didn’t. She went there without me that day. My parents were the ones who said goodbye that day. 

Whenever I go back to that moment, I wish like fucking hell I’d sucked it up and been there to say goodbye. So she knew that I loved her, down to that last moment. 

Her ashes are on my shelf to this day, resting right over my desktop as I type these thoughts out right now. I wonder if she’d be sitting near my chair right now, sighing happily as she drifts off to sleep. I can only hope she doesn’t resent me for what I didn’t do that day.

Why am I bringing this up? Adios brought me back there, for a bit. 

Adios is a role-playing game. You’re not playing as ‘yourself in a situation’, though maybe you’ll see yourself sometimes. You’re playing as a man who lived a life full of regrets. A man who wishes he could’ve done right by the ones he loved. This is his story. You just get to bear witness to it.

Maybe you’ll see something in that. A mirror, maybe. Or maybe you won’t. Fact is, this is a game about mourning. Mourning ones we’ve lost. Mourning decisions we’ve made. Mourning the decisions we didn’t make, or should have made. 

Knowing your death is coming is a rare privilege in some ways. A curse in others.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, honestly. I just wanted to talk. Maybe there’s some parts of me that never fully grieved, that this helped me sort out. Or maybe I just need to reflect. Either way, it was a good experience. I think some part of me really needed this. Appreciated sharing in these thoughts with someone else. 

We had--well, have--another dog. Quite a few other dogs, but this little boy’s special. Little fiery chihuahua named Bruno. He was with us with when we lost Hana. Had him before her for about a year, and he was with her when she was growing up. Was supposed to be mom’s little buddy, but when Hana got sick, he was with me in the living room every night. We slept next to her, were with her every step of the way. Guess somehow we bonded, because ever since then he’s taken a similar role that she had. A buddy who follows me around, keeps me company. Makes sure neither of us are alone. 

I think, when the years pass and it’s time for him to go, I’ll make up for what I didn’t do last time.

Adios means goodbye. Make sure you say it when you need to.

‘Til then, I’m gonna enjoy our years together.

Love you, little dude.

[i-love-river-song]

chapter 4!!!

@pheonixed

“So, what did you do last night?” The Doctor asks, hands clasped together and leaning on the console. “Well I do know I got quite drunk. I was having a rough night and decided to get pissed by myself and watch a movie, which I started, but then I think I went to look something up about something in the movie, but I fell down a wikipedia rabbit hole, and was reading about the Roald Dahl Plass, you know the big oval area right outside here. I’m a bit of a sad drunk. I started crying about how Roald Dahl is dead, so I went to the oval to… well I don’t really know, mourn, or something? I was very drunk. That’s all I can remember really, then waking up in this.. tardis” You explain. “Interesting” The Doctor remarks.

“Are you gonna say what you did last night?” You question

“Well I already know what I did last night so what’s the point in saying it out loud?”

“Do you not think maybe I want to know? So that I can make sense of things?”

“Ok, nosy”

“I’m not being nosy! Plus I just told you what I did! So who’s the real nosy one?”

“Fine! Fine, I’ll tell you what I did last night.” She rolls her eyes. “Promise not to laugh”

“I was visiting an old friend, he runs a… thing here in Cardiff” she says.

“What is supposed to be funny about that? What would I be laughing at? You are so confusing, Doctor” The Doctor laughs.

“Let’s get back on track, now” She walks round the console to a screen. “That’s no good, we’ll have to wait”

“Wait for what?”

“For it to get dark, don’t want the police coming after us again”

“You. Coming after you. I didn’t do anything.”

“Alright, fine! Doesn’t change the fact that we have to wait for it to get dark! I hate waiting, it’s so boring having to experience time at a normal pace with nothing going on.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

 “Doesn’t matter, explain later, busy waiting”

“You make no sense, Doctor.”

“I get that a lot”

“UGH I’m so bored! What can I do to pass the time!” The Doctor complains after 2 minutes of waiting. “Well maybe we could get to know each other?” You suggest. “Nope! Even more boring than doing nothing, I hate talking about myself. That’s a lie actually, I love talking about myself, but I can’t be bothered right now, maybe later” You roll your eyes.

After a couple of hours of The Doctor fiddling with the console and you just standing around, it’s finally dark and the place is empty. “Alright! Let’s reenact what we did last night! Will jog our memories hopefully!” she says.

You both step out the TARDIS. You walk back into Roald Dahl Plass to where you had sat yourself the night before. The Doctor hovers outside the TARDIS doors waiting for you to move from your spot. You get up as you did before, walking towards the exit. And that was it, you just walked past her.

“Hang on, that’s not right” The Doctor says, frowning, she looks like she’s calculating a hard maths problem. “What’s not right?” You reply, dragging yourself to stand next to her. She stays silent still thinking and processing. “I’m not getting anything, let’s go again.”

“No! One of us is doing something wrong! We’re missing something!” The Doctor is starting to get restless. “Doctor, we’ve done this like a million times! There’s nothing we’re missing! It’s got to be some stupid coincidence!” You shrug your shoulders dramatically. “It’s never a coincidence with me. How about we switch places, since we’re in each other's bodies?” she suggests. You’ll do anything to get this over and done with.

You take The Doctor’s place at the TARDIS doors and she takes yours on the ground. She starts walking to the exit and you walk out the TARDIS, as she comes closer to you you remember something but from her perspective. “Doctor! I remembered something!”

“Me too! What was it?”

“We bumped into each other!”

“I’ve got that too! Right! Back in the TARDIS then, let’s do some digging”

She dashes around the console and holds the screen, moving it around to a keyboard. She mumbles to herself as she types in something. “Ah!” she calls you. “Come and see this!” You walk over and read what she’s found. ‘The mysterious ‘Mammoth Bee’ that has the ability to swap people's bodies’ It shows a diagram of an insect looking thing with antennas in the shape of tusks, that explains the name then. “This is a pretty cool creature! It’s so small and quick, it flies up through people's noses and into their brains and picks up information, memories, your consciousness and all that, and transfers it to the nearest person it can find, then does the whole process again backwards! And they do it to live, they feed off the days spent in the wrong body! Ooh I love that, creatures of the abstract, only ran into one other abstract species before, they’re pretty scary, those angels, these little fleas have nothing on them.” The Doctor is beaming with excitement, you’re sure she’s enjoying this way more than she should. “Brilliant!” You force out a piece of praise to keep her happy. “But how do we fix it?” Her expression quickly changes to a more thoughtful face. “Hmm. Never dealt with these before, I’ll have to come up with something. Oh well, I’m good at improvising!” She puts on a reassuring smile. And it is just that, she seems to know what she’s doing, even though you’re both learning at the same pace.

The Doctor yawns. “You humans can’t stay awake very long, can you? I guess being in a human body means I have smaller tolerance for being awake so long, so annoying. I hate you humans, so little time for anything with you lot.” She yawns again. “I can’t sleep, we have to sort this out, so I can get you back home.” Her eyes are half open and her shoulders slumped as she walks round the console and jots in some numbers with great sloth. “Doctor, I think you should get some rest. I can wait a bit longer, it’s ok.” You assure. “Ok, g’night” she speaks drowsily as she shuffles her way to the bedroom you woke up in. “Night, Doctor.” you whisper half to yourself.

Being in her, apparently not human, body, you’re not tired at all. You think about what to do for a minute. You find yourself walking to the library. Some research wouldn’t hurt, in fact it would probably help. You walk for ages looking for the ‘M’ non fiction section; it takes you just as long to find a book on mammoth bees. You wander to the sofa by the fireplace and plop yourself down. You open the book and start reading until every background noise fades away.

[kendrixtermina]

(environmental storytelling)

These are not the actual events.

This is only the scrambled aftermath.

Of course, all things ever remembered

are only a scrambled aftermath.

Location #1: ??somewhere??

this is the end.

No matter what I do, I’m stuck here.

Time goes by, and I don’t care anymore.

There is no escape. None was found.

This is the entire world now.

The whole world ended.

I thought it was all over, but then it wasn’t.

How long have I been here?

How long have I been dreaming?

I was here before. In a dream.

I remember it was safe and warm.

It is on days like this that I feel closest to you.

Our paths nearly crossed.

What could have been?

Would you dissappear with me?

Would you make me free?

Have you dreamed any more lives since we last met?

I’ve had countless.

All possibilities exist alongside each other.

We sit besides ourselves, quietly,

basking in our multitudinal being as multiversal objects.

Even in my endless slumber,

I remember you.

This is where it all began, isn’t it?

If only we’d known what would happen.

If only it ended there...

Maybe this longing is the only world I’ll ever get.

The outside world reflects the inside world, so,

who else is there to blame but me?

Something terrible happened here, I’m sure.

In a dream, in reality, I don’t know.

There are things here that aren’t supposed to be here.

Errors in the simulation.

Anomalies.

Black spots.

Leafless circles cut out of dense canopies

Trees that I’d only seen in books,

mushrooms that should predate plants or crawly things on land.

Rows of stacking error messages.

Cursors that won’t move.

A pixellated sun glimpsed from just behind a cloud,

a wide field of blue above a phone pole

Figuratively speaking:

I was walking down those good old windows background hills,

wondered what that strange speck in the background is,

and suddenly all was glitches.

Just because I am alive, that doesn’t mean I exist.

One can be vacant of life as a house can be of denizens.

As the house that this occurred in is now vacant of us.

I wish I could discard this memory just like the rest.

I wish you’d gotten what you deserve, but you haven’t.

Stop pretending, I know what your real intentions are.

All my memories of you are erased.

We do forget faces, don’t we?

I’m sick and tired of seeing you wherever I go.

All thing contaminated! Contaminated!

All things rough outlines fading away in the mist of a blizzard

It’s all falling apart,

panels falling off the very sky

and cardboard can’t patch it.

The endeavor has been proven to be impossible,

so why try?

Being alive wasn’t easy for me, you know.

Sometimes I cannot find a reason to do anything.

I know that everyone must experience suffering.

Everyone must experience loss.

Everyone must experience the very worst.

I’ve been pretending to be human for so long,

I’m so, so tired

I think I’ve been here before. I wanted to get back.

I wanted to get to whichever crevice known to me

would get me out of my life.

And if I’m not alive,

then which grave would be mine?

I’d have to be able to click in order to find out.

And what if the pain I felt back then

is the only real, undoubtable feeling

that I’ll ever be cable of

meaningfully experiencing?

I was at an impasse, you see, a fork in storyline.

I had to choose wisely between saving others,

and saving myself.

I choose me.

There were supposed to be some things left to experience,

not all of them bad.

I decided I might as well take a look;

Now I am here.

Network perturbation inceases as

one descends down the spectrum of consciousness.

Location #2: ??outdoors??

Has anyone ever felt so profoundly out of place?

I’m well on my way to a bitter end.

I’m mourning something I can never express,

a complexity of interconnected things that I could never

I could never make myself understood

It all feels so fake

Desolate, Empty, Hopeless, Abandoned, Forgotten.

Warning: This current location is outside the bounds of the known universe

All that remains of the once bountiful reality contained in that house

is a castaway stranded in a world unfamiliar to it.

An irriversible choice has been made.

I have elected to take the underpass rather than cross the steet.

But don’t worry. One can exist without a purpose.

Nothingness is my home, so, welcome to my home.

I’ll take my time.

Nobody is waiting for me.

We can hide here

What you need to know is garbled static. What lies beyond that window is restricted information.

The day it’s taken place on is redacted.

You used to scare me, so, so much sometimes.

I tell myself to remain calm.

Location #3: ??home??

This location is the bottom of the sea.

There is nothing worth seeing here.

This house was supposed to be a place of comfort to me,

but instead, it was a site of terror.

I never want to see that place again.

I never want to see you again.

I never want to think about you.

