#ive been crying more lately. a lot more. and it's strange. but i think it's a good thing.

[orcelito]

You know, I used to be a genuinely nice person. I remember being a bleeding heart back when I was a young teenager. But over my elder teenage years, I just got so totally jaded. I think it killed half my heart or smth. Still working on getting all those emotions back. In the meantime, the kindness is a decision. I try my best.

[figuringitoutasigoalong]

Ugh, the grief is hitting hard today. I think I'm going to marathon clean.

[ugly-pickle]

wait!- ☆ scara

CHARACTERS: idol!scara x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: scara had always promised you that he will always love you and will always have time for you, but he never confirmed that hes a man of his word…

GENRE: angst 🦢 (comfort from another at the end)

W/C: 1.3k

C/W: cheating, moaning, hinting of intoxication, kissing, toxicity, and cussing (if theres anything that i missed let me know!)

A/N: a lot of people liked my previous post so it motivated me to make another! im still new at this so please keep that in mind if a few bits are off (IT’S REALLY REALLY REALLY CRINGY). most grammatical errors are also intentional!

your boyfriend, scara, has a performance today and youre really excited. you received flowers, theyre beautiful. maybe this is an apology for the lack of affection and being more grumpy towards you lately, i mean to be an idol certainly is tiring, isnt it? so it makes perfect sense why he’s acting like this… right?

as always, he gave you tickets to his concert. you couldnt get the chance to say goodbye to him because he left so early in the morning, so youll make it up to him when you meet him backstage.

you got dressed and headed out the door, youre excited to see your beloved scara preform, because he looked happy while doing his job, you were excited to see his smile because… well, he doesnt smile at you anymore… but you quickly brush it off, i mean, being an idol is very stressful.

youve arrived, you tried to enter backstage but some bodyguard stopped you, “hey! what do you think youre doing missy?” you sigh, he must be new, “scara is my lover, i just want to see him,” you try to explain but the bodyguard cuts you off and says “thats what they all say,” he rolls his eyes. “no! really, i am!” you show the bodyguard a picture of you and scara together kissing, “oh” the bodyguard grunts, “so youll let me in?” you look up at him, he looks a bit uncomfortable, “well uhm… ive been given specific orders to not let you in… im sorry,”

“w-what?...”

you heard him loud and clear, the world around you begins to spin, but you quickly ground yourself by comforting yourself with false hopes. maybe hes just planning a surprise for you back there, i mean, it might explain why you got flowers, yea! that must be the reason… you hope.

you found your spot, perfect timing too! the concert begins, you see scara. you melt when you see a smile on his lips, he looks so happy. the crowd screams, theyre chanting 5wirl (the name of their group). venti, xiao, kazuha, heizou, and scara is greeting the audience with warms smiles and kind words.

after a while, the performance ends, it was quite long actually, but it felt so short, time does fly when youre having fun. you head to the backstage doors, hoping that the bodyguard lets you in this time. as you make your way to the backstage doors you see scara’s back in your peripheral vision. hes in a secluded place, he looks like hes trying to be hidden from the crowd, makes sense. you decide to scare him, as you get closer you can see a beautiful lady’s lips pressed against scara’s. you hear the sounds of kissing and soft moaning coming from them.

your heart shatters into a million pieces, it broke so bad that you swore you heard it make a shattering sound. tears fall down your face, youre so stunned that you cant even form words, instead, a pathetic whimpering sound escapes your lips. scara turns around to see where the strange sound is coming from.

his eyes widen a bit, but he immediately regains his composure. “stop crying like a baby and get over it, youre just a nuisance in my life,” now scara was just stomping all over your already broken heart. these simple actions somehow drained all of your energy, just standing was exhausting, not wanting to waste time or energy you give him an “ok,” and you turn around and leave.

you arrive at your shared apartment and decide to eat and rest for a little, so when he comes back you can properly confront him. but, he comes back the next day, hes wasted and the smell of sex is clinging onto him. he walks past you and immediately collapses on the couch and knocks out cold.

when he finally wakes up, youre making dinner. he remembers the encounter from last night. his eyes wander, wanting to look at anything but you. something in the trashcan catches his eye, the flowers. theyre pretty but it didnt come from him.

youve finished cooking, you see scara sitting at the table. you sit down, and placed your meal in front of you and you start to eat. “…what about mine?” scara asks you with a quiet voice. “oh wow, youre initiating a conversation with the nuisance. well, if you must know, that having to take care of you is quite tiring and ive realized that youre quite troublesome and it would be better if you werent in my life. so, kunikuzushi, im breaking up with you.”

hes taken aback when you use his birth name, “h-hey y/n, i didnt mean what i said yesterday… i regret it, it was just the heat of the moment,” he says, his voice trembling a bit. you sigh, “that still doesnt change the fact that you cheated on me, pack your bags and leave, this is my apartment after all,”

his trembling demeanour quickly turned aggressive, “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH LOVE AND TIME IVE SPENT ON YOU?” you scoff, “WHAT LOVE? WHAT TIME? SURE, YOUVE PROMISED ME THESE THINGS BUT HAVE YOU EVER FULFILLED IT? EVER SINCE YOU BECAME AN IDOL, EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU CHANGED,”

the two of you are now yelling. “WELL, BEING AN IDOL IS TIRING, AND BEING BOUND TO ONLY YOU IS TIRING. ANEMO RESEMBLES FREEDOM, I CANT JUST BE BOUND TO YOU. A-AND SHE LOVES ME FOR WHO I AM” youre hurt, you stop yelling, “she loves you for who you are today, but will she when you have nothing?” “NO ONE LOVED ME WHEN I HAD NOTHING, WHEN I WAS NOTHING-“ “I FUCKING DID”

your voice begins to break, “i loved you when you had nothing, i was the one who helped you get back on your feet,” you sigh, hot tears now spilling down your face, “im gonna take a walk, and when i come back your things better be packed.” you leave the apartment, “you didnt even get to enjoy your meal,” he mumbles to himself. he begins to pack his things.

youre walking towards the park, youre tears making your cheeks glisten in the sunlight. you spot kazuha admiring the scenery, hes sitting down on a bench with a pen and notebook in hand, you assume he was making song lyrics or a haiku. you walk up to kazuha and wipe away your tears, “u-uhm hey kazu,” you sit down beside him. “oh hey y/n! nice seeing you here!” his voice is warm and comforting.

“im surprised that you arent swarmed by paparazzi yet,” you giggle, “me too, the quiet is very relaxing. my day has become better now that youre here. wheres scara?” you can feel your eyes watering up “we broke up… he cheated on me,” kazuha hugs you, patting your back, tears are now falling down your face. “you dont deserve that, you really dont, youre one of the most amazing people that i know.”

tip tap tip tap tip tap

you hear the sound of footsteps running, it’s probably someone jogging. kazuha tucks your hair behind your ear while looking you in the eyes.

“WAIT!-“

kazuha presses a gentle kiss on your forehead. you turn your head to see who had just called out, it was scara, he was standing there in shock, tears slipping down his face. “YOU BITCH KAZUHA,” scara yells at him. the bouquet of flowers you threw out earlier was now in his hands. “YOU LIKE Y/N, DONT YOU? YOU HAVE HER THESE FLOWERS, RIGHT?” scara scoffs, “and what if i do? theres no harm in having a crush, unlike cheating on your lover. and, i did give those flowers to her, so what?”

scara turns to you “b-baby you still love me right? a-and not this bastard, right?” his voice seems desperate, “kunikuzushi i-”

A/N: UHMM I LITERALLY HAD NO IDEA HOW TO END THIS- I AT LEAST TRIED LOL ┐༼ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°༽┌

(ngl i wanna make a part 2 because the ending was so messy ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º· )

TAGLIST @justaxiaosimp @mommykukki @xdrin @midnight-pluto @boomie-123 @scaramochies @dnsuhwr874y @hopefulceladon @yukinenikora @akusiapaakudimana @mai-yay @uhfhfhfhf

[paperstarwriters]

ive come kneeling at your doorstep to beg for that essay on murio and luciels parallels you mentioned 👀💦👉👈

i love loathing lucio so much so it would deal my lil hater ass so much psychic damage and i cannot wait to get rekt

(onlyifyouwanttothoofcoursetakeyourtime)(just making sure youre aware id print that shit n frame it above my bed were it to come to existence)

Hello @tetsuooooooooooo! I know you said I can take my time, ok I'm still really really sorry this took awhile, I've been kinda burnt out from classes lately, and writing a bunch of essays for that lol, but I've managed to make a somewhat coherent argument for my case here lol.

Now, to preface this:

I only really like Lucio as a character to thematically dissect and kick around occasionally for giggles. I am a far, far cry from a Lucio stan, I just find him interesting—like a bug. Honestly I don't think I'm gonna convince you he's in any way a good guy I just might make you loathe him more 😅

I haven't played Lucio's route. I'm too busy and I get too annoyed with some of his antics + the options of reactions that MC is allowed to make. I've only played the side stories and a lot of my understanding of his character is built from Muriel's route (and I know he's much more different in his own route than he is in the others') as well as hearsay from other people talking about Lucio

I know I said that I'd include Aurora's songs in my original statement but that got wayyyyyyy too messy so I'm just opting to exclude them lol. (not to mention youtube is doing a very irritatingly strange thing of deleting and then reuploading Aurora's songs??? so I don't wanna deal with the messy files :/)

With that out of the way here is my essay :)

Wordcount: 2,908

──────── ✎ ────────

Muriel and Lucio are both very, very caught up in how they are seen by others. While it's clearer when it comes to Lucio, it is also made clear in Muriel by the fact that Social anxiety is often caused by stress over how a person is perceived and their mental belief that they are helpless to change that perception. This causes of their self perception are also quite similar, due to their similar histories, but in the same way that there are some notable opposites between them with their struggle for their identity there is also some notable differences in their histories that arguably causes the slight difference in their struggle for their self image.

To begin with their history, Muriel and Lucio are noted to both come from the South. They come from two opposing tribes, and are both eventually chased out of their home and community by 1) a cruel person who arguably causes their struggle of identity and 2) the plague. Of course, the major difference here is that Lucio actively made decisions that would lead to him being chased out of his tribe, he was arguably aware that if it failed he'd have to leave, he just hadn't considered that it would actually fail.

Muriel on the other hand is chased out of his home at a much younger age, and he has no choice in his eviction from his home or his family. There is no action that Muriel could have done that would have allowed him to stay where he was, unlike Lucio who had a clear option that would have allowed him to stay.

Or at least would have allowed him to stay until he grew tired of his mother's attitude towards him.

I don't believe that Morga's cruel and dismissive attitude towards Lucio started when he tried to kill her, rather, I believe that she has been doing that for a long, long time. She often states that she had been "too soft" on Lucio, but I think her "softness" is the same kind we see in Muriel's route. She berates him, she threatens him, she tells him how awful and unskilled he is to everyone else and makes a show of his failures, but when she is completely and fully enraged and is about to hit Lucio, she hesitates.

Is that softness? To her perhaps. To the tribe, perhaps. But not to me, and not to Lucio.

So, despite all of the harsh words thrown his way, he decides to take action to prove her wrong. I'm willing to bet that a lot of Morga's criticisms were about how strong he was and how he was in fact not actually as strong as he could have been, not as strong as he should have been. That's why when he takes action to prove Morga wrong, he immediately snaps to killing her. There is, after all, no better way than showing your power than killing your opponent (we see this belief in Morga when she spars against Muriel and he beats her.) Of course, in hand-to-hand combat, and on fair terms, Lucio can't actually defeat his mother, so he takes to more under-handed methods in order to beat her.

When this fails, it is the first major wound on his self-image. He cannot defeat his mother. He is not strong enough to defeat his mother despite cheating.

So, he runs away.

Besides marking a wound on his self-image, this also marks Lucio's connection to others. Having been exiled from his tribe, he is disconnected from the friends who may have actually supported him somewhat, he is robbed of his connections and separated from anyone who may have actually loved and cared for him (platonically and/or romantically)

Similarly, Muriel's separation from his own family, and his eventual abandonment into the streets of Vesuvia separates him from any stable sense of love and affection as well. Because he was separated from loving parents as a child and was likely surrounded by a number of children who were abandoned because they were unwanted, or because their parents were unable to care for them, Muriel has no other answer than what the other kids give him it is the only answer he has. Further more I believe that Muriel was probably abandoned by that merchant because they were unable to keep feeding him, which he also attaches onto his real parents as to why he was abandoned in the first place.

And so Muriel believes himself to be unloved and unlovable after being separated from family, or any semblance of a family.

Returning to Lucio, he moves on from his tribe and eventually joins a military group(? I think? Idk. I'm sure there was a specific name for it but I can't remember sorry) Once again, this is an act of trying to prove to his mother and to his community that they were wrong, and when compared to the ordinary person outside of their tribe, he's actually a really good and capable fighter. Of course, however, this is inevitably cut short as he looses his arm, and is once again confronted with the fact that he is unskilled as a warrior and so he retreats from his perceived deficiency and takes a different route to getting the love and admiration he wants—politics.

Of course, as we see in Muriel and Asra's childhood tale, this inevitably puts him into direct conflict as, in order to climb the social ladder he offers to "clean up" the streets. While it's largely left up to interpretation as to whether or not the Threat of Asra's safety came first or Muriel's position as a gladiator came first, I can't help but believe that Muriel's position as a gladiator came first, as otherwise, he might've gone out and tried to check on Asra's safety. (though this is mostly a headcannon) I believe that Lucio offered Muriel a chance to have some say in who gets "cleaned up" from the streets, and for Muriel to be able to get rid of the "actually bad criminals". Regardless of whether or not this is true, the arena gives Muriel his first taste of admiration, as people cheer for and adore him, but it also tears that sense of admiration away as he eventually has to come to terms with what he is doing. Whether that sense of dread and awareness was always there or it occurred somewhere in the middle is also unknown but the outcome is the same regardless. Being known and being admired becomes tied to hurting and harming people—because it is the only trait he sees that other people admire, he sees it as his only lovable trait.

And so Lucio and Muriel begin to reflect each other—and I don't mean reflect as in they show the same image, I mean reflect as in we see a similar image, but the image is reversed (*wink wink nudge nudge*). Here Muriel sees himself as only capable of being loved for his ability to commit violence, and Lucio sees himself as being incapable of being loved because he cannot complete the amount of violence he needs to commit.

