#self para » gwen

[gwenxmorenoarchive]

Time: a week or so after the rave

Where: Cemetery

What: Gwen talks about her current feelings

Warnings: mentions of death, cemetery things, anxiety

With the changing of the seasons, Gwendolyn had dug through an unlabeled box full of little decorations. Most of it was tiny little candles that needed new batteries, though a few bundles of different colored fake flowers were scattered about in the box. She felt unsure if she wanted to label the box as if it sealed its fate completely. Two years after his death, she still thought as if he was going to come back. She knew it was a silly thought. She knew that this box would forever be a box for him and that the label really didn't matter. Yet, she hated the permanent feeling of never changing the box.

She spent the morning picking out different flowers, fixing any weird bunched pieces from being stuck in a weird angle. Then she moved to make sure all her candles worked. Next in her tote bag were a few little pumpkins and fall decorations. Afraid of things getting knocked over, she rarely did anything too large or bulky.

Gwen debated for a while about taking Beatrice with her. Though the small blooming of something in her chest told her the answer she needed. This time she'd want to go alone. She'd want to be able to say her feelings and what truly needed to come out in the privacy of her father's church.

The drive was short and quiet. The closer she got to her husband, the more nervous she became. Her hands gripped the steering wheel just a little bit tighter as pressure from anxiety planted itself on her chest. Maybe this was all dumb, but she couldn't help the thoughts as she worried about what he might think. Or maybe what God would think about her.

Her legs felt like jello as she got out of the car, tote bag swung up on her shoulder. Still, she pushed through her anxious feelings and made her way up into the cemetery and to her husband's grave. Decorations from the 4th of July were still in decent shape. She easily moved them out of the way before taking out a small handheld broom to brush any debris from around his gravestone. "I know I'm a little bit early for autumn decorations, but I wanted to make sure I got these out here. You remember last year; we were too busy with Beatrice I just about missed Christmas as well." Of course, she knew there would only be silence in response.

"She's doing good. She's been loving those little baby puffs that melt into your mouth. I swear that's all she wants to eat now." One by one she slowly put out the candles and decorations. She took her time, thinking about the placement. Also buying her more time to delay talking about what really mattered to her. The blooming.

"I don't know why I keep thinking you're going to come back. Everyone says it's part of the whole grief thing. It's just weird sometimes. It's like some days I completely forget about what happened and that you'll come walking through the door." Her throat tightened painfully as she blinked back the tears threatening to spill.

"I... I just want you to know that I'm okay. I'm doing better... There's... There's this guy I've been bumping into every now and then. And he seems really nice and kind..." Gwen paused as she tried to get in a couple of breaths. The tightening in her chest and throat made it more difficult to even breathe let alone talk. "I don't know what's going to happen... I.. I wanted to tell you that I don't think I've smiled this much since you left me."

Shaky hands finished the decorations and the lights were flickering on as she flipped the switch to keep them on. She didn't know what she was more scared about -- her budding feelings for Rhett Harris or what her dead husband would think about it. She pulled her knees up to her chest, hands gripped tight. Maybe that would stop the shaking. Maybe that would make the guilt go away too. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She whispered, resting her head on her knees as she let the grief overcome her once more.

[fabray-austinsub]

[SELF PARA REACTION]

He was dog tired dragging himself back towards his room after what felt like the longest night in restaurant history. Everything that could have gone wrong did, and his frustration being caged in this joke of a 'learning experience' was enough to make him want to stab the headmaster right in the throat with a sharpened stick. He almost missed the letter, kicking it across the floor as he entered his room. He recognized the handwriting of his name on the front of the envelope, and didn't even ignore the smile that crossed his face. He settled down onto his desk chair as he read it, the smile slowly dropping.

He'd never had so many emotions run through him at the same time - happy that her piece of shit parents weren't her actual parents. Concern for how Gwen must feel right now, not knowing where she truly comes from. Disgust that as a baby she was literally sold as a bartered payment to disgusting people. Heartwarm, that amidst all of it, she thought of his Mama and protecting her, knowing how much her safety meant to him. Then anger. Hurt. Pain. Heartbreak.

He didn't even realize tears were falling down his cheeks, or that his hands shook the paper so hard he could barely read it, especially since the handwriting got quicker and less intricate. He threw the letter down on the desk with a growl he hoped wouldn't wake his roommate. What the hell was he gonna do? He certainly didn't want to be with her if it wasn't what she wanted too. He didn't want to be somewhere he wasn't wanted. And six months ago, this would have been the perfect out. They could have gone their separate ways and that would have been that.

His fists were clenched so hard he didn't feel his nails cutting into his flesh. He couldn't hear the sounds of the room over the blood rushing in his ears. He was breathing heavy, panic setting in around him and his vision going blurry.

He was on his feet before he knew it, storming out of the room and up the ridiculous amount of stairs, standing in front of a door he knew far too well.

[left outside of Austin's door on the afternoon of Friday, October 4. The handwriting starts off in Gwen's neat, slanted print, but gets increasingly messier towards the end. The page is oddly warped in small spots, as if droplets of water had fallen on the paper.]

Austin,

I realize revealing this in a letter is both cliche and cowardly, however, I don't believe I have the strength to tell you in person after everything that has happened in the last month. I hope you can forgive me for the medium, and for keeping this from you when you're just as effected as I am. I wouldn't blame you if you hold a grudge though.

To begin, I found out some shocking news a few weeks ago. My parents are not my biological parents. I'd never been told I was adopted, though it explains quite a lot about how I was treated in my family. It turns out, when my mother was trying for a second child, she took on a pro bono case in another state she was licensed in. She successfully defended a young man against drug charges, and was lauded as a saint for doing so for free. However, there was payment made. Just not in the form of cash.

I was the payment. The young man had a very heavily pregnant claim, and they were so desperate that they gave up their newborn as payment for keeping him out of jail. Of course, such things are absolutely not legal, so despite how real my documents look, the adoption was not above board. There was no official relinquishing of rights, or adoption paperwork filed. My parents just returned home with a baby, and no one thought anything of it.

I've found out a lot of less savory things my father has done over the years in my researching this, but they have no bearing on this letter. I consulted with several professors and lawyers, and petitioned the court that solidified the contract our fathers put in place. They agreed that, because I was entered into it under false pretenses, the contract is null and void. And my father can't do anything about it without risking me exposing the other less than legal things he's been part of.

Before you start to worry, nothing will happen to your mother. Your father has been handsomely compensated, beyond what my father even promised, and I've tasked some local contacts of mine to keep a close eye on him to ensure her safety. He should have nothing to complain about with the amount of money that he has in his accounts now.

All this to say - the arrangement has been dissolved. You're no longer obligated to accept my collar or attention or... even acknowledge my existence. You're free to make your own choice as to who you devote your life to.

This letter has been one of the hardest things I've had to do. A part of me wants to burn it so you never have to know about the situation, so that I can keep you close to me. But I can't, in good conscience, do that. I can't continue hoarding your attention and affection if it's coming from a place of obligation and necessity. You deserve to choose who gets to see your submission and experience your devotion. And I understand that with the changed circumstances, I may not be that choice.

But please know this. You have changed my life, Austin. You have taught me how to be a good Domme, what it means to actually connect and care for someone. You've taught me that I am not the villain in the story, even if I'm never the hero. You've shown me that, despite my efforts to shut everyone out, letting people in is a million times better. And above all - you've shown me that even my guarded, unruly heart can love.

Be happy, my boy. That's all I will ever want for you, whoever it might be with.

Yours,

Gwen.