I want to leave it all discarded,

to destroy it as a kid going at a pencil drawing

with a smudging dirty eraser

Here’s a handy flowchart for you:

Do not. Do not. Do not.

Do not tell me that I shouldn’t expect this to go over easy.

Do not tell me

Do not tell me to click here to feel,

to unleash the fires of hell.

Do not tell me that this is why I need to show you

the deepest part of my body and soul.

This place is the bottom of the ocean;

There is nothing worth seeing here.

Nothing worth mentioning.

Life doesn’t get any better than this.

This is my whole world – isn’t it beautiful and grand?

Alone is the greatest place there is!

Heaven is unreachable now.

Can I name anything that would make me happy?

I hate hoping for something that will never happen.

Let the waters rise.

Begin anew and leave this ruin behind.

I know I can go back to the past anytime,

but I would be the only one there.

And here, where no one listens,

I can finally let that one damned part of me speak:

A part of me loved every minute here with you,

despite everything.

I haven’t seen you in so long,

and I don’t think that I ever will again.

I do not think that I want to.

I think I’ve lost what made me human.

I feel so trapped in my own life.

I’m so scared to admit that I have wasted so much time.

I just need to open this door into pure blackness.

I just need to stand her until everything in this room decays.

I just need to open the right drawer to release the confetti and the kazoos.

I just need to contemplate this fake scenario that is perceived as real by the subject.

I wish to dissapear into a narrow void.

The ads say tons of single ladies in my area have already done so.

I wish to leer into a hollow abyss revealing endless interlocking machine-scapes

I wish that the metal pulled at me like a magnet,

leaving me without the choice to jump inside.

Location #4: ??indoors??

Your request to continue has been rejected.

Please try again in never.

There’s not much time left anymore.

The pain never leaves.

You left me with an open wound.

What is it that you’re doing here?

This is my space.

Go away!

Why is your scent still in my nostrils?

Just where did it all go wrong?

Was it the eyes, staring from the walls of the long closed store?

Was it some time in the ballpit,

the singing of the statue angels?

Was it the red neon light in that diner,

or the waters rising over tiled strange stone buildings,

coming ever and ever closer to the roof,

rising higher and higher,

as they once did in that one dream?

Was it the ladders and labyriths,

and dubious doors I did not follow,

the clear wavorwave waves all over the screensaver?

When those were still a common sight.

When the tubes were growing, the waves of musc oscilating.

Was that one deja vu but an unspoken warning,

of such hazards as I had dismissed as impossible,

of thoughts I should have turned away at the door,

never deigning to entertain them?

Was it perhaps crumbled ceilings in corridors,

piles of furtniture, as it can sometimes not be avoided?

Neon lights reflecting on tiles,

snow encrusting old metal stairwells,

cables dangling from the ceiling,

steps echoing subterranian with no one around to hear?

Did it begin already with the water slides,

the rubber balls, the delicate plastic mushroom blowup ring slides

the empty playgrounds from which all other kids have vanished,

so that I can wander them now, spoiled and wasted as I am.

Or was it the distortion,

the cold abandoned shopping carts in yellow sodium light

the skid marks on the worn linoleum floors,

or water-leaking ceiling panels.

That gaze I stole past the half-closed door and paint peeling off the walls

the subterranian colums

of an inner, sunless courtyard?

Nude in a rafty photo cabin,

laying on the deathbed I have never not been laid on.

What an ugly, ugly truth.

Location #5: ??nowhere??

I cannot

keep going

anymore.

I was left a ruin.

Left to rot.

My soul was left in the waiting room.

I begged God to save me,

and he just stuffed more torment down my gullet to shut me up

Nothing is waiting at the end of the hall.

There is only this burning in my chest that never stops.

Why are we forced to suffer this much in life

when death is the only outcome?

Why do we live here?

In this of all places?

I’m a person! Please don’t be cruel!

I guess congratulations are in order:

I’ve finally doomed myself completely.

Finally, I am alone here.

In a deep dark space without touch or expectations.

Barren, empty space.

A stained, heart-shaped bed made to be laid in as one is decomposing.

Emptiness to dissolve in.

Was it worth it?

It might have been,

if only I could feel safe.

I won’t be missed.

The whole world is a cage I am trapped in.

this place, like myself,

has been forgotten,

dropped into and buried by the sands of time

never to be recalled.

The picture is clear:

An ever-dwndling capacity to function in the present,

the final hyperbolic growth of the emotional function,

and at last, the terminal darkness.

So please let me be.

This memory, like all that remains,

will be preserved inside electronical records.

Look here, can you see them?

This here is where I went when I dissappeared the last time.

It’s another world beyond my capacity to describe,

so no one’s going to hear of it.

Here is something that took place long ago.

I can’t seem to remember your face.

We haven’t seen each other in so long.

I wonder if you ever think of me.

And this here, I think,

is the last thing I recall before it all became corrupt.

A fading glimmer in darkness, maybe.

I still do not know what happened after this.

I finally feel wholly and completely lost, but somehow I can’t bring myself to mind.

[impostoradult]

I finally figured out why it feels like Supernatural murdered a unicorn (AKA why you need to STOP telling me to watch Black Sails)

I’ll start by saying, everything everyone else has been saying CERTAINLY bothers me: 

- the queer-baiting - the bury your queers - the undermining of Dean’s character arc  - the wasted opportunity for a certain kind of overall narrative closure - the flat out disrespect to Misha Collins and Jensen Ackles

 All of that bothers me tremendously. 

But there has been something else rather ineffable about this that has left a horrible taste in my mouth that I couldn’t quite pin down until last night. Bear with me, if you will, because this will require some set-up. 

*** This is not the first show to ever disappoint me in a spectacular fashion, nor will it be the last, I suspect. And one of the ways I’ve always coped with that disappointment was to remind myself that there will be other stories, other characters, other chances to get it right. (”It” being any number of things from just pure narrative emotional coherence to not burying your queers to not stringing along your queer audience and then yelling fuck you to them on the way out) 

But somehow that assurance -- that there will be other stories, other characters, other chances to get it right -- has rung particularly hollow in this instance, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why until yesterday. 

I kept asking myself, why do I still have this feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach, like something was lost here that can never be recovered? 

Because something was lost here that I am doubtful can ever be recovered, and I don’t think I’ve seen anyone else talking about this aspect of it at all. 

***

A few months ago, TV critic Maureen Ryan did a great interview piece with Mike Schur (of Parks & Rec/The Good Place) discussing the death of long-form TV in the streaming era. They explore how the longer seasons and longer runs of traditional broadcast/cable TV provided an opportunity to tell particular kinds of stories that you simply can’t when seasons are 8-10 episodes and series typically run 2-4 seasons (thanks Netflix).

One key thing we’ve all lost in this new era of highly condensed TV storytelling (and of prestige TV narrative styles)? The traditional (several season’s long) slow-burn/will-they-won’t-they romance. Not only is there simply no longer the time or space to write such romances, it has also come to be seen as hacky, manipulative, cheap, artistically impoverished, low-brow, a embarrassing vestige of the era before TV became art™. 

Everybody is trying to be Fleabag now. No one wants to be Frasier. (”It’s really more like a 10 hour movie” they all like to brag)

Obviously TV still has romances, even ‘drawn out’ romances. But ‘drawn out’ in 2020 is like 2-3 seasons, maybe. More commonly it’s like half a season. Take Schitt’s Creek. The number of episodes between when David and Patrick first meet and when they first kiss? Seven. Seven episodes. Half a season. If you watched it live, it took less than 2 months for them to move from introducing that dynamic to consummating it. And I’m not bagging on Schitt’s Creek; I think the David/Patrick’s story is very lovely and well-written. 

But Niles & Daphne (Fraiser) had to wait 7 years and over 150 episodes before they finally got there. Josh & Donna (The West Wing) had to wait 6+ years, and 145 episodes. Mulder & Scully (The X-Files) had to wait 7 seasons and 143 episodes. Booth & Bones had to wait...you see where I am going with this. 

And my point is (and I can’t believe I never realized this explicitly until now): there has NEVER been a queer slow-burn/will-they-won’t-they romance of that type on TV ever. EVER. 

I’m going to say that again, because I think it bares repeating:

There has never been a queer, slow-burn/will-they-won’t-they romance that fits the 100-150 episode paradigm of delayed gratification on TV. 

Not ever.  

I can’t think of ONE example  Not a single, solitary one. And I know queer TV pretty well. Arguably the closest we’ve ever come is Legend of Korra, and that ran 50 episodes, a THIRD of the length of old school will-they-won’t-theys like Booth & Bones or Josh & Donna. 

Queer people have had a fair number of canonical romances on TV by now, even fairly long running ones. But we never got a primary/front-and-center romance that you had to root for for 100+ episodes before you got any kind of canonical consummation.

That is a particular kind of TV experience that queer people and queer characters were just 100% shut out of until it was too late. And because of how the TV landscape has changed in the last 10 years, I don’t know that that opportunity will ever come back around in our lifetimes. 

***

Dean and Castiel are/were a legacy of an earlier era of TV, an era that still contained the possibility for a will-they-won’t-they of that particular mold. There were other shows that could have also filled this gap at one time - Rizzoli & Isles, OUAT, House MD, etc. But one by one all of them were killed off, their queer romances unrequited, until Supernatural was the only one of its’ generation left standing. 

And they should have acknowledged that they were a species about to become extinct. 

There are plenty of other valid and compelling reasons Supernatural should have gone full Destiel, don’t get me wrong.

A) It would have been the most emotionally satisfying ending to the series and to those characters (and that would have been reason enough). 

B) It would have stopped the manipulative queer-baiting of the (disproportionately queer) fanbase (and that would have been reason enough). 

C) It would have been queer representation of middle-aged men, of bi men, of queers who came to their queerness later in life (and any/all of those would have been reason enough). 

D) It could have been a glorious subversion of the bury your queers trope, considering how often they’ve died and been resurrected (and that would have been reason enough). 

But point E) on this list is the reason this one hurts in a singular way that no one even appears to be acknowledging. 

Almost all of the other wrongs and missed opportunities contained in this Supernatural debacle have the possibility of being rectified (at least to a degree) elsewhere. I can and I likely will get more bi male characters from TV as time goes on. I can and likely will get more middle-aged queer characters. I can and likely will get more queer characters coming to their queerness later in life, and starting queer romances later in life. I can and likely will get more queer characters who aren’t killed cheaply and prematurely. I can and likely will get more genre TV shows with sprawling myth arc plots that are resolved in a coherent, satisfying way. I can and likely will get Misha Collins and Jensen Ackles involved in other projects that value their work and their talents. 

All of those other things are at the very least POSSIBLE, and many are even likely. 

But a queer 100-150 episode slow-burn romance a la Mulder & Scully or Niles & Daphne or Booth & Bones? That is the one baton Supernatural dropped spectacularly that no one else even has the possibility of picking up again for the foreseeable future. (They don’t even write those types of romances for heterosexuals anymore!) 

Seriously. It was a TV unicorn. And rather than letting it run wild and free, they stabbed it with a rusty nail. 

***

Given the monumental shifts in the TV landscape that have occurred in the last decade, I don’t know that TV will ever go back to the slow-burn/will-they-won’t-they romance spanning 100-150 episodes. Today it is a miracle if you can get ANY show to last longer than 50 episodes in the first place. 

And that is the piece of this that makes it feel (to me) like they murdered a unicorn.  

Because queer people have gotten a lot of things from TV, and they will get a lot more as time goes on. But that one? That one could very well be a totally extinct species.

That is the larger missed opportunity here that has left this feeling especially hollow and destructive. That is the thing that makes me balk when people tell me to go watch Black Sails or Pose or whatever other prestige TV show is doing this representation ‘better.’ Because that’s not really the loss I am mourning here. I KNOW there is ‘better’ representation elsewhere.  