Now, I feel the need to emphasize here, despite having many people around him who Lucio may truly believe love and admire him, the people around him very likely don't actually care for him very much because they either do not know him well, or they see him as little more than a pawn in a plan, or at least someone who gives them benefits. And even if there are a number of people with genuine admiration for Lucio, it still wouldn't be enough. Admiration is never enough when you lack genuine emotional connections with others, and Lucio, clearly does.

Again, this parallels Muriel who also struggles with a lack of genuine emotional connections to others. Although he has Asra with him, it's clear that, Asra's tendency to be fickle with connections has extended to him as well, especially when Asra spends more time with MC than him, leaving Muriel feeling abandoned and alone. Considering that Asra is the only person we ever really see Muriel connect or talk to, it's no stretch to say that Asra is one of Muriel's only friends, if not their only friend period, and so with Asra disappearing on him as often as they do, Muriel is left feeling that he actually has no connections at all.

Of course once again reflecting each other, where Muriel clearly sees he lacks connections and pretends he does not, Lucio, makes unsteady transactional rather than emotional relationships and pretends that that is enough.

It is of course, not enough, because if it were, he wouldn't have treated Muriel like that, he likely wouldn't have plucked Muriel out at all. Although this is largely speculation, I believe that Lucio treated Muriel the way he did because he feels as if Muriel is the very child Morga would have wanted. He is big and strong, and although not technically skilled if Muriel were raised by Morga like Lucio was, he might've been. This is why his first reaction to seeing Muriel and Morga working together is that Muriel is Morga's replacement son. It's because that's how Lucio had been treating him. Muriel is Lucio's little avatar to live out the glory of being a fantastically skilled fighter who can beat up all of his opponents. This is also, why I believe that Lucio purposefully trained Muriel to be less skilled in fighting than he was. In Muriel's route, Lucio comments that he's always been able to beat Muriel, and while I do in fact believe that Lucio is actually a skilled fighter, despite how he is often presented and despite my arguments above—he's most often a skilled fighter in the technical sense. He knows all the movements, he knows all the strategies, he knows all the underhanded tricks. By not fighting Muriel too often, and refusing to teach him these tricks however much it may be able to help Muriel out in the arena, it allows Lucio to be able to defeat him whenever he wants to. It allows Lucio to make it seem to himself that he is better than the person his mother would have wanted as a son, which I believe to be both horrible but also sad, for both Lucio and Muriel.

With Lucio, it shows how desperate and inferior he feels with his fighting skills, constantly trying to compensate for it something we can also see that in the portrait of himself he has in his room.

For Muriel, it keeps him scared, and keeps him pinned in place despite having realized the consequences of his fighting. Something which only furthers his self-hatred when he realizes he actually could have easily left.

So yes, Muriel and Lucio are both very self conscious people, and while for Muriel his self consciousness stems from people seeing him as a monster, and him believing that he is one although he does not want to be one, Lucio is self-conscious in the fact that he is not seen as the brutal fighting warrior he was supposed to be.

These reflected aspects of each other, alongside of their self consciousness is the very thing they struggle through in their routes, the very thing that MC helps them to get through.

Lucio believes that through various paintings of himself that rearranges his past (paintings of himself as a triumphant fighter, while his mother is demure and elegant), various unfair/practically staged fights, and celebrations of himself on top of it all, he would be able to convince people that he is awesome and amazing and that he deserves to be loved. In doing all of this however, Lucio runs away from confronting the beliefs at his core and wondering if perhaps, what he understood as traits that make a person great may be incorrect—that his mother had not just been incorrect on the fact that he was a failure, but on the fact of what makes a person successful or powerful. By constantly covering up what he sees as deficits, Lucio skims over his own internal struggles entirely which makes him look foolish and annoying as he ignores what's so clearly there for others.

Meanwhile, for Muriel, he is aware of his deficits, and is unable to properly hide them without disappearing completely himself, he tries to figure out and fix all of his problems through introspection and isolation, but it is not something he can do on his own. Muriel of course, can't accept the fact that he may need help. He can't accept the fact that despite what he believes of himself, other people may actually care for him the same way he cares for them, and will actually offer help. And so, as he runs away from people and community, from friends, and possible friends alike, Muriel runs away from his own problems as well, even if he tortures himself with confronting them (I can't remember if he actually does this or if this is a fanfic trope 😅) Essentially, by constantly trying to deal with his struggles on his own, he neglects his connections to others who may help him, or at least offer support.

And then MC comes along, and because they both desperately needed that deep connection to someone else, regardless of whether it is something platonic or romantic. MC is able to leverage their relationship in order to further propel Muriel and Lucio's development into acknowledging the thing they refuse to acknowledge, and finally balance out their coping mechanisms, which, on their own isn't actually unhealthy (Lucio's really good at connecting with others; Muriel knows how to confront his inner turmoil) using that single method as their crutch for their traumas only ever hurts them more.

As Muriel progresses through his route, he grows more connected with his community and people. One meaningful moment that I don't think they give enough screen time in the game is the moment that Muriel is forced to confront people recognizing and seeing him again. He's forced to confront everyone's perception of him, their memory of him and he retreats into the mirror maze where he stares at all these reflections of himself, all reversed images of himself, but he believes them all to accurately represent himself—as if his superficial physical image is what represents himself mentally and emotionally. And then MC (and Morga 🙄) come through to him and pull him out of that panic attack (or interrupt and yank him away from properly addressing the problem in Morga's case 😤) And that's the first step to being loved. As they say, in order to let yourself be loved you have to let yourself be known, and in that first step, choosing to step forward and prioritize the lives of others over his own self image, Muriel begins to be admired by others. Genuinely admired, for traits that he likes in himself rather than traits that he hates.

Similarly for Lucio, (although I haven't played his route so this is largely based on hearsay) he's faced with problems that he Has to face on his own (or at least somewhat on his own) the main one being that he has to confront the consequences of his own actions, he has to acknowledge to himself that he isn't perfect and that he can't be perfect. It's why at the end of his route on the upright ending, he leaves Vesuvia, to take on a life of (semi)solitude to further take some time to improve his ability at introspection, while in the Reversed ending he's still talking with people, still trying to manipulate their perceptions of him (and the MC), and still trying to be a "good boy" (ie. perfect) for the MC.

Now, it may be argued that Julian can/should be included in this struggle of how others perceive him but I raise you this; that guy is the most dramatic ass dude in town and his biggest dramatic act was telling everyone about how horrible he is. He clearly has no issues with how other people see him, but he has problems with how he sees himself, which again, reflects Muriel a bit, but I'm sure most people are familiar with their (more blatant) similarities by now lol

So yea.

Muriel and Lucio are reflections of each other. At their core, they both struggle with the same problem of caring way too much about how they're seen by others, but they cope with (and thus worsen) the problem in opposite ways, so when they take steps to heal themself, they also go in opposite directions, with Lucio needing to take some time to himself to get into his own head, while Muriel needs some time away from himself to get out of his own head.

Essentially they're heading in opposite directions to reach the same conclusion: other people's opinions don't matter as much as your own opinion of yourself and the opinions of the people close to you.

Interesting parallels, no?

Of course, I believe this could've been better illustrated if Nyx Hydra didn't rush the last three routes, but alas, this is what fan fiction and fan-analysis is for lol

Anyways I don't tend to poke around the Lucio side of the fandom too much to begin with so if this has all been said and argued before forgive me for the repetition, and If I've gotten some points wrong, please feel free to correct me! I've mentioned before I haven't really played through Lucio's route so some things may be wrong.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

Fic: Misty, chapter x (the end)

chapter i | chapter ii | chapter iii | chapter iv | chapter v | chapter vi | chapter vii | chapter viii | chapter ix | chapter x

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit (whole thing)

Fandom: Prospect

Pairing: Snowman!Ezra x f!reader (monsterfucker au)

Tags: it’s basically monster fucking but with a snowman which could technically be classified as a monster i guess?, gothic horror kind of, sorrow, dementia, anxiety, dog murder, masturbation, Frankie thirst, pet murder, racism mention, huge age gap, implied possible sexual abuse of minor, spookiness, PiV sex with an actual snowman, possible hallucinations, hypothermia, Frankie yearning, the spookiness continues, More dog murder and implied sexual abuse of a minor, implied illegal abortion, adulterous kissing, lots of crying.

Chapter warnings in addition to the above mentioned: Character death.

Summary: Escaping your empty apartment after having been dumped by your fiancé, you rent a cottage at Oakgrove House over Christmas to nurse your wounds. But strange things seem to happen at the estate, where an old woman wanders around in search of old friends long gone, and snowmen appear as if by themselves on the lawn…

Chapter word count: 1,985

A/N: You know what the problem is when you start a fic, write on it for a couple of weeks, then leave it be for the next eleven months or so? You forget the original idea. (Unless of course you were smart enough to write down the entire synopsis, which of course I wasn't.) This is a very different fic from what I wanted to write during Christmas of '21. But sometimes change is good, I guess. Thank you, readers! The epilogue is for you.

Tagging: @harriedandharassed @paulalikestuff @pazizz @lovesbiggerthanpride

You wake up on the couch with no idea how you made it there. Curled up against the cushiony seat and with a blanket thrown over your naked form, you slowly blink your eyes open. The first thing that you notice is that there is sunlight rippling in through the window. You have not seen the sun in weeks, it seems. But there it is: a faint, end of December sunlight that tells you that it is late in the morning, and you need to move on. The official check-out time is noon, but Denise had told you when you spoke to her over the phone that one hour here or there does not matter. You have to clean up, however.

Stretching out carefully, you notice the light scratch of the wool blanket on your skin. You're naked, but warm and comfortable. There is a soft beat in your pelvis, like little tremors lingering after an earthquake. You recognize it as the aftermath of an orgasm but have never experienced it so long after the actual event.

Last night comes back to you and brings a smile to your lips. You have no fear, no disgust, no confusion. Everything seems crystal clear, and you feel amazing, filled with new energy and hope. You get up and take a shower, enjoying every single drop of water washing away anxiety and dust. You take the showerhead in one hand and direct it between your legs as you brace yourself against the wall with your other hand, head thrown back with a low moan as you give yourself the quickest orgasm you've ever had. Positively glowing, you dry yourself off and look at yourself in the mirror. Your face does not seem to match up with your mood: you have dark bags under your eyes, your skin is pale, almost ashen, and the lines you have seem deeper. Not letting that affect you, you get dressed and start to clean up the place. You do it humming, and on light feet, as if a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders.

The photographs and the letter are put back in the attic, right where you found them. They are not yours to keep. You make sure the bookcase looks untouched, the postcards back in their hiding places. As you sweep the floors, you have time to think about what happened last night, the revelations that had been shared with you.

Ezra was not innocent, despite his willingness to help Olga. He knew about her feelings, her age, and he exploited her. He could have helped her get the abortion without asking for anything in return. He manipulated her into killing her dog just to see if she would do it. You know this. You have had him inside of you and you know his mind, for it has been inside yours. He was untamed and complicated, the blurry grayness between the boring absolutes of black and white.

Maybe the killing of Snowflake prepared Olga for what she might have to do one day. Maybe it was Ezra's way of helping her beyond what he himself was willing or able to do. For reasons unknown, he never intended to take her with him, you know that now. Maybe he gave her the next best thing: a capacity for death.

Fifteen minutes past twelve, you put your bag into the trunk of your car and brush the snow off the vehicle before walking up to the main house to leave the key. The sunlight has diminished slightly by now and clouds are gathering again, but that does not affect your mood. You're excited to return home, get rid of the apartment and move into a new one, one that's not sullied by the memory of your treacherous ex. The rat, with its sharp teeth and claws red of your blood, is gone from inside your ribcage, and you are going to leave it behind, run over it when you drive away from Oakgrove.

Denise answers the door and you can immediately see that she has been crying.

"Oh, right, you're leaving," she says, as if she had completely forgotten about you. Accepting the key, she takes a deep breath.

"Mom died last night."

Your mouth falls open. "Oh. Oh... I'm sorry. That's... but she was out only yesterday?"

"Yes, know," Denise acknowledges. "We had dinner and then she went upstairs for a lie-down. Later when I went to check on her, she had passed away. In her sleep, apparently. The ambulance was here around nine, you didn't notice?"

You strain to remember what time it had been when you had seen Olga and Ezra last night, but you have no idea. Did you catch a glimpse of the clock when you used your phone as a flashlight in the attic? Not that you can remember.

Your face must have betrayed something, because Denise tilts her head.

"Are you okay?"

It is ridiculous that she, who just lost her mother, should ask that of you, so you hurry to nod.

"Yes, I'm just... she seemed well enough yesterday. I'm so sorry."

"I feel bad for thinking it," Denise confesses with a grimace, "but it feels like it's better this way. She never had to end up in an institution. If her dementia had progressed, she would have become too much for me. She could die in her own bed, in her home."

A sad little smile plays on her lips. "She never left home, you know. Grew up here, never went anywhere, not even vacation. She always wanted to stay close to home."

You swallow, casting down your eyes.

"Did she have siblings? Maybe someone who's still alive?"

Denise shakes her head. "She had a brother, but he died young. Some kind of accident, she never spoke about it."

Your bright mood darkens and your stomach twists. Olga's daughter does not know what you know. It seems unfair, but how could you ever tell her? How could she ever believe you?

Expressing your condolences once again, and thanking Denise for the rent of the cottage, you finally turn around and walk to your car. Thoughts spin around your head and you try to lay them to rest with Olga. There is nothing more you can do but return home and live in the knowledge that half a century ago, something horrible happened here and this Christmas, you found out what that was through a series of inexplicable events.

If anything of is it true, that is. You have the words of an old woman with memory disease, and the gestures of a ghost. A fucking ghost, who possessed a snowman that you can find no traces of. A snowman that had sex with you.

Your good mood is gone and instead, you feel light-headed. The sun is obscured by dark clouds, and a couple of snowflakes come dancing down. Before you've reached your car, it's coming down as thickly as it did a few days ago, when you arrived. Before you get into the car, you look around you, maybe expecting the snowman to still stand on silent guard somewhere. But there is nothing but snow covering a front garden. The windows of the picturesque little cottage are dark. You glance up at the attic window, maybe expecting to see something up there. What, you don't know.