@fabray-austinsub

[ashxrdavenport]

patient zero – self para.

set on the night of may 5th, 1989.

ooc: since i intend on using this story for plot purposes in the near future, i figured i'd post it to his blog.

the taste of fresh blood straight from a jugular is so inebriating that he doesn’t quite realize what he’s doing.

so rich, so satisfying… he had been told it was good. better than the bagged, tomato-juice-colored liquid he’s used to. but this… this the best thing he has ever tasted. and he drinks, and drinks, and drinks until he’s drowning in it. he drinks until he chokes. until there’s nothing left to drain. and still, he keeps sucking, just to make sure he has taken every single remaining drop…

when he lets go of the body, it hits the pavement with a thud. loud and moist, as it crashes against a puddle. its echo rippling through the alley behind the bar.

still engrossed in the high, he doesn’t pay much mind to it. he’s too busy licking the gaps between his fingers, the space under his nails. satisfying himself like a child eating ice cream for the first time.

it’s only when he can’t taste blood anymore that his senses begin to clear. the world begins to spin at its normal speed again. the rush and the hunger start to wear off. his undead heart slows down. his senses relax. his perception returns. and, in between heavy breaths, asher gradually comes back to reality. thoughts start unclogging, things start making sense. humanity comes back to him, replacing that feral, beastly hunger. and, finally, he realizes.

fuck.

fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fu–

he stares at the body for a while. face contorted into an expression that seesaws between horror and concern. furrowed brows and agape mouth revealing his terror and disbelief at what lies at his feet.

fuck. he just wanted to give the guy a scare. beat him up a bit and get on with his life. that was not what he wanted. fuck no. that wasn’t supposed to–

he has to do something about it.

does he go for gwen? does he tell her he just murdered someone? she must know what to do in these situations, right?

but then again, she has given him all the instructions. she has tried her best to orient him to not become a murderer… jesus, she's going to be so pissed... actually, no. he isn’t supposed to think about that guy anymore. weakens him, apparently. satan, she’s going to be so pissed…

no. he can’t tell her. he has to deal with it on his own. he can’t get into any more trouble.

he looks around, desperate. trying to find something. anything. and as something moves inside a dumpster in the dark, he has an idea.

fucking gross. but time efficient.

he fishes for a trash bag, empties it on the dumpster – the reek of waste and rot torment his nostrils – and sets it next to the body.

cracking sounds echo through the dark street as he breaks bones and ligaments, like a nutcracker, but tenfold. even with his heightened strength – on top of what he considered already high strength, even before he’d become a vampire –, he still has a hard time snapping the forearms and legs in halves.

he doesn’t hate the feeling, though… not that it’s fun, by any means, but he is so caught up in breaking the guy’s body into a foldable little mass, that he almost forgets he just took someone’s life…

when he’s done, he fits it all inside the trash bag. he ties it up and heaves it over his back.

a 6’5 man walking down the streets with a black bag, in the middle of the night. not suspicious at all. nothing to see here! just taking out the trash! into the forest! to throw it in the river! what was he supposed to do? leave a body in the dumpster for a sloppy trash collector to drop it the next day and start a whole police investigation? who would want that?!

when the heavy work is done, he sits by the river to watch a dismembered arm and a leg float away (other pieces had been scattered around the forest in precariously dug holes). and it’s only then that the adrenaline starts to wear off. a different kind, though. not the same ecstasy from choking on fresh blood. but a more human, mortal kind. and it finally starts to sink in.

fuck.

he just murdered a guy.

a guy he had met at a bar not two hours ago. sure, an asshole that he had grown to hate within two minutes of conversation, but a human being, nonetheless.

he’s done his fair share of wrongdoings in his. way too many for his own sake. but that was a whole new level…

all the cliché thoughts start coming. what if they catch me? what if he was just a normal, random guy with a family? what if they catch me?

and as a severed foot disappears in the distance, he feels something tug downward inside his ribcage. it isn’t sadness. It doesn’t make him cry. is it guilt? he figures, but he can’t really tell... It is different. unlike anything he ever felt. and it is so, so strange. because he doesn’t know if he feels for the guy, or for someone he might have left behind. or if he just fears getting caught… but he feels… wrong.

is this what he has become? is this who he is now? 

[roses-bah-garden]

Can I get a level 4 alter based around the decora kei fashion style and the 💞💫 emojis?

sure! hope this is what you're looking for, sorry for the wait.

a new flower has blossomed! 🌹

decora kei, 💞💫 ... [LVL 4 PACK]

══════════════════

name(s) ;; bonnie, koi, vanille, nana

pronouns ;; they/them, she/her, star/stars, love/loves, heart/hearts, 💞/💞self, 💫/💫self

age ;; 17

species ;; objecthead (fishbowl)

gender(s) ;; demigirl

orientation(s) ;; lesbian, demiromantic

role(s) ;; mood booster

source ;; brainmade / alter pack

sign-off(s) ;; – 💞💫

══════════════════

hex code ;; #D4A7F6 (perfume)

personality ;; they are bubbly and sweet. she is oftentimes quiet and respectful, but around friends, she opens up to show an excitable side. star is feminine and dainty.

bonus info ;; keep a bullet journal, wants to learn/enjoys playing piano

══════════════════

likes ;; maximalism, decora kei, sushi, pink, j-pop, k-pop

dislikes ;; pessimism, sudden loud noises, physical exertion

possible front triggers ;; other alters being upset, sushi restaurants, "bubble pop electric" by gwen stefani

══════════════════

cisid(s) ;; cisJapanese, student, hypermobile

transid(s) ;; transSouthKorean, transArrhythmia, stardustAmian, permaDizzy

kink/fetish/para(s) ;; cordophilia

[cartoonicle]

Random CPC future art

‘Mom, why don’t I look like you?’

Mariana is always mistaken to be her aunt Maria’s daughter, because of her blonde hair and her green eyes; every time someone would that mistake she would point out that Gwen’s her mom not Maria this would get worst over the years eventually she would start getting annoyed with these mistakes and instead of calmly explaining she’s not Maria’s daughter she would get mad. She’s so upset that she looks beautiful like every other human but she doesn’t look extraordinary like her mom and grandma.

‘A Father and his Son’

Frederick is definitely a better father to his son than Leland was to him and his brothers, he does everything in his power to make his son feel loved and cherished always taking his kids to school, giving him the time of day, always listening to his worries and giving him advice and never playing favorites. Frederick has loved Brandon and Mariana since they were born.

Frederick is just as loving and protective towards his son as Miles Morales dad, plus he would never send his kids to a military school because he cares about them, wants them to be happy also to keep them to himself

‘Frederick’s Decent’

Back when I made my first CPC post, I drew this picture of Frederick seemingly losing a fight either between his brother or his father. In the beginning of the fight he was hesitant to fight still his hold self but just nearing the end of the battle all the pain built up and the crimson blood drenching him caused a mixture of hatred and anger to build up losing his old self and started to enjoy what pain brought him it powered him up through the rest of the battle causing him to win.

‘Mariana the Ugly Witch’

She named herself the ugly witch to spite her pastel family heritage and everyone who thinks outer beauty is what matters most. She believes that beauty is a curse and she’s the most cursed woman in the world because of the Beauty Alchemy.

Her overall plot is to make a spell to make the form reflect what’s in their hearts if you wish to be beautiful you have to have a beautiful heart, but if your heart is evil than your body will reflect the worse possible version of yourself there is.

Mariana is already part way free from her curse she lost her glow in sparkles all she has to do is get rid of her outer beauty.

‘Hello kids, it’s me your no good, cowardly uncle that loves you very much’

Lance: Always be nice to each other and never grow up to hate each other for your differences

Lance always wanted to have kids but he’s too scared that he either might turn out like his father or he’s too much of a coward to protect them. Sometimes he is scared to death that Leland would come back and seriously hurt the Twins worst than him and his brothers

‘Gorgeous in Green!’

Since their father wears green and their mother is green they have always loved the color green it’s their favorite color they wear these colored clothing to every fancy party or outing they have. Mariana makes sure she matches with her brother to let everyone know she and him are connected.

These two love the color green so much that sometimes they playfully suggest that they should rename their kingdom the Green Kingdom.

