#just hanging out. filled with grief and regret but hanging nonetheless | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lvyu · 4 years ago

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is it lonely on that train?

. . ♡ ･ﾟghostbur x reader, wilbur soot x reader

⎯ warning(s): slight mention of death and violence, unrequited love, not proofread

⎯ wc. 1.2k

notes: i’m in my ghostbur feels, i have still not recovered from his... death, okay.

the stone felt so cold, even with socks on, and for a moment you’d forgotten why you hadn’t worn shoes. it couldn’t have been any later than midnight and even with residents who never seemed sleep, besides your shaky breath and soft crackling of a nearby torch, it was quiet.

so, so quiet.

approaching footsteps went unnoticed, though even if you had noticed it wouldn’t have been difficult to decipher who it was. no one else visited and whether that was out of guilt, grief, or they simply couldn’t care less, you didn’t know. then again you supposed that it probably just had to do with the other person it represented.

the looming figure behind you smiled. not out of happiness, pleasure or even due to the sheer madness of the man, he just found the entire situation funny. depressing of course, but where’s the adventure in life without a little tragedy?

“do you miss him?”

you wondered, was it your fault? could you have helped him?

his sudden presence startled you for only a moment before you returned your attention to the flower in your hand. it was small, originally part of a bunch but you had torn it off earlier. you figured it’d be a nice memento to place for him, even if he would never know.

“berry? you still there?”

you weren’t sure if the bubbling feeling inside you were tears waiting to burst or the urge to bash his head in for his mockery. he’d died once before, surely he wouldn’t mind a second time around.

seeing you stiffen at his words made him laugh. your reactions never failed to amuse him. though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel sorry for you. there would always be a soft spot for you in his heart, a fact both of you knew.

“did you like my impression of him? good, aren’t i?” now standing by you, he nudged your shoulder. “berry, berry— cute.”

he was desperate.

there were six petals that you counted, though you were no expert. wilbur’s original question still lingered in your mind. of course you did, it was a stupid question in the first place, but his words always had a hidden question, didn’t they?

did you miss me?

his smile never faltered, even when you blatantly ignored him. your presence was enough to satisfy him, he didn’t need you to reply or even speak a word. you didn’t miss him and he knew that, but a man can dream. after all, why would you when you had good and sweet, innocent little ghostbur by your side.

six or so purple petals he counted, even with your attempts to shield it from his view.

tnt upon his resurrection site— he wondered who’s funny idea that was. a small l’manberg flag hanging as well, still as can be without the wind. and for the first time that night, he wore a genuine smile.

a sad smile, one filled with regrets and sorrow, but a smile nonetheless.

“president wilbur soot.”

he turned to you, smile gone, replaced with a look of shock slowly melding into curiosity. from what information tommy had fed him a while ago, you hadn’t spoken since his arrival— nearly three weeks. how did you manage to keep so quiet? was it that you had no words left, or perhaps it was that the one person you loved to talk to was now gone?

president wilbur soot.

it’d been a while since he’d been called that. twelve, thirteen years? thirteen years... give or take a few months.

everyone referred to him as wilbur or will or some other variation of his name, but president? unless joking, no one besides you ever called him that. and to tease, sometimes you’d switch wilbur out for wilby— a sillier, more childish version of his name.

not once did he ask you to stop though, because even as you teased him, it was time spent with you.

“president wilbur soot sacked from his position.”

he hadn’t let you join pogtopia until days leading up to the attack on manburg, though by that point it wasn’t really his choice anymore. he wonders that if he had just spoken to you more, let you visit him, that perhaps you wouldn’t hate him as much as you did now.

the tnt laid on the stone, a reminder that no, there was nothing he or anyone could’ve done to make you hate him any less; no matter, he would always blow up the country you loved, he would always die and in the end, he would always be replaced by a better version of himself.

the version you loved.

“former president wilbur soot, stuck on a train until his precious savior dream came rescues him.”

a quiet laugh managed it’s way past his lips, now staring down at the blue adorning the grave. no doubt tommy had babbled to you about what his afterlife was like, what he had said when he first returned. not that he regretted what he said. his words were true, dream had saved him, albeit at the sacrifice of another.

the train, his personal hell.

the train that never stopped, a red light shining through every few seconds. a train with a seemingly endless amounts of carts and seats, that even though he knew impossible, he kept trying to sit in every single one. when he left he was up to the ten thousand something seats.

a train that no doubt, he knew ghostbur was suffering in.

without a second thought you dropped flower, keeping your hands cupped though you held nothing. there was no wind, not even a breeze to help move the flower and instead it stayed at your feet.

“he wouldn’t tell me, you know,” you whispered. “they wouldn’t tell me why they needed him, they just found us and pulled him aside.” he wondered that if they had bothered to tell you if he would even be standing here now. “the next day he just left, he said he had to do something for tommy and off...”

you paused, letting out a shaky sigh as a poor attempt to stall your tears.

“off he went,” your voice cracked. “and then you show up and... and they tell me he’s gone and tommy’s sorry and it’s all sam’s fault because he didn’t let him through or even try to save ghostbur! but... but who’s...” you tugged at your sleeves, trying to calm yourself from your outburst.

“does it even matter?” your voice was back to a whisper now, sobs becoming louder by the second.

it was rhetorical he knew, but in his mind he still answered ‘no’. it didn’t matter to you because even with someone to blame, the person you loved was gone. nor did it matter to him because frankly, wilbur couldn’t give a damn about that ghost.

he moved and closed the gap between the two of you, putting his arms around you, bring his hand up to stroke your hair in a comforting manner. there wasn’t much else he could do and he knew he wasn’t the one you wanted, but he hoped he could be enough just one last time.

[ ⋯ ]

hyacinth; purple — i am sorry, please forgive me, sorrow

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masterwords · 3 years ago

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Rise & Fall

Summary: Coda to 04x01 - Mayhem. Morgan takes the ambulance rigged to blow up the hospital and blows it up where it won't hurt anyone. The only thing he wants to do after playing the hero is get back to Hotch.

Warnings: none

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 4k

Notes: A gift for the AO3 Bulletproof exchange using the freeform tags: Touch Starved - Lots of Gentle Touch and/or Cuddling/Snuggling and The Intimacy of Brushing/Braiding/Washing Another Person's Hair

Read on AO3:

“Get off of me,” Morgan groaned, throwing his elbow out to the side like a child amid a tantrum. He was filled with immediate regret at the pull of his shoulder muscles and JJ pressed her hand there to calm him.

“Let them do their job,” she whispered, leaning close to his ear. “The sooner they finish, the sooner we can get out of here.” It was true, they were sitting in the middle of a swirling scene surrounded by police officers, bomb techs and camera people hoping for a story to put on the evening news. They could both think of a million places they'd rather be.

“I don't need all the fuss.”

“Morgan, you jumped out of an ambulance as it exploded. Humor me. Unless...” she drug the word out a little longer than necessary in that dramatic way she had about her. “...you want to hear what Hotch has to say about it in the morning?”

She had a point. Not one he wanted to hear, but a point nonetheless. He coughed hard, lungs tight and painful and she waved her hand, had the EMT put the oxygen mask over his face again. The glare he shot her made her smile and shrug a little, but he let her hold it there while they looked him over...it made her feel better and would keep his antics off of Hotch's radar. It was a small price to pay.

He was still coughing, even an hour later. The EMTs had ceased following him around after he was more than a little short with one about the idea of getting into the ambulance and riding to the hospital. “Fuck that,” he'd muttered, shaking his head incredulously. They were standing a safe distance away from the wreckage of the last ambulance, the one he'd blown up; shrapnel littered the ground they walked on. His vest was ripped to shreds but his skin was not, a small miracle. He thought of Hotch, the only thing between he and the SUV that blew up in his face being a few layers of expensive suit and suddenly all he wanted was to see him, to look him over again. The longer they were apart, the worse Hotch seemed in his mind...he'd been upright, he'd discharged himself from the hospital, but it wasn't so simple. His sense of duty far outweighed his sense of self-preservation.

“Morgan,” JJ said, touching his elbow to get his attention. He was lost in a daze, miles away while he stood there. “SSA Joyner died. I just got a call from Rossi, he said she never made it out of surgery. He's taking Hotch back to the hotel...” she let the last word hang between them for a second, dripping with implications he didn't want to consider. The grief of his partner, the job offer that was now a lot firmer than it had been hours before, the night they'd had...hell, the week they'd had. Nothing about this case had been easy on them, it was driving them to their breaking points. She patted his arm and let him to go deal with a few more camera crews that had shown up, promising they'd be leaving soon. He milled around, watching the bomb squad pick apart the wreckage for scraps, anything that could help them recreate the explosive to study. He thought about helping but he was beat, didn't want to admit to JJ how badly he just wanted a shower and a bed. Nothing about the day had been good and the night had been worse, he was nearing his limit for total body exhaustion.

“The jet leaves at 10am,” she said, as if reading his thoughts once they were out on the road and he groaned. That wasn't far enough away, not for his taste. He had no idea what time it was but it felt late, too late to consider 10am a viable option. “But...” and she paused, like she was edging a little too close to a line she hadn't crossed before. Everyone knew about Morgan and Hotch, but they didn't talk freely about it, not at work. Still, she couldn't avoid this one. “Agent Davis from the New York Field Office is scheduled to drive Hotch back to Quantico, he can't fly with his ear injury. You could always...”

“Don't you dare,” he muttered, resting his head against the cool window and closing his eyes. The swirl of the streetlights as they blinked blood red was making him sick, the cityscape looking like his own version of hell. The worst of it was that all he could smell was smoke; acrid, gasoline and grass, molten plastic and metal. His skin was coated in it.

“I just thought it might get you a little more sleep...and maybe you guys could talk...”

“Dammit JJ.”

She smiled to herself, knowing it had worked, even if he hadn't admitted it yet. “You know I could just tell Strauss that you're driving him...”

“Fine. FINE.”

“Okay, good, because I kind of already did...we both know he'd bully Agent Davis into letting him drive. He's...Rossi said it's pretty bad. He really shouldn't drive, so when she asked me if I had any other suggestions...well, we both agreed that he can't bully you. Somehow, you're immune to it.”

“JJ, I don't appreciate your meddling.” He was smiling, though. It made her laugh.

“Just practicing for motherhood.”

They walked side by side through the hotel in silence. Most of the team was on one floor, the only stragglers had been Hotch and Rossi who got rooms one floor beneath everyone else. Inside the elevator, he settled his hips against the rail and waited for her to punch in their floor number, she'd scurried in front of him, and he wasn't going to turn down her offers of help. With a frown, he watched as she punched in another floor too, and a moment later the elevator was stopping on Hotch's floor, her smile knowing and more than a little evil. He groaned as he stepped out, shaking his head. She was on his list.

“Be nice,” she called after him and he raised his hand in the air, flipping her off with his back turned.

He stopped by the vending machine first for some bottles of water and pretzels, easy snacks to hopefully placate Hotch with. He fully intended to order room service for himself, he was starving, and pretzels were definitely not going to cut it but he knew Hotch would put up a fight like usual. Still, he had pain killers to take and those needed food, they said so right on the bottles and he damn well knew it...Morgan was sure that meant he could easily swerve his way into having the upper hand. Hotch may have been the undisputed (or, rarely disputed) leader in the field but here, in their bedroom, things ran a little different.

The first surprise came when Hotch actually answered the door. He'd expected to have to go up to his room, rifle through his pile of clothes from the day before until he found the other room key and hope that Hotch hadn't latched the bar when Rossi dropped him off. Hotch did open the door, one hand pressed to his forehead, the other gripping the handle a little too tight, like he was using it to hold himself upright. Morgan instinctively reached out, grabbing his arm as he wavered where he stood, and from somewhere behind the door he heard a noise and suddenly Rossi was there with his hands against Hotch's back. The two of them guided him toward the bed where he settled slow and stiff, his back ramrod straight and the movement looked like it had knocked the wind out of him. Rossi shot Morgan a confused look, a helplessness in his eyes that sent a shiver up Morgan's spine.

“I suppose you can take it from here?” Rossi asked, almost sarcastically and Morgan sighed. He hadn't thought he'd be intruding on anything, really just figured he'd find Hotch hunched over a stack of files or a laptop, unable to turn his mind off in the face of pain and grief. Not sure why he didn't think Rossi would have stuck around, wouldn't have let Hotch out of his sight...an err in his own judgment, he supposed.

“You can stay,” Morgan replied, unable to tear his eyes from Hotch who sat on the bed with his hands on his thighs, knuckles white, a pinched look on his face. “I'll go back up to my room.”

In one quick, fluid motion Rossi grabbed his jacked from the back of a chair and pulled Morgan aside, out of earshot though both of them knew it didn't make much difference...Hotch couldn't hear them anyway, they could tell. Even if he could hear them, he wasn't in any shape to be listening, he was working through something on his own. “If you're going to get him all riled up, it would be better if you left...cooled off...” Rossi's face was too serious. “The two of you have been at each other's throats the last few days, and I'm not passing judgment Derek...I am simply saying that now is not the time to hash things out.”

“I'm not gonna start a fight, man,” Morgan replied, more than a little offended at Rossi's snap judgment. “Nothing to hash out, we're good...” It wasn't really a lie, there had been a silent understanding between them. It wasn't pretty or comfortable, but it would smooth itself out in time, no amount of talking would help it get there any faster.

“Then I'll leave you two alone. There's a bottle of scotch with my name on it down the hall and I intend to salvage what I can of this night. I hope you two can do the same.”

“I'm sorry about Kate,” Morgan whispered, crouching beside Hotch once Rossi had departed. He looked up, tried to catch Hotch's attention but he was lost somewhere else, he had the same faraway quality in his eyes that Morgan had had just a few hours earlier. Dazed, floating in the ether. There was a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand still taped shut, still frustratingly full and he groaned easing himself upright again. His back cried out in agony, and he froze, muscles tight, he was barely in better shape, but he had to try. The bottle was easy enough to open, pull out the recommended dosage. Two ghostly white pills, small things that would momentarily cause big waves as he imagined himself forcing Hotch down on the bed and poking them down his throat. Muscle memory, he'd been here before. In a show of good faith, he extended the pills to Hotch in his open palm aside a bottle of water. “Did you hear me?”

“You're going to have to speak up,” Hotch mumbled, dumping the pills onto his tongue and pouring water in on top. It was the sort of movement someone who takes a lot of pills does, efficient, nothing to it. A magic trick, now you see it, now you don't. He handed Hotch the pretzels expectantly, a bold move but he intended to capitalize on this brief period of compliance.

“You're supposed to eat with those.” Morgan's voice was quiet, almost fatherly in quality and gave Hotch very little to argue against. Under normal circumstances he may have bristled but there was something here that gave him pause, made him consider Morgan's motive and eventually cave. Slowly, he tore at the bag with shaking hands, making a show of being capable instead of admitting he could barely manage it. The bag ripped at an odd angle, and he frowned in dismay before tugging at it, opening the top wide as if he'd intended it that way all along. He offered the bag to Morgan first, a sign of gratitude and another moment to try and settle his rumbling stomach that screamed its unwillingness to accept food without trouble. He wouldn't have a choice soon.

“You first,” Morgan said softly. “I bought them for you.” He settled in close enough that he could smell the antiseptic beneath the bandages, smell the metallic tang of blood still in his hair, on his skin, dried and cracking at his jawline in places nurses had tried to wipe clean. There was a small wad of cotton stuffed into one ear, dried blood just barely peeking around the edges, and it turned his stomach to think of Hotch being in pain, something out of their control. Hotch reached his fingers in, pulled out one pretzel and popped it into his mouth, tried to pretend it was a natural motion. The moment it was near, he felt his mouth warm with saliva, a warning sign but he pressed forward...he really did need to eat something, or those pills would make him sick, he knew it, but he didn't want it. There was an internal struggle taking place just below the surface while he focused intently on once again offering the bag to Morgan. This time, he accepted, pulling out a few with a smile, and they proceeded to empty the bag. In the end. Morgan ate twice as many as Hotch, but he spread it out in a way that maybe, he hoped, Morgan wouldn't notice.

The steam from the shower was shocking, and Hotch realized he'd been sitting and chewing the same pretzel for too long now. He'd been lost in a trance, broken free by the sudden humidity that made his lungs feel tight and swollen in his chest. “Derek?”

“Bathroom...” he said, wiping at his wrist. He'd checked the water's heat, made sure it was a decent temperature, gotten his shirt wet in the process. “Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry,” Hotch muttered. “You're going to take a shower?”

“We're going to take a shower,” Morgan corrected, extending his hand to Hotch, palm up and expectant. “You smell like blood and hospitals, and I smell like smoke...”

Hotch frowned for a moment, his mind worrying itself into knots over why Morgan would smell like anything other than Morgan. He knew what he'd done, he'd seen it on the news, heard it from Garcia, and the knowledge was settled in there neatly packaged in a place that he promised he'd be angry over later, but right now he had trouble accessing anything that remotely mattered. His ears were ringing, it was tinny and ricocheted through his skull like a pinball machine in an arcade. There wasn't room for anger. “Right,” he muttered, extending his hand and allowing Morgan to pull him to his feet. He was wholly unprepared for the pain that would cause, and he sucked in a deep breath, held it in expanded lungs a moment while his muscles wailed like banshees. Morgan slipped in close, held him upright, was tender when he was certain he didn't deserve that treatment. Not after the way he'd been behaving the last few days, certainly not from Morgan. He deserved to be alone, to sit without peace, without comfort and here Morgan was touching him so gently, so tenderly it made him ache. “I'm okay,” he whispered. “I'm okay.”