Eventually, you brush the snow off of your coat, and get into the car. Adjusting yourself on the seat, you frown when your coat gets stuck uncomfortably under you. Lifting your ass, you reach underneath you to smooth the fabric out, and your hand touches something hard.

It's a leatherbound diary. When you open it, you see Olga's name written on the first page, along with the letters, photographs, and cards that you found. The date of the first entry is the first of May 1952.

You look around you, check the mirrors, but of course you see no one. Putting the diary on the seat next to you, you start the car and back out of the driveway. You’ll read it when you come home. Maybe.

When you reach the junction where the road divides into a smaller section that leads to the lake, and the main one continues away from the house, a small, white dog runs right in front of your car. You step on the breaks with a startled shout, and the car comes to an abrupt stop. You weren't going fast, thankfully, but your heart is beating as you put the car in park and unbuckle your seatbelt to go out and have a look. Before you have opened the door, however, you see the animal by the roadside. It's a rabbit in its white winter coat. Its black eyes glare accusatorily at you before it hops off. You stare after it as your heart slows down, and for a moment you half expect to hear Olga's haunting cry for her pet.

But there is only silence, save for the whir of the heater. When your legs have stopped shaking, you release the handbrake and gently press down on the gas pedal. For the last half mile before the county road, you drive slowly through the falling snow, checking the sides of the road but seeing nothing more. When you reach the end of the private road and hit the turn signal, you're met by a pickup truck that slows down enough for you to catch Frankie nod at you through the window. Before you can nod back, he's away towards the house.

Speeding on the county road, Ezra's smirk haunts your rear-view mirror. You put on the radio and block him out, focusing instead on what lies ahead.

I can't find him Misty... Oh, please, can you help me? He must be somewhere Open window closing Oh but wait, it's still snowing If you're out there I'm coming out on the ledge I'm going out on the ledge

Kate Bush: Misty

epilogue

Winter has turned into spring when you're packing up the last boxes in your old apartment, the one that you shared with your ex. In your pocket burns the keys to your new place, your very own place, where your own bed, a brand new one, waits to embrace you.

There is a knock on the door, and you almost skip to the door, expecting your friend to come and help you carry your belongings. But it's not her, but Frankie, the gardener from Oakgrove House.

"Hi," he smiles bashfully, clearly awkward with the situation, yet there is a hopeful glint in his eye.

"What... what are you..."

"I know. It's bad, isn't it?" He pulls the baseball cap off his head and scratches his hair.

"How did you find me?"

"I asked Denise. Said I found something in the garden when the snow melted, something that belongs to you."

"Did you?"

"No."

"What do you want, Frankie?" You are now alarmingly aware of how inappropriate this is, and Frankie seems to be thinking the same.

"I wanted to see you."

"Here I am," you state dumbly. He chuckles low, but his eyes have a dark intensity to them as he looks at you.

"Here you are."

"And where is your wife and kid?" you ask harshly. Frankie casts down his eyes and clears his throat.

"At home. I mean... at her home. She filed for divorce between Christmas and New Year."

You want to say you're sorry, but that would be a lie. Frankie shakes his head.

"It was stupid of me to come here. I'm sorry."

He turns around abruptly and starts to walk away. You take a step out.

"Frankie?"

He stops and turns around. "Yes?"

"You good at carrying boxes?"

His smile is a little lopsided, but warm.

"I get by."

You wave at him to follow you, then return inside.

[sterlingarcher]

I love seeing your posts about like bandom history and just discussion and reflection from a more mature adult's angle, it's really relatable to me at 29. And while I have not involved in bandom before late 2015, I have studied a lot myself, and Panic! and Brendon were my first faves and still high up there. It really disappoints me how brutal antis are as I have figured them out to a T, treating minor errors as hate-crimes from Brendon but not anyone else. Are we not all human?

i havent checked my messages in so long so im not 100% certain when this was sent but this was a really nice thing to stumble upon today 😭😭😭 it makes me feel good to know that there are people out there who can sort of ~smell what im stepping in~ so to speak and that when i talk about this stuff its not always falling on deaf ears. ive always rejected the term “anti” because it feels so immature to say, but honestly what other word is there to even describe most of these people? haters? bullies? assholes? they dont have any actual critical thought behind why they came to hate brendon, they just know it became the cool and popular thing to hate him and “blame him” for shit and they couldnt bear the thought of not following the crowd and fitting in. youd be hard pressed to find me anyone whos life has been documented and scrutinized for as long as and as harshly as brendons since they were a teenager who HASNT stumbled or fucked up or put their foot in their mouth at some point. its wildly hypocritical because these people act very pure and righteous, and like theyve never done or said anything wrong or questionable or problematic in their lives which is just…. quite literally patently untrue for every person on earth. to assert moral and ethical superiority over a person like brendon is to be horrendously disingenuous, and it grossly highlights the efficacy of social media fandom war smear campaigns, lack of proper journalism, and the terrifying degeneration of peoples ability to engage in critical thought and perform unbiased fact-based research. these people act like brendon singlehandedly committed genocide or some shit, and honestly i find these people spend far more time thinking and talking about him than we as fans do. like he quite literally lives in these peoples heads rent free, and these are the same people who call us pathetic for still enjoying him and his music after all these years and not dropping off and following the crowd of sheeple like they did. like these people have the nerve to behave like 13 year old lunch-room bullies and then turn around and call people cringe and pathetic for *checks notes* … enjoying someone and their art and music. like honey the call is coming from inside the house. they love to use the classics like “jeez its just a joke” or “its not that deep…” when the reality is that if it was truly not that deep they wouldnt spend so much time obsessing over him and talking about him more than his fucking fans do. they quite literally troll his and panics tags and quote retweet and reblog almost everything they see with a shitty snide remark that they truly think is soooo clever and original (🙄) like its their fucking 6 figure paid career path. they constantly poke the bear, go swinging at a hornets nest with lead pipes, and then they get confused and pissed when they get bit and stung. like literally dude what did you expect? you come into a space specifically to cause trouble and piss people off and then act like the victim when you actually accomplish that??? call people cringe and fail and annoying and strange when they get emotional over something they clearly care deeply about??? as though if the tables werent turned these people wouldnt immediately start screaming crying throwing up and playing the victim. honestly though at the very end of the day i truly believe these proudly self-proclaimed “haters” are more miserable than ill ever be no matter how bad my life circumstances get. because ultimately i only spend a few hours, maybe a day or two at most being pissed that these bullies and mean-girls exist and love to invade our spaces for shits and giggles. but they apparently spend entire days, weeks, months… YEARS of their lives being bitter and vile and mean for the sake of maybe 10 likes on twitter and 5 minutes of internet validation. what a sad fucking existence. i prefer to be someone who enjoys things and engages with and consumes things that make me happy and joyful thank you :) anyway sorry for the ramble! if you read all of it i appreciate and love you for it!! 💕

[pwblogarchive]

March 2005

March 2, 2005

alive and (un)well. just being melodramatic when it's completely unnecessary. got blue pill eyes behind black eyelids. my mind is running but more like in place, kind of how life is. you wouldn't understand what i mean. you and they have been here before but it isn't the same for me. and trying to explain anything is just leaving me with a dry mouth and sore shoulders and you shaking your head (not in disagreement but more like disbelief). "mellow out"- but thats been the problem all along, at least it's eben one of them. i feel like a nocturnal animal in the zoo at 12 noon. me turning away from you so you don't see my eyes when im walking out the door when im waving my hand back and forth and saying "i'm doing so-so" cause thats what i think someone "regular" would say. you saying " shake it off get back in the game kid. we're gonna be okay"- but trailing off in a whisper cause i know you dont even believe yourself. the volume goes with the truth. naivetey feels very strange on me but is as warm as the shyness that comes with it. you'd never guess that. new york transit love affair. the veins going underneath the streets that feel so foreign yet endearing. it's not charm, i just don't get it. trust me (but not really). couch living (dead) has me hanging onto phone lines. darling, i'm not making sense and my throat is sore- maybe at least you know i mean it. dreading when your voicemail as it clicks on. and on and on and on. its me logging off.

see you on tour soon. new clandestine merch over at your local hottopic.

- petey

March 11, 2005

and sometimes all the lit houses i walk by, im just dying to be inside

set this record straight- i've been getting lots of emails lately- the song "dance, dance" out there right now is NOT the version that will be on the record. it is a demo, so take it for what it is.

the song "hand of god" out there will not be on the record. it is NOT because island wouldnt let it be there. but because we thought it wasn't good enough- the line "im sick of always writing songs for you to slit your wrists to" can be taken for how it is- i dont want to just write songs to make one girl miserable anymore.

"sugar we're going down" can currently be heard on 89x and q101 so listen for it there.

keep your eyes on the clock, we're trying to be too predictable.

we have all new merch and we're ready to see you, playing some new songs, i'm so glad to be back and playing shows again, grab tickets before they sell out....

come by the book signings and say hi so i wont be lonely.

we've got some exciting stuff coming up this fall.

sorry for the boring entry. also being back on the road i need some good music to listen to- start a messageboard topic- bands pete needs to hear- and tell me some good unsgined bands i need to hear.

peterabbit

March 13, 2005

love is just going on because. we're trying to get real. my bunk feels like a coffin but my corpse deserves a parade around the country. wearing makeup cause she said i was pretty in it but i know im just d(sh)ying. here's to spring cleaning (up all the messes we made over winter). ive got new habits and loves including: words all over again, bloody lips, and fuck offs. "9 weeks can't change you". but you don't even get it. words just love me more. no worries though. you: "damn kid you just look so sad". me: "....". but im changing. get (re)born. i dont want this anymore.

drive me dead.

get busy living or get busy dying.

peter

- petey

March 21, 2005

come on,save me

why we are where we are. sitting at a hotel in tempe arizona. i havent been able to get on the internet in forever and i lost my sidekick. it's okay to cry for me, there is already a WAAAAHmbulance on the way. my clothes are dirty, so is my body- i havent slept in days but i am the happiest i have been in awhile- being on tour feels so good. shows are at their best. you kids look so goddamned good. i was out of my head for awhile but im back.

i know there are gonna be some growing pains next year- i just wanted to personally thank you guys for sticking with us. it makes us feel so much less awkward. i have been in your position where a band i loved that noone knew about started to get some attention. but i just wanted to let you know that i personally and as a band we focused on writing a record for those who believed in fall out boy from the beginning and not to impress anyone else. we will never bend or do something that we wouldnt do anyway. thats a promise and if you have ever met us you know that it's (we're) true. also, the deal with the signings at the shows- it is something our label does in order to sell records- meeting 2000 kids a night would be impossible but we want to meet and see our friends as much as possible. we still hang around venues and are out behind every venue- come find us and say hi even if you dont pick up the cd. sorry, i will write a better entry later. oh yeah, to all the emailers- to save you the time, yes i am losing it.

all in all. this is the best time of our lives- all thanks only to you. words couldnt explain. thank you so much..

peterpan

basement days

attic nights

its not so much that theres something wrong with me

as there is nothing right

got some books on the floor

they’re holding up my standards

swore myself off of you

but I don’t do too well with ultimatums

March 22, 2005

love doesnt mean a thing if its not leaving us light headed- all my headaches are in my chest for you now.

- petey

March 31, 2005

keep the gossip alive in '05

sometimes doors a closed to keep secrets out not to keep them in.

this tour is the best we have ever been on. its like a family. we were nervous about headlining- thanks for making us feel at home.

ive been thinking lots about people i shouldn't be...

lets move far away from their whispers and looks.

but mostly i heart nick scimeca.

im

(not)

just a boy

with

bad ideas.

peterpan

[fraener]

3/19/23

yesterday it was 64 out. we’ve nearly gotten past the last frost, there are a few cold nights looming ahead. the day was beautiful and sharp and strange. hans and i had a picnic in the park and while he was out getting a new pair of waders i watched the track house burn, start to nearly finish. the air was heavy with the heat of the day and the fire made a sound like it was crawling. we went back in the night, hans and i, and a few of his coworkers were there watching the last embers leap in the dark. the smoke made us cough and we got weird white stuff on our shoes. the fire department hadnt turned the water main off so everything was flooded. ive been walking so much lately, its helping with everything. i decided not to take that job this summer after all, which of course now im regretting just a bit. i just didnt feel like it was going to be a good environment to work in, they werent being transparent with me about what they were hiring me for through the interviewing process and i didnt like being asked to only teach things that were easily marketable. i dont like a school thats focused on turning a profit rather than providing diverse and unique learning opportunities. plus the pay was going to be shit. i might work for the geoduck farm, but im not fully sure yet. ive been having terrible luck with the grocery shopping, things keep going wrong or something i bring home is off. tonight i spilled my dinner on the floor but i didnt get mad, i just laughed and cleaned it up. i feel a little lighter than usual, i think i feel good. i can feel the writhing worm of anxiety under my surface but i feel good. last night rosie slept next to me in the crook of my body all night long. hans told me this morning that r really didnt like how i carried myself or the fact that i disagreed with her and talked back to her. to her she always found me difficult to control, threatening to her manipulation web and harbored a good amount of resentment for me was incredibly freeing. i dont feel bad about anything ive done now because it doesnt have anything to with me. all of this could have been prevented had she been honest, but she was having a hard time scraping me off, clearly. i ran into amys michael on the street which was a wonderful surprise. ive been reacting poorly to dairy lately, i think all of my allergies are really heightened right now. everything is starting to bloom, the osoberry and the redcurrant and the daffodils and violets are filling the air with pollen and scent. even the plum and cherry trees are opening, slowly but surely. i turned the bed over for spring today, well see if im warm enough. the equinox is tomorrow. the heather gave me a big branch of monkey puzzle tree the other day. i finished up with school for now except my eval meeting. my final critique went well, people liked my work and complimented me a lot on it. one of my classmates said the plate with hans on it looked like it was cracking because the love we had couldnt be contained and it made me cry a little. i love him so much, being with him is helping me heal so much, not being punished for who i am by someone i love is healing me so much. climbing out of the depression, certainly, but not quite there with the anxiety. still have some climbing to go. although things have improved so much in the last year... my intrusive thoughts are much quieter and one track. theyre really only focused on the one thing most of the time, which i am seeing like when im washing the sink and all the gunk gets swished into one little heap headed for the drain trap. were going to work on unburdening in therapy this week a little so i think thatll help. the smell of the rain on the hot pavement today nearly made me cry. actually i did tear up a little, i felt so at peace and unbothered by anything. everything is ringing out a little clearer each time, i am really feeling a return to myself bigger and bigger with each ring. i feel much more comfortable with myself than i did in the voyeuristic relationship i had to myself last year. this year has passed so fast to me in this moment; i feel like everything with o happened so recently. in some ways it did i suppose, only 5 months ago. i want to write more poetry again. i feel like ive woken up from underneath something the last few days, i hope it stays that way. the spring is beautiful. everything is reaching for the light of the sun this year so hard, as if we all felt the quake of my emotions and grief and fear this winter. i was so arrested. i am so close to free now.