But the will-they-won’t-they/slow-burn romance is a qualitatively unique thing that queer people literally just never got. Ever. There is no substitute, no alternate, no other show I can turn to with that kind of build-up and pay-off for a queer couple, and there probably won’t be in my lifetime. Not unless the TV industry undergoes another monumental evolution similar to the streaming revolution that shifts the incentives back to telling those types of stories again. 

All those shows you want me to displace Supernatural with? None of them can give me the one thing I uniquely wanted (and could have gotten) from Supernatural. THAT ALTERNATE SHOW DOESN’T EXIST. It doesn’t exist. And I have no reason to hope it will ever exist in my lifetime. 

So stop telling me to look somewhere else; you don’t understand what made this one a unicorn. 

***

Addendum: The only other possible show that could perhaps fill this gap is It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (re: Mac/Dennis). But I’m hesitant to say it exactly meets that criteria, for a number of reasons:

1 - It’s far less serialized relative to Supernatural and (except for a handful of stand-alone episodes) very little of the story is grounded specifically in Dennis/Mac’s romantic dynamic (unlike SPN, where it is absolutely central to much of the narrative)

2 - IASIP is fundamentally satirically in nature/tone which makes it much harder to have genuine romantic pathos (not impossible, but harder) 

3 - All the characters on IASIP are fundamentally crummy people who you aren’t exactly supposed to root for. Which doesn’t mean a romance between two of them can’t have its value/charm/worth but it’s not the same as when it is between characters who unequivocally deserve nice things/happy endings

[fruggo]

I’m not gonna lie this would be the first time I requested something so if I do something wrong I’m really sorry,

Can I request Quentin, Leon, Steve, and Frank meeting a female reader who, before the entity took her, had already faced off her own killer?

And this made her kinda tough? Like she knows what she’s doing

oh my gosh thank you so much!! this is my first ever request to fulfill so we’re in this together :DD seriously i really appreciate you!

i decided to do a headcanon kind of format for this, i hope that’s okay! also these are my absolute favorite boys aaahhh this is so fun for a first request

the boys x tough f!reader (part 1) (part 2)

warnings: swearing, reader kicks frank in the shins

word count: ~700-1k each (sorry if it’s too long…i kind of got really excited and uhhh maybe i got carried away,, yeah. sorry)

(also i'll be honest quentin's is not my best. that was the one that got eaten by the tumblr abyss and i had to write all over again, and it just didn't come out the same way that i wanted it to at first :( i did the other boys hoping i'd get some inspiration to fix it afterwards, but i got kind of stuck. so it's not my favorite, but i hope you like it okay! i want to write better stuff for quentin in the future, he is my favorite sleepy boy <3)

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

when you arrived in the realm, everyone thought you would be the same as the others—frightened, confused, and overwhelmed. but you took this nightmarish challenge in stride, adapting to your surroundings quickly and learning far faster than anybody else had.

your past experiences had made you independent and sometimes distrustful, so once you had the gist of things, you didn’t need (or want) anybody to tell you what to do. and nobody was inclined to, either—your instincts naturally told you what to do and when.

the first time you met quentin was a little awkward, i wont lie. you were wary of speaking to the other survivors; you weren’t going to let yourself get hurt again.

it was the beginning of a trial. the nurse’s fatigued shrills could be heard all the way from the edge of the wrecker’s yard, but you immediately started work on a generator, unafraid. a few minutes passed, when soft footsteps indicated someone’s approach. it was quentin—he started to work on the wires without hesitation.

you were a little surprised, only because the other survivors usually left you to your own devices. you got the impression that maybe they were intimidated by you, which you didn’t particularly mind. but you wouldn’t particularly mind some company now and then, either.

it was comfortably silent for a while, before quentin spoke up.

“what’s your name?” he asked, gaze still focused on the wires.

hesitating a little, you told him. then you said, “and you’re quentin, right?” you already knew most everybody’s name just from observation.

“that i am,” he replied.

then it was quiet for a while.

very quiet.

well, what were you supposed to say now?

the silence was deafening and very, very uncomfortable to you. normally you were okay with a quiet atmosphere, but it was the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears, chewed at your stomach, filled the area as if it were something solid. man, what were you supposed to say—

it was then that you realized poor quentin had fallen asleep, his face smooshed onto the generator. his cheek was now covered in grease and grime.

it made you smile—only a little. you finished repairing the generator on your own, causing quentin to wake with a start and bang his head on the pole protruding from the machine. he swore like a sailor until he realized where he was, smiling sheepishly.

“sorry, i wanted you to have your nap. you looked really tired,” you said. you also couldn’t stop admiring the dark grease on his face—it was really quite funny. and no, you weren’t going to say anything about it. it could stay there a little longer.

you spent the rest of the trial running the nurse around the whole wrecker’s yard, only suffering one injury until the end. quentin had no idea how you had been here for such little time and already knew how to outplay the nurse, one of the most difficult killers to survive against. he still didn’t know how to do it well himself, so he was thankful for you.

however, once the exit gates were opened, you found yourself in a bad spot. the nurse had caught you in an empty clearing with nowhere to hide or predict her moves, and she downed you instantly. quentin cringed hearing your agonized scream as you were hooked.

there was no way you were dying on his watch. once he was sure the nurse was gone, he gently lifted you from the hook, pulling out his medical kit to begin patching up your shoulder.

despite the pain, you had enough energy to smile at him and say, “thanks, nap boy.”

quentin feigned offense with a wry grin, pulling out some gauze. “is that all i’m going to be to you? nap boy?”

you hummed, pretending to be deep in thought. “maybe you won’t be if you get me out of here.”

“that won’t be a problem," he smiled, quirking an eyebrow.

“show me the gates and then we’ll talk, nap boy.”

from then on, quentin became your go-to source for supplies and general comfort. you weren't scared of this place, but it was nice to know you had somebody who would really be there for you.

he would often fall asleep on your shoulder at the campfire--he really was a nap boy, and you would never let him live that down.

𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘

leon could not tear his eyes away from you the first time you arrived in the realm. your presence was strong; he could tell you weren’t one to back away from a fight.

most of the survivors had been (rightly) confused and disoriented when they popped into the realm, but you tried to accept it quickly. you didn’t like it, in fact all you wanted was just to go home, but you came to terms with it and jumped into trials headfirst like an insane person.

that was the courageous part about you—maybe you were scared, but you did scary shit anyways. in fact, you did scary shit to spite the fear, to prove to yourself that you were strong enough to overcome it.

and leon couldn’t lie, that was cool as hell.

you had tunnel vision and didn’t pay much notice to the other survivors; you were too focused on learning about this place and getting out of trials. having gone through some real shit, being here hardly came as a surprise to you. if you were going to be here forever, what was the point in mourning? might as well just accept it and try your hardest to survive. maybe someday this sick game would end, but for now, you were prepared to fight for your life and that’s all you could really focus on.

your first trial was not the best. even though you were resourceful, you didn’t know what the objective was yet, so you weren’t sure where to start other than analyzing your surroundings. luckily for you, leon kennedy was one of your teammates.

after being downed immediately by bubba’s chainsaw and tossed onto a hook, you were amazingly resilient to the pain. leon was the one to lift you from the hook, and he took out his medkit to help patch your wound, but you flinched away from him before he could touch you.

he was puzzled. “what’s wrong?” he asked. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he wanted to help you.

you hesitated and looked him over before mumbling, “i’m fine.” and you tried to stand on your own, beginning to limp away. you didn’t want or need anyone’s help.

leon sighed, following after you. “let me help, that must hurt a lot.”

“i told you, cop, i’m fine. i don’t want your help, okay?”

leon opened his mouth to insist, but decided against it. if you didn’t want his help, then he shouldn’t butt in. that wouldn’t keep him from watching over you, though.

but then leon called after you (perhaps a little smugly), “do you even know what you’re supposed to do?”

begrudgingly, you stopped walking. no, you didn’t know what to do. “i’ll figure it out,” you said over your shoulder. and you would; you had been through enough to survive any situation thrown at you.

but maybe one pointer couldn’t hurt.

“do a generator,” he told you, giving you a cheeky grin when you turned around to look at him. he was lucky he was cute.

the first part of the trial had been rough, but after that first hook you were doing a lot better. you managed to find your own medkit from a chest, and you learned how to fix a few generators. you found it came pretty naturally, and were satisfied that you hadn’t needed anyone’s help (except leon’s. but you didn’t have to admit that yet). when the killer came near, you skillfully avoided him and stayed hidden as much as you could.

you were also pretending that you didn't notice leon hovering near you. he was not very good at being subtle; he was obviously trying to make sure you didn't get hurt. it was cute. you didn't want to ruin his fun, so you didn't say anything about it.

it wasn’t long before the gates were powered and in the process of being opened. you saw a red glowing light in the distance, and assumed that must be your destination. you put all of your remaining energy into sprinting to the exit, adrenaline pumping through your body.

but then there was a heartbeat. a heartbeat so loud it filled your head, splitting your concentration. it wasn’t your own heartbeat--it was the killer’s.

the sound of the cannibal’s chainsaw roared in your ears and pain tore through your body; you collapsed to the ground with a cry of agony. shit, that really hurt, and you weren't sure you could ever get used to it. eternity sure seemed a lot longer than you had first anticipated. would you really be here forever? doing this over and over?

biting your lip until it bled, you tried to crawl towards the gate, dragging the lower half of your body with much difficulty. it was no use, though--you hardly got anywhere, and you could already feel the killer picking you up. just like that, you were going to die? you had been so close..

but as you were being placed on bubba’s shoulder, you saw a flash of a police uniform and a blinding light, and before you knew it, you had been dropped to the ground, the exit gate looking awfully lovely and much more desirable than a meat hook. you gathered all of your strength and began limping forward, when suddenly you felt an arm firmly wrap around your waist and your own was placed around someone else’s shoulder.

leon. when you looked up at him, all he did was give you a calm smile, which you felt inclined to return. with him supporting you, the two of you made it safely to the exit and began the long traipse back to the campfire, where you would find yourself spending a lot of time together.

from then on, you always remained quite unfazed by the events of the entity’s realm—the only thing that ever made you feel weak was being around leon. he was just so cute :]

𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍

you had never met someone so persistent in your life. from the moment the entity stole you here, steve harrington was after you, and there was next to nothing you could do about it. he sure was living up to his self-proclaimed role of babysitter.

you told him you were fine, that you didn’t need him following you around, but the asshole did it anyways.

“how cool do you think you are?” you asked him at some point, to which he simply shrugged with that stupid grin on his lips.

“i can take care of myself.” “i really don’t need you to baby me, steve.” “steve, if you don’t leave me alone i’m going to break your kneecaps.” these were all things that had come from your mouth multiple times recently. you were seriously thinking about that last one now.

you knew you could make it on your own, and you only wished he would give you a chance to prove that to him so he would leave you alone. but it was like he had attached himself to your hip, and for some reason the entity seemed to really enjoy putting you in trials with him. great.

he was a dumbass and a sweetheart, and you weren’t sure which one of those took higher priority. you knew he only meant well, but god, you wanted to be independent for once. why did he think he had to protect you so much? you arrived here after running for your fucking life, fighting off your long-time pursuer, and living in awful, ever-changing conditions. you had seen your closest friends die, right before your eyes. you didn’t need to be sheltered or coddled, but you couldn’t seem to make steve understand that, no matter how much you fought with him.

steve would literally throw himself in front of the killer for you. he clicked his flashlight in the killer’s face if they were after you, and he would swear and cuss until they chased him out of pure annoyance. it got him killed countless times, and you didn’t know whether to call him stupid or selfless. probably both.

eventually you decided to just copy him and see how it worked out. you weren’t scared, you had no reason to be. you wanted to show him you could be just as flashy as him.

as you arrived into a trial, steve right across from you (of course), you smiled to yourself. you had brought your best flashlight, and you were prepared to use it. the two of you began to work on a generator together, making light conversation as usual.