“Sure you are.” Morgan smirked, but he didn't argue. There wasn't any point, Hotch would dig in, and then they'd both lose. It was easier just to move on, to pull him toward the bathroom and begin carefully undressing him in a way that said I want to do this, not that I think you need me to do this (but you clearly do...), he was more or less an expert at this point. Not that he wanted to be, he hoped eventually Hotch would come around, be somewhat normal, accept his help without trickery, but so far, no luck.

“I can do it,” Hotch began, raising his arms that felt a little too heavy in an attempt to fumble at the buttons on his shirt. Morgan brushed his hands away and continued his efforts, freeing Hotch of his shirt and then his pants with far less effort than it would have taken Hotch to accomplish the same task. “Thank you.” The pills were kicking in, loosening up stiff muscles and aching joints, and his mind followed suit. He couldn't seem to focus on any one thing long enough to feel indignant, to put in any real effort, to form a complete sentence. Just before stepping into the shower, Morgan's phone buzzed on the counter and he sighed...of all times, now Garcia calls him back. He'd tried her no less than four times since the ambulance and she'd ignored every call, he wasn't sure how long he was not supposed to talk to her, how long she'd keep up this radio silence, but he desperately needed her voice. Now, though, was not the time.

“Hey mama,” he said, lifting the phone to his ear while Hotch stepped into the shower, his eyes wide and bright. He was in a daze, seemed solid enough, stable enough to manage a moment on his own but Morgan knew he needed to hurry before those pills really kicked in. Neither of them believed that small handful of pretzels would actually suffice and the last thing they needed was another trip to the hospital. “I'm a little busy right now.”

“You called me four times and now I'm ready to talk and you say you're busy? What could be more important than me?”

“I got something I gotta take care of, I promise I'll call you back when I'm done.”

“That something had better be someone, Derek Morgan. Do you hear me?” She knew. She had no question, and it was the one thing she was willing to allow him to blow her off for.

“Loud and clear.”

There was something about hotel room showers that Morgan could never get over. At home everything was in exactly the right spot, he could go in with his eyes closed and work his way through his routine effortlessly. He would try to arrange his items just right on the road, to try and emulate the ease in order to achieve relaxation but always came up short, frustrated, knocking shampoo bottles to the ground with a deafening thud. Hotch, though...he simply wanted the water. Morgan stood just beyond the glass door watching his opulent shadow, grateful for a shower that was just a spacious, glistening tile stall and not a bathtub. He stood directly beneath the oversized shower head as it dumped on him, washing away all traces of the day. Not at all concerned with washing, with any sort of to-do list, it was the water that he wanted and only that.

Morgan had other plans, as he usually did. Naked and bruised, they stood before one another, their bodies a brutal map of their day. Deep maroons and purples and blacks and blues, bright red and mottled browns, an artist's hand mixed palette. It wasn't unusual, not in their line of work, but there was a palpable feeling of fear, of restlessness, of anger charging the air around them. “We good?” Morgan asked, reaching one hand out and placing it on Hotch's hip, pulling him near. Hotch didn't respond immediately; he was slow to put together the words lost in the heat and the hiss of the shower. Morgan moved closer, until his mouth was nearly on Hotch's, and repeated the question. Their lips brushed, breath mingled, hearts skipped a beat. There was a response this time, a slight nod of Hotch's head and that was it, that was the talk.

“I can't hear.” Hotch's voice was ghostly, he sounded ashamed and sad, and while it wasn't completely true, he could hear some in small bursts, grainy audio cutting in and out on frayed wires...he was impaired enough he thought it best to just simplify things. Morgan nodded, pulling Hotch closer to him, until there was no space between them. Water pooled in the crevices, arms circling Hotch's waist protectively, foreheads pressed together. The pain was fuzzy, crackled like electricity and then fizzled out leaving only scorched earth in its wake; a process repeated with no limits, and the pills seemed only to make him care less about it all.

Hotch's shampoo sat in a small nook alongside his other toiletries, lined up in order of use, faced and ready to go. He knew exactly what the shampoo would smell like before opening the bottle, he couldn't be certain, but he thought Hotch might never have used a different shampoo in his entire life. It was the only distinct smell he had, and the minute it was in his hands, his senses were overwhelmed by lavender, ylang ylang, petitgrain...the heady bouquet was enticing and as he slicked it through Hotch's thick hair, he breathed it in deep. It filled his lungs, and he closed his eyes, dragging his fingertips over Hotch's scalp. He tried to be gentle as he rounded Hotch's ears, his temples, small circular motions and large sweeping passes. He pulled it up into tiny spikes, twisted bits around his fingers and breathed it in again. Hotch's eyes were closed, his face a portrait of momentary serenity and Morgan continued long after it was necessary to keep going.

“I love you; you know?” Hotch whispered as Morgan tipped his head back, started pushing the shampoo out beneath the water. It ran in thick, foamy rivers down his spine, collected briefly in the curve at the small of his back and coursed down his legs. He didn't know how to verbalize everything fluttering around in his head, all of the explanations, the NYC job and Kate and the bomb...there was so much in there, but the simplest thing he could say was also, he figured, the most important. His voice rattled around in his chest, sharp and raw in the hot shower and he hoped it was loud enough for Morgan to hear. “I love you.”

“I know.”

With a lopsided grin entirely encouraged by the pain killers, Hotch positioned Morgan beneath the running water and, with the same shampoo, proceeded to make a mockery of the hair washing experience. Coarse stubble scraped his palms, rough and thick but gentle like fine sandpaper and he scrubbed the dirt and ash from Morgan's scalp. Suds coursed in rivulets down Morgan's face, caught in his eyebrows and he sputtered the soap out of his mouth. “You suck at this,” Morgan muttered while Hotch clumsily thumbed soap from his eyes, from his mouth. “Don't quit your day job.” He knew Hotch wouldn't hear him, there was some allure in that. He could, at least for tonight, say anything he wanted and suffer few consequences in the morning.

“Woahhhhh...” Morgan reached out, steadied Hotch against him as his foot slipped out from beneath him. They'd tested the limits of his body and the medication; it was time to succumb. “Let's get in bed, huh?” He had one thing on his mind: room service.

Out of the shower was easy, the towels were an exercise in futility because the room was so humid and hot from their extended shower that the moment it swiped across their skin, they were damp again. There were worse things, they'd both decided as they gave up and in a naked heap they fell into bed, limbs tangled together.

“You hungry?” Morgan asked, exaggerating the way his mouth moved around each syllable in the hopes that Hotch could read his lips from so close. Hesitation, followed by a nod. “Good. I'm gonna order us a pile of waffles so damn big we explode...and then we're gonna sleep in and check out late and maybe we won't go back to Quantico right away...maybe we extend the trip by a day or two, drive around, find the world's biggest ball of twine or some stupid shit...” He knew Hotch had no idea what he was saying, it didn't matter. He could feel the vibrations in Morgan's chest as he spoke and something about it soothed him. His eyes drifted shut, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against flushed cheeks. He would sleep until Morgan told him not to, naked and tangled up in the sheets and, briefly, content.

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jennifer jj jareau #david rossi #criminal minds #hotchgan #fanfiction

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felikatze · 3 years ago

Note

give me the a brainworms i am deeply invested in this man

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okay first of all you asked for this. second of all if i am a little off track from the game that is explained by me just building thoughts like building blocks without looking back. third i was supposed to be studying for an exam but this counts as practice right? it's character analysis anyway lmao.

buckle the fuck up, my dearest anon, because I have sub headings.

1. A as the Player Character

Let me begin with why I am obsessed with this horrid little guy in the first place: he's a silent protagonist. I am always obsessed with protagonists. It's a law of nature. I love taking hollow characters and dissecting them for scraps. It's a long standing practice of mine.

Being a silent protagonist, A, as X, does not have a set personality. However, there are patterns. Firstly, as any semi-silent protagonist, A is a reactive character. He does not start incidents, he only responds to situations, presented by the Sephirah, as they arise. He does not actively seek out new information, merely going about the routine of expanding departments, but expresses curiosity when information is presented to him.

I'm aware fandom likes to characterize X and A differently, likely because they are initially presented as different characters. I, on the other hand, would like to pose the theory that they are more similar than expected.

I believe that A is also a reactive character, rather than active. Despite the fandom wiki describing him as stubborn, the goal A pursues with such fervor, the completion of the Seed of Light, is not actually a goal he set for himself. Carmen is the one who set this goal for him by leaving him her legacy.

Throughout the backstory we get relating to the Cogito Project, A is Carmen's assistant, whereas Carmen is the driving researcher. This is how many of the City's inhabitants seem to be; going with the flow of goals set for them by superiors. Yes I will get into his attachment to Carmen later.

The above is not to say A isn't stubborn. Once he has accepted a goal as his own, he will pursue it at all costs, as is obvious from any and all flashbacks leading to horrible deaths. But the point isn't his pursuit of the goal, but where that goal comes from. Even Lobcorp itself supports this, despite what Hokma may say; A as X follows the "simple" task of managing the Corp's day to day activities, and executes any mission given to him by the Sephirah. He outranks them, and doesn't actually need to do their missions, but does so anyway. Players are driven by the reward offered by those missions, of course, and A might be the same in that regard. Nonetheless, at no point in gameplay do you do anything somebody else hasn't told you to.

The overarching narrative of the Script would be the most obvious example. Every single person in the game follows the script, whether they know it or not.

Lastly on this note, a phrase we hear attributed to A, "Machines must behave as machines." Now, Angela may be attached to this phrase because it bears significance to herself as a machine, and informs most of A's unjust treatmeant of her. However, what if it doesn't just apply to machines? The phrase reads as such, "Everyone must act according to their own role."

2. A, Carmen, and the disease of the mind

So, A will at any cost pursue goals Carmen set for him. Question is, why? The obvious answer would be saying he's in love with her, which like, true. But also, how did Carmen come to be so precious to him?

Let us return to the comparison, "This is how many of the City's inhabitants seem to be." We don't really know why exactly most characters joined Carmen, excluding mainly Daniel and Benjamin. But this does not mean we can't have theories.

Carmen's ideal was curing the "disease of the mind." What is the disease? Complete hopelessness. The inability to form aspirations and dreams, to think of a better future. A is a very reactive character who does not set goals for himself. Therefore, I personally conclude, that initially, Carmen's ideology resonated with him because he could identify with the disease.

This is the point where I start rewatching Lobcorp story clips. Dear god.

So, by briefly binging day 27 onward, I've come up with lines that very much support this lil theory of mine:

First, from Carmen, a description of the disease, "People lock away their own potential."

Second, a line from Angela, after the memory synchronization, "You've locked yourself in this prison without bars."

Carmen describes A as humble, and Benjamin thinks he is warm. If I suppose A was one of the diseased initially, Carmen would be the catalyst for this change. Carmen was someone with big aspirations, with plans to heal what is wrong with the City, and it gave him hope. He was one of the diseased, but through time with Carmen, with that relentless optimistic spirit, he may have been cured, for a time. It's not a stretch to say that she was his light.

But lor shows us what happens when the seed of light sprouts wrong, doesn't it? It distorts. A grasped hope for the first time and then it is ruthlessly crushed. Carmen was everything. Yes, A is described as a jack-of-all-trades, as a genius in all pursuits he puts his mind to, but what does that matter in the face of someone who can unite people? Who can give them hope of a better world? Who can inspire them to actually use the talents they have?

And what kind of pressure is it to put the legacy of a messiah in the hands of the diseased?

3. A and the Perception Filter: A is weak to White damage

No, I am serious about that. He's extremely weak mentally. Obviously death of a loved one is a changing experience for absolutely anybody, but Carmen's death destroyed him.

Not only did he refuse to confide this grief to anyone and bottled it up, now everybody looked to him to lead the project, but he just isn't Carmen. He isn't an ambitious person, he doesn't have the same optimism, he can't bring people together, but people expected him to, and he failed. Hard.

While he was without a doubt talented in science, he was also just an average guy.

After her death, A grew to hate humans. He lost trust in them. He refused to confide in anyone, and be confided in by anyone. Thus, the team fell apart.

In both lobcorp and lor, we get interesting tidbits about precations taken to protect the manager.

Firstly, Lobcorp's perception filter. The cartoony art-style of the game is a result of the game being in first person. Through the eyes of the manager, everything is cartoony!

This is a measure undertaken to specifically protect the manager's psyche. Angela tells us that, before it was deployed, the manager would frequently go insane, one notable incident including the manager trying to hang himself. When we first hear this, the previous managers and X are still separate in our minds. However, they're all A! A went insane multiple times without it.

This is understandable, considering that employees also frequently go insane and try to kill both themselves and others. But they're there in action, confronting the Abnormalities directly. Just watching them made the manager go mad. They could not handle the responsibility for the employees' deaths.

In lor, Angela explains why she picked the Rabbit Team from R Corp as their main contractor instead of any other team. One team was simply too big for L Corp's narrow hallways, and the other team... dealt in psychic damage. It was simply too big of a risk for the manager. But the manager is always secure behind the cameras. Would that teams methods just be that brutal visually, or would their attacks have reached the manager?

Combined with his immense grief at all of his friends and coworkers dying in part because of him, A cannot bear to look at death.

4. A's greatest flaw: Avoidance

A common thread during Core Meltdown flashbacks: A refuses to look at suffering. He just can't. Whether it be looking away from Elijah writhing on the floor or hanging up on Daniel's panicked report of death.

This is actually the thing Angela takes the biggest issue with, and what hurt her most. A would never look at her, acknowledge her, and she did not understand why. But I think A did not refuse to look at her out of maliciousness. Rather, it was out of grief over Carmen. He could not look at her without being reminded of what he lost.

Angela's creation came about because A wanted someone to guide him, someone like Carmen. He threw himself into the project to the point it made Benjamin happy that A was passionate about anything again. But as soon as the project he distracted himself with is complete, he is filled with regret. Carmen cannot be replicated, and he breaks again.

Furthermore, tying this back to my first point about A being a reactive person, we see Angela take charge over A. She's the one recruiting employees and leading the business. It was likely a relief for him to be able to step down from the leading position.

But avoiding it made everything worse. He did not act when he saw Elijah's unchecked ambition, he did not act beyond a simple check at Gabriel's decay, he gave Giovanni the same hope he clung to to no avail, et cetera et cetera.

Avoiding his problems is making them worse and sending everything down the drain (including his psyche), so he deals with it the only way he knows how, avoiding them more!

Biggest example of A's big avoidance problem as his psyche crumbles: the memory wipe. A, in perhaps his one singular moment of acknowledging his emotions, recognizes that he is incapable of fulfilling the Script in his current state. His grief is just too much.

By erasing his own memory, he could start fresh without his grief, because he might've really killed himself otherwise. His suffering became bigger and bigger, and he coped by avoiding it.

The memory wipe allowed him to distangle his problems. Through his interactions with the Sephirah (which I will not individually detail for the sake of my sanity and because I dumped all this on a friend on discord already), he can deal with and actually process his issues one at a time.

As the motto describes, only by facing the fear can he build the future. Only by finally facing his grief and acknowleding it, seeing that the past cannot be changed and he has no choice to move forward, can he actually do so.

5. The Sephirah as ghosts

Lobotomy Corporation feels like a ghost story. I've touched upon this in my previous A post.

As you reach the Corp's lower levels, there are less Sephirah. First there are four. They act like normal employees, and do not breach into the story's underbelly until you reach their core supressions and the facade breaks. Second, counting Tiphereth as one, there are three. They still go about their duties, but they know what they are. Third, there are two, and the facade is gone. They know what they are, and they will tell you about the sins of the past.

And finally, you reach Keter, and there is only one.

This gradual decay of the facade is what really gets to me. I said that by interacting with the Sephirah, A deals with his issues one by one, but that's what the Sephirah are, in this case. Representations.

The people the Sephirah used to be are dead, and the Sephirah are their ghosts. The core supression involve putting these ghosts to rest. Doesn't it match the progression of a typical ghost story? Find the ghost, find what they used to be, and help them move on.

So, if everyone is a ghost, then A is alone.

But, behind the scenes, the Sephirah are still there. They are still people, and they have changed for the better, too. As always, A simply does not look.

(Does he even see the good others see in him? Does he look away from praise, too? Did he even realize Benjamin's admiration for him? Will we ever know?)

6. A's end.

A's progression of moving on would be fine and dandy if it did not end as thus: A does kill himself.

A sees himself beyond the point of no return. Everyone is dead. He is alone. Carmen is never coming back. He can't call it quits now, or else everything has been in vain. (Even if the last days show us a part of him wants to just quit, so badly.)

So, there's only one thing left to do: follow the Script to its ending. Fulfill Carmen's legacy at all costs. Death as the ultimate release.

This is the point where I admit I do not like the death as release trope. But the game does a good enough job as presenting it as the only option A had, or the only option he saw himself as having.

However, I've mentioned it before, I'll mention it again: A was not alone. Death was his release, but he left wreckage. In order to end his own suffering, he inflicted the same pain he went through on others.

Throughout the game, he moves on and pushes through. The ending shows that in reality... he didn't.

At least in lor the characters stick together and help each other heal.