[pluviophile-imagines]

LOWI CONGRATS ON THE FOLLOWER MILESTONE!! 🥺💞💞💞 u deserve it and so much more!! for the kiss prompt could i get 18 with shinsou ?? 🥺👉👈

TYSM SOFFFF so uh. I’ve been fuckin stupid dkfnskfb my dumbass rlly wrote Shinsou correctly on my master post like a week ago and then still managed to write for Shigaraki instead when it came to the actual piece 😳 so thanks to my handyman brainrot you get two—that’s right, two!—characters for the price of one ur welcome ♥️ I cheated a lil bit so shinsou;s not sitting in the reader’s lap it’s just his head but i think its cute 🥺 also Shiggy’s is like twice as long as ive been trying to write them oops i rlly like the jealous reader premise 👉👈 it’s under the read more bc of that and bc of kiiiinda spoilers? if yall arent caught up to the manga you won’t get it but if u are it’s canonical. Whew that was a lot! Enjoy!

Kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

Shinsou

To say that your relationship with Shinsou is new would be an understatement. You’ve been friends for years—ever since the third year of high school when you’d been assigned to him as his support—but you’ve never been particularly close until recently when you’d once again found yourself working on his hero costume and support items.

He’d only asked you out yesterday after nearly two months of tension-filled glances and fleeting touches. Now, the two of you are watching a movie at your mutual friend Kirishima’s apartment, sitting quite awkwardly on a loveseat and pretending like you don’t want to get closer to each other. You haven’t told your friends yet about your new relationship status, but that’s not entirely what’s holding you two back. If anything, it’s run-of-the-mill first date awkwardness (if watching a movie with six of your closest friends around can be considered a date), too afraid to initiate anything.

The movie’s dull; the two of you have pulled out your phones to snark at each other through text, a strategy you’d begun weeks ago after being hushed one too many times by Kaminari because you were talking too loudly. The bright screens probably aren’t all that much better, but you two are in the back anyway; nobody can see it unless they turn away from the TV.

You risk a glance up and end up locking eyes with Shinsou. Your face heats up, heartbeat quickening, as he gives you a charming smile. You watch him glance around the room, unsure at first why he’s doing it until he turns his attention back to you and slowly, silently, moves over across the loveseat into your personal space.

Your legs are touching now, faces so close your nose is nearly brushing his. One of his hands has come to brace against the armrest you’re leaning on, allowing him to stay leaning in.

“Hey,” he says, little more than a whisper and clearly hushed so the others don’t hear.

“Hey yourself,” you respond, earning yourself a low snort.

Instead of vocally responding, he pushes himself back up to a sitting position and then moves his hands to maneuver your legs until you’re no longer curled up against the couch’s backing but sitting like a normal person.

Then he lays down, head resting on your thighs, and turns to face the movie.

You’re grinning uncontrollably. All possible self-conscious thoughts of the others seeing you are dashed from your mind; you like the weight of him in your lap too much.

You spend much of the rest of the movie like that, easily over half an hour. A few minutes in he reaches down to find your hand and bring it to his hair, encouraging you to stroke it. It’s even softer than you’ve imagined in the past, fluffy and thick and genuinely nice to run your hands though. There’s a surge of contentment that rushes through you, and maybe a little bit of pride at the knowledge that you can do this pretty much any time you want now.

By the end of the film, you’re pretty sure Shinsou’s fallen asleep. He gives you the scare of your life, however, when he grabs your arm as you’re trying to pull away. His eyes open, purple irises trained on you.

What happens next you blame on grogginess, him still not quite being awake. He blames it on you; whenever you mention it, he says he saw you and had become consumed with an overwhelming desire to just lean up and kiss you. Whatever the reason, it’s nice for you.

His hand comes up to the back of your neck, tugging you down just as much as he lifts up. It begins soft, kind of sweet, just lips as the two of you melt into each other—but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Within moments the two of you morph the kiss from a quick peck after a movie to a very passionate makeout, and frankly you’d be more concerned if they hadn’t interrupted the two of you.

You pull away when you hear Kaminari’s wolf whistle, left sitting on the loveseat with a burning face and your boyfriend in your lap, still half asleep.

Shigaraki

You’re not jealous.

No, you’ve been dating Tomura for months. You can’t be jealous when he’s, well, yours, and has been for quite some time. You’re his first relationship, his first everything, and it’s frankly foolish of you to feel this insecure just because some floozy is simpering at him from across the enormous room where you and the rest of the League are scattered about. It’s not like she really wants him, or even knows him; he’s just the hew big-shot leader and she’s decided being his lover sounds good. Too bad that role’s already taken.

Still, there’s a sinking feeling in your chest—an ache in your heart, a burning lump in your throat—that says now that Tomura is Grand Commander he’ll drop you for someone better.

You don’t realize you’re glaring daggers at the woman until she catches your eye. She has no business looking that smug; the only reason she’s allowed in the room is to give Tomura reports. You’re the one lounging next to him as she approaches; he has your legs over his lap, his thumb absent-mindedly rubbing circles on your thigh.

And when she bends down to drop the report on his lap (as if your damn legs aren’t there, you want to scoff) she draws the eyes of every League member except the one she wants, because you’re the one who has Tomura’s attention.

He’s wearing Father, but you’ve long passed being afraid when he looks at you from between those lifeless digits and you can see the expression beneath; those lips tugging down slightly in a pout, brow furrowed, eyes far softer than they have any damn business being while hiding behind the severed hand of his old man. He’s concerned, and a little confused.

Tomura plucks the report from your legs and sets it aside, reaching to pull you fully into his lap. To your surprise he takes Father off, too; he buries his face into your neck to prevent the outsider from seeing, lips just brushing your ear so that you can hear him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been pouting ever since the secretary came in, brat.”

Like hell you’re saying anything in front of her. You remain stubbornly silent.

He doesn’t like that, you can tell, but while the secretary’s interest is lost on him he knows you well enough to tell that you’re uncomfortable with her. Presumably that’s why he doesn’t press the issue and kisses you instead.

You don’t expect it. Tomura’s not exactly one to shy away from PDA (you’re sitting in his lap in front of the whole League, for fuck’s sake), but intimacy is something he’s never wanted to take beyond closed doors. When he’s in a sour mood you’ll kiss him sometimes, even in public (he’s invigorated by your affection in many way, but never anything you’d call heated.

This kiss, though, is. It’s anything but chaste, perhaps even downright lewd. He’s all but initiating a makeout with you while Miss Secretary is standing right there. Maybe his affection-motivated ways are rubbing off on you, but it helps more than it probably ought to.

You’re dazed by the time he pulls away. The sound of the door slamming closed snaps you from your trance. The secretary, ploy foiled simply by your annoyed expression, had left. It doesn’t matter. None of this was ever really about her in the first place.

“There,” Tomura says, audibly quite pleased with himself. “She’s gone. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

You sigh, leaning in to tuck your own head into his shoulder. Your voice is muffled when you speak, quiet so that only he can hear.

“It’s dumb.”

“It’s bothering you,” he says simply. There’s an underlying statement there: tell me so I can destroy it for you. In many ways, Tomura is a predictable man.

You know he’s not going to drop it, so you accept your fate. “She was making a pass at you.”

He tenses beneath you, holding you closer. You risk lifting your head from where it’s buried to see the way his nose is scrunched up. “She wasn’t.”

“Yeah, she was.”

There’s a pause, like he’s processing everything you’re saying. Then, seemingly finally registering what exactly is bothering you, his hands move to grip your hips and maneuver you to straddle him, sitting fully on his lap facing him. “Fine. Why’re you pissed about it, then?”

You lean in again, arms coming to wrap around his neck as you bury your face into his chest and try to ignore the tears that are coming. You’d never be able to live it down if any of the others saw you crying over the fucking secretary.

But you know more than anyone thanks to many late nights assuring your boyfriend he’s the only one for you that Tomura can empathize with this insecurity. It’s a little strange how the script has flipped.

“She’s a high ranking MLA member, she probably has some crazy strong quirk. I’m quirkless. I dunno. I guess I’m scared you’ll drop me for someone like her. Like I said, it’s dumb.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. You sit there, listening to his heartbeat and matching your breathing to his. Then he speaks.

“Your emotions aren’t dumb. It’s okay that you’re feeling this way. Thank you for telling me.” He’s parroting you, you realize; this is what you tell him every time he comes to you for comfort when he’s gotten in a mood. You feel a little fuzzy, warmth flooding your chest. “But I think we both know they’re irrational.”

“Tomura… I—”

“I’m not interested in some lame-ass NPC,” he interrupts, no hesitation and entirely sincere. He doesn’t even need to think about it. “You’re my player two, my endgame. The only thing in this world worth protecting. You really think that secretary can hold a candle to you? I didn’t even notice her. Why would I when you’re here?”

You can’t help it, you surge upward and kiss him, just as passionately as he had you mere moments before. His right hand traces up your spine to find the back of your neck and pull you closer, sending a thrill through your body as your own arms tighten around him.

“Oi! Horndogs! Get a damn room, don’t make us see that!”

You break away at Dabi’s words, panting slightly, and if the sincerity of Tomura’s little rant hadn’t convinced you that his words were true, the look of utter adoration he’s regarding you with would have.

[tennessoui]

Pleaseeee do 43 or 46. I love your work btw

(insert months late panicked noises about how I thought 45 was 'falling in love with best friend's partner' and so wrote hold me fast for it, but actually 43 is 'falling in love with best friend's partner' very whoops very my b)

so i did 43 again anyway, but in a modern au and where the couple is actually in love (but it is an obikin happy ending because kit did write it)

(wife is unnamed the entire time so no character bashing it could literally be anyone ive been calling her rebecca in my head lmao)

43. Falling In Love With Best Friend's Partner (2.7k.......)

Obi-Wan’s kettle goes off with a whistle right as there’s a fierce banging on the door. He almost drops his favorite mug in surprise, which puts him in a bad mood from the get-go. But for the love of Christ, who would come call at his house at nine at night? It’s more than rude; it’s downright indecent.

He stalks through the house until he can unlock the door to give the person on his porch a piece of his mind, but then he sees who it is.

It’s Anakin, and he’s crying.

If there’s anything that can make Obi-Wan quiet his temper on a normal day, it’s Anakin Skywalker. A distressed Anakin Skywalker brings out every ounce of his compassion.

“Anakin?” He asks immediately, stepping forward to touch the man on his arm gently and guide him inside. He doesn’t even have to suppress a sigh when Anakin doesn’t remember to toe off his shoes in the entry way--that’s how worried he is at Anakin’s tears and the way they only increase in frequency and sound when Obi-Wan moves his hand to his back and pushes him further into his house, all the way to the dining table where he urges him to sit down.

Anakin still hasn’t said anything resembling actual words yet, so Obi-Wan goes to the kitchen to make them both a cup of tea. It’s either that or give into the temptation to thumb the tear tracks off of his cheeks and that’s a little more revealing than Obi-Wan likes.

He’s not that brave, for one.

For another, Anakin is a married man. A man married to one of Obi-Wan’s closest friends, a previous grad student turned co-author of at least seven publications, with more on the way. He can’t risk tenderly wiping away her husband’s tears because Obi-Wan Kenobi has been at least a little in love with him since they were introduced four years ago, when he’d swanned up to him holding two champagne glasses in one hand and stuck out the other to shake. “My wife talks about you nonstop, Professor,” he’d said. “I used to be so jealous until I sat in on one of your lectures when I was still in school. Made sense then.”

Obi-Wan had not known what to do with that, but had taken the proffered champagne glass and assured this strange man he had nothing to worry about.

After all, Obi-Wan wasn’t the sort of man to chase after former students or people in marriages.

Over the next few years, however, it became quite clear to him that there was a big addendum needed in his moral code: people in marriages to former students drew his eyes apparently the way no one else has ever managed to in his life.

Or perhaps it was just Anakin. Perhaps it’s always been just Anakin.

Coming to terms with the shameful, quiet love he carried for a man who flirts like it’s second nature and always has a warm touch or word to bestow on Obi-Wan had been difficult, to say the least.

Anakin’s wife had been one of Obi-Wan’s closest friends. His inconvenient and persistent feelings for Anakin had turned her into one thing only: his wife. They could not be friends when Obi-Wan spends half his nights wondering what it would be like to sleep with his arms around her husband. They could not be friends when the last dozen times the married couple had invited him over for dinner, he had paid more attention to her husband than to the food or to the other topics of conversation or to her.

And she has to know. She has to know why their latest paper has taken eight months to write. She has to have seen the way Obi-Wan perks up so obviously when Anakin brings his wife her lunch, the way he has to turn away from their chaste kisses, the way he listens keenly to any information she gives him on her husband, the way he had excused himself from the room when he heard her tell another colleague that they were trying for children.

In academia, you learn fairly quickly that it is useless to resent someone for having what you do not. It seems that Obi-Wan has to learn this lesson all over again when it comes to people. It’s hard. It’s selfish. He hates that he loves Anakin. He hates that he loves Anakin the way he does, that it’s been four years and he still loves him, that not even his happy marriage, his love for his wife, the fact that his wife is Obi-Wan’s friend, can change it.

Anakin considers them friends now, which is so much worse and yet still more than a pathetic old man like Obi-Wan deserves. Worse, because when Obi-Wan had started rejecting dinners at the Skywalker household, Anakin had pushed back with worry. When he’d noticed that Obi-Wan’s lunch most often consisted of whatever cold cut sandwich was on sale at the gas station next to campus, he’d started bringing Obi-Wan a lunch along with his wife. When Obi-Wan had stopped responding to his texts, he showed up to drag him to a night out.

Worse, because being Anakin’s friend is nothing like being his husband, and the differences make him ache as much as the acts of kindness make him want to weep.