Links to the Base Art

[dancer-subclarington]

Para: You’re Keeping Me Down || Self

At Madeline’s suggestion, Kyla turns to music/lyrics to determine her feelings about her father’s accident.

TL;DR: She wonders whether his accident is a tragedy she should feel horrible about or if it was just karma that was a long time coming. Feat lyrics from Gravity and Broken Angel.

Kyla went to the auditorium, checking about a hundred times to make sure she was alone. She hooked up her phone to the sound system and let it play quietly, warming up her voice to whatever songs came on shuffle from her chosen playlist.

Madeline had asked Kyla to create something to help her try to figure out or communicate her feelings about her father. Because Kyla’s brain didn’t think in a very linear way, she thought maybe it could actually happen. She’d tried making a craft, but it had been ugly. So she’d covered in glitter, and then it was so ugly she had to throw it away. So now she was on to music.

Her feelings on her father were always complicated, but lately they’d been even messier. Ever since the Colonel had gotten injured and ended up paralyzed in a wheelchair, her feelings had been everywhere. Part of her felt like what happened was a tragedy, and that she should do all she could for her parents. She should go home to Texas, help take care of her father, and marry whatever military guy he currently had picked out for her. Leave her brothers, leave her friends, leave Gwen, leave her dreams and just do what she was supposed to do.

But luckily, the other part of her said that wasn’t going to happen on her watch. She had a decent life going on, and her dad didn’t really deserve her. But was it really about ‘deserve’ with family, or was it about doing what’s right? And what was right here anyway? Getting sucked back into her parents’ circle? Or deciding her dad had shit coming to him anyway? Was there a middle ground to be found? She had no idea.

So now here she was, ready to get some feelings out without using her own words to talk about them: her preferred coping method aside from doing nothing. She’d gone looking for a song to fit her situation. She hadn’t found a song about whether or not a bad person deserves pain. But she did find three songs that kind of captured some of her feelings about her dad in general. She was determined to not even poke at her issues with her mother right now.

She went back to her phone and pulled up a new song, one she’d never heard before searching the internet for songs about complicated father relationships. She’d never heard of Boyce Avenue, and it wasn’t something she’d usually bother trying to learn and sing. But the words worked, so she did her best.

🎵You showed him all the best of you

But I'm afraid your best

Wasn't good enough

And know he never wanted you

At least not the way

You wanted yourself to be loved

And you feel like you were a mistake

He’s not worth all those tears that won't go away🎵

🎵I wish you could see that

Still you try to impress him

But he never will listen🎵

🎵Oh broken angel

Were you sad when he crushed all your dreams

Oh broken angel

Inside you’re dying cause you cant believe🎵

🎵And now you've grown up with this notion That you were to blame

And you seem so strong sometimes

But I know that you still feel the same

As that little girl who shined like an angel

Even after his lazy heart

Put you through hell🎵

Kyla finished the song strong as stone, and though she had tears on her face, she didn’t much notice them. She went to play Gravity, singing along to the end of the song with Sara Bareilles. She usually would dance to it, but decided this time to let all of her feelings just live, instead of rushing to physically get them out. Kyla took a deep breath, knowing this would somehow be harder, as this wasn’t the first time she’d seen a relationship of hers in this particular song.

🎵 Set me free, leave me be

I don't want to fall another moment

Into your gravity

Here I am, and I stand

So tall, just the way l'm supposed to be

But you're on to me and all over me🎵

🎵I live here on my knees

As I try to make you see

That you're everything I think

I need here on the ground

But you're neither friend nor foe

Though I can't seem to let you go

The one thing that I still know

Is that you're keeping me down🎵

🎵You're keeping me down

You're on to me, on to me, and all over🎵

🎵Something always brings me back to you

It never takes too long🎵

She was fine. She was fine singing. She was fine singing until the end. The end of the song, with its stupid fragility, was what got her. She disconnected her phone and fled to the dance studio, choreographing a group dance to Gravity so that the pain wouldn’t go to waste.

[gwensgold]

your grief is an honour song. // a may dies on the boat au.

Mentions: May Nguyễn, Emil Becker, Uriel, Astrid Hunter, Saint Warden, Omer Nacar Timestamp: 23 May & onward. Triggers: Murder, grief, blood, gun violence.

From the moment the first bullets hit the boat, Gwen’s first thoughts are of May. All the way through the chaos, her thoughts extend to the wife she does not see, not in any corner she comes across. When the bombs go off, she does not see her, when she crashes into the murky waters of the river, she does not see her, when she attempts to drag Jack Tanner onto the shore, she does not see her. There are others that cross her mind, sure, but every thought returns to May.

And when she does see her, she lets go of Jack and rushes over. She’s with Emil, by her car. She’s with Emil. Emil is safe. May is here. May is here. May is here.

But something shines in Emil’s eyes and Gwen stops, freezes as her eyes take in the complete scene in front of her. May is here, but she is pale and still and there’s blood flowering down her chest. Gwen looks at her, limp and unmoving in her friend’s arms, and she screams. Blood-curdling and terror-filled, she screams before she continues her journey over, hands pressing on May’s body, her face, willing her eyes to open, and being met with nothing.

Gwen can’t retell the journey from the docks to Emil’s home. Everything is a blood-stained blur. She cannot retell the things she may have said or the accusations she may have made, only remembering the blankness of May. May, who was always moving, always bursting with how alive she was, now growing colder with every moment that passed. 

“It matters nothing to me if I lose you though. That I know. That is not a price I wish to pay.”

Death’s mission grows stale, like old bread between her teeth. Gwen has no interest in it any more and she voices these thoughts, only once, to Uriel who stares at May’s body as if he’s lost a younger sibling. “Was this really worth it?” she asks him in a condemning tone, unafraid as she gazes up at her Horseman. He can threaten demotion all he wants, can threaten to have her killed if he wishes: Gwen does not care for Death if May is not there, at the heart of it all. “Are you happy now? Are you going to watch us all die for you?” 

He towers over her and his voice is a tired, angry boom as he warns and threats, reminding her that May isn’t here to cover her back if she grows reckless. Gwen stares danger in the face with a clenched jaw, ready to respond with viciousness. “Don’t become a liability,” he tells her. “I have no use for those.” She swallows her defiance, for now, and looks away.

Gwen thinks that she wouldn’t mind dying. She believes in the afterlife, believes that death will reunite her with whom she has lost ( and whether that’s in heaven or hell, she doesn’t mind ), but she won’t go there before she has done what she has to. Retribution. Revenge. A balancing of scales.

She does not know who loosened the bullet that ended her wife’s life, however, so it’s what she pours herself onto. She asks anyone present if they had seen what had happened, pressing them to go over their memories of that chaotic night, growing angry when they have no answers and constantly returning to the same feeling of guilt, the feeling of I should have been there. Powerlessness bleeds through her along with the longing that takes a hold of her every night she sleeps in her bed alone. It’s cold, without May, her empty side of the bed something Gwen is afraid to touch.

For a moment, she wonders if this is how Astrid Hunter feels every night, too. For a moment, she thinks that maybe she deserves this. 

And when, after weeks and months of obsessively pouring herself over the cause of her wife’s death, after Omer Nacar confesses his role in the way May had died, Gwen seeks her revenge. Omer is spared, not given forgiveness but not much else either. “Don’t ever talk to me again,” she bites to an old friend, backing away with terror and hatred shining in her eyes. “Or I’ll kill you, too.”

She might as well be a fury from Hades when she descends on Saint Warden’s flat, claiming retribution as she presses the nuzzle of a gun against his chest, pulling the trigger and watching the bullet course through his heart in the spot where he’d shot and killed May. And as he drops on his floor and his dog barks madly and Gwen wipes at her face, at the blood oozing from her wounds from their fight, she feels harrowing emptiness. She stares at her murderous hands, at the blood that stains them in multiple ways, and balls them, nails pressing in the palm of her hand before she slams them against a wall, again and again and again.