This has been most of my thoughts on A, amounting to my longest analysis post ever, having taken me approximately two and a half hours to complete, and clocking in at 2337 words including up to this paragraph.

Thank you anon for giving me the incentive to verbalize all of this, so I can finally be at ease having inflicted my thoughts on everybody else.

#Feli gets asked #lobotomy corporation #ayin #library of ruina #also i saw apparently another fandom besides lc uses the ayin tag which is just fun to watch honestly #many characters could rival this word vomit probably but as i said i already inflicted most of my thoughts abt netz on my good pal borgor #thank you borgor for dragging me back into projmoon stuff. also curse you terribly #long post #Feli speaks

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hereisleo · 3 years ago

Text

w/ s.mg + reader

g/ hospital!au: angst, hurt/comfort, friendship, slice of life

w.c/ 1.6k

a.n/ inspired by ‘hospital playlist’, i originally wanted to post this on mingi’s birthday but decided to save the angst for a different time. i also didn’t finished it on time.

t.w/ character death

“I make paper hearts because I want and will keep on loving. This body might wither but I don’t want my love to go with it.”

Song Mingi, third in the line on the heart transplant waitlist, always surprises you. Third might not seem bad for many but within the healthcare system, there are more patients needing transplants than there are donors. The third could be fatal, so does the second and first. Simply with the state of preserving organs before its expiration time of mere hours, it could go to a different centre first.

The colour of a heart is red, the anatomically correct one that is. To Mingi, pink is a heart colour. All the origami hearts in the mason jar, a little bit fuller every time you see it, are a pretty shade of cherry blossom. You see him during your break when you’re not busy, he is often accompanied by his parents during early visiting hours and his friends in the evening hours.

You should have been in the night shift room, napping in the top bunk, close to the ceiling where you bump your head on every waking time. Yet here you are folding paper cranes next to Mingi who is folding paper hearts. Colourful cranes because he never uses any other colour when making his hearts. He scribbles a wish onto the papers before folding them, keeping a tight lip whenever you ask what he wishes for because it won’t come true if he says it out loud.

“How often do you make them, Mingi?”

His hands have long stopped moving and you are on your twelfth cranes. Before Mingi is discharged you want to make a thousand cranes. Doctors don’t believe in superstition or myth like such but it’s a charming thing. You hope to make one wish for Mingi and you’re halfway there. Thirty-three cranes a day, more the following day if you don’t meet your quota. You don’t know where this newfound passion is burning from mayhaps Mingi’s habit rubs off on you. His to remain loving and you to remain hopeful. Something controllable in the constant of uncontrollable.

“Two per hour. I make more in the morning to catch up on the hours I’m asleep.”

No wonder the jar fills up so fast. 48 hearts a day. If only they have that many donors. A life for a life, a recycle or living beyond death in another person, from the brain dead to the living, humans are fascinating. ‘We’ll do our best.’ ‘We don’t know yet.’ Because truly there are many unexpected variables. There are many miracles and losses in a hospital.

You smile, reaching for another paper, Mingi slides the stack towards you with a grin. You’re both the same. He fondly shoo you out to get your sleep after the thirty-third cranes of the night are threaded through the strings. The bunch hangs by his window, bringing much colour to his room instead of the fake plants.

Exactly eight hundred cranes later, Mingi starts to look thinner but his smile is still radiant as ever. You start to worry, there’s no change on the list. His friends and family are still desperately hopeful yet so are you. ‘We still have time.’ How much time does Mingi have?

“Don’t get too attached.”

You close the door of room four silently, nodding at the blue scrubs clad man waiting outside. The nurse accompanying him looks appalled at the blunt words but you know he means well. Mingi is not giving up and neither is the doctor in front of you, you too are far from giving up. Even if hoping hurts, you keep on hoping. There’s no other way other than to stay strong.

Mingi’s laughter reaches you as he greets the new guest, the nurse bowing slightly before disappearing behind the door. You walk out of the VIP ward with a lighter heart. His words ringing in your mind as clear as the blue sky outside.

He has a hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating with the assistance of the VAD machine. The jar of paper hearts is almost full, the lid is never screwed on.

“Don’t you think it’s amazing? You can be hooked up to a VAD or ECMO to help the heart pump blood. Cardiopulmonary bypass to artificially keep the body alive while the heart is temporarily stopped. Modern medicine has come a long way.”

He folds another pink heart, taking his time and you observe his hands, soft golden skin from being kissed by the sun and long fingers that bends gracefully. You diligently watch how he folds his paper heart. He holds it up between his fingers and against the light, he peers into it with searching eyes. The same gaze pierces through you almost as if he’s looking at your soul. He probably is.

“Metaphorically, it can be broken many times and it will still beat. Mended and stitched together with time, a salve of healing words and acceptance. It always seems to know when something is starting and when it’s ending. Terrifyingly brilliant.”

Mingi isn’t in his room when you loop through the final crane. The only pink crane in the bunch. He pouted when you asked for a leaf of pink paper but gave it to you nonetheless with a bright grin. One thousand cranes for one wish. You know your wish for him at that moment but you didn’t tell him.

You sit on his made bed, staring out of the window. The sky is painted in many different shades, only a few visible to human eyes. Other than blues and oranges, the sky is overtaken by a gentle pink. Heart coloured. You glance at the jar of paper hearts, full to the rim and still not closed. You smile, knowing Mingi he would say, ‘let the love overflow!’ You continue to watch the sun slowly sinking beyond the horizon, lighting the other half of the works while yours turn dark. When the light disappears, your phone rings. Your heart knows before your mind does.

“Get your suit.”

Amongst the sea of black and white, Mingi’s soft smile shines the brightest and unmoving. His eyes were in permanent soft crescents, still twinkling even in monochrome. A pile of white chrysanthemums lay unobtrusively around the photo frame. When the rest of the hospital staff, families and friends have left to a different room for their bereavement meal, you stay behind to bask in the comfortable silence between you and Mingi.

You sit down in front of the long table with flowers. Pulling out a heart coloured origami, his smile seems to brighten slightly though it is all in your mind. Your fingers mimic his movements, folding them into what he folds diligently. A heart. You place them on the table. You don’t know if your heart feels heavy or light. It might not feel like anything at all. You’ve braced it for this moment.

“You should eat, he told me to make sure you eat. He got your favourite.”

You think Mingi just smiled. You look up to one of his closest colleagues, he is looking straight at the monochromatic photo with a slight frown. Mingi is a vibrant person after all. He holds a fist out, he nods toward the photo. From Mingi.

A pink paper heart lands on your palm. A gift that keeps on giving. You can only chuckle at the ‘open my heart’ scribbled neatly on it. You unfold it gently, his handwriting speaking to you with the deep voice you can hear in your mind.

‘Hello! Knock knock! Can I come inside your heart? Now you have my heart in your hand. I don’t want you to be sad! I went happily under much loving care and precious time. I don’t have any regrets even though I wrote my will at such a young age, it’s still a blessing to be able to write one. I have a selfish request to ask of you, it’s mentioned on the other paper too… Will you take my position as the chief of cardiothoracic surgery? You have every reason to turn it down, I will respect your decision. This is burdensome but I now live through you. Thank you for housing me within your hopeful heart even when you know how it would end. Your heart is strong! Keep on loving for me!’

“It was a match, the donor’s heart. But due to complications during the procurement, it had to go to a different centre. I suppose he wants to love with his own heart till the very end…”

You nod, eyes blurring momentarily before you blink the haze away. There are many unexpected variables in a hospital. Even if the margin of human error is minimised to its barest existence, life and death will always be out of human control.

“He left the jar for you.”

Of course, he would and you can’t help but laugh, out of the sheer preparation and endless thoughtfulness Mingi put forth.

‘Everyone always thought of what they have achieved so far and what they want to or will leave behind, I’m lucky enough to be able to think of that. Don’t be sad for me. Don’t grief for me for too long. Let there be more hearts to open in your good days than in bad. The sun will always shine again just like how the heart will warm and beat once more.’

Standing up, the dizziness almost makes you think Mingi’s eyes are twinkling. The unmoving gentle smile somehow warms you. One thousand cranes for one wish. Your wish for Mingi has been granted. To keep on loving.

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wickedgamesoyaoya · 4 years ago

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The arrival of the MSBY Ace solidified the harsh reality the Onigiri Miya owner was struggling to accept. It was quite clear in his text exchanges with the Ace that you would not be accompanying him to retrieve your belongings. It would defeat the purpose of sending him. Nonetheless, a dim spark of hope ignited inside of his chest upon hearing the delicate knock on the apartment door. Mentally he scolded himself, recognizing that he would likely be disappointed by who was stood behind the barrier. Yet he could not extinguish the emotion threading through his heart, warming it for the first time in twenty-four hours.

When Osamu did answer the posed permission to enter, he was greeted by Bokuto, whose happy demeanour melted into an apologetic one upon seeing grief darken his already cloudy eyes. The sight reminded the professional athlete of a stormy sky seconds from unleashing a deadly downpour.

“Hey. Sorry, she’s not here. I’m just the messenger.” Bokuto doubted the cook would shed any tears in his presence, vulnerability was something his friend hid behind a perfectly cultivated mask. The only people privileged enough to explore the area behind the mask were you, and Atsumu. Which he did not mind. The only issue was that recently, even you were denied access to the emotions splattered violently behind the veil. It was something that contributed to the eventual collapse of your relationship, a fact Osamu realized a bit too late.

“You don’t have to apologize. This is my fault.” And, if I lose her, that’s on me too – he mentally added, ache clenching his organs. Averting his gaze to the carpet below, he stepped aside to grant the Ace access to the apartment.

The bag that Osamu packed with your essential items was located on the kitchen table. A suitcase also rested nearby, containing the larger items that he was unable to fit into the carry on piece. Bokuto thanked him for having everything prepared well in advance. The cook responded with a low exhale of acknowledgement.

Would it be enough, though? Or would he soon lose every trace of you from the apartment?

And if you one day planned on retrieving the remainder of your belongings, could he ask you take him too?

The inquiry brought water to blur his vision as a bitter laugh bubbled from within him. He quickly discharged the liquid with the tips of his fingers, knowing well he did not deserve Bokuto’s pity.

But Bokuto did not catch the moment of vulnerability, fatefully he was in the bedroom, searching for the one item you presumed would not have been packed – an album. Not just any album, it was the one dedicated to every major event in your life. It was a collection of happiness, and right now you were deprived of that exact emotion. You secretly hoped viewing the photographs would provide you some solace, even if it were just wishful thinking.

Ten minutes later, the MSBY player had the duffle bag swung over his shoulder, and the suitcase handle in his grasp. Osamu noticed the album tucked under his arm but elected not to inquire why that was required for a business trip to Brazil.

“Alright. I think I got everything!” A wide smile was beamed towards the somber twin as Bokuto adjusted the strap, preparing to exit the apartment.

“Before you go… Can you answer something for me?” As soon as the question rolled off his lips, he instantly regretted it. Why ask a question, if you do not want to know the answer? Ignorance is bliss, so why was he attempting to destroy the single thread of hope he was clinging to?

“I can try.” The athlete shifted awkwardly, he knew the question would involve you – and there was only so much he could disclose on the topic.

“Is she still wearing it?” The cook’s heart sunk into the pit of his stomach, producing a nauseating sensation to fill him. He should have not asked – why did he ask –

“Yeah. She is.” In a signal of encouragement, Bokuto reached out to lightly squeeze his friend’s shoulder. “Hang in, buddy. She’ll talk to you when she’s ready.” It hurt him to witness his two close friends in pain, he sincerely prayed for their reconciliation; but he knew it was not guaranteed. Not all damage could be repaired, after-all.

After issuing a weak response of gratitude, the MSBY Ace exited the apartment, leaving Osamu to untangle the web of thoughts your absence left with him.

The incident that threatened your future together had only occurred twenty-four hours ago, but every minute that passed increased the uncertainty haunting him – did he even have a future left to protect? He desperately yearned to speak with you; to hear the softness in your voice that was reserved only for him, to explain the truth and to apologize for his mistakes. But your request for space had to be respected – after witnessing what occurred yesterday, it was a just demand, one he could not object. The only option available was to wait until you were ready to speak with him. Pressuring you into delving into matters that stemmed from his incompetence was not something he was prepared to do. But he did hope that you would someday return to him, and as long as that ring remained in your grasp, he would continue to cling to that sliver of hope.

He required a moment to gather the courage to move from his post at the front door. When he did finally enter the bedroom, his gaze caught something he originally presumed to have packed. The stuffed teddy bear sat on the vanity was your travelling companion. You had even set up an Instagram for the toy, with the handle – Adventures with Teddiursa. He had bought you the plushie a year ago as an apology for being unable to join you on your various business trips. After complaining about the lack of a ‘snuggle-partner’, he surprised you with the stuffed bear resembling one of your favourite Pokémon. You often claimed that it was your favourite gift; it even surpassed the diamond ring on your finger.

He knew he had to get it to you.

There was a chance he could meet Bokuto at the lobby if he took the stairs. Scooping up the plushie, the cook slid into a pair of shoes, not bothering to properly put them on before dashing out into the hallway. If he couldn’t provide you the comfort you needed – maybe the fluffy piece within his grasp could.

But when he arrived at the lobby, the Ace was nowhere to be found. In a final attempt to locate him, Osamu walked to the street level, scanning the familiar area for the spikey haired player. What he found instead was a beautiful girl, slurring arguments into her phone while squinting at the colourful lights hanging above her.

Fate had somehow brought him to you.

Let’s do it again, shall we - storm

Masterlist - Previous - Next

A/N: I feel like my writing skills get so sloppy whenever I read a lot of case law so if this sucks, ~ I AM SORRY ~

taglist: @idiot-juice-enthusiast @vicassa @iloveanime691 @bringmelily @newfriendjen @hikarichannn @anime-simp @tsukkismamagucci @laughingismorefun @astronomyturtle @shegrewupwithoutafather @hyskoa1998 @deephumandragonperson @pretty-setter-bois @raenebalgaire @sugawarabby @justanotherfangirl2 @keijisworld @90s-belladonna @momoinot @sempiternal-amour @cherryblosom111 @yqshirov @haikyuufairy @volleybloop @bloody-bella @sadkaashistan @seikamuzu @namyari @toaster-stick @coconut-dreamz @roseestuosity @prcttylittlcthing @uzumakioden @nerdynstoned @kenmasgameboy @unstableye @ouijaeater15 @aquariarose @fandomtrashpandasposts @helloalex80 @stfucanunot @envyusshades @cuddlesslut @seijohiseliterambles @chaichai-the-weeb @meiikuki @cuddlejeongin @tchalameme @ditu-m9 @elianetsantana

Taglist continued in the comments from my personal ❣️

#osamu x you #osamu scenario #osamu x reader #hq osamu #osamu smau #osamu miya #miya osamu #osamu x y/n #haikyuu smau #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu

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dweetwise · 4 years ago

Text

day 11: crying

prompt from: whumptober pairing: felix x ace notes: all this angst is getting to me, i’m so glad tomorrow is a fluff day ;w; warnings: amnesia, implied suicide word count: 1960

If there was anything Ace had always been good at, it was dealing with all the various shit life threw his way. He'd smile and roll with the punches, not wasting time on pointless concepts like regret and what if:s.

The Entity's world had been no exception. Sure, it was objectively worse than just another poker losing streak or scam gone wrong, but since there wasn't anything he could do to change it, he just tried to make the most of it. And no, he didn’t particularly like getting chased or stabbed or brutally murdered, but in the end he was still alive and free to hang out with his newfound friends and make shitty jokes. It was the new normal, and like always, Ace adapted with surprising ease.

Until he didn't.

It had been like any typical not-day at the campfire, where a trial was taking place but Ace wasn't chosen for it. The only thing different from usual was that Ace was a little on edge, though from worry or anticipation, he wasn't sure.

Felix was the newest addition to their group, and despite only being there for what couldn't be more than a couple of months, he'd made a huge impact on Ace's life. Ace had never been any kind of clingy in his old life, but even he had to admit that he'd much rather have Felix by his side at the campfire than in a trial at the mercy of the Entity's Monster of the Day.

And maybe his heart broke a little when Adam, Cheryl and Quentin returned from the trial and Adam met his eyes and offered a pained “I'm sorry, we tried”. Ace gave a half-assed reassurance in return, and despite knowing that they always came back after a sacrifice and weren't any worse for wear, it wasn't a pleasant thing to go through.

But if he'd thought that information broke his heart, the next one shattered it into pieces.

Felix finally returned to the campfire, his look just as impeccable as ever, like he'd been preparing for an important business meeting instead of taking a chainsaw through the gut. Ace felt his fake smile give way to a genuine one, unexplainable relief flooding through him upon the confirmation that yes, even after a hundred sacrifices Felix was still alive. For some reason, Felix was frowning, so Ace made his way over to cheer him up, a witty comment already on the tip of his tongue—

“Wo zum Teufel bin ich?" Felix said, looking at him with a very confused expression that made him stop dead in his tracks.

It wasn't uncommon for Felix to revert back to his native tongue in certain situations, but it was usually only a word or two. And it wasn't like him to keep his distance from the others like this, not since befriending the group and especially not after they’d started dating.

“Come again?" Nea snorted from somewhere behind Ace, probably thinking it some kind of joke.