It’s still more than Obi-Wan deserves. He knows that intimately, the way he knows that nothing can ever happen between the two of them because Anakin loves his wife. And his wife--

“She cheated on me,” Anakin gets out between uneven breaths.

Obi-Wan promptly drops his favorite mug and watches it shatter on the floor.

“Oh!” Anakin exclaims at the loud noise, peeking around the corner, and looking like he’s about to offer to help. Obi-Wan shoos him out of the kitchen, and grabs the remaining mug of tea to follow him. The mess can wait for a later time.

“What did you say?” he asks carefully, nudging the mug over to Anakin, who wraps his hands around it.

Anakin blinks up at him wetly. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Obi-Wan drags his chair closer and dares to lay a hand over Anakin’s arm, watching his face for any negative reaction. Anakin just looks at it though, as if he can’t even comprehend it.

“Please, tell me what happened,” he entreats softly.

Anakin blinks and takes a sip of the tea. It’s chamomile, which is the only tea blend Obi-Wan knows Anakin likes.

“I, um.” Anakin clears his throat and reaches up to wipe at his eyes. Obi-Wan thinks his breath leaves his body for a second when he sees the slighter lighter ring of skin around Anakin’s fourth finger. He never thought he’d see what that sliver of skin looks like.

“I came back early from a work trip, cause. Um. Cause we’ve been having problems,” he starts with a quick side glance at Obi-Wan. “Just some fighting. Going to bed angry. I guess stuff you’re never supposed to do.”

Obi-Wan tries to arrange his face in an expression meant to convey that he definitely knows what stuff one is supposed to do in a marriage.

“So I thought I could, you know. Surprise her. But when I got in, there was someone else in the house. In our bed, Obi-Wan, she fucked someone else in our bed. I--” Anakin starts crying dropping his head into his hands and dislodging Obi-Wan’s arm completely.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan murmurs, at a loss for what to say. He settles for kneeling down next to Anakin and rubbing his knee. This is platonic.This is fine. This isn’t taking advantage of Anakin in this state.

Obi-Wan has absolutely no desire to take advantage of Anakin in this state, not when he’s so hurt and sad and in need of comfort. Obi-Wan just wants to provide him with comfort, but it feels like a grievous violation to touch Anakin like this willingly. It breaks one of his most cardinal rules.

But it turns out he’d break a lot of rules for Anakin, apparently.

Especially when Anakin responds so well to his touch, practically throwing himself out of his own chair and into Obi-Wan’s arms, tea forgotten on the table.

“How am I supposed to go back there?” He sobs into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “I thought...we were supposed to raise kids in that house and she...she’s been...she’s been cheating on me in our bed--”

Obi-Wan tentatively strokes through his hair, adding pressure when Anakin reacts positively. He hates seeing him like this, so torn up and aching. He’d loved his wife, it’s so clear to see.

But Anakin has always struck Obi-Wan as the sort of person to put loyalty over everything else. For his wife to break his trust so suddenly and quickly must spell the death of his love for her. That must be what Obi-Wan is witnessing now, with Anakin, sans wedding ring, sobbing into his arms like this. This must be how Anakin’s love dies.

“I’m so sorry, Anakin,” he murmurs into the man’s temple, pressing his nose there at his hairline and inhaling as softly as he can. He’s disgusted with himself. He can’t help himself. He--

“She said she loved him,” Anakin sniffles, seemingly unaware of anything but his own pain. Obi-Wan gathers him closer at these words and rubs at his back, offering silent comfort. To have Anakin close like this is agony, but to be an appropriate distance away from him as he fell apart would also be agony of a different sort.

And if the last four years have proven anything, Obi-Wan will choose the agony that causes Anakin any modicum of happiness he can give him.

“She said--” here Anakin pauses and takes several deep breaths against the cotton of Obi-Wan’s now damp sleepshirt. “She said she didn’t when they started, but then I--I didn’t notice and it--she said it just happened, but--”

He breaks off and freezes in Obi-Wan’s arms quite suddenly. Obi-Wan stills his own hands in response. “But?” he asks, barely more than an exhale.

“But she said she couldn’t feel sorry about it,” Anakin whispers back, pulling away so that he can look at Obi-Wan’s face.

Obi-Wan stares at him, uncomprehending. Anakin’s wife is the unapologetic sort of woman, yes, but to be caught cheating on her husband and then refuse to apologize for the betrayal? That’s something else entirely. “What?” he stutters out in a completely unflattering way.

Anakin’s eyes glisten, but he purses his lips and flexes his jaw before he speaks again. “She said she couldn’t feel sorry about falling in love with someone else because it’s quite clear I’ve done the same thing. And--and she may have physically cheated on me first, but I’ve...I’ve been emotionally unfaithful to her for years now.”

Obi-Wan blinks quite a bit and very fast, tightening his hold on Anakin before pulling away just as quickly. “That’s absurd,” he spits out, trying to calm his rushing heartbeat. “Anakin, you’re the most loyal person I know. You would never--”

“She was right,” Anakin cuts him off, breaking eye contact with him to look over his shoulder and then down at...at his lips. “I didn’t even realize she was right until she said it, but. But I’ve been in love with someone else for three years of my five year marriage. I--I’m not who we thought I was.”

And his eyes well up with tears again and Obi-Wan isn’t strong enough this time from stopping himself from reaching out and brushing one of his tears away with the pad of his thumb.

“Anakin, you’re not…” thinking straight, serious, in your right mind, in love with anyone but your wife. “You’re hurting, Anakin,” he settles on saying. “You need to...sleep. To rest.”

You need to stop saying things that will break my heart in a few days when you realize you don’t actually mean them.

But Anakin has always been stubborn, especially when it comes to Obi-Wan’s demands. “Obi-Wan,” he insists, shoving his face forward so that their heads connect with a thump. “Obi-Wan, it’s you. It’s been you. For. For longer than I knew. For three years at least. Maybe longer. It should have been you from the beginning. When--”

“Anakin, please,” he finds himself begging, scrambling up and off the floor and away from this troublesome man. “Do not say anything you cannot take back. You are in distress, you’re not thinking clearly.”

Anakin follows him to his feet. “I need to say this,” he says, voice breaking. “Please, Obi-Wan. Let me say this.”

Obi-Wan has never known how to say no to Anakin. He closes his mouth instead.

“Before we even started dating, that’s when I sat in on your lecture. When we were seniors. I just wanted to see. Wanted to know why she liked you so much, measure up my competition. But then I liked you, more than I’ve ever liked a guy before. And it only got worse after I met you again, at that party, I don’t know if you remember, but. The days after, I drove my wife insane asking questions about you and your work and your interests and your hobbies, and I didn’t even realize I was doing it.

“You were just...you were so amazing. But I loved her so much I didn’t even notice I had any love left in my heart to give to anyone else, but then there you were. There you were and every time I saw you it was like...coming up for air. Like I was living someone else’s life and then sometimes I just got to be myself and it was only ever when you were around and--I didn’t know it was love until my wife told me tonight that she fucked another man because she couldn’t stand that I fell in love with one first, and I knew immediately who she was talking about. It was you. It’s...Obi-Wan, it’s always been you.”

Anakin closes the distance between them slowly, as if he’s giving Obi-Wan a chance to run. Obi-Wan does consider it, he won’t lie, but he stands stock still as if frozen to the ground. Anakin reaches up gently and wipes at one of his tears. Obi-Wan hadn’t even realized he started crying.

“Please don’t cry,” Anakin whispers through his tears. “I understand if you--if you don’t feel the same way, but I couldn’t be quiet about it once I realized. I don’t know how to love quietly.”

Obi-Wan does. Obi-Wan’s spent four years loving Anakin quietly, and now he doesn’t have any words left in him to love him out loud.

Anakin’s hand falls away from his face at his continued silence and he looks, if possible, more heartbroken. “I...I understand,” he murmurs. “You don’t feel the way I do. I--yes. I get it. I...deserve it.”

At this, Obi-Wan has to say something because it’s been one of the tenets of his world for years now that Anakin Skywalker deserves all the love there is in the entire universe. “No,” he says roughly, dragging the words kicking and screaming from the pit of his stomach. “It’s not that. It’s--”

Anakin looks at him with wide, wet, blue eyes.

“It’s that if you...if I say it and then...tomorrow you decide you don’t mean it...darling you have to know there would be no recovering from that, for me. I’ve been so obvious.”

Anakin blinks as the words register in his brain, and Obi-Wan can tell the exact moment they do because he inches closer and clutches tightly onto his shirt. “You’ve not been obvious at all,” he murmurs, eyes still shining, even as he directs his entire attention to his lips.

“What would I need to do?” Obi-Wan breathes, aching to wrap his arms around his waist and terrified that doing so will startle Anakin away from him. “What would I need to do for you to understand how much I...how much I’ve loved you for all these years?”

“Kiss me,” Anakin whispers, leaning down as if drawn by some magnetic pull.

Obi-Wan knows he will hate himself in the morning for giving in when Anakin is so obviously grief-stricken and looking for no-strings-attached physical comfort. And yet, he meets him halfway anyway.

[firewoodfigs]

Hi!! Could you do "It was a hospital bed, and A slipped in carefully to lie beside B all night" for a Royai fic from that prompt list? Thank you!! ❤️❤️

hello anon!! thanks for the prompt aaaah I had a lot of fun toying with it in between work and the other shenanigans that have been cropping up this week <3 I hope you don't mind the somewhat unusual ending ahaha I dimly recall writing a few other fics indirectly responding to this prompt (here and here!) so I wanted to try something slightly different from my usual fare 👉🏻👈🏻 part of this was also originally from a two-shot I'm working on, tweaked to fit the prompt hehe. I hope you enjoy!!! 🥰

                                       +++++

Riza can think of a million reasons why hospitals are awful.

First, the food. She’s not sure if it’s as nutritious as they make it out to be; there are times when she wonders if it’s even edible. She’s had worse, of course - hospital food isn’t as bad as ration bars - but she’s quickly getting tired of eating plain yoghurt and bland porridge every day, for every single meal.

Second, the stench. Riza hates that every inch of the place smells like a victim of obsessive cleanliness; she has to resist the urge to upchuck every time the door opens and the smell of chemicals and antiseptic filters in like an unwanted guest.

Third, the fact that she’s sharing a room with a man who, at this point, is behaving more like a cat on hot bricks than a disciplined soldier is quickly driving her insane. She’d readily agreed to be his caretaker, of course; Riza doubts there’s anyone else capable of dealing with his antics and ever-growing anxiety. But after hearing him sigh and toss and turn in his bed for the fifty-eighth time that night (she’d counted, because she was bored out of her wits, and there was nothing else she could do other than sleep or stare at the ceiling, per doctor’s orders), Riza decides she’s just about had enough.

She looks at him from her bed. He’s presently engaged with twiddling his thumbs, thinking out loud.

Riza sighs and rises from her bed quietly. She brings the IV stand along with her - an unnecessary inconvenience - and carefully slips into his bed once she’s made sure that the tubes and wires connected to them are tangle-free.

“I never pegged you as an opportunist, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, despite her best efforts to be discreet. “Sleeping with your commanding officer while he’s blind?”

“You could always court martial me later, sir,” Riza deadpans. “Now scoot over.”

Luckily, he obliges without much retort. 

“Your wish is my command.”

Riza huffs. She adjusts the thin, scraggly piece of linen that the hospital justifies as a blanket - another downside of this shitty place - and makes sure he’s probably covered, warm.

“Three words,” she mutters.

“Eight letters?”

“Twelve, actually.”

Roy raises a brow. “What could it be?”

“Would you like to wager a guess, sir?”

“Not really.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. Roy laughs, and it’s a tiny little sound that is so discordant with his current mood, but it’s at least genuine. “Now go to sleep.”

“Alright, alright.”

He stops fidgeting, for a while. Riza closes her eyes and attempts to fall asleep - and she actually does, for a while - at least until she hears the sheets rustling again, the movement and tension coming from beside her. She groans softly.

“You should sleep, sir.”

She feels him stiffen. Roy smiles sheepishly, looking right through her like she’s not there. It still unnerves her how this is probably going to be their new normal: him without his sight. Her as his eyes.

“Sorry.”

Riza frowns. An apology is not the answer she wants. What she wants is for him - or them both, actually - to sleep and rest and properly recuperate so that they can have a speedy recovery, so that they can get out of here as soon as possible.

“Bad dreams?” she asks, because it’s the exact same thing that’s been haunting her. (She’s lucky her throat makes it impossible for her to scream or kick up a fuss; she’d hate for Roy to stumble blindly through the room in what he probably thinks is an act of chivalry and/or heroism.)

He shrugs.

“Then and now,” he offers. His smile fades, and he lapses into an unexpected moment of vulnerability. “Hard to differentiate between day and night nowadays, too.”

And because Riza doesn’t know what to say, she simply brushes her knuckles against his.

Roy returns the gesture, drawing indiscernible patterns on the back of her hand with his bandaged one.

“Well, it’s almost midnight now, sir.”

He lets out a small laugh, but it’s painfully hollow.

Riza shifts slightly. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze - hospital beds are clearly not meant for two persons (or anything inappropriate) - but it doesn’t bother her all that much. She just wishes there’s more she can do, to comfort him. Make him feel a little less gloomy.

“It feels like I’ve been sleeping for years.”

“If it helps reduce the incidents of you falling asleep during office hours, then you should get more sleep now, while you can.”

Roy turns, like he’s searching for her, even though there’s not much closer she can be at this point. He exhales shakily. She feels his hand trembling against hers, and responds with a gentle caress. (She knows he’s still feeling guilty, probably berating himself internally about their predicament, about what transpired beforehand. And to be fair, there’s a part of her that’s still angry about all that's happened underground. They’ll probably have to talk about it, at some point, but probably not now — not when they’re both still drugged up and only half-lucid.)

“Humour me, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“I can’t sleep,” he confesses. Dimly, Riza notes that his voice has taken on a somewhat petulant edge — like a child complaining about their bedtime, but she doesn’t comment on it. Being nearly bedridden for a week is enough to drive her nuts, too. “I’ve tried counting sheep and all that shit, and it’s just — it’s not working.”

Riza sighs. She’s tired, yes, but she’s also aware that she’s probably not going to get any sleep at this rate. She tries to think of ways to stave off his restlessness. Reading is one — she can probably bore him into sleep with a Xingese recitation (she’s gotten pretty good at that lately), but she’s technically not supposed to be talking much. Alcohol is another, but neither of them are supposed to be drinking (and besides, the only form of alcohol available in hospitals isn’t meant for human consumption). Maybe chess, then. She’s not particularly keen on playing a game of chess, now (because she just wants to sleep), but she thinks it’ll help exhaust some of his boundless energy.