“if the killer comes here, hide. i’ll take him away.” “fuck you, steve harrington.” “sure, if you really want to.” “why don’t you ever leave me alone?” “it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” “i could punch you right now.” “but you won’t. i’m too good to look at.”

you know, the usual friendly stuff.

you purposefully connected the wrong wires, making the generator spark and sputter. “oops. oh no, the killer must be on their way,” you dead-panned. steve gave you an unamused look.

and indeed, only a few moments later, you heard the sound of the hillbilly and his chainsaw roaring in your direction. the two of you split up, and the killer’s weapon collided with the generator, making an awful screeching sound.

and that was when the chaos started.

steve began hollering and flicking his flashlight into the sky as usual, and after a moment’s hesitation, you did the same. steve looked at you in astonishment, pausing, but then he started again, even louder. you tried to outdo him.

“HEY BILLY! FUCK YOU!” you screamed, ignoring steve’s attempts to get you to stop. “COME AFTER ME, SHITHEAD!”

steve started actually yelling, just yelling, while you continued to swear meaninglessly. the poor hillbilly looked confused and overwhelmed, and eventually he couldn’t take the noise anymore--he just left, opting to find the other survivors while the two of you sorted out whatever it is you obviously had against each other.

it was dead silent now that the killer was gone, and you and steve were both out of breath. but as soon as you made eye contact, laughter bubbled up from your chest, causing you to collapse against the tree and slide to the ground. your voice was hoarse from all the screaming.

and then he was laughing too, stumbling over to plop down next to you, and your giggling started up a whole new round.

after the laughter died down, you stared at your hands, ignoring steve’s gaze on the side of your face until you couldn’t anymore.

“what?” you asked, finally looking at him. he was smiling all stupid again. “what?” you insisted, fighting off a grin of your own. you hated when he looked at you like that, because it made you want to smile back at him.

“nothing,” he said coyly, laughing again. you punched his shoulder playfully.

“c’mon harrington, when have you ever held your tongue before? spit it out.”

he nodded, that was true. so he said it. “i just like you, that’s all.”

oh. oh.

realization dawned upon your face. “is that why you always--”

“yes,” he interrupted you. “i thought it was obvious. man, you’re clueless sometimes.”

oh.

huh.

you guessed…maybe…steve harrington wasn’t that annoying. maybe.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍

to say you were feisty was an understatement. frank hated your guts at first because you were so good at evading him, which he would never admit. but the thing that made him really mad was that if he ever downed you, you would kick at him and try to trip him over, like actually bruise his shins. it hurt like hell.

this lead to his decision to constantly tunnel you, and he would laugh at you while you were on the hook, too. so you hated his guts just as much as he did yours. it was a mutual guts-hating situation.

your teammates always felt bad for you, but they also thought you were a badass and knew you could handle yourself. you hadn��t told anybody where you’d come from or what had happened to you, but they knew it was something interesting. there was a reason that nothing that happened here really got to you.

sometimes things escalated even further than shin-kicking. there was one time where frank had managed to grab the back of your shirt as you tried to vault a window, and as he pulled you closer to himself, you elbowed him in the neck and squirmed out of his grasp. while he stood stunned and lost for breath, you kicked the back of his locked knee so that he fell to the ground and bonked his forehead on the wall—the classic dead leg.

this was very funny to you.

not to him.

while you ran away, laughing to yourself, frank’s anger built and built. he was tired of letting you make a fool of him, and it was time to be serious about things.

he ignored you for the rest of the trial, forming a plan in his mind. there was something he needed to do after this, so he made sure to kill everybody else to please the entity—he couldn’t get caught up, it would derail his anger train. he also didn’t feel like getting kicked in the balls or some shit, so he let you out without a problem.

frank did some brooding at the ormond lodge before he was ready to go through with his plan. and his shins really, really hurt, so susie helped him ice them before he left.

the masked killer made his way to the survivor camp rather hastily. when he arrived, he saw you pacing around, deep in thought.

so he threw a rock at you.

it was just a pebble, really. maybe it could be considered a rather large pebble, but frank insisted in his mind that it was a pebble.

“ow, what the fuck!” you cursed, rubbing your sore shoulder and looking around to find the culprit. and then your eyes laid on him.

he looked so sultry standing there at the edge of the woods, arms crossed and mask smiling, you could almost laugh at him. he acted so serious, when really, he was just an angry and misbehaving twink.

you put on your best serious face, genuinely trying not to be amused by this, and strode over to the killer.

“what do you want?” you asked confidently, mirroring his body language and crossing your arms.

frank bristled at your approach, as if trying to make himself look bigger. he wished you were scared of him like everyone else, it would really make him feel better.

“i want a truce,” he said.

you almost burst into laughter at that. a truce? what the fuck for?

he said was willing to stop tunneling and camping you if you stopped beating the shit out of him with your sticky little hands. he didn’t say it like that, but you knew that was what he meant. you, a survivor, could beat up frank, a killer, and it upset him and his little ego :(

just to humor him, you agreed. and frank nodded.

“but,” you continued, raising your eyebrows, “you have to give me something else.”

he started to say “no, no way—“ but you interrupted him: “you’re asking me to stop fighting for myself and just give in when you catch me. i think i deserve something other than just not being tunnelled.”

frank glared at you under his mask, thankful that you couldn’t see. “okay. whatever. what do you want?”

“i want to see your face.” you thought this was a good choice, something you could lord over him forever. it was surely only a win for you. his face was something private, and you would be the only survivor to know.

of course you wanted to see his face, frank thought. everyone did; they wanted to find out if he was good-looking. which, according to him, he was. if you ever asked the other members of the legion, susie was the only one to actually respond. she felt obligated to compliment him as she was basically his sister. so she would say frank is handsome in a ruggedy, jess mariano kind of way. you wondered how she knew what gilmore girls was, since that came after her time, but susie would never give away her secret.

so with a sigh, frank agreed to let you see his face. he didn’t really care, all he wanted was to stop having bruises on his shins. it was kind of miserable, and the entity never did anything to help him.

when he said that you couldn’t do it here, and you asked why the fuck not, he said it was because some other survivor might see. you decided he had a fair point, so reluctantly you let him drag you all the way to ormond.

when he took off his mask, your first thought, whether you wanted it to be or not, was “wow! he really does look like jess mariano! but with tattoos! hot!”

you were lost for words. you didn’t really know what you were expecting, but you sure weren’t expecting him to be that attractive.

he could tell your thoughts from the look on your face.

this had been per your request, and you were planning on this being something you could hold over his head, but the situation had turned into something that he could hold over your head.

oh dear. frank morrison now held pretty boy privilege over you.

and soon you would find out that he was going to keep tunnelling you anyways.

listen i've been watching a lot of gilmore girls and i just get jess vibes from frank, except our boy is more of a twinky idk shdjfhsf i love this guy sm

[a-lil-perspective]

70 Encouragements/Tips For The Writer:

A/N: Rules don’t exist. These are real and personal and stem from a deteriorating, exhausted Writer who is here to tell you (and herself) that you are amazing and keep going. I hope you find some encouragement within.

Your mental health comes first and foremost.

Indulge and embrace your creative writing pieces when they come (and when they don’t). Especially when they don’t.

Suffering from Writer’s Block or fluctuating hyperfixation? Me too. So is your favorite author. Welcome to the Writer’s Block Party (all my uwus if you see the pun).

Did you spend five hours on this one segment, forget the last time you ate, develop chapped lips, dry eyes, and a stiff back (time to get up and move), bang your head on the wall, laugh, cry, fidget, take your ADHD meds, deviate to watch YouTube, have an epiphany, curse in frustration and wonder why the hell you do this to yourself? Congratulations, you’re a Writer.

Embrace all the not-so-glamorous sides of writing, and accept the fact they’re going to happen time over again.

When you say “just one more line” and it’s 2:00 AM, I’ll be here to remind you to “go to sleep” (because I’m also depriving myself lol).

Actually, sleeping helps your mind feel refreshed, and it’s good for your health. If you’re struggling with a particular segment, one of the best things you can do is just put a cap on it for the time being, put in a placeholder, and get some shut eye. I know you don’t want to. But you will feel so much better and have more clarity and energy to continue when you wake. Trust me.

More often than not, those words you “just didn’t write down fast enough and now forgot” end up revealing themselves to you later in a much more profound way. Give the words time to get ready. They’re just spiffing up before coming to visit. :)

Be proud of yourself and your prose. Writing is an amazing part of who you are.

That trope has been written 1000 times before? Make it 1001.

You’ve already written this scenario? Write it again.

You’ve just written a single sentence. Now sit back for moment and think: you just wrote something brand new, never before seen. Nobody out there will ever write that sentence or formulate those thoughts the exact same way. You are a unique, mind-blowing, awe-inspiring human being.

Bask in the excitement that comes with a completed piece. Reflect on what you learned throughout and celebrate the little victories.

Don’t be afraid to ask for feedback, but also understand that you might not always get it, and that is OK.

Please re-read your work. Be gentle with yourself. You had to write that very first piece to get to where you are now. Love the process.

Your personal writing success is not based off of kudos or likes or reblogs.

There is no right or wrong way to write.

There is no such thing as “good” writing.

Improvement is becoming of everyone so get comfy, strap in. The journey of a Writer is a lifelong one. Here’s to many more works ahead.

Don’t mourn the words you did or didn’t write. Celebrate the ones you will.

One day, you’ll read a piece that will blow you away—and it will be yours.

There is nothing “shameful” about reblogging your own writing works.

I promise you’ll find your “wow” piece—either in something you’ve already written, or something yet to come.

Baby. Please don’t write out of spite. You’re better than that.

You are just as valid/deserving as the next Writer. And you do belong.

If you feel sad/unworthy when sharing your works or interacting with others’, get to the root of why. Writing should be fun, rewarding, and relaxing. Not shameful, embarrassing, or a chore.

Writing (fanfiction, specifically) is labeled as “transformative works”. Self-explanatory, right? However, if you notice the transformative part begin to have a personal effect on you—a negative one—it’s time to take a step back.

Right now, I can name a single quality you possess: diligence. How do I know? Because you’re a Writer, and the two go hand-in-hand.

Got that single scene in your head but you haven’t completed or even began all the chapters preceding? Bruh. Jot that down right now. You don’t need 20k words beforehand.

Embrace your writing mood swings. The stray, sweet and condensed blurbie. The ideal, bridging drabble. The solid, substantial oneshot. The hefty, elaborate 10k word chapter. Appreciate everything in-between, and that you are capable of all of it.

Nobody remembers that extra word or typo or stray speech mark back all the way back in chapter 3. Tell the little monster in your head to go to hell.

You’re not a weirdo for making facial expressions and mulling through your dialogue aloud. You. Are. A. Writer.

It’s OK if the Readers can’t always see exactly what you envisioned in your head, or the full extent of the picture you painted. We all see colors differently.

Don’t be afraid to experiment with your writing.

In fact, challenge yourself to dabble into a new plot/trope/concept every day, even if only for a few minutes. You may discover you love writing it.

There’s no rush to finish/begin any written work. If you take your time, you will make your mark. You’re not falling behind or running late. Slow down and wait for it. :)

Three cheers for hiatus.

Listen to your body and mind, know your limits and when it’s time to take a break.

Actually take a break. :)

If you feel like you’re falling stagnant in creativity, looking to/revisiting other forms of creative media can help encourage the flow.

Ask for encouragement, and be at peace with asking.

Take shelter in fellow writers. Uplift each other always.

You are/will be someone’s favorite author. :)

You don’t have anything to prove. You have something to share.

Someone is thinking about your work right now.

Someone started a series because they drew inspiration from you.

Personal writing style can reflect a lot on the state of one’s mental health. Try to always be attentive to that of your own.

Self-validation must be cultivated early on or nothing will ever work.