Like the destruction she sought out as a kid, there is no relief in the after. There is only numbness enveloping her now that the deed is done, a quiet nothingness where May would have been before. 

She has become a liability. All Gwen offers Death is the pub and she hardly runs that, struggling to drag herself out of that cold bed in the mornings and struggling to climb back in it at night. She cannot find it in herself to care for Death’s mission, even if it might be what May would have wanted, cannot find it in herself to put her heart into any of it when it’s been ripped out. She does not fear consequence as she never has. Let her be damned. Let her descend into hell if she must. Maybe she will see May again, then, at least. 

[perniciouspotter]

Date: June 22nd, 1984 Location: Godric’s Hollow self para/summary feat. @dogstxrsirius

James didn’t know if it was resignation over his situation or just pure whatever that made him decide to just not give a fuck tonight. He had planning in the morning with Peter and Gwen - they all had the mission in two days - and he’d be ready then. But then wasn’t now and, right now, he just wanted to relax.

So he’d asked Sirius to pull out some of the potion-laced herbs that he bought off Fletcher regularly. James didn’t do this a ton with his mate, but he’d done it enough time that it was easy to roll the paper and light the end with his wand.

“Got into with Wormtail,” he told Sirius after they’d both had a few hits, passing it back and forth while sitting on the ground with their backs pressed against James’ couch. Garnet made an appearance, rubbing up against both their legs in familiar companionship before fucking off out the cat door to disturb some mice or something. Rats, James thought. He would go chase some rats. Good cat, he couldn’t help but think a moment later, his anger at Peter clouded his mind.

And, at Sirius’ insistence, he told the story.

Or, what he thought the story was, at the very least.

He told Sirius about how Peter had brought up disappointment. How James saw the way he’d taken the kidnapping and made it about him. How, when James had called him out on it, he’d retreated. “Fuckin’ coward,” Sirius said back with his eyes narrowed angrily, on James’ side.

James wondered if, in all his life, Sirius would be the only one to always be on his side. No matter what. Well, perhaps Emmeline, too. “Yeah,” James agreed, letting the smoke blow from his lips as his pupils dilatating as he looked up at the ceiling through his spectacles, his head back against the couch seat.

“Fuckin’ coward,” he repeated and, right now, there was nothing that could make him think of what this might do to them. Not just him and Sirius - but the group. Sirius was already on the outs with Remus and things had been weird between him and Peter, too. Later, James would realize he was only making things worse. 

He’d tried to hold on tighter to each of them, pulling them back together desperately to keep himself above water. Right now, however, he just passed the joint back to Sirius, the scar on his wrist catching his eye. 

And all he wanted to do was close his eyes and fall asleep.

[deathmaycome]

EMIL’S HOUSE / 24TH MAY / SELF PARA (ft. Uriel, again)

“I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.”

― Khaled Hosseini

For the first few hours after coming around following her surgery, everything had been a blur. She slipped smoothly between consciousness and unconsciousness; a painkiller induced sleep punctuated by the burning in her chest when the drugs wore off, the worried face of Emil, Gwen curling up on the bed beside her. The last thing she remembered was staring at the ceiling, vaguely registering gunfire and shouting around her as she bled out. She had still not entirely registered the fact that she was alive, that the bullet which by all logic should have killed her had not. Though her head became clearer, the memories slightly sharper, this was still the fact on which May was stuck, the impossibility of it all. Even when Emil explained how they had found her and taken her off the boat, it didn’t seem real. An urban myth rather than reality.

When she was lucid, she faced questions about the identity of her attacker, to which she instantly supplied Saint Warden’s name, but kept Omer’s close to her wounded chest. Then she was supplied with information about the gravity of Death’s new situation, filling in the many holes torn in the fabric of the evening, each new fact she obtained more unsettling than the last. When she was asleep she had disturbed dreams - of drowning, of choking, of fire, of her parents. Each time it was different, but always ended the same way, with her sat bolt upright, heart pounding in time with the throbbing of her chest. It happened again then, gasping for air, eyes wide but not seeing, before slumping back onto the pillows more exhausted than she had been before she attempted rest.

“Did you know,” a voice says, somewhere on her right, “That we have the same blood type?”

Still trying to catch her breath, May’s head lolls to look at her Horseman, sitting in a chair beside her. Unlike the last time they’d been alone together, when she had been raging and he had been impassive, they looked distinctly less composed. Their posture is hunched, sleeves rolled up and hair dishevelled, as though they have been running their hands through it repeatedly. Her eyes are drawn to the bruises on his forearm, and through a haze, she realises the meaning of their odd greeting.

“You gave me blood.” It’s a strange feeling, knowing that they are now a part of her physically, like real siblings. She isn’t sure she likes it. “No wonder I feel so cold.”

“Nice to see that the bullet you took didn’t damage your wit.” He stands and begins fussing around her as she watches his every move, curious rather than suspicious. Nimble hands check her IV, examine the bandages covering her wound, adjust the tube that reinflated her collapsed lung. They are clinical, almost detached, but when he sits again after a little more prodding and poking, there is an air about them, a change, probably indiscernible to anyone but her. Uriel the Horseman is not present, replaced by Uriel, her old friend. It had been so long since she’d last seen this person that she’d half forgotten he existed, but there he was, with a slump to their shoulders and a hint of concern colouring their expression. “It’s a miracle that you’re alive, you know.”

“Mm, I figured.” May had never thought of herself as a particularly lucky person, believing that the good things in her life had come to her as a result of hard work. But if anything could make her change her mind, it was knowing that she had survived a bullet fired at her heart when she stood restrained. Either she was extremely fortunate, or the Wardens were extremely unfortunate.

She tries to sit up to better engage in their conversation, struggling as she does so but waving away the help he moves to offer. It was impossible to hide her weakness, but that didn’t mean she had to rely on them so heavily. The knowledge that lay between them - that she had almost died, that he had saved her life - was inescapable. It was yet another facet to their relationship, adding complications where there were already multitudes. Equally inescapable was the fact that she had criticised them, and they had punished her for it. She could count on one hand the number of times that the mood between them had been as tense as this. The fact that two of these occasions had happened within the past month was unsettling to say the least. Perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, these were merely splinters in the woodwork of their friendship, an occupational hazard of working at such close quarters for so long. But they had been a united front for so many years that this splintering felt a lot like breaking.

“So, how was it? Holding my life in your hands?” The question escapes her before she can think to hold it back. He had always tutted at her impulsivity, tried to rein it in or mould it, but at that moment, he was smiling a little.

“It’s not the first time I’ve operated on you. Don’t you remember?” She stares, perplexed, before realising what they’re referring to.

“My Fisher Price doctor’s kit.” Her, on her back, propped up on her elbows. Them, crouched next to her, wielding a plastic scalpel and pretending to make incisions while she squirmed at the ticklish sensation. That’s where your liver is. Your intestines are here. This is your heart. She couldn’t have been more than seven at the time.

“I’ve gotten better since then, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

“Doesn’t answer my question, though.”

They blink slowly, and for a moment she thinks they won’t respond. But he does, eventually, and the words are measured in a way that she understands is not for her benefit, but his own. “It’s not an experience I wish to repeat.”

Silence falls, and they watch each other. And what a sorry pair they are, exhausted and miserable, carrying responsibility so heavy you could practically see the weight of it crushing them. “Do we know how many died yet?” she asks after a few minutes.

He leans forward as though he hasn’t heard the question, adjusting her pillows to help her sit more comfortably, wearing a pained look. It’s unnerving from the person who was always so unemotional, so measured. It isn’t until he sits back again that he speaks, their tone tinged with something dangerously close to remorse. “We’re still finding bodies. We probably won’t know an exact number for another day or so.”

“But so far?”

“So far, six. Five Angels and a Power.”