“We could play a game of chess, if you want. Breda was kind enough to drop a vinyl board here in the afternoon.”

“I can’t see —“

“I’ll tell you where I move my pieces.”

He frowns, clearly not liking the idea. “You’re not supposed to be talking much, Lieutenant.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, turning to pour a cup of water for herself before continuing. “I won’t have to speak much — unless you’re being a nuisance or a cheat or a fraud.”

He laughs. “I’ll be none of those things, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

She sets up the board on his bed and helps him sit up. Riza lets him play white.

“It’s your move, sir.”

“You’ve made yours?”

“No. You’re playing white.”

“Tough. It’ll be more embarrassing if I end up losing.”

Riza smiles. “Well, we don’t know that yet, sir.”

He opens with pawn to e4. She helps him move his pieces and parrots her movements back to him. Pawn to e4, too. Pawn to d4. Same here. A closed game, not quite like his usual aggressive style of playing.

Riza watches as he frowns with intensity. It’s probably more a test of memory than strategy for him at this point. She wonders if there’s a way he can adapt to chess, to the military’s utilitarian (and frankly unsympathetic) demands now that his sight’s impaired.

(Life is so unlike chess, Riza thinks, in spite of Roy’s silly metaphors that postulate otherwise. The rules are never fixed, and the universe is always rife with uncertainty. It’s not like chess, where you can predict your opponents’ moves if you get good enough. Neither of them had expected that he’d be here right now, losing sleep and contemplating life over a chessboard while blind.)

He clucks his tongue, reciting a series of movements from memory. The Blackmar-Diemer. Riza smiles indulgently.

Still as aggressive as ever, sir.

Of course.

The game quickly becomes a round of blitz, and though he manages to open his lines and mount a rather decent attack, it’s clear that he has trouble recalling after the eighteenth move. It's still an impressive feat, though. Better than the average layperson.

“Check,” Riza announces, conversationally. Technically, she’d had the advantage, both on the board (and in real life). It shouldn’t really count, and besides, checkmate isn’t her objective — it’s to get her commanding office to sleep.

“Well-played,” Roy hums. He’s strangely still in his bed as he closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples — presumably to ease off an oncoming migraine. It happens a lot, when he’s in deep thought, when he’s over thinking. Thinking too much for his own good. “I need to work on my recall, I think.”

“I think so too, sir.”

He laughs, but the sound is again empty, foreign. It is so at odds with his usual smirks and unbridled laughter (when he’s laughing at someone else, or a joke made at somebody’s expense), like there’s an ache beneath the surface that she cannot reach.

Roy turns slightly, bumping into his dethroned king as he adjusts himself on the bed.

She blames the sudden, uncharacteristic urge to cry on her drugged-up system.

(Riza doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how uncommunicative his eyes are. He’s always regarded each and every one of his subordinates with respect and meaning and gratitude, but he’d simply looked over the unit as if taking inventory when they had come by earlier.

But she’ll make do, Riza thinks. She has to. She’s always known him in a way nobody else has, in a deeply intimate way, like a book she’s memorised by heart.)

They fall silent for a few minutes. His lips part a little - she knows  he’s about to say something - but it snaps shut again, like he can’t bring himself to say the words.

Riza simply waits for him, like she always has; holding onto his held breath like it's the last thread of hope. She leans into his touch a little closer than necessary.

I’m right here, even if you can’t see me.

Roy smiles.

“I hope I won’t forget your face, Riza.”

[morganaspendragonss]

quédate un segundo más (1/8)

@911lonestarangstweek day 8 - t is for...tumour, terminal, treatment

title from voy a quedarme by blas cantó, translates roughly to 'stay a second more'

thanks to @halsteadmarchs and @tarlos-spain for the beta!

as shown above, this will be eight chapters if all goes to plan, and i hope to finish it before season 3 begins. much of what is written both in this chapter and in future ones is ripped directly from life and i am only writing from my own perspective and experiences of losing a loved one to cancer.

ao3 | 1.6k | angst, hurt tk, cancer, terminal illness, more warnings to come in future chapters

A rare genetic mutation.

That’s what the doctors tell him when the results come back.

A rare genetic mutation that has rendered his cancer practically undetectable until its latest stages, until all that’s left to do is wait to die.

TK’s hands shake as various leaflets on Managing Your Diagnosis and What To Expect and Looking After Someone With Cancer are placed in them. He feels two steps to the side of himself, his entire world halting in its tracks the moment those words had left the doctor’s lips.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he’d said, eyes wide and empathetic. “Your scans and blood results have come back showing evidence of a tumour on your pancreas. There are treatment options which we can and will—with your consent—pursue, however I have to inform you that your cancer is entering stage IV. It has begun to spread to your bladder and liver. I’m sorry to say that, at this point, treatment is more focused on managing your pain and making you as comfortable as possible; we do not anticipate recovery.”

It’s just… TK’s fine. He feels fine. Like, sure, he’s been a little more tired recently and he’s been getting these weird pains, but they always fade after a while, and he’s fine.

But he couldn’t deny the blood spotting his pee, the last straw which had finally sent him to the doctor’s office.

Too late, apparently.

A touch on his knee brings him back to reality with a start. TK looks up to meet the doctor’s kind gaze, and he wants to cry.

“I understand this is a lot to take in,” he’s saying. “If you have any questions, please ask.”

“I…” TK shakes his head, swallowing a couple of times before dropping his eyes to his knees, the words on the pamphlets blurred through his tears. “How long?”

The doctor hesitates a moment, then sighs regretfully. “I can’t say for certain. People frequently outlive their projected timeframes; equally, it could be less. However, given the way your tumour looks and the rate it appears to be spreading at, I would estimate around six months.”

Six months.

Six—six months.

“Oh,” TK says, and it feels wildly insufficient but it’s all he has. What even is there to say? He’s dying, and that’s...that’s that.

“Do you have a support system in place?” the doctor asks. “This is going to be a difficult process, and you are going to need other people to help you through it.”

TK nods slowly, not looking up. “M-My husband. Carlos. He was supposed to come with me today but he was called into work last minute. He’s a detective, so he couldn’t exactly refuse—not that that stopped him from trying.” He laughs wetly, remembering how he’d insisted that everything would be fine when Carlos had stalled leaving this morning. “And there’s my dad, and my team—my family. I’m a paramedic and I work in a fire station, so we’re all pretty close. I… Shit, I’m sorry. You don’t need to know all this.”

“It’s okay.” The doctor is still smiling, still so understanding, and TK wonders—just how many times has he had to do this? “I’m glad to hear you have solid support behind you; that’s going to be incredibly important for the coming months. I’ve also given you a few leaflets about support groups you can access, that your family can access, and, of course, your treatment team will be there every step of the way.

“Now,” he continues, returning to a semi-professional aspect, “I want to see you later this week to iron out how we’re going to proceed. For now, why don’t you go home and rest, allow yourself to process this? Does Friday at 10.30 work for your next appointment?”

TK nods absently, clutching the pamphlets tight enough to crease them. “That’s fine,” he whispers.

“Okay,” the doctor says, just as quiet. “Are you going to be okay to get home?”

“Yeah.”

But he doesn’t move. He can’t. In this room, he’s separated from the rest of the world—TK doesn’t want to go back into it, where he’ll have to tell everyone he loves that he’s… That he…

“TK.”

TK’s head snaps up at the doctor’s voice and he flushes a little at seeing his pointed look. “Sorry,” he mutters, scrambling to stand up.

The doctor stands too, much more gracefully than TK, and gets the door for him. “It’s okay. I’ll see you on Friday, TK, alright?”

He mumbles an affirmative then steps out of the office, taken aback for a moment by the bustle and noise in the corridor. It’s strange to witness it now, to see all these people who don’t know him from Adam going about their lives, while his has, in the span of thirty minutes, completely crumbled.

TK takes a deep breath (and how many of those does he have left?) and joins the flow.

*

He’s home.

That’s… He doesn’t remember it. He must have unlocked the front door because the keys are in his hand and he’s standing in the entryway, but TK has no idea how he managed to get from the doctor’s office to here.

He made good time though, judging by the clock on the wall.

Small victories.

With heavy steps, TK walks to the sofa, easing himself down and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. It still doesn’t feel real that there's this—this thing inside him, growing and mutating and killing him. He’s not sure when it finally will.

Maybe in a few months, when his skin is sagging off his bones and his hair is gone and even the very act of breathing is a challenge.

Or maybe in a few hours, when Carlos comes home and TK has to break the news. TK can picture his face now, the way his ever-present smile will crack and break, the shock and hurt and grief that will take its place.

He thinks he understands his dad now.

TK closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind, just for a moment, of everything that’s happened today.

Which, as it turns out, is a mistake, because that’s when he remembers the letter that came for them yesterday and the phone call they’re going to make after dinner.

The phone call they were going to make after dinner.

TK wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. They’ve been waiting for that moment for so long, the moment in which they found out they were finally cleared to adopt a kid. And now…

Gone.

Carlos is going to be crushed.

As if the universe is reacting to that last thought, the door suddenly swings open, marking Carlos’s return from his impromptu shift. For a moment, TK panics. He’s not ready, dammit, he needs more time to plan and to figure it all out, how he feels and what he’s going to say, but—

But, in the end, it doesn’t matter. He could have had the most detailed and well-thought out plan in the world and it wouldn’t have mattered.

Because all it takes is one look at Carlos’s smile for TK to fall apart.

Carlos is by his side in an instant, gathering him in his arms and sliding to the floor with him when TK can no longer support himself on the couch. TK fists his hands in his husband’s shirt and cries into his neck, all the emotion that’s been slowly building all day exploding from him all at once.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Carlos shushes, which only makes TK cry harder, because how is he supposed to tell him that it’s not?

He shakes his head and clings onto him tighter, feeling Carlos do the same to him in return. TK’s always felt safe in his arms and it’s no different now; he thinks that, if he can just stay here forever, maybe things will turn out okay after all.

But the moment ends, as they tend to do. When TK’s sobs have run dry, Carlos carefully pulls back from him, his hands rising to cup his face and wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” he asks softly, so much worry in those damn eyes that it hurts. “Is it… Did the doctor say something? Are you okay?”

TK opens his mouth, but the words refuse to come out. All he manages is a wordless shake of the head, and even that turns Carlos’s expression into the picture of devastation. He can’t bear to look at it, so he wraps his arms around Carlos’s waist and leans into him again, resting his head on his chest.

Carlos holds him and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We’ll get through it,” he promises. “Whatever it takes.”

And it turns out that he does have a few more tears left in him; TK squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out shakily as a couple of lone drops fall down his cheeks. “We can’t,” he whispers hoarsely. Carlos stiffens and shifts as if to look TK in the eyes, but TK doesn’t let him. If he has to look at Carlos, he doesn’t think he’ll have the courage to say it. He hesitates a moment longer, a huge lump forming in his throat, but eventually he manages it.

“It’s cancer,” he chokes out. “Stage IV. Incurable. They think… I’ve got six months.”

It’s like time stops.

They’re both motionless on the floor of their front room, neither saying anything, barely breathing as the weight of it settles between them.

TK doesn’t know how long it lasts for, but suddenly Carlos sobs and grips onto him with a bruising strength. Carlos’s body heaves and shakes with the force of his cries, and it’s TK’s turn to hold him as tears drip down Carlos’s cheeks into his hair.

And, in that moment, it becomes real.

[otptings]

Spa Day

✏︎Idols: Zhong Chenle & Park Jisung

✏︎Requested: yessss by my fav Heyyy ive just been feeling really lonely lately so could you just write something about jisung and chenle just wanting to cuddle and watch a movie with the reader cause it’s been a really stressful week so they just want a self care day with the reader like face masks and the reader makes them food her dad used to make her when she was little ( coxinha ) and they eat the food while watching a scary movie hopefully I’m not making you too busy haha thanks in advance

✏︎Genre: Fluff, Bestfriend!Chenji

✏︎Word Count: 1k+

✏︎Warnings: None

✏︎Synopsis: Your best friends deserve more credit then you give them, especially when they force you to take a well deserve spa day.

✏︎A/n: Cute shit, was mainly written without a script. Correction, attempted to write the script but ended up writing over half of it instead in one go. It's short but I really didn't want to overwhelm this fluff. It's really cute, and I love it so much, I just love Chenle and Jisung's friendship, so writing them extend that friendship was incredibly cute 🥺if you liked this please reblog, like, or donate to my Ko-Fi in my bio. If you liked this requests are open for NCT, SVT, Treasure, and Enhypen (few slots open).

“Why are you two always dragging me around?”

Jisung and Chenle ignored your whining as they forced you to sit on your couch. You were trying to work but the boys walked into your apartment - kinda regret giving them the emergency key - and dragged you away from your desk. Jisung saved your work but then proceeded to place your laptop on a shelf that only he could reach unassisted, sealing your fate of not being able to work.

“Don’t move.” Jisung ran off somewhere down the hall while Chenle watched you over, presumably to make sure you didn’t move.

“What if I want to?” Chenle only stared at you with dead eyes and you quickly smiled, ignoring the fact that you felt kinda threatened. “Nevermind.” Mumbling you grabbed one of your decorative pillows, playing with the tassels while Chenle sat on his phone.

“FOUND IT!” You both jumped at Jisung’s yelling, confusion setting in at what he could’ve found. Your question was answered two minutes later when Jisung turned the corner, three fluffy spa headbands in one hand and three of your paper face masks in the other, a bright smile on his face at his find.

“Why were you looking for them?” Chenle snatched your phone from your hand, placing it in his backpack before you were even able to complain. “Hey! Why do y’all keep taking my stuff?”

“We’re having a spa day.” You were sure you weren’t good at hiding your expression if the way Jisung’s face went red had anything to do with it. “You’ve been working a lot. We haven’t been able to hang out often.”

Your face softened at that realization. One look at Chenle and you saw that the feeling was mutual.