Freestyle every once in a while. Write a snippet, timed, and go—without editing. Write the first thing that comes to mind and go from there. Do it all the way through the set time. When it stops, you’ll find yourself unable to. 3,800 words here we come. :)

Not everything needs an outline. :)

It is completely normal to write your story out of order.

Create guidelines for yourself. If they aren’t working, toss ‘em.

Word vomiting can help you feel better (it’s just how it sounds). By clearing all those jumbled thoughts and scattered concepts, you achieve a clearer objective. Try it sometime.

A rough draft is supposed to be rough.

Sometimes the words come to you quicker than others. Be patient. That is merely the construct of a Writer’s mind. You’re a beautiful enigma.

A sentence written is a story progressing.

Writing is an endurance sport. You must pace yourself and exercise it daily.

You are still a Writer even when the words aren’t on the actual page.

You’re not obligated to a writing/posting schedule.

As you progress in your journey and gain more awareness, don’t sacrifice your style. Those beginning works are what define you. Hold onto them and don’t ever let them go.

You’re the only one cringing—

Remember that sometimes words are elusive and you don’t always have control over them, and that is OK. Sometimes they write themselves. Sometimes your characters come to life and break out into dance across your page. Dance with them. You can wrangle them back when the music stops. :)

There is nothing condemning or embarrassing about asking for a beta. Allow someone to help carry the load.

Allow people to cheer you on—even if they don’t read your work.

It’s OK if your writing style isn’t someone else’s preference.

Be your biggest cheerleader. Sometimes you are all you have.

You don’t need anyone’s approval except your own.

You love that trope/concept/story you just wrote? That’s all that matters. The end.

You will never write good. You will write you. And that is good.

Above all else: remember to write for you.🤍

[calpalirwin]

‘Til the End of the Line

Summary: After receiving Killed in Action notices for both Bucky and Steve, the last thing you expected was to find Steve on your doorstep offering to take you to Bucky.

A/N: This is clearly an “I write what I fuckin’ want” fanfic blog, so get with it or get off.

Word Count: 3.2k

And away, and away we go!

__

1943

The music was a soft hum in your ears, the paper around the flowers crinkling in your hands as you stepped forward. Steve’s arm held you steady as your breath caught, looking at Bucky standing under the altar. Your cheeks hurt from smiling when his head tilted towards you, a soft smile on his own face, his eyes matching the color of the sky outside.

“You’d think you’d never seen Buck before today,” Steve teased in your ear.

A blush colored your face. “I can’t help it if he takes my breath away,” you giggled.

“Mmm, we should all be so lucky,” Steve continued to tease as he escorted you down the aisle, Bucky’s hand reaching out for you as you got closer.

“You’re beautiful, doll,” Bucky whispered as traded Steve’s arm for Bucky’s hands holding onto yours.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I’m gonna love you forever.”

“ ‘Til the end of the line,” he promised and before the wedding officiant could finish telling Bucky he could kiss you, your lips were already meeting.

The honeymoon got cut short when Bucky’s orders came through the next morning. 

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” he told Steve, wrapping the smaller man into a hug.

“How can I?” Steve asked, returning the hug. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

“Watch after each other?” Bucky asked as he and Steve stepped apart, and you could see the worry in his eyes.

“We’ll be fine, Bucky,” you said, twisting your ring on your finger. “But you-” your voice caught as a tear betrayed you by sliding down your face. “You come home to us, you understand me?”

“Be back before you know it.” His thumb brushed softly against your cheek. “We got a honeymoon to finish.”

Your laugh was half a sob as you flung your arms around your husband’s neck. “I mean it. You better come back, or I’ll kill you myself. And I can do it, too. I’m stronger than I look.”

“Oh, I know,” he chuckled. “Keep Steve safe, okay?”

“Okay,” you promised with a small sniffle.

How were you supposed to know Steve was going to undergo risky experiments to try and join the war effort? How were you supposed to know that in two years time there’d be a knock on your door, and instead of it being either one of your boys on the other side, it was some generic desk soldier with two notes in his hands that sent you crashing to your knees? Your two boys, now reduced to two notes, and two broken promises, and they didn’t even have the bodies so you could properly bury and mourn them. “You weren’t supposed to come home this way!” you cried, clutching the Killed in Action notices close to your chest. “I tried to keep him safe! It was Steve, you should have known better than to make me promise that! You were supposed to come home!”

~~~

2016

“I want to go back to sleep,” Bucky said in a tone that made it clear he had made up his mind and couldn’t be persuaded otherwise.

“We can help you, Buck,” Steve tried to plead anyway.

“And when you figure it out, you can wake me up again. I’m done hurting people, Steve.”

“Buck… I-”

“Look. Short of you telling me that Y/N’s still alive, there’s no changing my mind on this. And even then…” His voice broke off and he averted his gaze, not able to finish his thought. That his wife was so far into old age that she wouldn’t be able to recognize him. That he didn’t want to see her that way when he was supposed to have grown old with her. That even if she was still somehow of sound mind, he didn’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes when she realized he had changed into a monster, so far gone from the man she’d fallen in love with.

“She’s not, Buck,” Steve told him sadly. “It was one of the first things I did after I woke up.”

“When?”

“1946. She gave everyone hell trying to find anything about us.”

Bucky gave a small smile of pride. “Sounds like something she’d do. Your sister always was a firecracker.” Then, the smile disappeared. “1946? Steve… she didn’t?”

Steve offered a stiff nod. “She did. I found one of her old journals if you wa-”

“No.” Bucky shook his head before turning to a Wakandan. “Put me under.”

“Buck!” Steve tried again, not ready to let his friend go when it felt like he was finally getting him back. The last part of Y/N and their past they both had, and he was supposed to stand there and let Bucky go under again?

“I have to. I hurt too many people. It’s only temporary.”

Steve sighed in defeat. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“ ‘Til the end of the line?”

“ ‘Til the end of the line.”

~~~

2023

“So now what?” Bucky asked.

Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Keep working for SHIELD. Keep helping those who need us. Try and live a normal life.”

Bucky chuckled wryly. “My life hasn’t been normal in eighty years. And I-” he broke off into a sigh. “It’s stupid. But I don’t want normal. Not this way.”

Steve nodded knowingly. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that his sister had died not knowing that her brother and her husband were still alive. It wasn’t fair they never got to go back home to her. It wasn’t fair that while he got trapped in ice for seventy years, Bucky had undergone unspeakable acts against humanity. It wasn’t fair that their last normal moment had been Bucky and Y/N’s wedding, a timeline that ended in heartbreak when it shouldn’t have. A timeline that he could fix.

Steve jumped to his feet so fast, Bucky thought the man would fall on his face. “What?” he asked, excitement lacing his voice.

“I have an idea,” Steve told him.

“I can see that. What’s the idea?”

Steve opened his mouth, but closed it, choosing not to answer. He couldn’t risk Bucky getting hurt if his idea turned out to be a bust. He had to be a hundred percent sure it would work first. And the only way he could be a hundred percent sure was to carry out the idea, and then give Bucky the surprise of a lifetime. “I just have to talk to Bruce, that’s all. Stay here.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but stayed put as he watched Steve walk off, pulling Bruce aside. He watched the conversation that took place in hushed tones, with Steve animatedly talking with his hands and Bruce nodding along in thought. But when both men went inside the house and Steve emerged a few minutes later in a time travel suit and a duffle bag in hand, Bucky was up and running. “Okay, what’s going on?” he demanded as he got within earshot of Bruce and Steve.

“I’ll explain everything when I get back,” Steve told him.

Bucky turned expectantly to Bruce who just shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just running the machine.”

Sam came jogging up at the commotion. “What’s going on?”

“Steve’s doing a solo mission,” Bucky said sharply.

“Well, hold up.”

“It’s something I gotta do alone, sorry,” Steve said, going to stand on the platform of the time machine while Bruce went to the controls.

“What the…?” Sam breathed in disbelief.

“Believe me, I wish he would TELL ME too, Sam!” Bucky yelled, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“You can thank me later,” Steve grinned, before looking over at Bruce. “Ready when you are.”

Bruce counted down and there was a zap of air that took Steve with it. “How long until he’s back?” Bucky and Sam both asked.

“As long as it takes for him, but about five seconds for us. 3… 2…”

~~~

1945

Steve threw out his hands to balance himself as he zapped into place. He was grateful he had the thought to zap himself into the most inconspicuous place possible: a bathroom stall, so he didn’t draw unwanted attention to himself.

Quickly he changed out of his suit, folding it neatly beside the spare one, and into clothes more in line with the era he was stepping out into.

Exiting the bathroom onto a Brooklyn street, he stopped by the nearest newspaper stand, checking the date. Perfect.

He marveled slightly at the old streets as he walked, allowing himself to get wrapped up in nostalgia. The homecoming he never got to have, and even though he had matters to attend to, he was going to savor what little he could.

He took a breath to steady himself before he knocked on the all too familiar apartment door. “Coming!” he heard a female voice say from inside and his heart leapt into his throat as the lock clicked and the door pulled open. “Steve?” you asked in confusion looking up at the taller and more muscular man that shared a striking resemblance to your scrawny brother. A brother you had been told two days ago was dead.

“Hi, Y/N,” he said with a soft smile.

Your face lit up and you flung her arms around him in a rib-crushing hug. “Steve!” you cried into his neck in joy, relief, and shock. “It’s you!”

“It’s me,” he laughed in agreement. “God, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea.” You held him out at arm’s length. “Wow…” you breathed. “That was some experiment, huh?”

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

“Well, come in!” you ushered, stepping aside. “Tell me everything. Bucky’s not hiding around here somewhere is he?” you asked excitedly, peering around him as he stepped into the apartment.

“No. No, Buck’s…”

“Steve…” you interrupted, your voice a wobble, and tears filling your eyes preemptively.

“He’s fine!” he blurted. “He’s fine, I promise.”

“Then where is he?” you asked, tears sliding down your face anyway. “Where’s my husband, Steve? Why isn’t he home?”

“It’s a long story, and when I’m done, I’ll take you to him if you let me.”

“If I let you? What does that mean?” you asked as you took a seat at the kitchen table.

“It’s a long story,” he repeated.

“Then you better get to talking.”

“So you know how I left to be part of that experiment for the war?”

“Yes.”

“The serum they gave me made me this.”

“Okay. And what does that have to do with Buck?”

“A lot actually. So after being a puppet for the Army, I found out where Buck was stationed. And it turned out his company had been taken. So naturally, I staged a rescue mission.”

“Naturally,” you scoffed.

“Y/N…”

“Sorry… Go on.”

“The Nazis were also experimenting with their own super soldier serum. Buck was part of that when I got to him, but he was still more or less fine.”

“I don’t think I like where this story is going…”

“You aren’t at first,” Steve admitted. “So, we got him and his team back. We started a mission to infiltrate a Hydra base. That’s the Nazi super solider program. Hydra. While en route, we lost Buck.”

“And by lost, you mean…?”

“In the middle of a fight he fell off a train on the side of a mountain… So naturally we assumed he was dead.”

“Naturally…” you said, turning a shade of green, and looking down at the two notices on your table that bore both Bucky and Steve’s names followed by the words “Killed in action.”

“He didn’t die though. But I didn’t know that myself until 2016.”

“I’m sorry?” you blinked in confusion. “2016? That year hasn’t happened yet.”

“I’m getting there. I finished the mission, but on my way back I crashed into the ocean and was frozen until 2011.”

“Oh is that so?”

“I know. It sounds crazy. And it was a shock when I found out, too. But it’s the truth. I woke up in a SHIELD facility in Manhattan in 2011 after crashing my plane into the ocean in 1945.”

“And SHIELD… that’s Peggy and Stark right?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“Okay… So if you wake up in 2011, how come it took you five years to find Bucky?”

“Because I didn’t know he was alive until we were on a mission to apprehend the Winter Soldier.”

“We? Mission? Did you seriously join the Army again, Steve?”

He laughed. “No. I joined the Avengers which is part of SHIELD.”

“Okay… and who’s this Winter Soldier person?”

“Buck.”

“Oh, how nice…”

“Yeah. It turns out that the super soldier serum he had saved him from his fall. But the Russians got their hands on him and brainwashed him into a super assassin.”

“Not very hard considering the US Army already trained him as a sniper…”

“Yeah. So when I found out the Winter Soldier was Buck, I kinda went rogue for a bit trying to get him to be Buck again. Pissed off SHIELD. Got arrested for pissing off SHIELD. Got in a few fights with Tony over it.”

“And Tony is?”

“Stark’s kid.”

“Oh, good for Howard!”

“Ehhhh…” Steve said. “I mean, Buck killed Howard and his wife. And we buried Tony last week.”

“Oh, how nice…”

“Yeah… but we got Buck unbrainwashed for the most part. There’s lingering trauma, but there’s no more worry that he’ll snap back in the Winter Soldier like there used to be. Oh, and he has a metal arm.”

“Jesus, Steve…”

“I know. It’s a lot of information to process all at once.”

“You’re telling me! Not only are you and Buck alive, but you’re in the future?! Where I’m assuming you guys figured out time travel?”

“Yeah…”

“And I’m assuming that all that being frozen kept you from aging, but what about Bucky?”

“Even I don’t fully understand that part because Buck both has his Winter Soldier memories missing, and there was a period where he voluntarily went under for a few years, and then there was the five year blip…”

“What?!”

“Yeah. So in 2011, I started aging again. And after I found Buck and got that straightened out, he put himself back under because he didn’t want to hurt anybody anymore until we found a way to break his brainwashing. He was under for about two years before we pulled him back out. And there was this intergalactic war where the bad guy, Thanos, snapped away half of Earth’s population, which included Buck. And it took us five years to fix that. So we just say that Buck and I are thirty-eight. Because saying we’re a hundred and six draws weird looks.”

“Mhm… So I lost about twelve or so years with my brother and my husband?”

“Jesus, that’s your worry?”

“Well that’s the only part I can wrap my head around, Steven!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. It’s a lot, I know.”

“Steve… I- Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I’m here to take you back with me.”

“Back where?”

“To 2023.”

“Where Bucky is?”

“Where Buck is.”

“I can come with you? I can be in the future with you and Bucky?”

“If you want to. Or you can stay here.”

“What happens if I stay here?”

“Two days ago, a soldier knocked on your door to tell you Buck and I were killed in action,” he said, tapping on the notices. “After a couple days of this haze you’re in, you go on a year-long rampage trying to find answers because the Army doesn’t have our bodies.”

“Because you’re in ice in the ocean, and the Soviets take Bucky.”

“Yeah.”

“I only fight for a year?”

“That’s how long it takes before the pain becomes too much.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. So arguably, bringing you back with me also saves you.”

“Okay… And how do we do that?”

“I have these suits in my bag, and these things called Pym Particles. The suits protect us while the particles transport us back.”

“And Bucky’s there? And he’s okay?”

“Yeah. And he’ll be so happy to see you again.”

“That intergalactic war is over right?”

Steve laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s the way it’s supposed to be. Until the next threat comes along, but that’s nothing anyone needs to worry about right now.”

“Okay,” you nodded, standing up. “Okay, let’s go.”