Guilt was a feeling that May knew well, but never had the feeling gripped her as tightly as this. The reality of war, once the shock of Death’s arrival had worn off, was always going to be unpleasant, and there was always going to be loss. She had never been under any illusion that they could make it through this without losing people along the way — she was an optimist, not delusional. And yet that optimistic part of her had ruined her, because foolishly, she had thought that if she cared enough, tried hard enough, they could avoid the worst of it. Where Uriel was the brains, brilliant but cold, viewing his willing recruits as disposable, it was her job to be the heart, to love, and most importantly, to protect. She should have been more careful. She shouldn’t have been caught by Warden. She should have disregarded her friendship with Omer and fought him off. Anything, anything to prevent this.

“Okay, well, when we do have the exact number, get me a list of their names. We’re going to contact their families and pay for the funerals.” The Horseman nods, knowing better than to fight their Seraphim on this issue.

Another silence, this one stretching out for longer than the last one. It swells between them, the air heavy and aching, punctuated only by her own light, wheezing breaths. Uriel stares at a point on the opposite wall, she stares at her hands. It seems as though neither will speak again, that he will leave her without another word for fear of addressing the elephant in the room threatening to engulf them, but then —

“I know you’re still angry with me.”

The admission surprises her. It would not have been out of character for him to ignore their problems completely, deeming it unnecessary emotional baggage in the face of what is undeniably a much larger issue. But they address it head-on, their dark gaze fixed on her, their family. May remains tight-lipped. The best way to get someone to talk was to say nothing at all. He had taught her that. “I know you’re still angry with me, but I need —” He sighs heavily through his nose. “Your support is vital.”

“Yes, I know.” She doesn’t bother to hide the bitterness in her voice, gaze shifting away from him. “Can’t have it look like your best Seraphim is losing faith.”

“No. I don’t just mean it in that way.” They uncross their legs, cross them again. “Your support is vital to me.” Another surprising statement. In all the years they had known each other, she couldn’t remember them ever being this sincere. By his standards, it was practically emotional. Uriel was not one for sentiment, evidenced by the fact that they had calmly disregarded the opinion of their oldest friend and advisor in favour of chasing the glory of owning Pestilence. To say this softness was foreign would be the understatement of the decade, and she wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or on edge.

“A compliment isn’t going to change my mind, Uriel,” she says, chin tilted like a defiant teenager. “I think you made the wrong decision and I stand by that.”

“I know.” A pause. “Obviously I did not think that this was how it would play out.” It was the closest they would ever come to admitting they had made a mistake.

“I know.” She is his echo, now and always.

“Listen to me,” they say suddenly, voice low and urgent. “I understand your doubts, especially after this. But if nothing else, the events of last night have made me see clearly where before I was blinded by arrogance. Those deaths, your suffering, I won’t let them be in vain. They have to pay for what they’ve done, to us and to this city.” They lean in, elbows resting on knees, gaze dark and imploring. “I have a plan, May. A new one, and I believe that it will work. But it will be so much easier with you by my side to help see this through. You are the better part of me, and this gang needs you just as I do. We’re scattered, and we need to be reunited for it to be as effective as I hope. It’s going to be difficult, I realise that, but no matter what May, I fucking swear to you —” They take her hand, and the action forces their eyes meet again; hers wide with shock, his ablaze with determination.

“— I’ll fix this.”

[ultravioletqueen]

De paso hice la parte 4 aprovechando que estoy inspirada

Kokkuri-san=mushu(mulan)

Adoro el personaje de mushu y su personalidad encaja bastante bien con la personalidad de Kokkuri-san, ambos son traviesos,astutos,leales,les gusta ser el centro de atención y hacen cualquier cosa con tal de conservar sus puestos, además de ser hasta cierto punto muy cómicos.

Kuromori=shan yu(mulan)

Realmente no podía pensar en otro personaje que no sea shan yu para kuromori, ambos son fríos, cínicos, determinados a eliminar a una persona(shan yu al emperador y kuromori a vivi), son arrogantes, megalomanos, prefieren no mostrar tanto su fuerza matando a sangre fría, confían mucho en su fuerza y son líderes innatos, además de que no tienen miedo de matar a quien los han perjudicado o arrebatado una víctoria.

Gwen=elsa(frozen)

Aunque no me gusta mucho el personaje de elsa debo admitir que me base ligeramente en ella para crear el nuevo concepto de gwen, ambas poseen poderes que les han causado problemas tanto a ellas como a sus seres queridos, fueron aisladas del mundo por sus padres debido a sus poderes,son reservadas y serenas,tienen una apariencia majestuosa, se han distanciado de sus hermanos por culpa de sus poderes(elsa con anna y gwen con lot) y ambas en algún momento lograron encontrar felicidad y paz en una tierra lejana a la suya(elsa en el bosque encantado y gwen en el reino de camelot).

Lux=fa zhou(mulan)

Lux al igual que el padre de mulan busca que su hija no se sienta triste y la cuida de la mejor manera que puede, lux al igual que fa zhou busca apoyar a su hija y evitar que oculte su verdadero ser por creencias estúpidas, además de que harían lo que sea con tal de evitar que su familia pase por desgracias,lux literalmente crió a gwen(leodegrance también la amaba pero apenas si pasaba tiempo con ellos por sus viajes) y la protegió lo mejor que pudo,y fa zhou estaba dispuesto a ir a la guerra para honrar a su familia, sin duda de los mejores padres.

By the way I did part 4 taking advantage of the fact that I am inspired

Kokkuri-san = mushu (mulan)

I adore the character of mushu and his personality fits in quite well with Kokkuri-san's personality, they are both mischievous, cunning, loyal, they like to be the center of attention and they will do anything to keep their positions, as well as being up to a certain point. very comical point.

Kuromori = shan yu (mulan)

I couldn't really think of another character other than shan yu for kuromori, they are both cold, cynical, determined to eliminate a person (shan yu to the emperor and kuromori to vivi), they are arrogant, megalomaniacs, they prefer not to show their strength so much by killing in cold blood, they trust a lot in their strength and are innate leaders, in addition to that they are not afraid of killing those who have harmed them or snatched a victory.

Gwen = elsa (frozen)

Although I do not like the character of Elsa very much, I must admit that I base myself slightly on her to create the new concept of Gwen, both have powers that have caused problems for both them and their loved ones, they were isolated from the world by their parents due to to their powers, they are reserved and serene, they have a majestic appearance, they have distanced themselves from their brothers because of their powers (elsa with anna and gwen with lot) and both at some point managed to find happiness and peace in a far away land. hers (elsa in the enchanted forest and gwen in the kingdom of camelot).

Lux = fa zhou (mulan)

Lux, like mulan's father, seeks that his daughter does not feel sad and takes care of her in the best way he can, lux, like fa zhou, seeks to support his daughter and prevent her from hiding her true self due to stupid beliefs, in addition to that they would do whatever it takes to keep his family from going through misfortunes, lux literally raised gwen (leodegrance loved her too but barely spent time with them on their travels) and protected her as best he could, and fa zhou was willing to go to war to honor his family, undoubtedly the best parents.