When Felix looked at her with clear wariness, Ace already knew what he was going to say, having seen that same exact look only months before.

“Where am I?” Felix asked, and then further twisted the knife in Ace's heart by looking back at him and adding “Who are you?”.

Ace didn't pay much attention after that. He sat by the fire while the others hovered around Felix in worry, staring at the ground and asking himself why.

Claudette came by to offer him some empty words of comfort and a gentle hand on his shoulder. He heard Bill raising his voice in the group and urging them to “calm the fuck down and let the guy breathe”. And eventually, Yui was there, kneeling before him and commanding Ace to look at her.

“He got hit with Leatherface's mallet really hard during the mori,” the biker told him, her stern expression being enough to convince Ace. “Adam and Claud said it's post-traumatic amnesia from the concussion. It's temporary.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Ace said, realizing how shaky his voice sounded, dragging a hand through his hair to try to quell his doubts.

Hours passed and Felix didn't get any better. Meg and Steve were by his side the entire time, reminiscing stories from the campfire and some of his best moments of outsmarting the killers to try to jog his memory, but nothing seemed to work.

Claudette suggested maybe Ace should talk to him, as he'd been the closest to him since he got here. So he swallowed his own grief and put on a shitty smile and shooed Meg and Steve away to sit down with Felix alone.

But when Felix started talking about how he had to get back because of his girlfriend and the baby he was so excited for, Ace had to nope the fuck out before he started bawling or cussing him out.

He avoided Felix for the entire day, playing some dumb card game with Ash he was pretty sure the other just made up, and despite his mind not being anywhere near the cards the bastard let him win. Nea was being even more obnoxious than usual, shit-talking the killers and trying to get Ace to join in, and it was really obvious that they were trying to keep him distracted, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

Then the next trial came and Dwight, Tapp, Kate and Zarina were off, and Ace was left to stare at the futile sight of Jane asking Felix about trials he had no recollection of.

“What if he never remembers?” Ace heard Cheryl whisper.

“It's temporary,” Yui immediately snapped.

“Maybe it takes another resurrection to fix,” Adam said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Ace felt empty. The worry and fear and absolute loneliness had created a hole in his chest he didn't know how to fix, and wouldn't until Felix was back to his old self, because he would be, because that's how it always worked—

And then Dwight stumbled into camp and looked around with pure terror in his eyes and asked if they knew a way back into the city and Ace's world stopped turning.

The hole in his chest was instantly filled with grief and anguish and he was helpless to stop the sob from wracking his entire body, burying his face into his shaking hands and mourning what he now knew he'd never get back.

There was a commotion again, and he wasn't the only one who was crying, the entire group shaken to the core at their leader losing his memory and now realizing it wasn't an accident.

There were arms around Ace’s shoulders and who he thought was Laurie whispering that she's “so, so sorry, but we’ll get through this”, and if he could do something other than cry he'd have told her that no, he doesn't think they will.

The Entity had a lot of creative ways to torture them, but none of them had been enough to break him until now.

It was hours or maybe even days before Ace came to and could try to think somewhat clearly. Nancy and Adam were standing in the middle of camp, evenly explaining that they needed to start documenting everything, that the Entity had changed its rules and a death now meant forgetting everything after coming to the realm.

Some of the others were sobbing and the rest looked grimly serious, the usual laughter and outrageous stories around the fire long forgotten. Yui was hugging Kate in a death grip and Nea and Meg held each other and carried a hurried conversation with worried expressions, the couples no doubt terrified of forgetting each other.

He looked over to Dwight, and saw Jake being much more calm and collected than Ace could ever be, patiently explaining everything to his boyfriend and gently holding his hand. Dwight already looked almost as smitten as before he lost his memory, and Ace couldn't help the sharp pang of jealousy at how easy it was for them.

“So you, uh… said you left your family? Can I ask why?” Dwight asked, just as eager as ever to get to know Jake, and blushing when Jake gave a lovestruck smile and shared his life story without complaint.

How Jake wasn't a broken shell of a man like him, he'd never know.

Ace considered telling Felix everything, but what would be the point? Even if he did somehow manage to worm his way into Felix's heart again, the memories were lost forever, not to mention he’d be back to square one after Felix got sacrificed the next time.

There was a map and a piece of charcoal shoved into his hands, and Ace looked up at Zarina's usually carefully schooled features twisted into uncertainty.

“We're writing letters to yourselves,” Zarina explained. “For when—if we die, we have some guidance and know about the important stuff.”

She left him to it and he idly wondered if it would have even made a difference for Felix.

Suddenly, a new determination hit him and he started jotting down what he knew he needed to hear. His codeword for safety, so he’d know it was real. How he got to the realm and how long he'd been there. The names of his friends and the insistence that he trusted them all with his life. The few killers who were somewhat reasonable. The names of the couples and some random gossip he could use to lighten the mood.

‘Felix’ he started a sentence automatically, but then paused. A dark thought was creeping up in the back of his mind, and he knew exactly what needed to happen next. He finished the sentence with ‘has a girlfriend and kid in the real world’, before folding the piece of paper and placing it in his jacket pocket and waiting for a trial to start.

It was two days before Ace got called into a trial, and while the others were panicking and hugging each other and trying not to cry, he felt calmer than he had since this whole thing started.

“Keep an eye on Ace, okay?” he even heard Kate murmur to Bill, and it was almost enough to make him change his mind.

But then the trial started and Ace ran right into the center of the map to get chased first by the Wraith.

He was on his second hook, struggling against the Entity’s claws, with only one generator left and only one other person having been hooked. His chances were looking good, a weak killer on a strong map, his teammates pumping out generator after generator. With a much worse threat than sacrifice and resurrection looming in the distance, their determination had improved tenfold.

The Wraith was nowhere to be seen when Bill made his way over to the hook.

“Hold on, bud,” Bill grunted, slowly vaulting the window in front of him as not to alert the killer of the rescue in advance.

The last generator popped and Ace smiled for the first time in days, a toothy grin that probably came off as maniacal, realizing he could finally fulfill his plan while knowing the others would make it out.

“Ace, what are you—” there was alarm on Bill's features and he picked up his pace to a sprint, but it was too late.

“Sorry, old friend,” Ace offered before he let go.

“ACE!”

Bill's panicked scream was the last thing he heard before the claw pierced straight through his gut, and he had a few seconds of time to feel a bad for putting Bill through that, before his consciousness faded to black.

At least he wouldn’t remember any of it.

#whumptober2020 #no.11 #crying #dead by daylight #fic #suicide tw #riconti #ace visconti #felix richter #dweetwrites #dbd #dbd fanfic #prompt #felix x ace #death tw

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ripley95 · 4 years ago

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Echoes of Old Embers

Chapter 11

Pairing: F!Shepard/Kaidan Alenko

Rating: T

Chapter length: 3.3K

Story Synopsis:

After surviving the war, one of Shepard’s biggest regrets was rejecting Kaidan at Apollo’s. Fate has a way of bringing Jane and Kaidan back into each other’s lives. A misunderstanding with his family makes Kaidan and Shepard relive old history and question where they stand.

Link to Chapter 1 on AO3

Chapter Synopsis:

The day of Libby’s wedding has finally arrived. The misunderstandings about her supposed relationship with Kaidan is really getting to her. She questions if they’re starting to get to Kaidan too.

Read to Chapter 11 on AO3

Tumblr Links:

Read the chapter here below the cut:

The morning of the wedding was finally here. Luckily, Shepard had a much more restful sleep than the previous night. She made matters so much worse in pretty much every way that she could, that she had almost expected to have another sleepless night being tormented by the memories of it. She figured the exhaustion from not getting any sleep the night before probably helped on that front at least, and she was grateful for it now. It would be a long day going through all of the celebration, and she didn’t particularly want to feel like she needed a nap in the middle of it all.

She didn’t have much of a chance to see Kaidan since their breakfast the previous day. Both of them were busy with their individual tasks to help prepare everything. Kaidan had mowed the lawn and cleaned up the most visible part of the orchard. When he had finished with that, Ada got him to hang lights along the treeline and in the barn where the reception would be. Meanwhile, Ada had kept Shepard busy preparing more food for the events today. Part of which, she was glad to have Matt’s help with so she could apologise for pulling one over on him. It was a pleasant day, but busy. They barely had enough time to eat dinner before crashing to bed. At least it made their night routine a little less awkward, both exhausted enough to fall asleep almost immediately.

They already had a quick breakfast with the entire family this morning. Libby shared the news that Derek landed safely at his friend’s house the previous night. He was opting to uphold the tradition of not seeing each other on the day of the wedding. Everyone had rushed through their breakfasts to help with last-minute tasks. Everything had come together nicely and it was finally that time in the day that everyone was meant to be getting dressed up and ready.

Shepard was generally the type to go without makeup or stick to the basics in her everyday life, but as per Maisie and Raiya’s advice, today she was going all out. She borrowed a nice dress from Raiya. Luckily they were the same size, because she foolishly realised that she hadn’t brought anything to wear. Not that it would have mattered if she had remembered, since everything she owned was Alliance or N7 provision. Nothing tasteful for a wedding other than a dress that advertised her N7 status, which wouldn’t have been helpful with her trying to blend in. So, she was grateful that one of Kaidan’s sisters was the same size as her and that Raiya was willing to let her borrow something. Ada had let her borrow a necklace and some earrings that went well with the dress. She also put on the most tasteful makeup that she knew how to do. As she was putting on the final touches, she realised that she was pretty pleased with the outcome. She really didn’t look like herself. At least not to her. It was a rather uncharacteristic look on her to be so dressed up, but she figured it served its purpose well. She didn’t think anyone would recognize her like this. Not easily anyway, which was precisely what she wanted.

This whole time, she was getting ready in Kaidan’s bathroom. She was thankful for it, not having to worry about intruding on his sisters using all of the other ones to prepare, but it meant that Kaidan was also getting ready just beyond the door. She could picture him putting on a nice suit and tying up a tie. She had never seen him in formal attire other than his blues and she already knew how nicely he filled those out. It made her wish she could be the one tying his tie. She wished they were both giving their opinions on clothes as they picked them out together as they got ready in the same room.

She huffed out a sigh of frustration. This trip was getting to her. She gave herself one last look in the mirror, pleased with how she looked, before walking to the door. She hesitated to open it, scared to potentially be walking in on Kaidan in the middle of getting dressed. She knocked lightly to make sure it was okay. It felt strange doing so. You don’t typically knock from the inside of a bathroom. Still, she’d rather do that than cause even more awkward situations between the two of them.

“It’s okay, you can come out, Jane,” she heard him say from the other side.

She walked out cautiously nonetheless, and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, already waiting for her for some time by the look of it. He stood up to greet her in a very gentleman-like manner and eyed her from head to toe, tastefully. It felt like he was doing it more out of curiosity and wonder at how different she looked, rather than revelling in her new appearance. She couldn’t help herself from doing the same, admiring how nice he looked in a suit. His blues made him look so distinguished, but his suit had the added nicety of this being casual. Like they were just enjoying their lives like ordinary people. Wishful thinking.

She lost focus with her eyes on his lapels, imagining that if things were different, she would have gone over there and grabbed him by them and gently pulled him into a soft kiss. She would have straightened out his tie, just for a chance to be closer to him for even a moment, because he’s done a perfect job of it all by himself. They would have smiled at each other, looking forward to a day full of celebration. She supposed there was no reason she couldn’t still do that last one. The thought of it finally let her notice that she was staring, lost in thought at what could have been, so she did just that and smiled at him.

“You clean up nicely,” she said.

He let out a chuckle. “You’re not so bad, yourself,” he said with a sincere smile.

“Thanks,” she muttered, with a forced smile. She was never good at accepting compliments. “So, did you get a chance to talk to Libby yesterday?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “You were right. She wasn’t mad, but I think she appreciated me apologising all the same. It was a good heart-to-heart, and I think it helped her feel better. It was good for us.”

“Sounds like it,” Shepard said with a genuine smile.

“She uh… She even asked me to walk her down the aisle. Well, me and mom. I wasn’t really expecting that. I love her, but we weren’t the closest, growing up. I wasn’t even sure she wanted anyone to do it. She said she had been questioning it for a long time, but she hadn’t even gotten the chance to ask dad. She didn’t want to be thinking about missed opportunities and lost chances the whole time she’s actually walking down the aisle. It meant a lot to me that she asked.”

Shepard offered a solemn smile, knowing that as lovely as that was, it was at the expense of Kaidan taking his father’s place. She was glad that he’d get to be doing that for her and that they had each other while trying to navigate this new life without him. She figured this must be very bittersweet for him, remembering their conversation the previous. This was just more of that void that Kaidan was now filling for the rest of his family, taking the place of someone else. Of course Kaidan would love having an offer like that and would do anything to make his sister feel loved on her wedding day, but she imagined this must have hurt him a bit too.

“That’s really sweet, Kaidan. How do you feel about it?”

“Uh, better than I thought I would, actually.” He said it with a kind of hesitance, knowing that those words meant he was finally addressing his grief which was a big step, but also with a genuine and soft smile. “I don’t know that I could have said that if you hadn’t been here,” he admitted quietly.

“Then I’m glad I came,” she said, matching his smile.

Kaidan nodded at that appreciatively. “But anyway, I think things will be getting under way soon. We should probably go down. I think Derek’s here now, so I can introduce you. He’s probably been waiting to meet you. We can mingle a bit before the ceremony starts and then I can show you where you can sit since I’ll have to come back here and wait with Libby.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Shepard said.

Kaidan nodded, prompting them to leave the room and make their way out to the orchard where guests had already started gathering. In lieu of a band, they had a drone at the back of the seating area playing soft music that reminded her of Glyph. A beautiful arch was set up right in front of the trees in the orchard, and the mountains were visible beyond them, creating a spectacular view for the guests. It was a lovely setup. Once again, Shepard marvelled at how perfect it all was. A fantastic view with sentimental meaning. She couldn’t think of a better place for them to be declaring their love for each other.

As they made their way through the crowd, a few people stopped Kaidan here and there. All of them said some variation of “Finally brought someone home, eh?” Or “There’s going to be a lot of disappointed people out on the dancefloor this evening.” It did nothing to quell her feelings of regret about the confusion. If she didn’t know any better, Kaidan even seemed a little phased by it. She knew he wasn’t about to be challenging anyone on their misconceptions today, though. He didn’t want to add drama or make today about him, so he just smiled and nodded before moving on to other people, but she couldn’t help but notice a solemness about him now that wasn’t there before.

Finally, they got up closer to the seating area and a man in a tuxedo excitedly came up to them.

“Hey, Derek,” Kaidan said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Oh, hey, same to you,” he said enthusiastically, pulling Kaidan in for a hug.

As Kaidan and Derek relinquished their hold, Shepard gave Derek a smile, happy to finally meet the man of the hour.

“Hi, Derek. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Shepard said, offering her hand to shake with a genuine smile.

Derek had already given her a quick examination as he was walking over, but he seemed to be a bit starstruck as she spoke to him. He was staring at her wide-eyed, and mouth slightly agape.

“Pleasure to finally meet me? Are you kidding? Pleasure to meet you, Commander,” he said, giving a salute, prompting Shepard to take her hand back, and look around the crowd. Luckily no one really seemed to notice or think much of it.

“Hey, you might want to keep your voice down there, Derek. We’re kind of trying to keep her identity under wraps so there isn’t pandemonium during your wedding,” Kaidan said.

“Right, right,” he muttered out, and ended the salute without a return from Shepard. “Libby warned me and everything. I don’t know what came over me. I mean, Commander Shepard,” he said her name and title in a whisper this time, “here. At my wedding. I can just hardly believe it, you know? You were on the recruitment posters when I finally ended up joining the Alliance. We heard about you all the time throughout the war. About everything you were doing for us.”

Shepard smiled at that, already well aware of the effects she had on people, not really blaming Derek for his reaction. “You know Kaidan was there, too. It’s not like I worked alone.”

“Oh yeah, of course. I guess I just think of Kaidan as family already, so it’s not quite as shocking. Sorry if I’m coming off too strong or anything, it’s just that you’re a bit larger than life. It’s hard to imagine that you’re really here.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” she said, compassionately enough, understanding that he was thrown for a loop and probably already nervous for the day’s events. “But hey, seriously, feel free to call me Jane from now on unless I end up seeing you in some kind of official capacity at work. While we’re here, though, don’t think of me as a superior officer or anything.”

“Right, yeah,” he said nodding, almost apologetically. “Well, it’s nice to get to know the real you,” he said, extending his hand for a slightly more personal greeting after finally calming down.

“You too,” she said with a smile, accepting his hand to shake it. “And congratulations, Derek.”

“Thanks. That really means a lot to me,” he said with a smile. “And hey! Maybe I’ll be getting to call you family soon too, eh?” he said, elbowing Kaidan with a devilish grin. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

It seems as though Libby probably bought into the misunderstanding now too, if Derek’s reaction was anything to go by. Perfect. They both just smiled at him without saying anything on the matter.

“But anyway, the ceremony should start soon, and there are other people I want to greet before that. I’m so glad you could both make it,” he said, genuinely beaming as he left to go talk to other people.

Kaidan smirked and let out a ‘hrmph,’ which made Shepard look at him. “He’s a great guy, but a little overexcitable.”