~~~

2023

“... 1,” Bruce said and there was another zap of air as Steve appeared, this time with another person.

“Who the hell is that?” Sam whispered to Bucky as the newcomer took off her helmet, blonde hair falling to her shoulders in a soft wave of curls.

“Someone I thought I’d never get to see again,” Bucky whispered back, rubbing at his eyes in disbelief. “Y/N?” he asked, making his voice a little louder to reach the woman.

A smile broke out across your face before you sprinted towards the man. “Bucky!” you cried, jumping into his arms.

He instinctively wrapped his arms around you as your legs snaked over his hips, locking yourselves into the other. “Doll,” he whispered in your ear, and you felt a warm tear splash down the collar of your suit, but if it was yours or his, you had no idea.

“Bucky,” you breathed happily into his neck, familiarizing yourself with his scent all over again. “You were supposed to come back to me.”

“I tried, doll. I tried.”

“Buck has a girlfriend?” Sam asked Steve as they both watched the happy reunion between the couple.

“Wife,” you, Bucky, and Steve replied.

“Someone married Robocop?!”

Steve laughed as Bucky set you on your feet. “Y/N Rogers-Barnes,” you said, turning to Sam and offering your hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Rogers-Barnes…” Sam repeated slowly, shaking your hand. “So you’re Steve’s sister as well?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sam.”

“Sam,” you nodded, turning to Bruce who was stepping out from behind what you assumed was a control panel for the time machine you and Steve had arrived on. “And you are?”

“Dr. Bruce Banner. It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you too. And thanks. I’m assuming that was your design? But why Pym Particles if you’re Banner?”

“The particles weren’t my creation. But, yes, I had a hand in helping perfect our time traveling technique.”

“Everyone did,” Steve explained. “Well, those of us who didn’t get blipped. We have a lot of smart minds on the Avengers team.”

“Lost some great ones as well,” Bruce nodded sadly.

“Yeah, Steve told me some of what happened. My condolences.”

“How much did Steve tell you?” Bucky gulped.

“Oh, he told me all about you, Winter Soldier,” you teased.

Bucky winced, flinching away when you reached up to cup his face in your hand. “Please don’t call me that…” he whispered.

“You’ve changed,” you noted, tugging softly at his long hair and beard, before tracing your fingers over his jacket where you knew the metal arm was.

“For the worse, and then for the better,” he admitted.

“You’re still my Bucky,” you smiled softly at him, cupping his face in your hands again, making him look at you.

“I try to be,” he told you softly, before his nose was nudging against yours. “God, you have no idea how badly I’ve missed you. How long I’ve hoped to see you again.”

“Well I’m here now. And if memory serves, you still owe me a honeymoon, Mr. Barnes.”

“And a couple wedding anniversaries. And a few birthdays. Some Christmases,” he said, punctuating each sentence with a kiss.

“Mmm, we better get started then.”

“I’m gonna love you forever.”

“ ‘Til the end of the line.”

__

Tag List (comprised of people I hope don’t hate me for tagging them until I decide to make a more formal tag list)

@cxddlyash @stanofalotofthings @philthepegacorn @youngblood199456 @binxiboo @creator-appreciator @talkfastromance4 @ashtonsunflower @frontmanash @iknowyouthinkimbulletproof @jessalyn-jpeg  

[theunfortunateplace]

Home coming ( Namor X POC Original female character

AO3 18+ Chapter 2

summary 

After being away from home for so many years due to school keeping Adella busy she's finally able to go home after her hard work pays off but what she didn't expect was such an eventful homecoming. 

                                                       Chapter 1

I slid my sunglasses on as I let the door close behind me. After a long drawn-out senior year, I’m finally a marine biologist. If my mom was alive today she would be proud of who I’ve become I know it. “ I can’t believe you’re leaving me!” My roommate Mel whined. I chuckled and turned around while lifting my glasses up. “You only say that because you now have to find someone to pay rent.” She snickered and rolled her “I'm serious, I’ll never find someone like you! Especially someone who pays rent on time” she smirked and I playfully pushed her

“I’ll miss you too if I'm ever back in town, I'll give you a shout.” I smiled and leaned in for a hug. She wrapped her arms around me eagerly. We both knew our words were true. We might have not been super close but we both enjoyed each other's company, especially the nights that kept us up. No thanks to boy trouble

“ Now go before you miss your boat I don't want to be the one behind your anger” she patted my back and I said my final goodbye. The pier wasn't far from where I stayed living by the water was a benefit for me. Not only did it remind me of home it made my student life easier not having to travel hours just to conduct an experiment or research. “Adella! Princesita I've missed you so much!” I immediately drop my bags not caring where they land and snatch my glasses off and squeal. “TIO!” I ran as fast as I could and ran almost tackling him in the process

“Umpf my gosh look how much you've grown” he hugged me tightly but pulled back shortly after “ And this hair you've grown out it's beautiful” he smiled wide moving my coiled hair so that it rested on my shoulders.

“I've grown? Look at you Tio I see Tia finally let you grow your beard out.” He let out a belly laugh grabbing my shoulder in the process “Yes, but I have to cut it soon,” she says, it makes her face itch.” I shake my head knowing exactly what she sounded like saying that she hated when he grew his beard out. He leaned down abruptly and grabbed my bags. I didn't even try protesting because I knew he wouldn't budge. Even if I took the bag from him he would snatch it back. Tio Mateo was very old school in the sense of how a man is supposed to treat a woman

“ I'm sorry I didn't get to come to your graduation.” I groaned as we boarded his boat. He apologized profusely already for this and I knew he was going to start up again. I knew he was sorry and even upset he had to miss it but I wasn't. I understood he needed the money. The boat I stood on now was the one he was constantly sailing around with fishermen that didn't have their own boats. He got a small fraction of whatever they caught but also got paid to keep the lights on. But he insisted it was his duty as an uncle to be there since my mom wasn't here anymore and my dad well I never knew him he died before I was born.

This was going to be a long ride I missed being on the boat. Sure I went out in the sea during my years of college but nothing compares to being on my Tio’s boat. I don't know how I even managed to graduate high school. I was always sneaking on his boat to skip school. Of course, he lectured me every time and had Tia’s slippers thrown at me.

“You know, every time I see you the more you look like your mother,” he said as I stood behind the wheel. I sat down in one of the chairs nearby I always loved watching him.

“My brother would be pissed if he heard me saying that.” He let out a soft chuckle making me smile. I knew exactly where this was going. “Before you were born he would always say you were going to look like him and how he was going to get you to say papa first.” I would be lying if I said I didn't mourn his death and the death of having a father because I did know my mom missed him for sure.

She wasn't native to the lands or anywhere nearby. I laugh to myself recalling the story I heard so many times but it never got old She was originally born in Jamaica and one day while she was at the beach with her friends, she said a man in cargo shorts came walking up to her with the most confused look on his face. She immediately could tell he wasn't from there and when he opened his mouth, her suspicions were confirmed. But good thing for her she knew Spanish. Turns out it was his first time sailing and found himself in the Caribbean and the rest is history “ If you need me to take over I’ll be in the back” he scoffed and shook his head making me smirk. We both knew I only took over in case of emergency other than that he was the one calling the shots

It was as if time passed by way too fast when I was at sea. It was always like that and I hated it. If it were up to me I would live at sea not having to worry about anything. But I know Tia would raise hell she already does with Tio, but through recent conversations with her, she finally eased up on him.

“Oh, Dios mío, ¿esa es mi Adella?” (oh my gosh is that my Adella?!) I heard from behind me. I turned around and was engulfed in a warm hug.

“ Mateo she's grown!” she spun me around observing every inch of me “ but what's this you've lost weight?” I chuckled knowing she would say something like that. Thankfully she wasn't the type to call you out for eating too much or gaining weight. She was the complete opposite

“Just a bit this year was stressful” she tsked at me, shook her head, and dragged me into the house.

“That won’t do you need to eat!” She opened the front door and slipped off her shoes, quickly putting on her signature house slippers.“Your Tio and I cleaned up the house.”

I slipped my shoes off and my feet were greeted by the cold comforting tile. I knew exactly what house she was referring to it was the one I grew up in “But you know you can come back here anytime.” I nodded my head and viewed all the pictures on the wall. It was a routine of mine. It's been years since I’ve been back and I indeed missed these walls. Finally making it to the kitchen the smell of soup hits my nose.

“How did I know?” She turned around and smirked, just like my mom. She would make soup on a hot day. I never understood it. The outside of my body is already hot why would I want the inside to be as well? But I never fussed because I loved how the soup tasted.