“We miss you. We’re idols with busy schedules, but you’ve been so occupied that we haven’t even been able to see you. You don’t join us on the game, join our face times, and you barely respond. Plus you look skinnier as if you haven’t been eating, and I know you haven’t been sleeping properly.” Guilt flooded you at Chenle’s concerned expression. You hadn’t realized they noticed your disappearance that badly, just assumed that since they were in the middle of a comeback it would be swept under the rug.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Now we’re here to take care of you.” You hadn't realized Jisung had crossed the room until he placed a hand on your shoulder. Sighing you nuzzled your cheek into his forearm.

“Thank you.” Chenle visibly grimaced at the sweetness, instead grabbing the masks from Jisung.

“Yea, yea. Let’s just get this over with.” It took ten minutes for the three of you to stop arguing over who got which masks - Jisung was determined to get the mask with the puppy on it, Chenle said he had Daegal so he deserved the puppy mask - and actually properly place them on the two. Chenle won the argument, much to Jisung’s displeasure so he got the puppy mask while Jisung was stuck with the panda mask. It didn’t matter because by the time all three of you had your masks on - you were graced with the bunny mask - you were giggling so hard at how funny you looked that they barely stayed on. Since none of you had your phones on you, you were doomed to just make fun of eachother until the masks dried and you had to peel them off of your face.

The doorbell rang as you threw the masks away. Jisung practically pushed you out of the way to answer it, “Go pick out a movie with Chenle.” Ignoring his strange behavior you decided to follow his advice, heading back to the living room and plopping down on the couch. To your surprise Chenle picked the movie you suggested, a movie that all three of you had watched on one too many occasions. It wasn’t until you were both on the couch, covered with one of your fluffy blankets that you realized Jisung still wasn’t back.

“What is he doing?” Chenle only shrugged, pausing the movie before nearly deafening you as he screamed for Jisung.

“Wait. You’re so impatient.” Jisung mumbled while he walked back into the living room, holding a tray covered with snacks. The center of the tray however held something you didn’t even know they were aware of.

“Where’d you get this?” As Jisung placed the tray on the coffee table you leaned closer, making sure that you were seeing it right. Coxinha. How did they even know about it? You’d mentioned it in passing months ago while talking about your dad when you were home sick. You didn’t even think that they’d remember it, but here they were, set up nicely on one of your plates.

“I found a place that makes them specially. Though you’d like them?”

“You’d talked about them before, and you’ve been so down lately so we ordered some.”

“Do you like them?” Glancing between the boys, both who looked nervous you couldn’t but burst into tears. If your heart wasn’t so filled with love for your best friend you would’ve laughed at their panicking, Chenle placing blame on Jisung, who struggled to pull out tissues to gently wipe away your tears.

“I love them.” Both of them let out a sigh, glad that they didn’t mess up the day specially meant for you.

“Why are you crying?” Chenle smacked Jisung, starting up another argument between them. Shaking your head you pulled both of them into a hug.

“I love you guys.” If you looked up at that moment, you would’ve seen the great, unmovable Chenle’s face go bright red as he was left speechless. Jisung was no better, but he was easy to fluster. Both of the boys awkwardly wrapped their arms around you until your cries were only sniffles. When you looked back up with swollen eyes, and tear tracks staining your cheeks both of them felt the same warmth fill their hearts, grateful that they were able to make you happy.

“Love you too.” Chenle halfheartedly muttered, before playfully pushing you away from him. The three of you spent the night curled up on the couch, watching cheesy comedy movies, and eating all of the snacks they brought. Your heart stayed full, warmth flooding your body as you thought of how grateful you were to have the most thoughtful best friends in your life.

[zintranslations]

Kaleidoscope of Death, Extra 5

Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu Link to Chinese / Novel Updates

Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths (2)

And so, Cheng Yixie returned to Cheng Qianli's side.

After leaving his first door, Cheng Qianli came down with a fever. He was sent to the ICU that night. Their parents both thought Cheng Qianli wouldn't make it, but only Cheng Yixie knew that Cheng Qianli was welcoming his rebirth.

A few days later, Cheng Qianli left the ICU, his body slowly healing. The first sight that greeted him upon his waking was his brother Cheng Yixie.

Cheng Yixie was sitting on a chair beside his bed, leaning back with his eyes lightly closed, apparently asleep. Cheng Qianli saw the sunlight spill over Cheng Yixie's black hair, making the inky strands seem slightly translucent. Speckled light dripped through tree branches and upon his back, and for a moment, it looked like he had wings. In Cheng Qianli's eyes, Cheng Yixie seemed as holy as an angel fallen from the heavens.

The angel's lashes trembled, and his eyes opened. Sleepiness clouded his dark pupils, and it was only in moments like this when a childlike tenderness could still be seen in his gaze.

"Ge," Cheng Qianli called to him.

The instant he heard this, the child in Cheng Yixie's eyes faded. His gaze returned to their deep, lake-like calmness as he looked at Cheng Yixie.

"Awake? Does it hurt anywhere?"

Cheng Qianli shook his head. "I think I'm pretty okay."

Maybe he was imagining things, but he thought that the bout of sickness this time actually made his body more healthy; the places that were always quietly hurting didn't feel like anything right now.

"Mh," Cheng Yixie said. "Leave with me tomorrow then."

Cheng Qianli was stunned. "Leave? For where?"

Cheng Yixie, "a place that can save your life."

Cheng Qianli stared at Cheng Yixie in a daze. Cheng Yixie thought he'd at least ask some questions, but the fool nodded right then and there, concerned just enough to ask, "have you told mom and dad? They won't stop us, right?"

"No," Cheng Yixie said. "I've already talked to them."

Upon his return this time, he'd gotten a check-up at the hospital. The doctors had been shocked to find his body completely recovered from terminal disease. By all reason, this kind of congenital cardiovascular malformation had no treatment at all given the state of modern medicine, but there hadn't been a single symptom to be found on Cheng Yixie's body.

"Let him come with me. If he stays here he'll die," Cheng Yixie had told his parents. "Only I can save him. I'm the best example."

Faced with Cheng Yixie's somewhat absurd request, their parents had at first been a little hesitant. But after Cheng Yixie used his own healthy body as proof, they'd agreed to it in the end. Because even if they got to keep Cheng Qianli, the doctors didn't have any solutions. Since that was the case, why not let Cheng Yixie have a gamble?

After that, Cheng Yixie successfully took Cheng Qianli with him out of the hospital, and the two returned to Obsidian.

Obsidian was a warm place. Cheng Yixie rejoiced that he had been able to meet such a group of people. But Cheng Qianli was only a kid who practically grew up in the hospital—he was scared of the dark and a wimp. Though his body was growing gradually healthier after entering the doors, he still couldn't manage to extricate himself from that terrifying world.

He couldn't sleep because of the nightmares; every night he came to Cheng Yixie crying, barefoot, hugging a pillow and saying, "Ge, I had a nightmare again…"

Cheng Yixie was at his computer looking up information. He turned his head back and shot Cheng Qianli a look, before gesturing with his chin for Cheng Qianli to get on the bed.

Cheng Qianli obediently crawled into the large bed behind him, staring up at the ceiling in a daze.

"Ge, aren't you scared?"

Cheng Yixie, "scared of what?"

"Of ghosts," Cheng Qianli answered.

"What's so scary about ghosts," Cheng Yixie said. "I'm not scared of ghosts."

"Then what are you scared of?" Cheng Qianli's voice asked from behind him.

This question, Cheng Yixie did not answer for Cheng Qianli. Cool light spilled from the computer screen onto his impassive face. He didn't want to say what he feared out loud, because it felt like if he said it it would come true.

Cheng Qianli didn't pursue the question, either. His even breathing came from behind—he was just a kid, after all. Once he wasn't scared anymore, he fell quickly asleep.

A few days later, Cheng Qianli saw Cheng Yixie come into the house with a furry lump in his arms. Before Cheng Qianli could react, Cheng Yixie was tossing that lump into his arms. The lump perked up its furry little butt and lapped like crazy at Cheng Qianli's cheek with its tongue. It licked Cheng Qianli into giggles, and Cheng Qianli registered then that the lump was an adorable little corgi—he exclaimed in a moment of pure delight, "it's a corgi! Ge!! I love you!!"

Cheng Yixie nodded at Cheng Qianli, turned around, and left.

What kid didn't like animals? It was just that their physical conditions before hadn't allowed them such hobbies. Now that Cheng Qianli was getting healthy, he'd given Cheng Qianli a long-coveted present.

Of course Cheng Qianli was happy beyond words, gobbling up extra bites of dinner that night. He even went around excitedly collecting everybody's opinion on what to name the dog, before finally making a decision—Toast.

Toast was the little corgi's name.

With Toast around, Cheng Qianli's mental state got a lot better. He no longer sought Cheng Yixie out at night because he couldn't sleep.

Cheng Yixie would sometimes go to his room and check on him in the middle of the night. He'd see the kid sprawled out with limbs akimbo, bent in all sorts of strange ways on the bed. And Toast would be lying right next to him, sleeping with its belly up—the two of them, one large and one small, made a particularly harmonious scene.

And Cheng Yixie would look away. When he closed the door behind him that night, he saw Ruan Nanzhu standing and smoking in the hallway.

"You're up so late?" Ruan Nanzhu asked him.

"Mh," Cheng Yixie said. "Couldn't sleep."

"It's his second door in two days. Nervous?" Ruan Nanzhu said.

Cheng Yixie was silent for a while, before nodding and admitting to the anxiety deep in his heart.

"It's never easy." Ruan Nanzhu stubbed out his cigarette. "And you're still so young…I'll go in with you."

Cheng Yixie thanked Ruan Nanzhu in response.

Ruan Nanzhu said nothing, just started back to his room. But when he pushed his door open, his footsteps halted, and he looked back at Cheng Yixie.

"But he'll have to grow up sooner or later."

Cheng Yixie met Ruan Nanzhu's eyes. He knew what Ruan Nanzhu meant.

"You can't protect him forever," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"Do you think he can do it?" Cheng Yixie asked. "Do you think, he can come as far as I have?"

Ruan Nanzhu sighed, and said nothing more.

Some things could be achieved with hard work, but other things could only be gotten through talent. Though it wasn't fair, this was the case for the world of the doors.

Some people were naturally suited to enter the doors. They were calm and clever; even in the most dangerous moments, they could think of ways to escape.

But some people couldn't.

Cheng Yixie was a person suited to the doors, but his brother Cheng Qianli was just a regular dumb kid.

Cheng Yixie didn't know how many times he'd fantasized about this—what a fortunate thing it would be if they had healthy bodies.

Cheng Qianli would grow up normally. Perhaps he'd be a bit stupid, and his grades would mean headaches for their parents, but that was fine. He would have a clever older brother. His brother could watch over him.

But all these fantasies were simply wishful thinking.

Cheng Yixie returned to his room. Nobody knew better than he did that Cheng Qianli was not suited to the doors. If things progressed down their regular tracks, Cheng Qianli would most likely very quickly die in the following doors.

But how could Cheng Yixie let all that happen? He'd already decided the path that he would walk.

Three days later, Ruan Nanzhu and the Cheng twins entered Cheng Qianli's second door together.

This door was not particularly difficult, but to Cheng Qianli, it was still horribly thrilling; he was screaming of fright the whole time.

Cheng Yixie asked him, "how the hell did you even survive your first door?"

"I don't know," Cheng Qianli said. "I just went quietly to bed every night, and then one day I saw an open door. It was all bright inside, and after I walked in, I was out…"

Both Cheng Yixie and Ruan Nanzhu sank into a peculiar silence at this. It looked like fortune favors fools really was a wise saying.

After exiting his second door, Cheng Qianli got sick again for over a week. The doctor said it was caused by an excess amount of right.

Cheng Yixie watched over him as he got his IV drip, and Cheng Qianli was all wilted and sticky with sickness. He asked Cheng Yixie, "gege, how do I get better at this?"

Cheng Yixie patted his forehead, saying nothing.

"Will I get better if I stop being scared of ghosts," Cheng Qianli said. "I've decided, I'm going to watch a scary movie every day once we're back…"

Cheng Yixie wanted to sigh, but in the end, couldn't do it. He only spoke lightly, "focus on getting better first. Everything else, there's no rush. Ge's here."

Cheng Qianli nodded obediently.

Cheng Yixie thought Cheng Qianli had only been saying so, but after he got better, he actually did start watching scary movies. And one per day. Every single day he would be curled up in the living room with a blanket wrapped around his entire body, still scaring as badly as a quail each time.

Cheng Yixie was exasperated, but didn't try to talk him out of it. It pretty much looked like Cheng Qianli's courage wasn't something that could be built up.

Though Cheng Qianli wasn't particularly strong, he injected a different kind of life into Obsidian.

When the group grew numb from the torment of the terrifying doors, the upbeat Cheng Qianli was just like an oil pastel, swiping rich colors back onto Obsidian and filling the place with the breath of life.

If only the days could continue on like this, how nice would that be? Cheng Yixie wouldn't think this just the once. Some things, however, couldn't be avoided just by hiding.

Everything changed in Cheng Yixie's seventh door.

That door was vicious beyond measure, and Cheng Yixie was the only survivor. Just as he was stumbling out the door, he got his hands on a hint slip different from all others.

A detailed hint for the next door was written on the slip of paper.

In that moment, Cheng Yixie didn't comprehend just how this hint slip would change the tracks out under his life. He was still rejoicing, rejoicing that he'd once again escaped disaster, rejoicing that he'd gotten a hint to the eighth door, rejoicing that he'd be able to see Cheng Qianli again.

But a long, long time later, when he remembered this moment, he would realize that the Cheng Yixie back then had been standing at the crossroads of fate.

On one side of fate was hell. And on the other, was also hell.

[Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths(1)] | [Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths(3)]

[ichayalovesyou]

Spock & Pike :D

I don’t think I can stress enough how EXCITED I am by the potential of Strange New Worlds has for showing a really awesome, wholesome, healthy father-son relationship between Captain Pike and (Lieutentant? Or possibly Lt. Junior Grade) Spock. I mean, Spock’s gonna be in his early thirties, and that is barely an adult by Vulcan standards (which I’d imagine put him at a physical age of 25ish with his mixed heritage) regardless, he’s still pretty young! Him baby!

Something that caught me off guard that actually rubbed me the right way about Spock & Pike (and to a smaller extent Spock & Una) despite on the surface seeming out of character, is that he’s visibly happier and more relaxed around them! The fact that he admitted to smiling when Pike basically comes to rescue him speaks VOLUMES. I mean, he wouldn’t admit anything resembling that to Jim or Bones until they had been friends with him for years!