Shepard nodded kindly, not judging him for it. “Nothing wrong with a little enthusiasm,” she said with a faint curve to her lips. “Not a quality that a lot of soldiers have anymore. I’m glad that’s not something that was taken away from him throughout the war. I hope he never loses it.”

Kaidan nodded, understanding the sentiment well. “Yeah, me too. He’s a good guy. He really loves Libby. I think he’s good for her too. She’s too serious.”

“Too serious?” Shepard said coyly, with an entertained smile, noticing a general similarity between most of the Alenkos. Maisie was perhaps the only exception she could see so far.

Kaidan looked at her and let out a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. I know I can be serious too, but we’re not talking about me here,” he said with a smile. “I think he lightens her up a bit, and I think that’s exactly what she needs. Not that I’m criticising her now or anything, it’s just that I think Derek provides something for her that she’s been missing all her life. The way they look when they’re together,” Kaidan said, shaking his head fondly. “I’ve never seen her so happy. Like all of her burdens have been lifted off of her shoulders or something.”

Shepard looked somewhat dejectedly towards the ground, knowing precisely the feeling that he was referring to, because there was a time that Kaidan had provided exactly that for her. Not even just on the SR-1 when they were actually together, but also during the Reaper War, too. Even though they weren’t together then, he still provided that for her. He was good at making her feel less alone, having someone else to confide in who understood the things she was dealing with. It was one of the things she really missed about just being around him.

“Yeah,” she huffed out. “It’s not easy to find something like that,” she said quietly.

“No. It’s not,” he said. Shepard couldn’t help but hear a hint of sadness behind his words. She didn’t have it in her to look at him for any kind of confirmation.

Before they knew it, Derek came bouncing back through the crowd and tapped Kaidan on the shoulder. “All right, it’s almost showtime!” he said, with one of the widest grins Shepard had ever seen.

“You ready for this?” Kaidan asked.

“I can’t wait,” he said genuinely. His joy was palpable, bringing Kaidan in for another hug.

“Welcome to the family, Derek.”

“Well, she hasn’t said yes yet,” Derek said, releasing them both from the hug, still with a massive grin on his face.

“She will,” Kaidan said with a smile.

“I know. Thanks, man,” he said before he walked down the aisle with his parents who gave him their own hug before taking his place by the altar.

The officiant announced everyone to take their seats as the ceremony was about to begin.

“I guess that’s my cue to go back to the house for Libby. You can take any seat in the front row,” he said, pointing to Libby’s side of the seating arrangements.

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “See you in a minute, then.”

He nodded at her and turned to walk back to the house. Shepard stood there awkwardly, not entirely sure what she was feeling. She didn’t like the sight of him walking away. She knew she was being dramatic. All he was doing was going to get Libby, but the more time went on, she realised the closer she was getting to actually saying goodbye to him. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing. It’s practically what she kept telling herself she wanted after all. But it hurt. The reality of him potentially not being in her life anymore was starting to sink in, and she didn’t like the feeling. Not wanting to be awkward about standing in the aisle, she finally turned to take a seat, making sure to leave space for Kaidan and his mother.

After everyone settled, the drone began playing the wedding march. The bridesmaids and groomsmen started coming out. First, she noticed a couple of Libby’s friends that she hadn’t had the chance to meet, followed by Maisie and Raiya. Shepard offered each of them a smile, happy to be able to watch the celebration, even with her own sad and confused feelings muddying how she felt on the inside.

Immediately after that, Libby started walking down the aisle, Ada on one side of her and Kaidan on the other, looking incredibly proud and happy. Kaidan and Ada both gave her a hug before they came to sit down next to Shepard.

Jane and Kaidan shared a glance and a smile with each other before they turned towards the ceremony.

It went by in a blur. Libby and Derek said their vows and made their commitment to each other, and Shepard was sad once again. Marriage had never necessarily been important to her, but the one person who had ever gotten her wondering whether she might be up in a place like that someday was Kaidan. The man sitting right beside her, yet somehow never felt more beyond her grasp, knowing she would be saying goodbye to him soon enough.

As they finished off with a kiss and were declared husband and wife, walking back down the aisle, it all felt very bittersweet to Shepard. She smiled and clapped, but it was all a farce.

Everything surrounding Kaidan was making it difficult for her to be in the moment and be happy for Libby. She couldn’t imagine Kaidan not being a part of her life in some capacity, but it was becoming too painful to contemplate going on like this anymore. Everything here just served as a reminder to what she couldn’t have.

There would be alcohol at the party. Maybe that would make her feel better. And if not, ‘it would all be over soon.’

#f!Shenko #f!Shepard/Kaidan Alenko #f!Shepard #kaidan alenko #Mass Effect #fanfiction #mass effect fanfiction #mini slow burn #friends to lovers #angst #my writing #my fic on tumblr

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lee-em-dee · 6 years ago

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A Season 6 Bellarke Recap [a.k.a. the Receipts]

Before the finale airs, I thought we were due for a recap of some of the major B/C moments of Season 6, episode by episode.

6x01 “Sanctum”

[a.k.a. “It’s not crazy.”]

This felt like such a turning point for Bellarke, particularly on Bellamy’s end, because you can finally see him starting to fill in the blanks of their relationship. Clarke is so tentative and reticent about addressing the radio calls. Bellamy recognizes her vulnerability, understands the significance of this admission. And by assuring her “it’s not crazy” that she depended on him for six years, he reveals that he relied on her memory just as much, thus affirming the strength and stability of their relationship. Devotion is the name of the game.

6x02 “Red Sun Rising”

[a.k.a. “I don’t need you anymore.” + “This time, you die. Not me.”]

Talk about Foreshadowing™. This episode allowed audiences to get into the heads of each character (sans body snatching) and fully grasp what it is that drives/haunts them. Case in point, during Bellamy’s red sun psychotic episode, his compulsive need to protect and save his people is underscored, as is his deep-seated fear of being abandoned by/losing Clarke. This illustrates how, to a certain extent, Bellamy is terrified of how much he depends upon Clarke, knowing fully well the toll her death took on him for the past six years.

6x03 “The Children of Gabriel”

[a.k.a. “She is. She can speak for us.” + “We’ll bring Madi back. I promise.”]

Though the two are separated for the majority of this episode, Bellamy and Clarke’s “Together” partnership and co-leading dynamic are back in full force. Theirs is a relationship built on trust and mutual respect, a fact made very apparent when Bellamy doesn’t hesitate to allow Clarke to unilaterally conduct diplomatic affairs in Sanctum while he reconnects with their people. Likewise, Clarke entrusts the safety of her daughter to Bellamy in spite of the calamitous series of events that transpired in Season 5. It’s truly a redressal of S5, and it establishes how a relationship as profound as theirs is only strengthened by past disputes, betrayals, and grievances.

6x04 “The Face Behind the Glass”

[a.k.a. “You’re my family, too.” + “You’re too important to me.”]

I found this moment particularly significant when juxtaposed with the B/C dynamic in Season 2. Clarke’s “You’re too important to me” is very reminiscent of her S2 “I can’t lose you, too,” only this time around Clarke doesn’t attempt to diminish Bellamy’s value to her and, instead, recognizes that her love for him is a strength, not a weakness. She conveys to him how deeply she regrets abandoning him at the pits (much like her abandonment of him at the gates of Arkadia in S2), vowing to never lose sight of the fact that he is and always will be family to her.

6x05 “The Gospel of Josephine”

[a.k.a. “How are we on different sides of this?”+ “Who are you?”]

The strength of B/C’s relationship is even further bolstered with Josephine acting as a foil character to Clarke. Bellamy and Clarke know and understand each other so well, and her absence is glaringly obvious to Bellamy when he recognizes how uncharacteristically out-of-sync they are. He is the first and only person to have figured out that Clarke had been bodysnatched purely from knowing who she is as a person—her mannerisms, the way she speaks, the way she thinks, the things she values most (the same cannot be said of her own mother, but c’est la vie).

6x06 “Memento Mori”

[a.k.a. “...the hardest decision of his life: he will not take revenge.”]

Bellamy reveals the depth of his love for Clarke not by being consumed with his desire to exact revenge on her murderers, but rather by pushing aside his rage and grief in order to honor her. His inconsolable, bereaved, emotionally volatile state screams at him to perpetuate the cycle of war and violence, yet he overrrides his natural bloodthirsty instincts, all for Clarke. Bellamy is a fighter, and him choosing not to fight to preserve Clarke’s legacy is precisely why his love for her must be true and abiding—a love that stands the test of time and transcends death.

6x07 “Nevermind”

[a.k.a. “You’re too afraid to face him.” + “I’ll take your deal.” vs. “We’re gonna get her back.”]

The noticeable absence of Bellamy in Clarke’s mindspace (save for the drawings of him on her cell walls) is very weighty, especially when accompanied by Mindspace Blodreina’s spiel about Clarke‘s subconscious being unable to conjure Bellamy up due to fear. Fear that he will always resent her for her mistakes, fear that he views her as a selfish monster. It’s evident that Clarke values Bellamy’s perception of her to an unparalleled degree. Pieces of him are scattered throughout her mindspace (notice how a sketch of him is hanging in the area of her mindspace that symbolizes home, happiness, security, and family). He is literally ingrained in her head. This makes her decision to sacrifice herself to Josephine all the more meaningful. It is only when Clarke assumes Bellamy had given up on her without a second thought that she, herself, gives up. What she doesn’t get to see is how devastated he had been by her death and how determined he is to get her back when he discovers she’s still alive.

6x08 “The Old Man and the Anomaly”

[a.k.a. “You only care about Clarke.” ATTA BOY, JORDAN]

Bellamy is a man on a mission, and he’ll stop at nothing to save Clarke, regardless of the fact that doing so potentially endangers his people and their prospects for peace. While it’s inaccurate to suggest that Bellamy “only [cares] about Clarke,” you cannot deny that in this precarious situation she takes priority above all else. Saving Clarke is more important to Bellamy than ensuring that the peace deal for his people is fleshed out without a hitch. “He’d do anything for her. To protect her. Just makes sense.” Yet another S2 parallel. Bellamy will do whatever it takes to bring Clarke back, consequences by damned. If that entails leaving his people to fend for themselves, then so be it.

6x09 “What You Take With You”

[a.k.a. “Your people are in trouble. I guess you care about her more.” + “Now that’s a weird relationship, isn’t it?” + “I won’t let you die.” + “I’m not leaving you.”]

This episode was truly an ode to the history between Bellamy and Clarke—a complex history characterized by its highs and lows, by reconciliation and betrayal—but a history of devotion, nonetheless. Bellamy’s interactions with Josephine are enlightening, to say the least. The clinical way she breaks down the complicated relationship between Bellamy and Clarke is not only a testament to who she is as a person (i.e. a psychopath) but also to how deeply B/C must care for each other. In spite of everything that’s happened between them, their love and devotion to one another remains. Josephine leaves no stone unturned when it comes to recounting the bad and the ugly aspects of Bellamy and Clarke’s relationship, yet she redacts all of the good (those deep, intimate, emotional moments must be difficult to comprehend through the eyes of a psychopath). Everything about this episode—from Bellamy’s heartfelt “I won’t let you die,” to the terror and desperation in his eyes when J!Clarke is on the chopping block, to Clarke’s adamant “I’m not leaving you”—affirms that their bond is unbreakable.

6x10 “Matryoshka”

[a.k.a. THAT SCENE]

It takes real acting chops to simultaneously rip my heart in half and stitch it back together, yet, within the span of two measly minutes, Bob Morley accomplished the feat seamlessly. When Bellamy is confronted with the reality that Clarke is dead on that operating table, his greatest fears in 6x02 paradoxically come alive before his very own eyes. “I’m not losing her again.” “I need you.” “I’m not letting you go.” The shift from denial to desperation to devastation is as breathtaking as it is heart-breaking to watch. Speaking of the heart, what elevated the CPR scene to a caliber rivaling that of poetic cinema was its overt symbolism. Bellamy is Clarke’s heart. Clarke is Bellamy’s heart. When she’s trapped in her own head, it’s Bellamy’s voice that brings her back and jumpstarts her fighter instincts. When her heart’s stopped beating, he pumps it for her. He’s begging for her to come back to him because she is his touchstone, his other half. “The heart and the head.” “The head and the heart.” In other words, we belong Together. In other words, I love you, and I don’t want to live without you.

6x11 “Ashes to Ashes”

[a.k.a. “You saved me.” “So how do we save everyone that I left behind?” + “For Monty.” “For Monty.”]

The guilt sets in for Bellamy as he begins to think about the potential repercussions of his actions. Leaving everything behind to save Clarke was purely a heart move, and now that he’s got Clarke back, his head is starting to punish itself for shutting down and abandoning his people. Bellamy is off kilter and guilt-ridden. His plans for a peace deal fell apart, and he’s terrified that he won’t be able to protect his people just as he had failed to protect Clarke before (a 6x02 callback). Now, more than ever, it’s evident that Bellamy relies on Clarke to center him. She is his voice of reason, the head to his heart—a heart that, in a lot of ways, beats for her, as evidenced by his adamant refusal to allow her to jeopardize her life by acting as the inside man. Objectively, he knows her plan is the smart play and the only way to ensure that they “do better” per Monty’s charge, but he can’t risk losing her again. Bellamy eventually conceding to her plan illustrates how ideologically-attuned they are now. They’ve never been more Together, and, above all else, they uphold faith in each other.

6x12 “Adjustment Protocol”

[a.k.a. “I left them.” + “What took you so long?”]

Though this was definitely more of a fast-paced, plot-driven episode, the flashes of Bellarke peppered throughout are very telling, teeing up a major emotional moment for them in 6x13. While waiting for Clarke to shut down the shield, Bellamy is once again plagued by guilt for leaving his people behind without a second thought. Octavia’s verbal consolations do little to ease his mind, which goes to show how tormented he is by his actions. He genuinely believes dropping everything to save Clarke was a selfish decision on his part because he couldn’t bear to live without her. It wasn’t so much about Clarke needing Bellamy than it was about Bellamy needing Clarke.

He needs her. Not just as a co-leader, not just as a partner. Bellamy needs Clarke. His person. Never mind that his people may need him. If Clarke’s in trouble, he’ll go through hell and back to save her.

Pivot to the Becho reunion. Bellamy’s just been reunited with his girlfriend, the person he’d entrusted to protect his people while he went off to galavant around the woods with J!Clarke. The pure relief on his face upon being reassured that Echo okay is apparent. He left her behind, she was in trouble, but now she’s okay. He’s comforted by her presence in the same way that he’s comforted by the knowledge that a member of his family is safe.

But that look on Bellamy’s face when his eyes meet Clarke’s and everything around them seems to melt away? That’s more than relief. That’s yearning. That’s devotion. That’s “You came through. I knew you would.” That’s love.

#bellarke #the 100 #bellamy x clarke #analysis #season 6 recap #mine*

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uniqueleewritten · 4 years ago

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Little Monster: Movie Trailer (script)

Finally making this little snippet public! I really wish I had the time to work on this, though if someone commissioned the first chapter of this I wouldn't be mad, even if it would be burying me in more work.

This is not a full fic, it's just a synopsis/ snippet of the fic written as if I was writing a movie trailer for the actual fic. That's confusing I know but I swear it makes sense to me. It's not super long and I'm really proud of it so give it a read!

I had no Betas for this so there are probably a few errors here and there, sorry about that.

She was taking a drink when she heard the noise, a simple sound, a rattling. Some else would just think it's an animal, something in the garbage outside maybe, she knows better.

She clicks her tongue before tossing her long dark brown hair over her shoulder, regretting that she had freed the mess from its braid earlier. She raises her glass and gulps down the juice before chucking the glass against the wall, shattering it completely.

Her body moves quickly, pulling her gun from its holster that was draped across her chair and faces the intruder. Standing there, slowly coming out of the shadows of the hallway is Nick Fury, staring her down with one eye.

He raises an eyebrow at her before motioning towards the gun.

She clicks her tongue again.

"You're needed with us at S.H.I.E.L.D." He tells her, sitting down at the table, a glass of juice in front of him, and the carton in front of her.

"Why should I, Fury?" she asks him

"Because it's the right thing to do."

She laughs at him, cold and dead, but a laugh nonetheless.

"'The right thing' huh? You've gotten funny in old age Fury."

She's riding a motorcycle, sans helmet, down a highway road. She moves past trees, still bright and green. As she moves past the background changes, the trees are orange and the leaves are flying around her. The background changes again, she's driving through a desert. Once more the background changes, she's driving past snow-covered hills.

She's standing now, pointing a gun at someone, frowning most likely at their words. She pulls the trigger. Once. Twice. Again and again and again. She's going to do it again but she turns, just her head as her gun stays pointed at the person. She shoots the person, their blood splattering over her before she opens her mouth, her eyes are lifeless.

"Hey Cap," she says, bitter and resigned all at once.

"He wouldn't want you doing this." Captain America says, eyes sad as he looks at her.

"No, he wouldn't." The grief is clear in her voice.

"Look, Fury, I don't give a fuck what you want from me. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't find him and neither can I but I sure as hell ain't stopping."

She's killing, the gun firing, the bullets falling, the blood spraying. She's not sad, she's not resigned, she's not lifeless. She's wild. She's unstoppable. She's angry.

"Those monsters have had him for almost 10 years now." She yells, her fist slamming down on the table, teeth ground together, eyes wet with tears at the thoughts racing through her mind.