“ I made a lot of food for you to take back and I don’t want to hear it.” She pointed the spatula at me and I held my hands up “Mmm after being away for all these years I’ll gladly take it.” She placed the big bowl of soup on the table and I thanked her.

“You look just like Cynthia.” She tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and smiled.“ Tio said the same thing.” I said while scooping some of the liquid goodness in my mouth.

“He's right, the only part of your father you have are your eyes and ears.” She smiled as she continued to fix my hair. Besides me being me my hair was one of the many things she loved. Constantly learning from my mom how to do it since her hair was a lot straighter than mine it still had some curl to it but nowhere close to the ones that grew out of my head. We sat there in the kitchen catching up on everything of course she asked for me to tell her about my relationship.

Just like any close relative, as soon as you were done with school the next step was to find a husband get married, and have kids. And it’s not that I was opposed to finding a partner it’s just that I seem to repel the good ones and attract the ones that should have stayed in the sewer. “ I don’t see why a good man hasn’t gotten with you yet back in my day.

"Oi mi armor, don't bore the child with your love affairs.” Tio said with an annoyed voice cutting her off She rolled her eyes and looked back at me “ he’s only saying that because he’s jealous.”

“What’s there to be jealous about?” He raised an eyebrow

“You do this every time it’s clear as day you get jealous whenever I talk about the men who were on their knees for me.” He scoffed and waved her off. I snickered as they bickered. It's cute that they act like this. Especially at the age, they're at and how long they’ve been together.

“Anyway Adella, your car is out front. You should get going before night falls you know how the street lights are around here.” I nodded my head thanking him in the process. Especially for keeping my car safe. It was too expensive to bring with me while I was off at school so I had to stay here. Tia kissed my forehead and handed me a big bag full of containers. Most likely filled with food.

She took the empty bowl of soup, and I made sure to say my goodbyes for the night. Though the house was far I will always make the effort to come back here. “Don't stay out too late I know how much you love going down to the beach for a swim!” She warned. “ I make no promises!” I smirked mischievously and she playfully rolled her eyes.

And just like that, I was off traveling down the winding road that would take me to my childhood home. A home that I haven’t been to in years but home nonetheless after two hours of driving I finally made it. I piled all my belongings in the kitchen and ran to the beach. I didn’t care that the sun was setting.

Nothing bad ever happened on this side of the island but I always carried some sort of weapon with me. I quickly stripped out of my clothes. I didn’t care that I was about to go swimming in my underwear and bra. The fish are lucky I’m not going in there naked.

I pull my thick voluminous hair into a high bun and make my way to the water that I missed so much. My friends would always get mad at me when we would go swimming or play a game. Saying that I was cheating when going underwater at one point they thought I was dead because I was under for such a long time So when I say I have a love for water I mean it I closed my eyes as the warm breeze hit my skin.

“ I’m finally home” I smiled and ran full force into the ocean. I needed to feel the waves on my back and the slimy seaweed at my feet. My friends always said I should have joined a swimming team. Not only was my swimming good I could see clear as day underwater. When my grandma was alive she would joke about how I was her little fish sometimes I wondered if I was.

She would always tell me stories about how our family were good swimmers. That’s why most of us stayed by the ocean we didn’t need those big fancy oxygen tanks or insulated suits. We could go hunting for fish and didn’t have to worry about running out of breath. It could be evolution it could just be plain luck but she said it was a gift from the gods that was given to our ancestors.

I don’t know much about them but from the stories I was told they were great, no one could compare to them in battle that is when it’s fought fairly. I roll over onto my back and look up at the sky. The sun was setting fast but I didn’t want to leave the water. I knew I'd been out here for hours now but no matter how long it’s been it felt like a mere couple of seconds.

I swam back to shore and lay out in the sand watching the sunset. It feels good to be home and to be done with school. The sound of children’s laughter begins to fade the sun is soon replaced with the bright moon. Nothing in the world compared to this. You could take me to the top of the Eiffel tower, and I wouldn’t be impressed. I sit up and bring my knees to my chest listening to the waves crash and dance

My eyes widen as the water becomes still ahead slowly rising from the water, catching me by surprise. I look around frantically I was the only one here where did this person come from? I jump to my feet and rush into the water. I don’t know who this person was but I wasn’t about to let the die in front of me.

The cold water didn’t stun me I kicked my feet vigorously while moving my arms I needed to get them back to shore! After swimming closer to them, I wrapped my hand around their muscular frame and started my journey back. They were limp I didn’t even know if I could help them...no that’s not an option. Getting back to shore, I wrapped both hands under the man’s arms and began to pull him away from the waves that have grown violent all of a sudden.

Placing him flat on the sand I rush to his side and began performing CPR rapidly, pressing on his chest hoping something would change. “God damn it WAKE UP! I frantically yelled “this isn’t going to work” I quickly placed my lips on his and began to perform mouth-to-mouth. After a few pushes of air into his mouth, the taste of salt water rushes into my mouth. I quickly move back and spit the salty taste out. He turned over on his side instinctively and began to cough out the water that had gotten stuck in his lungs.

I took the limited time to observe the man in front of me. Tanned brown skin probably three shades lighter than me, but the thing that stuck out to me the most was his ears. I’d never seen someone with ears like his they were pointed at the top Just then he starts coughing ferociously my eyes widen and I start slapping his back to get whatever was left remaining in there.

His eyes widen clutching the sand below him then with one last swing to his back he coughed out a big chunk of seaweed. “Are-“ he swung his head back surprised by my voice “Níib óolal” (Thank you)

He said with a hoarse deep voice, I didn’t understand what he said. The language he spoke wasn’t one I knew nor recognized. He tried getting up be instantly fell back down. “Wow wow! You hurt your leg” He looked at me confused then proceeded to stay and stand again. Like the last time he didn’t make it far he fell once more but didn’t get up.

I rushed over to him and tried my best not to injure him any more than he already was. My house isn’t far I can bring him there and help him better. If I kept him here he would just wake up and try to get back to the water again. I didn’t have time nor the hands to grab my clothes they weren’t important. What was important was helping this man. I wouldn’t normally do this for all I knew he could be faking or crazy and then turn around to kill me but I had a feeling an inkling he wasn’t going to harm me.

[friskynotebook]

Help Me Say Goodbye

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Asian plus size f!reader

A professor!Obi x librarian!reader modern!AU

cw: mentions of death, mentions of mourning, food, age gap

Summary: A very self-indulgent AU one shot for this AU series, where Obi-Wan comforts the reader after she learns the Phantom of the Opera is closing on Broadway.

A note on the Asian rep in this ‘verse: In this modern AU, the reader is written to be Asian, plus-sized, and female/AFAB. The amount of Asian representation will vary in the different instalments—some will be based heavily in the reader’s culture, others will not. The reader’s culture is based on my own experiences as a mixed-race Chinese woman and is not meant to represent the vast array of Asian cultures.

I also want to give a special shout out to @obiknights and her work Borrowing Privileges—it’s one of my favourite professor!Obi fics and it’s inspired my own AU. Thank you for your talent and friendship, Brit ❤️

The title, naturally, comes from the song "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" from The Phantom of the Opera. You can listen to Sierra Boggess's phenomenal version here.

Also on AO3!

Chinatown AU masterlist

You bit back a sigh as you felt your water bottle press against your arm again.

“Obi, I’m fine.”

“Dear one, you haven’t had any water in hours. I’m worried you’ll become dehydrated,” Obi-Wan hummed, brushing the fingers on his free hand against your soft purple shirt.

“I probably already am dehydrated,” you mumbled absently, scrolling through your theatre Twitter group chats.

He raised a brow. “That’s not any better, you know that, right?”

You let the sigh from earlier out. Leaning closer to Obi-Wan, you took the water bottle and had a few generous sips.

“Good,” he praised, moving his hand to your hair.

“It’s just—Phantom’s been on Broadway for almost 35 years, Obi-Wan! I never thought it would close. I mean, I knew someday it would have to close, but it’s such an institution! A classic! An icon of Broadway!”

Obi-Wan nodded along, having heard this rant from you more than a few times already.

“And it’s the last production of Phantom to have Hal Prince’s original staging and direction! It’s a spectacle, Obi! You remember, right?”

“Yes, dove. I do remember,” he cooed, tactfully not mentioning how he’s watched the show with you more times than he can count.

“It’s just—there’s nothing like it on Broadway and when it’s gone, it’s gone! Sure there’ll be a revival, but you just know Cameron Mackintosh will bring back the bastardized, scaled-down touring version, like he did with the UK production.” You shook your head, filled with indignation.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he soothed. “We can’t predict the future.”

“But we can see what he did in London, Obi!” You sat up, rushing to your bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“Checking to see how much black I have for my heavy mourning period,” you called back.

“Darling, the show isn’t even closing until February. Surely you don’t need to worry about that just yet.”

You let out another deep sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You suppose?” You could hear the teasing tone in his rich accented voice.

You decided on a whim to change from your t-shirt and sweatpants to a long black nightgown before returning to the couch with your boyfriend.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” he said when he saw your new outfit, though there was no real heat behind the words. “You really are dramatic.”

You plopped down next to him. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be in heavy mourning for a year when you die, as well. I’ll even wear a black veil at your funeral.”

“A full year of all black? That sounds so depressing, my sweet.” Obi-Wan wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pushed his bowl of grapes closer to you on the coffee table. “Surely only a month would suffice.”

You pretended to consider the proposal, popping a couple of grapes in your mouth for his sake. “Fine. One month of heavy mourning and 11 months of light mourning. Sound fair?”

“What’s light mourning?”

“Wearing grey, white, beige, browns, in addition to the black. Absolutely no bright colors.”

He chuckled softly. You were both still teasing, but you could see the hint of pain in his eyes. Though he enjoyed indulging your true crime habit, you knew it distressed him to think about death in relation to you, even if it was only your reaction to his hypothetical passing. “Perhaps we could propose one color for you to wear. In my honor.”

“Hmm . . . How about blue? For your eyes.”

Those eyes crinkled in a way that always made your heart stop. “Sounds perfect, my starlight.”

You leaned up to kiss his cheek, then settled so you were lying down with your back against his chest, continuing your doom scrolling.

You could feel the concern radiating off him, one arm hugging your chest and the other trailing your side. “How about this—if you turn off your laptop for the night, I’ll order in Wendy’s and we can watch the 25th anniversary production again.”

Your face lit up. “We’ve never watched it three times in one day!”

He laughed, happy to see you finally smile. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there, little one?”

No-pressure tags (please message me if you want to be added or removed!): @obiknights @wickedscribbles

[redrobin-detective]

The 101 Deaths of Danny Phantom

AO3 link

One of the first things people learned about dealing with ghosts, other than not to try and date them, is to never asks about their death or obsessions. That doesn’t mean the citizens of Amity Park aren’t curious though, especially about their resident ghostly hero and the confusing and concerning comments he sometimes makes.

“Are you okay?” Phantom asked Maisie as she shook and tried to hold back tears after that car had almost slammed into her. She sometimes joked about getting hit crossing the street of her college campus to pay her obnoxious loans but it was another thing entirely to almost experience it herself. Maisie was nearly twenty, she shouldn’t be comforted by someone younger than her little step sister but here she was, shaking like a lead and leaning into Phantom’s comforting, chilly touch. 

“Sorry,” she stuttered, “thank you, I’m sorry I’m just-”

“Hey, it’s okay to be upset that was very scary. The thought of dying is very scary.” Through her adrenaline and her tears, she took in the ghost’s unnatural glow, his faded, barely visible appearance and the fact that he was floating a foot off the ground. Maisie knows this ghost, this boy, knows more than she ever could about death. 