[hojiteaversion]

My 2021 In Books

The other Twilight of my youth, aka Twilight by Meg Cabot (reread)

Wanted to read about kisses, got rimming as a bonus, aka The Kiss by Hans-Jürgen Döpp

These cool vampire bitches GAY gay, huh?, aka Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Every romance structure makes perfect sense now, aka Romancing the Beat by Gwen Hayes

...But I think this might have relied too much on romance beats?, aka Don’t Stop Believing by Gwen Hayes

The infinity prompt is exactly the kind of self-therapy that works for me, which is why I don't do it often enough lmao, aka The Power of Writing It Down by Allison Fallon

Made me realize how much my conceptions of boys and relationships came from Meg Cabot and Twilight, which is why I’m fucked in the head, aka The Boy Next Door by Meg Cabot (reread)

Thought this would be a lighthearted gay vampire romcom, was pleasantly surprised by the serious themes it tackled, aka Love Bites by Ry Herman

Great for dumbasses entering the job market, less great for someone who doesn’t live in a cold climate, aka The Capsule Wardrobe by Wendy Mak

...So this is more like it, for me, aka Nada Para Vestir by Arlindo Grund

Me liking and (mostly) understanding magical realism?? It’s more likely than you think!, aka The Carnivorous Lamb by Agustín Gómez Arcos

Came for the enemies-to-lovers, was surprised I loved all the unhealthy relationships in this, aka The Cruel Prince by Holly Black

My favorite Cabotian disaster family + really clever use of the epistolary format, aka Boy Meets Girl by Meg Cabot (reread)

Best couple out of the three so far, most unbelievable epistolary format, still so much fun, aka Every Boy’s Got One by Meg Cabot (reread)

Becky is a great adaptation of Anne Elliot, the villain is a great adaptation of that Elliot cousin, Reed sucks, aka The Boy Is Back by Meg Cabot

I wrote that it “felt like good smutty Twilight fanfiction from circa 2010” and that "in hindsight, the men look so fucking stupid", aka Corrupt by Penelope Douglas

Holy fuck. Holy fuck this book. IT’S ABOUT LEARNING TO LOVE, BITCH, aka Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? by Jeanette Winterson

The theme of classism surprised me, and the fatphobia also surprised me, but in the opposite direction, aka When Lightning Strikes by Meg Cabot

The speech on why humans shouldn’t join the Galactic Union thing is permanently etched in my brain, aka The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet by Becky Chambers

The Austen protagonist that I relate the most to, aka Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

Surprisingly touching and effective for a Christian allegory (read: made me fear for the path my soul is in, so, that’s good, I guess), aka The Magician’s Nephew by C. S. Lewis

In 20 years I will reread this book and Understand the hype and the Intertextuality or whatever of it all. For now, I just think Judy Poovey deserves comedic protagonist rights, aka The Secret History by Donna Tartt

Were the characters, like, lovable? Well, I love them + the author interview in the audiobook was excellent, aka America For Beginners by Leah Franqui

Oh the shit everyone got away with post-Twilight, aka Hush Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick (reread)

About this book, I wrote, “True love is still being devoted to someone even when they’re the dumbest, cluelessest, most stubborn and infuriating person in the universe”, aka Silence by Becca Fitzpatrick (reread)

I swallowed this in one day and immediately started the next one, aka The Wicked King by Holly Black

Do I enjoy reading political intrigue in my enemies to lovers, or do I just enjoy Captive Prince and The Folk of the Air a lot?, aka The Queen of Nothing by Holly Black

What an absolutely weird hilarious blast this was. Why did it make me lk cry?? Btw I LOVE the author’s respect for and recognition of teenagers’ issues and self-awareness and brilliance, aka The Extraordinaries by T. J. Klune

Lol I thought this was going to be a cute and lighthearted YA road trip but I cried three fucking times lmao, aka Amy & Roger’s Epic Detour by Morgan Matson

HISTORY! HUMANS! BRAIN! YUVAL’S BRAIN! Life-changing. Ate bread and chocolate milk directly after finishing this book and almost cried with the enormity of it all, aka Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari

A mindfuck of a journey as the character figures out she’s a lesbian, aka Bunny by Mona Awad

I will never look at Lisol the same way again. It’s a wonder humans are still alive!, aka A Curious History of Sex by Kate Lister

Amazingly rich book with healing and growth and discussions that were so advanced for its time. But yeah, they call dicks ‘good-sized rods’ too, so, really, has anything changed in gay porn, aka Teleny, or the Reverse of the Medal by Anonymous Author(s)

Made me worry for the future of my brain and of our democratic societies, and the irony is that I read this too fast to remember details lol, aka Reader, Come Home by Maryanne Wolf

While I think the book would have been cooler if it actually followed its synopsis, I did have a good time, aka I Am Not a Serial Killer by Dan Wells

Awesome how this book showed our struggles but also was great at letting us live our fantasies; really clever that the kids are monster-like, too, aka The House In The Cerulean Sea by T. J. Klune

Gorgeous, life-changing, inspiring, informative, universal must-read, especially before clowning on social media :’). I will read anything this woman writes, aka Twisted: The Tangled History of Black Hair Culture by Emma Dabiri

What. Aka A Hora da Estrela by Clarice Lispector

A lot I liked and a lot I didn’t like, and I’m glad I read it, aka Gods & Monsters by Shelby Mahurin

Fuck Edward Cullen, I want what Seth and Nick and also what Gibby and Jazz have, aka Flash Fire by T. J. Klune

Unfortunately didn’t rock my world as much as it did the first time, but also it was a worthwhile read, aka Serpent & Dove by Shelby Mahurin (reread)

Maybe not a good pick for a /my first Bechdel, aka Are You My Mother? By Alison Bechdel

Incredible prose and imagery; and, just like folklore, I love how much the way the stories are told, and not just their content, are a part of what makes them resonate, aka The Mermaid’s Tale by Amanda Adams

Me: I’ve connected the dots! – The end of the book: You didn’t connect shit, aka The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë

Thanks for the rec Miss Mitski, aka The Complete Poems of Charles Reznikoff (v.1) by Charles Reznikoff

I am… quite surprised by the hype, aka The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V. E. Schwab

I’m always impressed by YA that portrays complicated adult problems, but also, 😬 at Nozomi, aka Love & Other Natural Disasters by Misa Sugiura

Mcquistonian dialogue and friend groups and Mitski references is really all I need in a book, I think, aka One Last Stop by Casey Mcquiston

My favorite genre is when authors are incredibly competent in their craft, aka The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

I didn’t need to understand everything to Get it, and also, this poet too was clearly competent in her craft, aka alphabet by Inger Christensen

[thevultur]

self para // the architect of decay

TIME: through the finale of the 125th Games, towards the 126th Victor’s Ball LOCATION: the Capitol & District 13 PARTS: end of 125, 125th victor’s ball (skippable), end of 126, the fall of the Capitol, district thirteen WORD COUNT: 2,674  TRIGGER WARNINGS: alcohol, drugs

end of 125

They moved out gradually. When she took the children to her parents, in Three, with the same train that carried the corpse of her best friend, for the second time, because of him, it was because the Capitol wasn’t safe. She didn’t mention betrayal. She wasn’t her initially angry self. Instead, she was lost, and scared, and confused. It was easier to run away from the consequences of violence and rebellion, than to deal with the unsaid and to admit surrender. A month later, she asked for a box of their favorite belongings. Lysander prepared the package for delivery, and never quite removed the tape scraps from everywhere on the floor and furniture.

He didn’t move her toothbrush, even months later. Instead, he gathered courage to call her on the phone. Suddenly, her voice was more a surprise than a familiarity. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to say to her. She rambled, and rambled -- and, for a little while, he settled for listening. She was pushing forced excitement out of her mouth, pretending that the point of the call was the great weather they’ve had the other day, planting carrots in the garden, or how Haydn now knows his way around a phone better than she does. When he let out a chuckle, as she carried on her glowing tale, they both froze. She didn’t expect the chuckle to echo as something he didn’t know she missed, he was embarrassed -- it felt like a slip. 

As silence sank into the phone call, he knew it was the moment for the heavy question. “When are you going to be back?” It created louder silence, for longer. There went his need to know it all, with his straightforward, practical questions, not afraid of the truth. For a little, she could no longer talk, so he did. He tried to push logic down her throat, to rationalize in a desperate attempt to change her mind, to make it less than what it was. The desperate struggle for reason and the enfeeblement were deafening to him and his ego. She confessed, defeated, that she didn’t know. That she would call him as soon as she would know. For now, she needed space to eventually find some clarity in her mind. Space was all he used to have, so he offered it with grace. The conversation didn’t move him, not for the longest time. However, every time he walked into that bathroom and his eyes met that damned red toothbrush, something stabbed him. 