A body, floating, trapped, in a tube chamber, wires coming out from them, a breathing mask over their face.

"Who knows what the hell they've done to him." She's ignoring the tears down her face, letting the anger, the rage is what drives her instead.

"Look here little girl," someone speaks, an agent or an avenger, she doesn't know, she doesn't care. the anger takes over.

She's in a conference room with the avengers, Fury, and Hill. She's up, pointing a gun at him before Hill or Widow can point at her.

"I can kill everyone in this room before they get three bullets into me and you know it, Nick. My father never wanted this life for me. But you, you and your fucking organization COULDN'T FIND HIM!"

A shot of a little girl standing in front of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent holding a piece of paper. the agent is patting her on the back trying to comfort her. She runs outside and hides. she stares at the paper wiping at her tears.

"My mother died before I could ever know her because you couldn't keep her safe. My dad gave me to S.H.I.E.L.D. hoping I would be happy and safe but HOW THE FUCK am I supposed to be happy when my dad has been missing for almost my entire life?"

A different room, a workshop, a mechanic's room. Tools are thrown around everywhere, vials of a red liquid are behind glass casings. There is an Ant-man and a Wasp suit on display, behind a thick wall of glass.

A woman with a dark smudge across her face while dressed in overalls and gloves comes to greet them, her wrench still in her hand.

"Hi, I'm Cassandra Lang, Stinger."

Cassandra Lang is dressed in the Stinger outfit, her wings slightly smaller than Wasp's and the yellow of her outfit slightly brighter, shrinking and de-shrinking quickly. Knocking appoints out while using a repertoire of gadgets to incapacitate them or to tie them up.

She's shrinking to go fit inside of machines, disarming them before the enemy knows what's happening. She is very clearly Ant-man and the Wasp's apprentice.

A figure flying past skyscrapers, a dark suit, and the backlight keeping their identity in the shadows. But the people of New York know that form, know the way he jumps and dives and flips. Knows the way if they yell for him he will help. Knows that he stands on top of the roofs, keeping them all safe.

Spider-Man in his signature black and red suit, looking up at the night sky, his fists clenched at his sides.

"The first Spider-Man-" He starts, the light of the conference room he's in is being swallowed up by his suit. There is no fading it's coloring.

"He died, years ago." Cassie interrupts, trying to spare the man any more grief but not understanding.

"They never, never, found his body. It's out there somewhere, in who knows' whose hands."

Spider-man is standing atop the statue the people had made, had called it art, and demanded it never be taken down. It's Spider-man but not the one who stands before New York. The statue is of the one who stood there all those years ago. The one who saved them before anyone else thought too. The friendly neighborhood kid who they heard and watched grow up.

The one they now all grieved over. Spider-man was a part of New York and the people watched as his successor grieved with them. Cassandra Lang couldn't begin to understand, the loss of a hero, the grief that comes from loving them, that never goes away. Not truly.

A tube chamber, light glowing purple around the body, the wires, and mask hiding any features they could be made. The body does not move, it's just suspended there, held up by the wires and tubing. The glow fades and so does the body.

"You think you would give up by now Fury. Been trying to get me to stop for how long now?"

"Eleanor" Maria Hill starts, lowering her gun, eyes filled with sympathy. An emotion Ellie didn't know the woman still possessed. "We have a lead."

Ellie's face crumples into anguish.

The purple glow is back once more, surrounding the tube chamber in its light. The wires and tubes are wrapped around the body, it's impossible to make out any features. Their mouth is opened, bubbles are swirling into the liquid surrounding them. They must be screaming.

Ellie and Cassie are shaking hands, Spider-man hanging above them, the entire room of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents surrounding them, waiting. Treating the two women as if they were caged lions about to fight each other.

"Eleanor Camacho, Monster," Ellie tells her, amused at the agents surrounding them.

"Like Little Monster!?"

"Trying to drop the "little" bit."

"Oh man, I get you," Spider-man says to them. "Took forever for people to stop calling me Spider-kid."

Spider-man, Ellie, and Cassie are inside of Cassie's workshop. Cassie was packing pieces up, cases, and cabinets of the lab shrinking all around them. She was easily sliding them in various cases or clipping them to keychains.

"I've never really worked with a team before," Ellie told them as they all stepped outside.

"That's ok," Cassie tells her, tossing a shrunken van in front of them. "I don't think we're really a team. At least not yet anyway."

She presses a button and the car changes to its full size.

"Man-" Spider-man starts. " No matter how many times I see it, that it's still so freakin' cool."

Spider-man is chilling on top of the van, bopping his head to the music as Cassie drives, following behind Ellie's motorcycle. Cassie grips the steering wheel tighter, frowning as she looks at the red glow of taillights.

Fury is handing her what seems to be a flash drive and is glaring down at it and in some way her.

"Remember what I said." He tells her. "Eleanor Camacho is in no world stable. She is to be considered a high-level threat. You are to keep her under control."

Ellie is driving ahead of the van, her sunglasses on, and her long braid whipping around in the wind. She tightens her grip on the handlebars as she makes the turns, her face stone as she thinks on the mission.

"I'm coming, dad." She thinks, taking the next turn with pure recklessness. "I'm gonna find you. I don't care that everyone says it's impossible. I'm Deadpool's kid, impossible is in the blood.

There's a man dressed in a long white lab coat, his glasses reflecting the purple glow, his wine glass glowing the same purple as the chamber. He smiles and takes a sip before looking back at the chamber. The glow begins to fade, the shadows devouring everything in sight.

"Hello Experiment L. Wonderful to see you awake finally."

#Marvel AU #marvel fanfiction #ellie camacho #Cassie Lang #Miles Morales #I wrote a thing #honestly - please pay me so I can write this before 2029 because that's the earliest I'll be able to start on this at the rate I'm going

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lesboinspace · 5 years ago

Text

AtLA Zine Piece

This was written for @atlazine :D I was assigned Air so I wrote this focusing on Aang, but also added as many characters who’ve impacted him as I could~ Look out for leftover sales!

A Hero’s Love

Word Count: 1,998

Rating: G

Summary: About a decade since awakening from his snow globe, Aang prepares himself for his most pressing challenge yet: summoning the courage to propose to the most incredible person he's ever met. With the help of many old friends, Aang will do just that without looking too much like a babbling, love-stricken fool.

Aang fell in love with Katara the moment their eyes met. Of course, he hadn’t known to correlate such awe with newfound love right away, but even as a child he could sense how the waterbender left a mark on him within moments of occupying the same space. The girl's gaze had been full of concern and curiosity, her aura demanding the younger boy's attention even while his chilled mind was rebooting after spending a century as a popsicle.

She was, and still is, the most beautiful soul he's ever encountered. That day, as Katara’s ocean-esque eyes collided with Aang's cloudy greys, he knew she was special. Years later, Aang's feelings for Katara haven't dimmed, only intensified with each second he shared at her side. Now, blossoming into an adult, the Avatar was set on acting out what was once mere fantasy to him when he was young: asking his beloved to spend the rest of her days with him.

But before doing so, Aang wished to spread word of this decision and, consequently, the joy that comes with it. Aang would finally propose to the woman that had saved his life and stolen his heart while spreading the jittery excitement he feels with those who've supported him along the way. Eager to share, the Avatar had soared through the skies once again, saddled on Appa's warm back with Momo perched on his shoulder.

First on Aang's journey had been Guru Pathik. This may seem strange, as the wise man had been the one who previously demanded Aang let go of Katara. However, it’s precisely because of this that the Avatar visited him before anyone else. After the war, Aang never had a chance to return to the guru and question the believed importance of severing ties.

Aang, though he struggled to admit it, harbored a little resentment for Pathik after he went against his teachings. He still respected the elder, but part of him was eager to face Pathik, to stand proud knowing that he made the better choice as a boy rather than abiding by the wise man's ruling. He was determined to marry the one Pathik told him to leave behind, so Aang was as spiteful as he could ever be. Despite this ire, Aang truly hoped that he and Pathik could reconcile over the most pleasant of news.

Upon landing, the two shared some niceties before Aang's desire to open up overwhelmed him. “I’m going to marry her, you know. If I’d listened to you, she would’ve died.” Aang could barely look at the guru when he said this, mixed feelings of avoided grief and desperation swirling about his mind. Pathik wasn’t blind to this, and quickly sat the Avatar down as he began emptying his thoughts.

“Connections to others limit our ability to prosper. Any ties to this world and its people weaken our chance to explore the strength laying dormant within.” Aang did his best to sit still and listen, but he couldn’t cease the curling of his toes and twitching nose. He’d waited a long time to hear Pathik’s explanation, but it was harder than expected to eye the man responsible for Katara’s near-death experience.

He was so restless that Aang was oblivious to Pathik’s similar discomfort. The elder shifted his hands from his knees to his calf over and over again, running his fingertips along the fabric as he spoke. He too struggled to hold eye contact with the man he hurt. “I didn't wish to harm you with my judgment. I thought I was doing what had to be done, both for you and the fate of us all. It seems that… I may have been wrong, in your case at least. I hope you can forgive me.”

With each word Aang’s tight clench of his fists loosened just as the viper’s grip on his heart receded. “I haven't a single doubt that you and your beloved will be very happy together. Cherish her and those you love, young man.” Both men’s gazes steadily rose, meeting for the first time since Pathik began illustrating his convictions that were left wrongly unspoken for years. The guru smiled at Aang, taking in all that the Avatar had become without him.

“Your ties to them seem to make you stronger. I'm sure dear Gyatso would agree.” The conversation dissipated any lingering frustration in Aang's heart, unaware that so much had existed until Pathik’s sincere admission of regret. Aang pulled the elder into a hug when he initially intended to part ways after a stiff, procedural bow. He experienced an unexpected ease wash over him, a tension in his stomach unraveling once his reconnection with the elder appeased his perturbed psyche.

Driven by the gratifying experience, Aang immediately met up with another man from his past— though undeniable wisdom and age is all that connects the two elders. King Bumi jumped on Aang upon his arrival, and the two puffed out giddy, exhausted breaths. The longtime friends discussed the good old days before Aang announced he was planning to propose.

The king was so ecstatic that he moved to tackle him again. However, the Avatar was ready the second time around—though just barely pivoting away. Nevertheless, the king was undeterred. For several minutes he continued to leap at Aang, who somehow managed to stay untouched. He was out of breath until Bumi came to a sudden halt and offered some sort of approving nod, like their game of cat and mouse equated to something far beyond Aang's comprehension.

With that, Bumi resumed his full height and rubbed Aang's forehead as if he were a fortune teller prodding his crystal ball for answers. The Avatar merely stood in silence, holding in a snort while he waited for his friend to finish his inner analysis. “You've grown so much, yet your spirit has remained passionate and humble. You'd be surprised how often power corrupts. You're still the friend I made all those years ago, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm sure that spunky waterbender gal feels the same.”

Aang nearly teared up at the sentiment. Just as he placed a hand on Bumi’s shoulder, the elder grinned before slamming the unsuspecting Avatar onto his back. The two friends continued to run about for hours until Aang insisted for his own safety that they stop. With a tight hug that both men groaned through, laughing through the glorious agony, the king and the Avatar parted ways.

Aang set out to the Southern Water Tribe to meet with the last wise man on his list: Hakoda. The surprise visit prompted Katara’s father to suspect exactly what the Avatar wished to discuss. He ushered Aang into his home, seeking privacy for the topic. “If you’re here to ask for my approval in marrying my daughter, do know that it’s not necessary; Katara is a grown woman who doesn’t need her father cradling her, but I appreciate your sentiment nonetheless.”

Hakoda’s shoulders shook as he emitted a low chuckle at Aang’s wide eyes and tense frame. “Come now, don’t look so embarrassed. Why else would you be here? I don’t suppose you plan to confess your feelings to my son and marry him instead?” The Avatar smiled sheepishly and rubbed his neck, joining Hakoda in laughter.

Just as the men made earnest, understanding eye contact, an ear-shattering scream disturbed the moment. Sokka barged in, gaping like the recent catch of fish balanced on his back. “You’re finally going to do it? Okay, so when are you planning on asking, exactly? Oh, and where? How? I have a million questions, man! Or, wait, I guess I can call you brother now, huh?” His babbling was met with blank stares which quickly melted into bright smiles. The men spoke of the future until nightfall, and Aang said his goodbyes, his soul satisfied at the reciprocated excitement from his closest companions.

Each meeting had left the Avatar with a newfound clarity, and he now feels ready to propose to Katara. Knowing that he and Katara would appreciate the hijinks of it now that time and fear have passed, Aang brings Katara to Ember Island after requesting its theater group to put on the same reenactment of their journeys solely for the couple. As expected, Aang and Katara laugh throughout the entire production.

Aang admires the waterbender’s uncontrollable chuckles and glistening eyes, growing eager for the play to end so he can propose. Once the curtains fall, the couple clap and cheer before Aang tugs Katara out of her seat, guiding her to the beach. The two gaze in silence at the shimmering waters, both sneaking not so subtle glances at each other for a marvelous eternity. Aang almost hates that he has to break their trance for any reason at all, but he just can’t wait any longer—not with how beautifully illuminated she is under the moonlight.

“Katara, there’s something that I want to ask you. The thing is, uh, you see…”

“Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“Hang on, let me get through this,” Aang holds up a palm while rubbing his temple with the other, forehead creasing. The Avatar curtains his eyes, vacuuming up oxygen through his nostrils as if he’s never had any fill his lungs before. “Okay, so when two people love each other very much—”

His hands retract to his center, fingers spreading out and motioning to the air. Aang continues the anxious spasming of his limbs until Katara's words process in his overloading mind. “Wait, what? How did… I mean, who told you?”

“You shouldn’t have trusted Sokka. That goof is terrible at keeping secrets, especially from me.” An airy chuckle tumbles out of the waterbender, recalling the event from just a few nights ago, “I barely looked at the guy before he broke down into gibberish, going from formal venues to invitations or something. All it took was a few seconds of hard eye contact for him to snitch every last detail… and then some. I know way too much about Sokka's love for Suki now, it's kind of disturbing. I'll spare you the trauma.”

With a sigh, Aang smacks the center of his arrow, though his taut expression is quick to dissipate. He shrugs his shoulders, chalking up the reveal to one of Sokka's many charming moments. “Figures. I didn’t even tell him since I was sure he would blab. He was eavesdropping when I was talking to your—um, never mind.” The two share a laugh, but Aang’s nervous rocking on his heels silences both of them. “So, you really mean it? You'll… marry me?”

Katara’s smile stretches further as the Avatar eyes her from under his dark lashes. “Of course, sweetie. If I’d never met you, there’s no way I would’ve discovered half of what I’m capable of. I was able to become strong like my mother wanted me to be, and I even got to help save the world with the Avatar himself. Now, I’m—” She pauses her spiel when Aang’s head tilts to the side, though roses seem to bloom within his cheeks as they burn red. “Okay, okay, sorry. Enough about me.” Clearing her throat, Katara sets her hands on his shoulders. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re everything to me, Aang. I’d be honored to spend the rest of my life with you.”

His face bursting with color, Aang lowers his gaze “I’m the one who’s honored to be with you... I may have saved the world, but you, ya know, saved me and all. And not just from being a snow globe.”

“I know.”

With the promise made between them, Aang and Katara melt into each other’s arms. They seal this new bond with a kiss while a gentle breeze twirls through their bodies. It's almost as if the Air Nomads’ spirits were applauding their pupil, embracing the pair in gusts of caresses like the lovers are the heart of a hurricane.

#atla #zine piece #zine #katara x aang #avatar aang

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arthurmorgan-s-heart · 6 years ago

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Arthur Morgan x F!Reader: After Years and Years (Part 1)

Warning: SPOILERS

There’s a ghost riding into town.

You think you might be imagining things at first - maybe it’s a vague resemblance in a stranger’s face, or perhaps the early evening’s fading light, that tricks your mind into seeing something impossible. But as he rides closer, you realise you have it right, and barely hold back a gasp. There is grey threading through his hair and peppering his beard, but he seems otherwise unchanged - there’s no mistaking him.

You can’t say you had ever expected to see Arthur Morgan again.

You realise you’re staring, and you hike up your shawl over your head and turn away before he can see you - if he hasn’t already. You hold your breath as he rides by, the rapid rhythm of his horse’s hooves in the muddy street seemingly as loud as thunder, echoing the panicked beating of your own heart. He doesn’t stop, and you raise your head to look at him again when you’re sure he’s passed you by, your mind racing. You take a few steps forward before stopping yourself. You know you should let it go; you had worked hard to get away from that life, the life he came from, a life of pain and regret and - no, that’s a lie. There had been joy in those days, a happiness you had never found before or since. You had called them family - and Arthur could have been even more, had you just let go of your fears and accepted his affection (something you had wanted so, so badly to do, though your courage had failed you then, and you had dwelled on what could have been for more years than you cared to count). The pain had come later - after some showed their true colours. But not Arthur; he had always been good and honest with you - and some days, even after all those years, you still found yourself longing for what you had then.

Yes, you know that it would be safer - and, most of all, wiser - to just let it go, to stay away from town for a few days until he moves on, as you’re sure he will; but, well, you had never been wise.

You follow him from a distance - he had slowed his horse from a trot to a walk, making it easier to keep track of him. You still can’t quite believe what you’re seeing - it had been years since your escape from the Van Der Linde gang’s death throes (at Arthur’s urging, you can’t help but remember), and you had thought him dead. He had told you himself, all those years ago, that he had not expected to make it out of that mess alive - and when your efforts to find him had turned up nothing, you had assumed the worst, though a sliver of you could not help but keep hoping.