“And getting run over by a car sure is a bad way to go,” the ghost kid chuckled awkwardly, taking his cold hand off her shoulder to scratch at the back of his neck. “You should see how my dad drives or my mom or my sister if she’s running late enough,” Phantom paused in thought. “No one in my family should have a license now that I think about it. Anyway,” he dismissed with a wave. 

“My sister and I were getting ready to head out to school and my dad was backing out of driveway too fast and didn’t see us and uh, luckily I got my sister out of the way in time haha,” Phantom trailed off awkwardly. Was it because of the uncomfortable conversation or because he noticed her dawning horror.

Her best friend ran the community college’s Phan club so Maisie was a member by default. Phantom’s death was sometimes talked about late at night, everything from wrongful murder to a freak accident. She never in her worst nightmares imagined being him being runover in front of his own house by parental ignorance. It was so normal, a quick mistake and a life lost.

“Oh my god,” he said with an adorable little green blush. “Why am I babbling about that? You almost got hit by a car, I’m probably retraumatizing you or something. I should probably go get the jerk who almost hit you,” he said before disappearing into thin air. 

“Tia is not going to believe this,” she whispered to no one. All she knew is that for the rest of her damned life she was going to look both ways when crossing the street. She’d seen first hand what a single moment of reckless driving could cause.

XxX

Matthew, not Matt or Matty or Hughie, Matthew shivered from the cold. He was only in his boxers with little Pacman on them. It had been fine when he’d gone to bed considering it was mid-August but Phantom and this stupid flaming mecha ghost had tussled outside the summer camp he was working at. He could see some of the kids snickering at his state of undress though he was just extremely glad they were alive enough to disrespect him like this.

“Oh man, I’m sorry,” the ghost kid said with big, sad eyes that looked so human despite the fact that they were literally glowing. He looked around at all the snow and ice left over from his fight. “Jeez you guys must be freezing, I wish I could warm you all up but all I can do is make things colder.”

“S’okay,” Matthew said through his chattering teeth. “Teaching the kids how to start a fire was supposed to be next week but we can get a jump on it.” That got a smile out of the ghost and within a half hour, the other counselors were distributing blankets and hot beverages to the kids clustered around multiple fires. They didn’t seem particularly upset by the potentially fatal attack, Matthew will breakdown about that at a later time when he was alone. For now, he just smiled as the children chattered happily with the ghost while he cleaned up as much of the damage as possible.

“So you spend all day fighting ghosts?” Zoe asked with stars in her eyes.

“A lot of the nights too,” Phantom nodded, “I do other stuff but yeah it seems ghost fighting takes up most of my time.”

“Where’d you learn those cool powers?” Zuri asked, miming a punch.

“Comes with being a ghost,” Phantom shrugged, “my ice powers came in later though so I still struggle a bit with them but I’m getting better every day.”

“Why ice though?” Morris said with his cocked curiously to the side. “I see some ghosts use fire or shadows, why do you have ice?”

“Ah that’s a little personal,” Phantom chuckled but his posture was easy despite the invasive question. “Specialty powers like my ice require special circumstances and a certain uh connection to the ghost. Someone like me couldn’t use fire or electricity or plants, ice is in my soul, it’s who I am.”

Matthew paused in drinking his lukewarm coffee as a horrible thought came to mind. He’s been an outdoorsman all his life, practically from the time he could walk. He’d been a deep woods camping guide for a decade before switching to working at summer camps. But the years working in the relative comfort of a stable camp didn’t erase his knowledge of how unforgiving and deadly the woods in the winter could be. A grown man, much less a young teen, would freeze to death in 20 minutes if it was cold enough. 

It made sense for ghosts to develop powers related to their deaths. Had Phantom been one of the dozens of unfortunate kids he read about every year who ran away in the middle of winter only to found later as a frozen corpse. He eyed the boy’s snow white hair and frigid aura he exuded with mournful trepidation. God, what a horrible way to die. 

“I’d get chilly with ice powers,” Tabby said with a shudder, she held out her cup of cocoa. “You want some of my cocoa to warm you up?”

“No thanks,” Phantom said with a soft smile that was warm despite everything. “The cold hasn’t bothered me for a while.”

XxX

Ghost attacks may be the norm but, if there was one good thing that came out of whole mess it was the fact that violent human crimes went down drastically. So when the rare murder did happen, the shock and fear rippled through the whole town. 

Stanford Newton had only been sheriff of Amity Park for eight months after the last guy had gone gray overnight and moved to Florida the next day. It was a daunting position but one he bore proudly. This wouldn’t be his first murder investigation having initially cut his teeth as a beat cop in Chicago but it would be the first in Amity. And it certainly was the first in which the dead served in an active capacity.

“Amanda Chastain, 27. Officially she was a waitress down at Spengler’s Diner but she’s been picked up for prostitution twice in the last year,” Stan said calmly, ignoring the cold, angry presence over his shoulder. “History of polysubstance abuse as well, not that either of those things mean she deserved this.” Used, beaten to death and then dumped in the trash like yesterday’s paper. 

He wondered if she’d come back a ghost or if she’d finally get some peace this world hadn’t offered her. “We don’t have many leads right now, I’m afraid. Acting illegally as they are, there’s not a lot of resources these poor girls have to turn to.”

“I’ll find them,” The Phantom said with blazing conviction, his voice thick and sharp as ice. “I’ll find and bring them to justice and make sure no one else is hurt again.”

“I believe you,” Stan nodded, shutting his notebook as he finally turned to face the teenage superhero haunting his town. He can’t say he liked what he saw. The Phantom looked even less human than usual, his aura flaring and flickering like the foggy mist before a heavy snowstorm. His unnatural green eyes glowered, painting his too young face in a terrifying light. 

The kid looked furious, clearly taking this death to heart. He’d read the Fenton’s memos about obsessions and such but this seemed beyond that. “But don’t hurt anyone to do it, or yourself while you’re at it.”

“I won’t, I’ll make sure they’ll face human justice and don’t worry,” Phantom gave a snarling smile. “No mortal can hurt me, not like this,” he growled causing the hairs on Stan’s arms and neck to stand on end. He flew off after that, presumably to track down Amanda’s killer.

“Not like this,” Stan mumbled to him, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his brow where a cold sweat had broken out. “Jesus Christ that poor kid.” Stan had seen plenty of murdered and mutilated bodies in his lifetime, some of them even kids. He just never got to talk to them after they’d had their life forcibly snatched away. It would explain the ghost’s near fanatical determination to save others, why he took a stranger’s murder so personally. 

“I hope your own murderer is behind bars,” Stan said as he tucked his handkerchief back into his coat pocket. “Or even six feet under, for killing a good kid like you.” Stan made his way back to his squad car so he could head back to the station and move forward with the official investigation. But he’d eat his hat if there wasn’t a stammering lowlife there by tomorrow ready to turn themselves in.

 Maybe after all this was settled down, he’d delve into some of the cold cases stacked in the cellar. Maybe in there he’ll find a picture of a smiling, carefree teen who’d disappeared and returned with the power now to ensure no one else suffered as he had.

XxX

“Yes, I know about the Phantom,” Luis Oliveira will say to anyone who so much as brings up the ghost kid. Locals know better by now but the tourists eat it up every time. He twists his finely combed mustache and gestures to the floor where his audience is standing. “He died right there oh ten or eleven years ago.”

Luis has worked his way all across the the United States since he emigrated from Brazil in the 70s. He finally settled in Amity Park about twelve years ago. He’d never intended to stay in the small Midwest town but the fatal shooting of a young customer kept his little corner market open.

“He was a nice kid, always said hi to me and paid in exact change. Was big fan of the snacks I made, would stop by after school and take half my inventory. He had big brown eyes and a crooked nose,” Luis would smile at the memory before closing his eyes and frowning sadly. “One day, he came late. His teacher made him stay after to go over a failed test, I remember he complained. He was pulling out his money when robber burst in, demanding my money. I fumbled for the register key, dropped it. I bent down to grab it and I hear shots going off. Two over my head, another right into the boy’s throat.”

Luis will hear the sound of that sweet boy’s guttural choking sounds as he drowned in his own blood until the day he himself died. The robber left after the shot, Luis called the police and held the young man’s hand as he died. The would be thief were never found and Luis never did learn anything about the boy who’d died on his floor for getting hungry after school.

“As soon as I saw Phantom on the TV,” Luis would say, perking up after his moment of somber grief, “I knew it was that boy come back. Those kind eyes, I’d recognize them anywhere. He’s never come here but one day he will and I will be able to pass on my regret on not being able to save his life that day.”

XxX

“I think he killed himself,” Mikey whispered to Lester during lunch period, angling his voice low. “The jocks may love Phantom for his powers but I just know he was one of us, an unwanted nerd. I’ve seen him chatting up a ghost I’m pretty sure is Poindexter, Casper’s suicide kid. They’re probably bonding over their similar deaths and the circumstances that led to it.”

“That’s pretty dark,” Lester whispered back. “I also get unpopular vibes from him but I don’t think he’s the time do uh do that to himself; he’s too stubborn and protective. But I bet he was the victim of a prank gone wrong. Dash locked Fenton in the Janitor’s closet last Wednesday, he got out okay somehow but maybe something like that happened to Phantom. He always looks kind of annoyed at the A-listers, maybe they remind him of old bullies.”

“Nuh-uh,” Clara said, pushing up her glasses with her middle finger. “The ghost kid totally got electrocuted or something. He was fighting that weather ghost and he sent lightning bolts his way and Phantom flinched. He fought the Ghost King and yet a little electricity scares him? It might not’ve even been a lightning strike but something manmade like a machine backfiring or something.”

“Get real,” Mikey scoffed, sipping his milk with an eyeroll. “I’m sure we’d have heard about some poor kid getting zapped to death; this town isn’t that big.”

“We’d have heard about a suicide too,” Lester noted with a wry grin.

“Shut up Mr. I base my theories around Fenton who’s a known weirdo”.

XxX

“I’m telling you, the ghost kid died of some debilitating illness,” Abbie McMillian, retired school teacher and three year reigning champ at the Tristate area’s Daylily Competition. She sipped her tea and spoke with as much confidence as she had back in the day wrangling Amity’s impressionable youths. “The superhero thing is clear wish childhood fulfillment, a chance to live and be free like he never got to in life. You see how happy and carefree that young man looks while flying? Clearly he spent his formative years sick and weak.”

“No way,” Greta von Martin frowned as she aggressively stirred her own tea to show her displeasure. “I worked in a hospital for close to 30 years and I know what chronically sick kids look like and Phantom doesn’t fit the bill. I will agree he’s carefree when he’s not battling spooks but he acts like a stupid teen. I’m telling you, the boy got into his parent’s liquor cabinet or took a few too many of whatever pill was going around his school. Tragic but something that happens every day.”

“Greta, dearie,” Abbie said with a pinched frown. “We’ve been friends since grade school and I love you like a sister but you are wrong and until you admit it, I won’t share anymore of my recipes.”

“You’re just being stubborn because you can’t see what’s right in front of you even after working with kids half of your life, Abbie, love,” Greta sniffed. “And you can kiss my grandson’s help weeding you garden goodbye until you relent.”

XxX

Perhaps one of the most human traits is curiosity, especially about what comes after death. Now the good people of Amity Park know a great deal about the dead so the lives before is what attracts their attention and none so more than the ghost boy. Maybe it’s because he’s their hero or maybe it’s because he’s so young. Or perhaps it’s because Phantom is such a mess of contradictions that it’s very hard to guess how the unfortunate boy met his end. But everyone has their own theories, from the mundane to the fantastic, some with evidence backing them up and others pure poppycock. 

But for all their curiosity, as much as it burns them to know, they’ll never ask. They don’t want to risk the powerful ghost’s wrath but, moreover, it seemed in poor taste. The boy risked his afterlife to keep them safe, they couldn’t ask what traumatic and miserable circumstances had led to this point.

And besides, it was so much more fun to look up at ghostly figure as he sped through the skies and wonder.