125th victor’s ball

She was gracious and cordial at the Victor’s Ball, while he was too stressed to ask her to dance even once. Over them hovered the certainty he planted into his own mind, that he was going to die, that they were going to dispose of him as soon as the light moved away from the Quell incident, as soon as people stopped paying attention. He didn’t tell her. He played pathetic nonchalance. Luckily, he still remembered how to tie his own tie. It didn’t look like he needed her, necessarily. It only felt like it. After the ball, she took more of her stuff from his place, not quite cleaning the apartment of all her belongings, but it became obvious she didn’t like that mauve sweater she left behind that much. He, on the other hand, loved that mauve sweater. He didn’t move or touch the bits of her still left behind, clinging onto their original state, how she left them, as if that would eventually take her back. 

He remembered solitude for an old friend, though, this time, the old friend was a sad surprise. As all of the walls were raising tall around himself, he built up the tallest arena, to match. He spent his everyday, running plane simulations, climbing up and down to check all platforms -- with ropes tied to him and all the focus he had in him to distract him from nausea. Eventually, when he was out of things to do, he started doing the interns’ tasks, early in the morning, before everybody else in the office woke up. If he concentrated enough, it wouldn’t ache. If he gave it all to the arena, he wouldn’t have time for himself and for all of his thoughts. 

Eventually, he gave away his pet snake. It became clear that he needed as little as possible attaching him to the world. If he was about to die, he preferred to die without the guilt of abandoning and letting an animal into his apartment, to starve before anyone found either of them. Eventually, he stopped locking the door. Maybe she’d be back, maybe they would come to shoot a bullet in his head. Either way, it felt like a waste of time. The snake found its new home in the arms of a Gamemaker colleague, one who knew snakes and had a dozen of them already. It was a fine gift from a boss. He didn’t need it back.

The president was announced dead, unexpectedly. With no instructions from higher up people, he decided it didn’t change anything. Instead of weeping tears or worrying about his fate now more than ever, he poured himself a cup of coffee, drank it bottoms up, all at once, and went back to work. There was so much work left to do -- there was always work. When they captured Prim, he turned off the screen. He didn’t know what that meant for him, and, at that point, it didn’t even matter. When the president turned out to be alive, he neither cheered nor booed. It was all the same to him. He had work to do.

end of 126

The summer Games passed, and he was happy to see all three of them around the Tower, even if temporarily. He gifted Haydn his favorite book growing up, he replied to all of Gwen’s almost words, he had a few late night talks with her, too. They kept their mouths shut about the elephant in the room, instead enjoying the moment. He didn’t say anything about the ring he had in his nightstand, the one he bought over a year ago. It would rot there, box unopened, as everything else eventually would. No word about his demotion, about the trial and about how he was certain of his timely death, upcoming by now. Instead, she told him she didn’t think she was coming back for the next Games, that she needed a break from it all. To her, the Capitol probably smelled like him too much for it to be a fair fight. To him, the Capitol smelled nothing like her, causing him to subconsciously look for her perfume everywhere. 

The Games wrapped up, and he had to do it over again, except this time, the cards have been already distributed. With a losing hand, he had to keep going. He started building the arena on autopilot, not quite taking it in. On the other side of the world, she called late in the night about Gwendolyn having a bad fever. He asked if she wanted him on a train to Three, but they settled on her taking the baby to the hospital first thing in the morning. A day later, she sent a couple of pictures of a grinning baby he no longer recognized by heart. If she was growing up happy, however, that was more than what he could offer.

There was no way of postponing his meeting with his lawyer any longer. The world was burning, but the trial was knocking on his door, not quite knowing it’s unlocked. Two hours into meeting with his lawyer, the man already answered all the possible questions he could have. There was one, unworded, vile, about split custody, but he held it in. He preferred her to be happy. She was the healthy parent, the experienced parent, the loving parent, too. He didn’t want to take anything away from either of them. Instead, he shook hands with the lawyer, thanked him for his efforts and information given, and moved on. 

the fall of the Capitol

One afternoon, working in the Tower, they declared an emergency. A bomb had been located within the Tower. He didn’t panic. His life felt already over, anyway. He kept working on the next arena, programming at his desk now, instead of any other place within the Tower. His desk, a fort against other people, was the only place he could stand, with no risk of running into anyone. He couldn’t afford the risk of hoping he would run into someone, at least. However, he did call her, almost certain they would all blow up. He didn’t speak a word about the threat -- she’d find out on the news and feel less guilty than if he brought it up in the spur of the moment. Instead, they conversed about weather, about Gwendolyn’s first steady steps that he was missing. He asked about her, too. She didn’t have anything to answer with. The bomb was diffused before he could stress about it. 

He watched from his wall-sized window as the rebels drove their cars into the foundation of the Tower. Pouring himself a drink, he watched the world burn under him, and it felt like nothing different from before. With detachment, he kept on working on his project on the background of explosions. At one point, someone intervened, walked into his office despite his clear request not to be interrupted, and asked him to step away. The Tower was being evacuated. Despite the immediate danger, he didn’t rush. He took his time unplugging all the hardware and placing it in his backpack before lowering himself with the elevator into the underground parking lot. 

A black car drove him through the tunnels, to the outskirts of the city. A president representative was waiting for him in the car. They advised him to lie low until further instructions. He refused the offer of being brought to the presidential manor for further work. He knew he could work from home just as well. With the beginning of the next arena in his backpack, he walked home, back downtown. He left his backpack in his vault and locked the door for the first time in ages.

As the world was building around them, he entered one of the clubs he used to go to without feeling like dying. He didn’t like most of the nighttime entertainment the Capitol provided, but he did like this one -- dark, underground, heavy but instrumental music, not much dancing. Instead, he took a seat at one of the smaller bar isles, and ordered a melancholic Cuba Libre -- her drink, not his. He asked if his favorite bartender still worked there -- and they did not. It’s been years. He knew that, too. The second drink followed, then the third, then the fourth. When he came back home, he struggled to unlock the front door.

The next day he woke up before sunrise, he plugged everything into his apartment, he invited over a small group of the most trustworthy architect, logistics and plot drop Gamemakers to keep working on the arena while the president figured out a more sustainable solution. After a long day of work, where he had to build up morale for everyone in the room, he went out again, to supress the gaps of his evening. This time, a girl with curly hair sat at his table, and he didn’t excuse himself, for once. Instead, he listened to her talking about her dreams of becoming a stylist. He even humored her efforts to pick him up. She was witty. It felt wrong and flattering at the same time, so he allowed it as he kept sipping from his fifth glass. Then, he fucked her in the bathroom. Only afterwards did he excuse himself and disappear.

He took two showers in the morning, poured himself a cup of coffee in his perfectly orderly kitchen, and kept working on the scheme of plot drops -- permanent, potential and mandatory. He videochatted with a bigger number of the Gamemaking team, explaining just what he knew of what was about to happen to their schedules, where the Games were going to be thrown next. The days were clean, bright, minimalistic like his computer screen. The nights turned into black holes, controlled only by his reason, insisting this was a phase he needed to go through. 

Around him, water systems were being poisoned. He started testing water before drinking, he had a filter made, he decided poison wasn’t what would kill him, if anything had to. For three days after the rebels bombed the Odysea Lounge, he didn’t go out, even though his preferred bar was nowhere on the hottest lists. On the third day, the curly haired girl called him. He was confused as in how she got the number, especially a week after. She openly described what seemed like a complicated adventure for a girl who didn’t quite have all connections. He confessed that he didn’t feel comfortable being called on his phone. She asked if her coming over would feel better. After a brief laughter, he admitted that it wouldn’t. He wondered if she was a rebel spy. There was only one way to find out. Eventually, by the end of the conversation, he invited her over.