You’re still not quite sure how you should feel - it is jarring to see someone you had finished mourning long ago alive, in the flesh, and but a shout away.

You keep your distance as you watch Arthur stop in front of the saloon. He hitches his horse out front before making his way inside. You hesitate for a moment - you’re not even sure what exactly you’re looking to achieve, following him like this; conflicting feelings swirl and rage inside you: sadness, anger, lingering grief, and a longing you would like to ignore - but above all, insatiable curiosity; what exactly had happened back then? To Dutch? To Micah? What was his life like now? Where had he been all those years?

It is that curiosity that finally makes you step out into the street, crossing hastily before climbing the steps leading to the door. You take a deep breath, trying in vain to steady the beating of your heart, and step inside.

In all your years of living in this town, you had never liked the saloon; dark, noisy and crowded, it was nonetheless the only such establishment in town, leaving locals and travellers alike with little choice.

Your eyes scan the room, looking for him, but only strangers greet you eyes, a sea of faces you don’t recognize. Perhaps you should go back outside and wait for him to come out again? Which could take hours - if he came out before the next morning at all. You let out a frustrated sigh.

Before you can decide what to do, a hand lands on your shoulder; you let out a surprised yelp, almost reaching for the revolver hanging at your side, but a familiar voice stops you.

“Lookin’ for someone?”

You turn slowly, and you see him, smiling that smile you had wished you could forget, and looking at you with eyes a vivid green you had yet to see anywhere else, instantly bringing back all sorts of feelings you thought you’d gotten over years ago. You stand there, dumbfounded, a thousand thoughts and questions running through your mind.

“I thought you were dead.”

The words leave your mouth before you can even think of holding them back, and you immediately feel heat rising in your cheeks - all these years, and this is the first thing you manage to say to him?

He chuckles quietly; his laugh sounds different than you remember - older, somehow guarded.

“Not yet,” he says, taking his hand off your shoulder. “Not sure how I made it this far, but I did.”

You can only look at him, taking him in; as you had noted before, he is almost unchanged, but for a few more wrinkles and scars - that do nothing to make him less handsome, a traitorous part of you notices. His clothes are slightly worn, but clean - a heavy leather jacket, a faded shirt, a pair of jeans - and he still has his old hat - his father’s, you recall dimly.

You look back up at his face in time to see him doing the same to you, looking you over, taking note of everything that had changed since he had last seen you. You can’t help but quietly wonder if he minds the years that time has added to your face.

“You said you weren’t gonna make it,” you say softly. “I’m glad you were wrong.”

An invisible weight suddenly seems to fall on his shoulders, his smile dimming as he looks away.

“Yeah,” he replies before adding, in a whisper: “Still don’t know if I am.”

His words stab at your heart, and you reach out to touch his arm lightly; you see him look at where your hand is resting, close to his elbow, with something you would almost call surprise in his eyes. The noises of the saloon fill the silence between you, but you speak again before long, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“What happened?” you ask, and you almost think he hasn’t heard you over the din of the saloon, but he meets your eyes again and gestures toward the door.

“Maybe we’d better find someplace quiet for that conversation,” he says, and you nod, letting your hand fall away.

“Follow me,” you reply, and start toward the door. “I know a place.”

Me: Oh, that request is pretty simple, shouldn’t take long!

Also me: You need to make up a needlessly elaborate premise that takes you 6 tries to get just right

So yeah, this is the 6th version of that request, and I’ve been looking at it way too long, but I’m finally done. Part 2 should be up before the end of the week!

#red dead redemption #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #arthur morgan x reader #anon #requests #fic #i seriously hate my brain #writing #rdr2 spoilers

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mybeautifuldecay · 7 years ago

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Are you going to finish what’s in a name? I love that one and I really want to know how it ends.

…here’s the funny thing, I have loads of this written up but it’s hidden in my phone docs and not anywhere I’ve looked in a while. So. Yes. I am because it’s got loads of parts half written and the plot is mostly fleshed out.

Previous chapters can be found on my must ignored MASTER LIST.

–

What’s In A Name: Part Five:

“Jamie! Please, don’t leave. Out of e-everyone here…” Claire stumbled over her words, her stomach lurching as she tried to vocalise her feelings to the only man she’d come across that had taken care of her. She could see the hurt, the betrayal in his eyes, and she couldn’t bare it. “Jamie, you’re the only one I want to believe me. I am not a spy, you have to…” she wanted to say trust, but she knew that wasn’t an appropriate word to choose at this particular moment. She’d broken that, and it’d be a time before she could earn it back. “Please, don’t hate me. It isn’t like you think, I wish I could explain, how much easier this would be!” She stood, her back against the cold brick of her cell, praying, internally, that he would stay and hear her out. Her eyes filled with tears, she wouldn’t take back what she’d done. She had needed to get back to the stones, but losing that dispatch notice, that’d been foolish, and she wished with all her might that she’d taken more care with it. “Ye kent what Randall did to me, mistress…” His regression to using her formal address caused her heart to lurch in her chest. “Ye saw wi’ yer own eyes, the marks he left. I dinna mean to keep secrets from ye, because I didna just wish to keep ye safe. Damnit!” He slammed his fist against the small wooden table, the goblet of ale and the small plate of bread flew into the air and clattered at Claire’s feet. She jumped back, her ears ringing, the tears falling from her eyes now as she gasped in air at an alarming rate. “I trusted ye Claire! I was reckless! …and I am a fool for doing so.” “No! Jamie…no! You’re not a fool. I promise you.” She stammered out as fast as she could, her lungs rising painfully and pushing uncomfortably against her ribs as panic set in. He was still young, not naïve but certainly filled with an exuberance and innocence that caused him to trust in what his gut told him. She could see that rapidly fading, and cursed herself for being the cause. “I am NOT a spy, I-I can’t explain…b-but…” She was panting hard now, her brain rushing through every possible outcome, trying to figure out what to tell him. In the end there was only one option, the truth. Before she could even begin he interrupted her, his blue eyes hard. “I have one thing to say to ye, mistress. Before ye say anymore. Whatever the cost, if it is to cost me my life, I wouldna change it. I’ll hang, and I have no regrets.”Claire’s hands shook, hang? She’d known of course. He was a wanted man, but he wasn’t about to give himself over to the redcoats, surely? He looked ready for battle, he obviously didn’t believe anything she could say would change his fate. He truly thought she’d been collecting information on him and sending it back to Captain Randall. Her mouth opened and closed -dry from not swallowing. She was never going to convince him she’d fallen through time…but she had to try. “If you’d read the entire dispatch notice, if you’d read the date! Jamie, you’d know.” She reached her hand out to him, knowing he would snub her but making the attempt nonetheless. “It would have said 1944, I-I needed to get back to Craigh Na Dun. T-that’s where it happened, where I came…through, if that’s the right word for it…” She let her body slide down the damp wall until she was sat, curled up, on the floor. She sat there staring at her now joined hands as she told her story, she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. But she had to get it all out. Jamie stood stock still through her entire speech, he was still reeling from the discovery and couldn’t bring himself to relax even a little. He was tensed for action, convinced that any moment now, Randall would burst through the gates at Leoch and demand to take him away. But as of yet, that had not occurred. She was right, the men had all been so concerned with the name on the note that they hadn’t stopped to read anymore of it. He wished he’d kept it just to check that she was telling the truth, but for now he’d just have to decide whether he trusted her or not. “I didn’t even remember having it on me, until I packed everything away before I ran. I hid it, in my pocket. I knew you couldn’t see it, I knew what would happen if you did.” She wiped her eyes, the tears blurring her vision and irritating her. “…and look what it’s done. Frank is my husband, Jamie. Frank Randall. But he won’t be until the 20th century…and you won’t hang, because…I - am - not - a - spy!” She punctuated her words carefully, trying to drive home the important facts. “Am I to trust that yer a time traveller, Claire? Is that what ye want me to think?” His tone was bitter, but softening. She stood and cautiously made her way over to him, stopping just before him. “I know it’s impossible to believe, I know because I’d feel the same. I still don’t understand it…but I’m here, and it happened. I don’t care whether you choose to trust me or not, have me tried for witchcraft if you want!” She turned away now, too tired from her tale to continue on. He watched as she stumbled away from him once more, her shoulders shaking with sobs. He swallowed back the emotion welling in his throat, something deep down niggled at him, something he couldn’t quite explain himself. “I believe ye, Sassenach. I suppose it’d be a fair deal easier if ye were…a witch. Whether it’s daft of me to do so, though, I believe ye.” His voice was so low she almost didn’t catch it, she stopped still as he spoke, letting the words tumble out of him before she allowed the meaning of his quiet musings melt into her skin. Claire’s heart slowed for the first time since he’d stepped into her cell as relief began to thaw the ice that had being running through her veins at her incarceration. “Murtagh told me I must come and see ye, so I kent there must be a good reason for it.”“M-Murtagh?”“Aye, has he spoken wi’ ye?”“No, only Colum and Dougal have been down since my arrest. Nobody else.” She twisted her head, he could see the tear tracks running down the black patches of dust that clung to her skin. He could see the fatigue in her eyes, and he felt what she felt. Sheer desperation. He went to her then – without thinking much about his actions – and gathered her up in his arms. She turned and buried her face against his warm chest, her gentle sobs morphing into deep wails of grief as she clung to him. He could feel her tears as they dropped under his shirt and ran down his bare torso. “What’ll h-happen to me…Jamie?” She managed to force out, as she eventually calmed. “Dougal said they may send me back to Randall, I-I’m…” her eyes squeezed shut as she imagined the horror of being passed over to the redcoats, “…I’m s-scared. I promised myself I’d get back, e-even if it cost me my life.” Her hands started to shake once more, as she continued on. “B-but…if he takes me, it won’t be…i-it, he won’t…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, it made Jamie’s wame drop to think of her in Randall’s care. He knew precisely what would happen should he come to take possession of her, and it wouldn’t be pretty. “Shh, Claire lass. Hush and breathe. I willna let either Dougal or Colum take ye, not until I’ve spoken to them properly.” “Y-you’d do that…for me?” Claire spoke, her head still resting against him, her nose buried now in the crook of his neck. This was second time he’d had to make this promise, only this time it was under more tense circumstances. The thought made her cry once more, he’d dropped his anger completely now, and was looking at her with only a glint of happiness in his eyes. There was something more though, something she couldn’t interpret. “Aye, I would. I told ye before, Claire. I wouldna change what came afore. I still mean it now, especially since ye arena going to turn me over to the English.” There was humour in his voice - but it only brought more tears to Claire’s eyes. “Please don’t joke, Jamie.” She sputtered out, trying to regain some handle on her emotions. “I have t’ go now, Claire. I’ll make sure yer safe, as I said, but I need to get back. Ye must eat, though.” Jamie shifted a little, and Claire moved with him pushing herself off him and settling herself on the small cot she’d been assigned. “Y-yes, I will.” Her voice breaking as she wiped her eyes once more and pulled her knees up against her chest. “Will I see you soon?” “I’ll try and come back in the next few days, Sassenach. But I canna make any promises.” She nodded, understanding the position he was in, the position she had put him in. As he left her, Jamie took one look back through the door as it locked tight. His heart was torn, he ached to believe her and he had in the moment, but it was his love for her that overruled the logical part of him, that part that warned him to be careful. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t fall too deep until he’d really come to a conclusion, and that would rest partially on Murtagh’s shoulders. His godfather knew something and he’d need to find out what.

#fanfic #what's in a name #jamie x claire

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sunflowersandink · 7 years ago

Text

We Often Go Awry

Part 1

Read on AO3

Pairing: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson

Summary: Everyone is born marked, and they live knowing that somewhere out there is their other half, a corresponding soul with the same mark. Thanos wins, and suddenly half the people in the universe are gone, just like that.What happens to the half that’s left?

Words: 2845

For all the chaos in Peter’s life, there was never really a point where it didn’t feel like it made sense. There was an order to it, a pattern. Sometimes a pattern too intricate and grand for him to understand, but he trusted always that there was a pattern nonetheless.

In a snap, the pattern disappears.

- - -

The whole ride back from Titan, his fingers compulsively trace the black fibonacci spiral that has stood in stark contrast to the pale skin of his wrist since the day he was born. It’s hard to tell in the dim light of the ship, but he thinks it looks a little lighter, a little less sharp than it did that morning. He tells himself it’s too early to tell.

He concentrates on it, and does his best to be a middle ground between Tony’s endless pacing of their section of the tiny ship and the blue alien lady’s complete and eerie stillness in the pilot’s seat, staying seated and motionless but for the restless bouncing of one leg and the constant motion of his fingers.

He doesn’t look up until he hears Tony’s small intake of breath. He raises his eyes to see Earth ahead of them, blue and shining in the dark.

It looks so small, he thinks.

- - -

They land way outside the city, deciding there’s no good way to land a spaceship in the middle of Manhattan without causing even more panic.

Tony’s on the phone as soon as they’re through the atmosphere and have a signal. He waits, almost vibrating with tension, as the phone rings.

“Pepper,” he breathes at last, shoulders slumping with relief. “You’re okay.”

Peter is relieved too, though his is slight. He’s glad she’s okay of course, but she’s not one of his biggest concerns. He worries at the skin around his thumbnail, and tries not to think about Aunt May, or Ned, or MJ, or the other Avengers. He doesn’t look at his wrist.

Within minutes, he’s tracing the spiral again anyway, without needing to look.

- - -

It’s been three days since the snap, three days since Titan, three days since theirs and every other little corner of the universe was ripped in two forever. Peter hasn’t left the tower since he got back.

Technically, most of the missing can’t legally be declared dead, not without a body.

So most are just missing, in the eyes of the government and any loved ones who didn’t personally witness them crumble to ash.

Aunt May remains one of the many missing persons on the crowded list.

Mr. Stark didn’t hesitate to give Peter a room in the tower, which he gratefully hides away in. The others, the ones still alive, give him space, busy grieving their own losses.

Everyone on Earth has something to grieve.

Peter wears long sleeves for three days, and keeps the lights off when he showers.

Everyone knows how long it takes for a mark to fade, and he refuses to torture himself in the meantime by obsessively checking it.

On the Third Night, he pulls up his sleeve and looks.

- - -

It’s Bruce he wakes, pounding on his door at just past two in the morning.

Bruce opens the door, blinking bleary-eyed at him, hair rumpled. Faintly, Peter hears Thor in the background, groggily asking what’s happening.

Bruce frowns at him in concern. “Peter, what-?”

Peter doesn’t say anything. He simply holds out his arm, showing the pink spiral that twists like a scar against his wrist.

Bruce’s face twists in understanding and sorrow. He wraps his arms around Peter. “I’m so sorry, Peter,” he murmurs.

Peter just squeezes him tighter. He doesn’t cry. It’s hard to cry for someone you’ve never met.

It’s six a.m. before Ned texts.

my mark didn’t fade!!!! they made it!!!! hbu?

Peter ends up falling asleep, without finding it in him to answer.

- - -

By a week post-snap, some of the missing have officially been declared dead, though the millions without a known (and not-missing) soulmate to prove it remain.

Aunt May remains missing, Uncle Ben having already taken her corresponding soulmark with him.

Peter hopes, wherever she is, she’s found him again.

- - -

On the eighth day, he leaves his room, not because he particularly wants to see anyone else, but because he thinks if he spends anymore time in there he might actually go insane.

He ends up going down to the gym, which he finds to already be occupied. Steve is red-faced and sweating, and judging by the pile of broken punching bags, has been at this for a while. Bucky’s once-red star peeks out from under his t-shirt sleeve like a wound.

He stops the current bag from swinging, turning to look at Peter before he can sneak back out. He shoots him a brittle smile, which drops away immediately. “Hey Peter. I heard about your mark. I’m really sorry.” Peter gives an awkward little half-shrug. “Yeah, me too,” he says, not sure if he’s agreeing or expressing the same sympathy back.

Steve walks over to the small table along the edge of the room, picking up the water bottle that sits there. Peter sees the blood that covers his knuckles, though the wounds are probably already healed.

“You’ll have the gym to yourself, I was just about to go for a run,” he says, then flinches slightly, like he already regrets the words.

Sam flashes through Peter’s mind. “I could go with you,” he blurts out, and immediately regrets it. No, he doesn’t want to see his new half-city, not really. Not yet.

Luckily, Steve either picks up on this or genuinely doesn’t want the company, because he smiles at Peter, a little more warmly and gently than his earlier one. “That’s very kind of you Peter, but no, thank you. Stay here, take advantage of the solitude.” He nods a goodbye, and brushes past him out the door.

Peter relaxes, feeling bad that’s he’s actually grateful Steve is gone. It’s Steve. Steve, his teammate, a man who he’s trained with and fought with and hung out with on movie nights.

But then. It’s not Steve, not really, is it? It’s the remaining half of Steve, and he’s just the remaining half of Peter.

He’s not even sure what complete Peter was like. Would have been like. Was supposed to be like.

How do you get back to normal when everything is this fucked?

- - -

On the tenth day, he goes up to the lab. Tony’s up there, but he knows it, he’s prepared this time.