I mean by the time we get to TOS, Spock still struggles with a lot of inner-conflict and has trouble opening up to people. And we kinda get a small taste of how much worse that was for him when he was younger through Discovery (TAS and the AOS movies too). He’s still more stable and confident in himself in TOS than anywhere else beforehand, and considering Sarek isn’t... a great dad. I can only imagine Pike (and Una too probably!) had a LOT to do with it.

Pike seems like exactly the kind of mentor/father figure Spock would need to get where he is! There’s so much love that’s clearly there already (the unusually emotional display from Spock, Pike calls Spock “our boy” to his mom and older sister for crying out loud!) I only think it’s almost a shame that we aren’t seeing the first Pike five-year-mission to see how we got from the way he is in the turbolift with Una to where we see his and Pike’s relationship in Disco. Although I’m sure we’ll get flashbacks considering how intensely important Talos IV is to Pike’s arc.

Plus, it’s so rare, that you get to see a well done, healthy father-son type character relationship in TV shows these days, or at least not ones where the mentor doesn’t immediately die or turn evil (or something between). We already know what happens to Pike occurs after he & Spock part ways so there’s no risk of that in Strange New Worlds. (I actually have a theory that Spock does find out Pike already knows will happen to him, which has TONS of character development potential, such as Spock’s “the needs of the many” doctrine having some more heartbreaking context. It’d also give the conversation they have at the beginning of The Menagerie more depth, but I digress.)

Even Star Trek barely touches on that kind of character dynamic (and the only healthy one that comes to mind is Sisko and Jake, and if you want something even MORE sidelined, Rom & Nog) Star Trek does love it’s daddy issues, this would be an interesting change of pace. It would be the first time we’d get to see that sort of thing happen between two major characters in a Star Trek show (I feel that it’s clear by the promo pics that Pike, Una & Spock are intended to be SNW’s “triumvirate”). I would just love to see it, especially since SNW has promised a lighter, more optimistic Starfleet than what we’ve been getting lately.

[yoditorian]

lacuna- part 7

din/reader

cooking is my love language so i made it rebel’s too (as ever, thank you to my love my life @brothersdrxke for being my shara) 💛 there’s rly only two more parts after this huh

series masterlist // main masterlist

word count: 2.7k

warnings: i don’t think there’s any swears in this one but just to be on the safe side, rebel has PTSD although it’s more suggested than actually experienced there’s a couple of moments that are shaky, softness and domesticity or just sadness?, sadness, the usual type of smut, 18+ no babies thanks

“No.”

At least Colonel Cintass has the decency to look surprised, he blanches when you show no sign of joking and sits up a little straighter. 

“If it’s a question of pay or location, both are negotiable. There’s academies all over the Inner and Mid rim, you’ll have your pick of the lot and a promotion if you accept.” He’s clutching at all the straws he has at his disposal, but you don’t budge. He huffs when you say nothing and asks, albeit agitatedly, what your plans are instead.

“Maybe I’ll go private. Pays well, I can do what I want-”

“There’s no glory in the private sector.” Cintass interrupts you, and your eyebrows furrow further.

“And there is here? If you joined up for glory, Colonel, I don’t think you should be calling the shots.” You’re right and you both know it. You’re all too familiar with the friends who’ve retired to find something quieter, and with the officers who spent their Rebellion days discussing facts and figures with politicians. People who’d never been on the front lines in the thick of it, never even seen a firefight, now in charge of fresh faced cadets and veterans with too many demons to feel like they belong anywhere else. You won’t stay here, not for any longer than it takes to pack your things.

You pulled out of Green Squadron the day after Shara told you she was retiring, the last of the original crew, you hadn’t wanted to fly any more missions without her. At least the Colonel heard you out and didn’t argue. He’d let you stay on as a temporary mechanic, while you figured out what it was you wanted to do. Although, now it’s clear he fought to keep you so he could get things in place to offer you a teaching job. 

It’s a good position, in all honesty. Miles better pay than you’ll get for the same job anywhere else, the choice to relocate to any of the shiny New Republic Navy training centres across the galaxy. But you can’t look a bunch of teenagers in the eye and tell them that this is everything they hope for. Not when the war chewed you up and spit you out the way it did. The scars on your back ache at the thought of it. 

Shara finds you in the hangar, loading up a couple of bags into your A-Wing’s pitiful storage compartment. All your belongings, your whole life, packed up and ready to go wherever you decide to take them.

“I don’t think you’re gonna be able to live in there.” 

“Ah, I’ll get a couple of hanging plants, maybe put up some curtains,” You smile at her from the top of the ladder, “Could be cosy.”

You know why she’s here. Not to talk you into accepting the teaching job, she knows you better than that. The idea was one she’d had right after she and Kes had found the old farm on Yavin IV, in need of a little tlc and a lot of patience, it was the perfect spot for them to raise their boy. And the little house further down the track, right at the edge of their land, was the perfect spot for you.

“I’m not saying you have to stay there forever,” She starts when you open your mouth to decline again, “I’m saying that when you need some solid ground under your feet, you don’t have to go looking for it.”

“Shara-”

“We’re family. You will always have a home with us.” It’s final. Non-negotiable. And something about the look in her eye makes you want to cry just a little bit. You think about the collection of scribbles tucked carefully away in one of your bags, the more recent ones at least are a little easier to distinguish as people. Four multi-coloured potatoes with legs. As far as little Poe is concerned, he agrees with his mother. 

You hop down the ladder and pull Shara tightly to you, maybe tighter than you have before. Because you’ve never really had a home, not a place you ever felt was worthy of such a title. But here she is, offering one to you like it’s nothing. 

“So, where are you off to now?” She asks when you finally have the strength to let her go. Both of your eyes are a little watery, but neither of you mentions it.

“Well, I turned down Cintass so it's up in the air. I’ve got some old contacts, so as long as they’ve forgiven me I can get a little income before I have to make any concrete decisions.” You don’t tell her exactly who the contacts are. Something about the way she raises her eyebrow makes you wonder if she’s already guessed where you’re going.  

It feels strange, guiding your A-Wing out of the hangar for the last time. You hope it's the last time. At least you had enough put by to get Green Four decommissioned and released to you, it might have been a little more difficult than you’d initially thought if you had to leave the ship behind. She’s old and you’ve put her through hell, but she’s yet to let you down.

You’re not overly surprised that your comm signal goes unanswered. You weren’t exactly the most gracious guest on your last visit. But you don’t get shot up on your approach, so maybe your old friends are feeling a little more amicable nowadays.

“Impressive.” Ran says when you hop out of the cockpit, helmet under one arm and a sheepish smile on your face.

“She used to be.” You know he’s already calculating how much he can get for it, or whether he wants to strip it for parts. Your heart aches at the thought of it but there’s not a lot you can do. If letting go of your starfighter is what gets you back on the team, then it’s what’ll have to happen. Even if it hurts.

Ran gestures at a couple of new crewmates, a Devaronian and a human, and you selfishly hope you won’t have to work too closely with them. There’s an insignia on the shoulder of the human’s jacket, one you don’t want to examine too closely for fear you’re right. He’s about to offer you your old room when the shooting starts.

The men are taking turns at a set of old side panels, blaster bolts melting the old steel on contact, and you know that. You flinch before you can stop yourself. Ran watches you suspiciously, but he says nothing. Before the war, you would never have even batted an eyelid at a little target practice. You probably would have been in the thick of it, laughing and betting and not watching your friends die over and over in your mind.

“You stink of soldier.” Xi’an sneers, although she means it more as an observation than an accusation. You don’t disagree, only shrug, and your hand hovers warily over your holster as you watch the shooting competition. Just in case.

“Where’s Qin?” You ask once your heartbeat returns to normal. Anger flashes across Xi’an’s face as Ran explains he’d outsourced a job a few years ago, and Qin hadn’t made it back. It’s unexpected, the odd way you find yourself a little disappointed. Even though he’d been cold with you on your last visit, even though you’d bickered and been at each other’s throats more than once. Qin had been a friend once, a lifetime ago. You suppose that’s exactly the problem.

“Are you still terrible at throwing?” Xi’an asks, and the awkward tension finally melts away. Her wicked smile returns and you find yourself mirroring it.

“I’m a little better.” You say. Although you’re still certain she’ll wipe the floor with you, it’s nice to see at least somebody around here missed you. It’s about as close to a confession as you’ll ever get from Xi’an. You’d be an idiot not to take the olive branch she’s so selflessly holding out in front of you. Maybe you won’t be so alone on the station after all.

Din’s wondering about you, some part of him always is, as he looks at the new pucks in his hands. A couple of humans, a mythrol, and a chiss. None of them should cause him too much trouble, but none of their last known locations are exactly close. He settles on one of the humans, last seen in the Yavin system, and tells himself it’s because he can stock up on supplies for some of the more long haul flights the new assignments will take him on. Definitely not because he could stand to be around people who might remind you of him, even just a little. Definitely not because he misses you.

Din watches you from across the market, chatting animatedly with a dark haired woman he’s half-certain he’s met before. The way she leans so casually, so naturally, against your shoulder as she laughs makes his ribcage ache. He wants that with you, always has. He wants to be able to take you to places like these. To hold you close in front of throngs of people and meet your old friends. He shouldn’t even be here.

The Armourer’s words still echo in his ears. He is responsible for the covert, their hardest working hunter. He cannot, should not, waste thought on times past. 

He shouldn’t be here.

But it’s too late.

Your eyes zero in on him, abandoning the conversation, and your friend follows your gaze. Din takes that as an invitation, slowly making his way towards the two of you in the shadow of a baker’s stall. The crowds part, as they always do, and for the first time he finds himself wishing they wouldn’t. You might have a life here, for all he knows. It’s been long enough. You deserve one, really. To have a home. To feel loved all the time, to not have to wonder. And then he’s there, in front of you, just staring. What are either of you even supposed to say?

A small boy peers around your hip, looking up at him in wonder. Too old to be yours, if he remembers correctly, but for a moment his heart seizes. You rest your hand in the kid’s curls, absentmindedly ruffling them. You’ve always fiddled when you’re nervous. 

“We should probably get home, but I’ll see you tomorrow?” The woman clears her throat, snapping the sudden tension into shards. Din’s careful not to cut himself on the edges. 

You nod enthusiastically, every language you know still lodged uncomfortably in your throat, and wrap an arm around her shoulders for a brief goodbye hug. She calls the boy after her as she leaves, their matching black curls bouncing when she heaves him up onto her shoulders.

“Shara,” You say, watching the two disappear into the waning crowd, “She teaches some of the older kids piloting basics. I help out when I’m here, mechanics mostly.”

“You find somewhere to settle?”

You shake your head. Give him some vague answer about drifting where the wind takes you. He doesn’t need to know you went crawling back to the only thing you knew before the war. It’s quiet for a moment, and even though you’re standing in the middle of the market, it’s as though you’re the only two people on the whole street. Din’s floundering for something to say, something to keep you here for just another minute, until you break the silence and save him. Just like you always do.

“When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t a ration pack?” 

Even with the way he treated you last time, you’re still showing him the kindness you always have. He’s still not sure he deserves it. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Come on.” You take his silence as an answer, and start towards an alleyway between two buildings. Din follows you without hesitation, and the path opens up to a small parking lot half-full of different speeder models. You lead him to an older one, yellow paint faded and scratched, and drop your bag in the backseat. He falters a little when you climb in and gesture to the seat beside you.

“Unless you wanted to sit in the back.” Your smirk is warm, familiar. It hurts to look at. So he hops in and settles on the front bench because he’s not sure he can bear to watch you look at him like that much longer.

The little home down the dusty farm track is not somewhere he ever expected you to call your own. You’ve always seemed like you should be on a background of stars, a hyperspace lane, not somewhere this domestic. At least that way he wouldn’t be consumed, so suddenly, with a very real idea of staying. 

You just look so comfortable, bathed in the low light of the afternoon sun through the windows, pulling vegetables out of a fridge covered head to toe in kid’s drawings. The little boy from the market, presumably. And it makes his ribcage ache to know that this too, is something that’ll always be missing from his every day. He won’t get to sit at your kitchen table and watch you fuss over a pot of stew, or have you slide up behind him and kiss his shoulder as he follows your favourite recipe. 

It’s the best stew he’s ever had. Easily. The sun has disappeared behind Yavin, bathing the whole moon in an odd red glow as he eats. The helmet seems to glare at him from the middle of your kitchen table. You’d ducked into the bedroom to eat before he could even suggest that you take the kitchen. Another sacrifice you’ve made for him. What does that make the number now?

His gloves stay on the table while he washes the dishes, at his insistence. Although you’d put up a little bit of a fight. Din doesn’t bother to pick them up when he passes the table, when he appears in your bedroom doorway and you look up from your datapad like it’s the most natural thing in the galaxy. 

You’ve pulled the curtains, shut the world out, and the room is plunged into darkness when you flick the lightswitch by the head of your bed. 

You’re expecting the warmth of his skin on yours when he finally finds his way to you in unfamiliar space. He always sheds his armour so silently. You don’t expect him to take your hands in his, and raise them to the sides of his helmet.

The breath catches in your throat, you know he can hear it. His fingers tremble slightly over yours but he doesn’t waver. He settles them both solidly on either side of his helmet, and guides you for a moment. Your hands follow the rest of the way when he drops his to your waist, you set it carefully on the bedside table and turn back to him. He’s not stupid. He knows you can’t actually see him. But it feels like every barrier between you is finally, melted away. And Din can lay you back on the bed as himself. 

It’s strange to have him in a space that’s become yours. Knowing that in the dark his helmet is sitting on a bedside table next to a picture frame of you and Green Squadron. That he probably saw every drawing Poe’s ever scribbled for you stuck to your fridge. But you force yourself to forget that. You shove it right down until there’s no room in your head for anything but the way he’s clinging to you. Until he is all you know.

“Tell me you don’t love me.” You’re almost asleep when the traitorous words slip out. 

Oh, you think you’re clever. You think you’re leaving him no choice but to confess. You think this is where things finally, finally, start to go your way. They don’t.

“I don’t love you.”

No differently than if he was recounting the weather forecast. And it hurts. But you don’t have it in you to run, to cry, to be angry with him at all. Instead, you fall back down to press your cheek against the warmth of his bare chest, defeated. He holds you there until you’re sleeping.

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