He’s not prepared to find Tony and Pepper, together. He can sense he’s walked into a fight the moment he steps through the elevator doors, and he’s honestly not sure if that’s better or worse than finding them happy together.

Tony is behind one of the worktables, pointedly not looking up from whatever it is he’s working on. Dark bags hang under his eyes, his face is unshaven. He looks completely exhausted, which, knowing Tony, might actually mean he hasn’t slept since they got home.

Pepper, on the other hand, looks furious, her arms crossed and jaw set in a hard line. She looks back when Peter enters, and immediately relaxes her stance, smiling gently at him. “Hi, Peter, how are you?”

Without the anger masking it, he realizes she looks just as exhausted as her soulmate.

He gives the same half-shrug he’s given everyone who asks him that question. He’s becoming very good at it. “I’m okay.”

She tilts her head, concern shining in her eyes. “I haven’t seen you much this past week.”

“Been busy,” he dodges. “How about you - you guys? Is everything okay?” he asks awkwardly.

The anger comes back, though not directed at him. She opens her mouth, but Tony speaks before she can.

“Oh, yeah, sure, everything’s just groovy. Yeah, almost four billion people are dead, but everything’s working perfectly, why wouldn’t it be?”

Peter flinches slightly, which Pepper doesn’t miss. “Tony,” she says sharply.

Tony looks up, blinking at Peter like he just noticed he was there. He sighs raggedly, scrubbing at his already-bloodshot eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry, kid. Just ignore me, it’s been a really long day.”

“That’s because it’s been several days, Tony,” Pepper says wearily, reaching up to rub at her own eyes, though much more carefully. “Tony, you can’t fill in for half the planet by yourself, you just can’t, and you’re going to kill yourself trying. You need to take a break,” she pleads.

He flings the screwdriver he was working with to the ground with a clatter that makes Pepper and Peter both flinch back. He braces his hands against the workbench, and looks at the two of them with slightly wild eyes. “You want me to take a break? Okay, sure. Do you want to explain to the doctors and nurses at the five hospitals within a hundred mile radius that don’t have power that, oh, I’m sorry, I’ll get back to fixing that part of the power grid after I have a little nap, that okay? How about the fourteen, fourteen, Pepper, commercial airlines that went down after their pilots dissolved mid-flight that still haven’t seen rescue workers because all the surviving workers are putting out the million other fires that sprang up when half of humanity disappeared at once? And that’s not even touching on all the - the little stuff, if you can call things like millions of car accidents and the kids in foster care that lost their parents, and the fucking nuclear power plants that had to shut down so we wouldn’t have another Chernobyl on top of everything else, and -”

“Tony,” she cuts him off, and her voice is so filled with soft grief that for once he does stop. “I know.”

He chews at his lip, looking down at the pile of circuitry in front of him. “I’ll take a break when I’m done with this,” he says quietly, all the earlier frustration draining out of him, leaving his shoulders slumped.

“Thank you,” she says, her own anger faded as well. She walks over to Peter, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go get something to eat. I don’t think this is the best place for either of us right now,” she says quietly, and he doesn’t resist when she leads him back into the elevator. He looks back over his shoulder, to see his mentor still standing, hands flat against the table and head hanging so Peter can’t see his face.

“So,” Pepper says once the doors close, clearly doing her best to sound cheerful and composed. “I think the tower might be a little low on food at the moment, but I’m sure we can scrounge up something from the communal kitchen. How do scrambled eggs sound? I’m sure we’ve got some eggs -”

“I’m sorry,” Peter blurts out. He didn’t mean to say it, but the words have been at the back of his throat for eight days, and it’s a relief to finally have them free.

Her forehead crinkles in confusion. “What are you sorry for, honey? Tony? No no, sweetie, trust me, that has nothing to do with you. That’s just Tony being, well, Tony.”

“No,” he mumbles, not meeting her eyes. “No, I mean - I’m sorry for all of this. I’m -” he takes a deep breath, and forces himself to look at her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him when I had a chance.”

Pepper looks horrified. “Oh, honey,” she breathes shakily. She bites her lip, her eyes glistening, and then she wraps her arms around him, crushing him to her chest.

“Don’t you ever, ever, blame yourself,” she whispers fiercely. “Multiple teams of superheroes tried to stop him, and they couldn’t. There is nothing you could have done that would have kept this from happening. Sometimes...sometimes the universe is just a bad place to be, and we just have to find a way to live with that.”

Against his will, his arms come up to wrap around her as well. He buries his face against her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threaten to spill out.

“I really miss Aunt May,” he says against her shirt, his voice breaking.

She strokes his hair, the gesture so familiar and affectionate that the tears do start to fall. “I know. I know.”

- - -

He ends up making them both scrambled eggs, while she makes them hot cocoa.

“I should probably make you eat something with vegetables, but I’m not sure we’ve got anything fresh enough,” she jokes, though her eyes are still red-rimmed.

“I’m twenty years old, I don’t need anyone to ‘make’ me eat my vegetables,” he says, pretending to sound offended.

“Oh please, I was a college student once, I know exactly how unhealthy your diet is,” she teases.

He laughs weakly. He wonders how many of his classmates and professors he’s never going to see again. Is the school even going to open again someday? Is there even a point in going back when it does?

He pokes at his eggs with his fork. He glances up at Pepper, and realizes she’s staring out the window at the much darker city with glassy eyes.

“You okay?” he asks tentatively, a stupid question that seems to be all there is to say lately.

She jolts slightly, looking back at him and trying and failing to smile. “I was just thinking about how I should restock the kitchen tomorrow, and I thought, ‘oh, I’ll just send Happy’, and then I remembered -” she breaks off, looking down at her own food. “Anyway.” She takes a bite of the eggs. “These are delicious, Peter, thank you so much for making them.”

“Yeah, of course, anytime,” he says, quickly shoveling eggs into his own mouth. He chews slowly, his mind still elsewhere. He clears his throat, taking a sip of hot cocoa. “Hey Pepper?”

“Yes, Peter?”

He traces the handle of the mug with his fingers. “Do you love Tony?” he winces immediately. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question, that’s not what I - just, are you glad he’s in your life?”

“He is definitely one of the best things in my life,” she answers carefully. She reaches out, and gently takes the hand not fidgeting with his mug. “But Peter, he’s not the only good thing in it.”

“Yeah, but, I mean - if you’d never met him, your life would be worse, wouldn’t it?” he mumbles, accepting her hand without looking at her.

She purses her lips, choosing her words with care. “If I’d never met him, my life would be very different. But I don’t know that it would necessarily be worse. It would be a completely different life, and I would be a different person. There’s no way to really compare two lives and say for sure which one is better. They’re just...different.”

He studies their interlocked fingers, his long and nimble, hers slender and smooth, her clear nail polish chipping off. “Did you feel like you were complete when you met him?”

“I was complete before I met him,” she answers instantly. “People try to frame it as though you’re not a full person until you have your soulmate, but...I never believed that.” Her other hand reaches up, ghosting along her shoulder. He knows their blue heart-shaped mark lies somewhere along her shoulder blade, hidden by her blouse. “Our soulmates aren’t the other half of our souls, we don’t need them to exist. They just compliment us. They bring out the best in us. That’s what our symbols represent: not what we are, but what we could be together.” She squeezes his hand, gently, until he looks up and meets her gaze. “Peter, there’s an infinite number of things you can be. You don’t need anyone else for that.”

He snorts softly. “That’s not what the universe says.”

“Well, the universe can go fuck itself,” she says viciously, and his head whips up, his eyes wide. She smirks slightly at his expression. “The universe isn’t what it used to be, it’s got no place telling us what to do.”

He blinks rapidly, swallowing. “You’ve gotta put a dollar in the swear jar,” he finally whispers.

She laughs, tired but genuine. “As long as you promise not to tell Steve, I think we’ll get away with it.”

He laughs softly with her.

- - -

They don’t stay up much longer. He’s been sleeping more than he should, but she hasn’t, and it shows. They ride up together. His floor is first, but before the door opens, she hugs him again, unexpectedly. “Take as much time as you need, Peter, but be careful. Don’t lock yourself away forever. We all need each other more than ever, okay?” she tells him quietly.

His throat feels tight. “I won’t. I promise,” he manages at last.

“Good.” She kisses the top of his head, and waves goodbye as he steps off.

He curls up in bed, not realizing how exhausted he is until his head hits the pillow. He’s asleep in minutes.

Part 2

#peter parker #wade wilson #peter parker/wade wilson #spiderman/deadpool #spideypool #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #We Often Go Awry

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catbrainswriting · 8 years ago

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[mikomisa] cut your losses

ship/fandom: suoh mikoto/yata misaki (k project)

chapter: 1/?

word count: 1.7k

summary: mikoto suoh has a lot of enemies. usually, after they try to face him, they run home with their tail between their legs - but every so often, some will come crawling back with the urge for revenge. and what better target than the one the king holds dearest? (or, alternatively, misaki is kidnapped by a rival gang formerly defeated by mikoto, and the king is given an ultimatum.)

notes: not beta read so sorry for any stupid mistakes. i started this aaaages ago and never got around to finishing it until @shy-canadian-snowflake popped up and magically motivated me like an angel - so a huge big thank you to them!! this is also the first post on this shiny new writing blog, and there’s no initiation quite like one of my oldest rare-pairs. enjoy!! (and pls let me know if you did so i’ll know to continue!)

Mikoto is wandering alone down one of the less crowded streets of Shizume, heading back towards HOMRA with several new packets of cigarettes held in a bag in his right hand, when his phone vibrating in his back pocket interrupts his lazy train of thought.

It is mid-January, early evening, and the snow on the streets has yet to melt so the slicing cold air hangs with it. Mikoto had left the bar early on a mission to track down a smaller gang stirring up trouble on the other side of the city, but his body temperature (heightened considerably by his aura) continues to attempt to oppose the winter. Cringing as the hand that had previously been seeking refuge in his jacket pocket is exposed to the air, he draws his phone clumsily from his jeans. The blue light of the phone screen is harsh in the dusk and it takes several long moments for his eyes to adjust so he can check the caller ID. Izumo. Mikoto stares at the screen for a moment, before its incessant vibrating reminds him that Kusanagi is actually waiting for him to answer.

He swipes to answer the call and holds the phone to his ear, trying not to think about the fact that the last time Izumo called him, Totsuka was dead.

“Hey, Mikoto?”

Kusanagi’s voice over the phone is as even as ever, casual lilt carrying the words in a way that in any other situation would be relaxing. But Mikoto has known the man for years, since they were teenagers, and they've been through too much together for him to not immediately notice an underlying sense of anxiety. His mind, as ever, goes to the worst scenario first.

“What is it?”

Kusanagi barks out a laugh after hearing his tone, but it sounds inappropriate and somewhat forced. “No one’s dying, I promise.”

Mikoto quirks an eyebrow. The joke is in poor taste, though he doubts the man intended it as such. “Then why’d you call?”

“I was gonna ask if you knew where Yata was.”

“Yata?”

“He hasn’t come in today. I wouldn’t be worried - well, I’m not, really - but he’s not answering his phone. Kamamoto offered to check his apartment, but I figured I should call you first. Make sure I’m not interrupting some steamy date.”

Mikoto considers informing Kusanagi that the closest he and Yata have gotten to a date has been a make-out session in HOMRA’s rec room while some action movie played in the background (that’s basically a cinema date, right?), but he bites his tongue.

“I haven’t heard from him.”

That statement brings Izumo’s laughter to a nervous standstill. There is a long beat of silence.

“Since when?”

“Last night at the bar. I last saw him the same time you did, unless you’ve talked to him since.”

Mikoto hears a slight ruffle, and assumes that Izumo is shaking his head. “No...no. He said goodnight and then he left on his own. It was late.”

Mikoto’s slow pace down the street draws to a stop.

“What are you implying?”

Izumo pauses, the only sound through the phone his deep breathing.

“I can’t stop thinking about Totsuka.”

Mikoto feels something like anger rising in his throat, but he knows it’s closer to anxiety. “What are you implying?”

Izumo sighs deeply. “I’m not--I’m not saying anything. But, fuck, Yata’s just a kid. And, yeah, he can look after himself and I get that but I can’t help worrying. I feel like, with Totsuka, I didn’t worry enough. And look where that got us.”

Mikoto lets the silence hang, watches his breath dance in the cold January air like the smoke of a cigarette. He finds himself craving one suddenly, but he doesn’t have a free hand to draw his open pack out of his jacket pocket.

“I’ll go check his apartment.”

His tone makes it sound like an offer, like something he’s willing to do to calm Izumo’s nerves, but they both know that there is now the beginning of panic coursing through Mikoto’s own veins. Misaki has always had such an effect on him, and more often than not he finds himself cursing the teenager’s innate ability to cause him such grief.

Izumo makes a noise of affirmation, another rustle to indicate a nod. “Call me as soon as you find him,” he says, with an air of confidence that disappears like smoke in the wind the moment he continues, “And call me if you don’t.”

Mikoto hangs up the phone and breathes deeply, deciding after a moment’s hesitation that Yata is more important than his body’s craving for nicotine. He sets off again at a significantly brisker pace, turning off a few streets away from the bar and heading instead to Yata’s apartment, tucked far into the worse side of the city. He hasn't been there many times, since Yata basically lives at the bar, but he’s also aware that Yata’s financial situation is a bit of a sore spot. God knows how many part-time jobs the kid’s working to try and keep up with the rent, for no real reason other than a desperation to provide for himself, rather than rely on other people. Yata had been taught the rather harsh (and false) lesson in his life that relying on others always got you hurt, and Mikoto is always trying to encourage him to loosen his grip on that belief, but his efforts are largely in vain. Yata’s mistrust of people on any level deeper than the surface was ingrained in him, through pain and loss and regret, and no amount of encouraging was going to get him to let go of it. Especially not with the still-raw grief of Totsuka’s death in his heart.

It seems to get colder the further away from the shopping district Mikoto gets, as the buildings thin out and the streets grow broader - intended for vehicles, rather than slow-paced shoppers - but with a sense of purpose burning in his mind, he doesn't notice it as much as he had before Izumo’s call. He walks through alleyways and under footbridges, keeps his distance from the guys lingering under them with their hands shoved deep in their pockets, no doubt gripping switchblades. He doesn't have the time to get into a fight, especially not one that he can't end with an effortless wave of his aura. He can feel it itching under his skin, burning in a way that it hasn't since the evening of December 7th, and he knows it well enough now to know that it means ‘danger’. Anxiously, he chalks it up to his surroundings, to the guys holding nail-embedded baseball bats eyeing him from the alcoves of shuttered store fronts, but deep down he knows better. His aura is unsettled with the need to protect, to shield...and the knowledge that it is helpless. Something is happening. Someone is going to be hurt. And, as he pauses at the bottom of the metal stairs leading to Yata’s second-storey apartment, he can only selfishly hope that it is anyone else.

He begins to scale the stairs slowly, steadily, but his anxiety gets the better of him and soon he is taking them three at a time, leaping over the bannister as it angles around to save him a few precious seconds, and then he is stood at Misaki’s front door and time seems to freeze around him, like he's been plunged sixty feet into freezing water. The lock is broken, and there is a dull trail of blood dragging from underneath it.

No.

No. No. No.

Mikoto is bursting through the door in a moment, but there is nothing he can do. He is hours too late already.

Misaki’s apartment is only one room - two if you count the semi-divided kitchenette, three if you count the bathroom - and it is in chaos. Shelves formerly housing photo frames and books and DVDs are overturned, the small old-fashioned television smashed from some apparent impact with wires dangling it precariously from its previous perch atop a chest of drawers. The drawers are all opened, too, sorted through and their contents dumped on the ground, but Mikoto doesn't notice any of it, not really. Because the old mattress on the floor, including its single unwashed white sheet, is covered in blood, and there is a message spray-painted in purple on the wall above it.

“CUT YOUR LOSSES, KING”

What the fuck? Mikoto is lost too suddenly to immediately feel the rage that he knows is coming, and instead stares dazedly into the ransacked apartment. Is this revenge? Revenge. For something that he has done. Misaki is paying the price for something that Mikoto has done. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach, but before he can do anything he notices the note on the table. It looks so out-of-place amidst the chaos that Mikoto is shocked he didn't notice it before, but he approaches the table cautiously nonetheless. He snatches up the paper and begins to read.

“Red King. Or, rather, Suoh Mikoto. Did you really think you would get away with fucking with us?

You tore us down. Thought you’d defeated us once and for all. Taught us a lesson good and proper, yeah?

We don't play no fucking games like that.

We remember. Bide our time. Act with more strategy that you HOMRA fuckers do.

Bet you feel pretty fucking stupid right now. Don't worry; the grief’ll kick in soon.

And then you can really feel like shit.

But that's not really what we’re after. We’re after suffering in the broader sense. More shame-filled. More regret.

We did consider that little princess of yours, but even we have standards. Besides, the other type of love is always more fun.

Depending on how long it takes your stupid ass to realise what's happened, your boy here probably won't be dead. Maybe. Depends how loud the fucker is.

All we’re asking, Mr. Suoh, is for you to cut your losses.

Let us win and we’ll spare the rest of your boys. And the girl.

But if you come chasing after us, you’ll find pretty boy here with his throat slit and a hundred men off to do the same to the rest.

Now, I want you to think long and hard.

What are you willing to lose?”

#k project #mikomisa #mikoyata #mikoto suoh #misaki yata

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