He didn’t explain that he wasn’t looking for anything. He simply stopped returning her calls. Instead, he started going out again. Someone offered ecstasy, and he felt nostalgic for his university years. He took one, washed it over with rum, and wrote the whole experience with a digital pen onto his phone, documenting every last thought. Something in him was dancing, but he refused to stand up from the bar. At some point, he found himself having sex with someone he didn’t recognize in a poorly lit room he didn’t recognize. Somehow, he found his way back to the bar. That was when he decided he had to leave. At home, he couldn’t sleep. In the early AM, he was on a hovercraft to Thirteen, with all that was left of him in his suitcase, as the effects of last night were wearing off.

district thirteen

When they arrived, he was chewing gum, to both get a sense of his own numbed jaw and to cast away the pregnant smell of alcohol, ashamed it might become noticeable. He shook hands with Radia Thorn -- “The man who designed Nikita, an honor!” she quickly exclaimed, all thrilled out of courtesy. He then pointed out the woman who handled clones was, in fact, dead. The food in Thirteen was terrible. As a vegetarian, he was underwhelmed to find out how dry and not at all green their vegetables were. He was going to die in there, underground, without vitamins, so he requested some that the next batch of Gamemakers brought with them a week later. 

To welcome the Capitol into Thirteen, a luxurious feast was thrown. The Deputy Head Gamemaker had a knot in his throat -- certain words did give him that. Feast was one of them. However, it was exquisite and the display of District Thirteen culture was interesting. Their music, their dances, their food, their language -- “It was called French, wasn’t it?” he quickly inquired, in control of his past world references. However, he excused himself early, as he always would, and continued to work on the arena. They had so, so much work left to do, especially in a foreign space.

Underground, Lysander felt at ease, as if he’d always belonged there. One day, he would be underground forever. He made peace with that, as well. He thought about Clover, too -- often, even -- but he didn’t call those days, not from Thirteen. It simply wasn’t wise to, and she did ask for her space. She left, and it depended on him for the show to go on, so there was not much to be considered.

[moodypetrichorlove]

MacGyver Drabble

Mac-centric / Mac's thoughts on Riley. Based on his speech to Gwen about how having one person that you count on can make all the difference. This was supposed to be two paras, max, but it took a life of its own. And since it's less than 1k words, I'm putting it up here. Hope you guys like it, even though it's not the best thing I've written, lol. Also, I'm sorry I can't do the "read more" break here because Tumblr on mobile is stupid. Believe me, I tried.

—————————

"It doesn't take the whole world! Sometimes, you just need that one person that you can count on. Who you trust. And together, any problem can be solved.”

He remembers saying that to his aunt, trying to bring her to the good side, the right side. He recalls her scoffing out a laugh at that, as if he had said something next to impossible.

But, most of all, he remembers the feelings coursing through his veins when he uttered those words. Remembers how something inside of him kept telling him he knew a person like that. That he counted on, trusted without reservations. He had this vague feeling that he already had that one person on his side. He remembers a blurry face popping up and disappearing in his mind, as if a wisp of a memory. Just there to tickle him, to set the cogs in his mind to motion and leave the rest up to him.

However, back then, in the truck, was not the time to discern whose face had just flashed on the screen of his mind. Stopping Codex's nuke took priority over everything else, even his own life. So, he compartmentalized and focused on the task at hand.

Now, as he sits outside on his deck, looking at the dark 3 am night sky, a sudden stillness takes over him, reversing the compartmentalization. His brain starts working overtime on depixelating the blurry picture, zooming in and out, and he thinks God, this is Riley's area of expertise, not mine. How the heck does she do it?

It takes him a beat, but Riley's name in his thoughts acts like the code or program or whatever needed to clear up the image, and Mac sits up, all wide-open blue eyes and abrupt movements. He's on his feet, then, pacing restlessly, dismayed by the fact that it took him this long to figure out.

Riley. It was Riley's face.

He stops pacing, looks out towards the city, and sighs deeply.

Riley has been here, since day one. He trusts Riley, and knows she trusts him back, even when she's doubtful of the situation they're in or his it should work hypothetical plans. She believes in him to find a way. He can count on her to always support him, give him a pep talk when he needs one, to always know what he needs or wants to do when on a mission. She can read him like he's the easiest-to-understand book in the world, which he knows is not true because he's as complicated as they come.

Before Riley came into the picture, it was Jack. Together they solved all and any problems that came their way. And Mac will always trust Jack, always believe in him to back him up. But Jack isn't here any more. And he doesn't know how it happened, but since Jack left, Riley has been gradually shifting closer to him. She cannot replace Jack, because no one ever can, and because he wouldn't want Riley to be anyone other than her own self. After all, there is only one Riley Davis, and Mac is uber grateful to the powers that be that he gets to have her in his life.

She has sneaked her way into his heart, way higher and deeper than anyone else. Which demands a whole other dissection and in-depth self-exploration because he has a girlfriend. He does have a girlfriend, right? (Yeah, definitely something to ponder on another day.)

So yeah, he doesn't want her out, ever. And he's going to do whatever he can to ensure it. He has to figure stuff with Desi out first; then he can move forward, and explore how deep his feelings for Riley run.

As he realises, though, that he doesn't want her out, a calming warmth spreads through his entire being, and God knows he needs it. He's been feeling a little too cold these days. Not the kind of cold that you need layers against, but the kind that just stunts you, makes you act unlike yourself.

————————————

A few days later, when his heart cracks a little too loudly in his chest because Riley tells him she is moving out, he feels unable to take a breath, like someone's sucking all the oxygen out of the room, and he thinks oh, karma, how I hate you.

But Mac also feels a hope bloom inside; Riles is talking about leaving him all alone in his too-empty home and his heart is breaking and he takes it as a sign. A blaring, screaming neon sign that makes him more certain in his feelings for Riley.

And he knows then. He knows he can't let her go.

[sgmwesters]

━━ ✦ APRIL KEPNER: SELF PARA                LEAVING ON A JET PLANE: “I’M COMING HOME”

LOCATION: SEATTLE-TACOMA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

“I’m just at the airport now.” April said into the phone that was attached to her ear. Her parents might not have known the full story as to the series of events that had led to her ultimately failing the boards, but they had done their best to be supportive regardless. She wasn’t about to air out all of her dirty laundry to them - she was sure they were disappointed enough with the fact that she hadn’t passed to be worrying about any other actions she had taken before then. 

She’d thought about it long and hard. It seemed like the best thing to do, going back to Moline. Everyone else was jumping into their fellowships, or stepping up into their new roles as attendings, and she was what? Just standing on the sidelines, watching it all happen as a reminder of where she could have been if she’d just... passed. But she hadn’t. And as much as Seattle had been her home for the last five years, staying just felt too painful.

She’d thought about staying for Alice, especially given the journey that she seemed to be embarking on herself. She supported her sister, and if she was able to find her true self, and come to terms with that, April would be happy for her. But equally, the older Kepner felt as though she didn’t need to be there in person - neither Alice not Alyiah probably wanted her around, sticking her nose into their business. She could be the big sister Alice might need from Ohio - with phone calls and FaceTime, it was like she wasn’t away it all. In fact, with a lighter schedule than that of a surgical resident, she’d probably be far easier to get hold of in Moline than she was in Seattle.

The Jackson of it all was perhaps the hardest. She’d waited until he was at the hospital to pack her things, the news of her leaving had hardly gone down smoothly. Granted, one minute they’d been fighting, the next they were kissing, only for her to drop the bomb that she was going to be going back home. The truth was, if he’d asked her to stay, she might have considered it more. She would have almost certainly, in fact. Things were different with them now, the lines of their friendship had been well and truly blurred to the point where she wasn’t even sure they existed any more. She wasn’t certain she’d be able to look at Jackson as just a friend ever again - because he wasn’t, not to her at least. She could only hope that perhaps her time at home would allow for her to get over those feelings, get her head straight, and move on with her life.

The trauma team was something else entirely. Mia made it very clear she didn’t want anything to do with April at all, and as far as the redhead could see it was easy enough for her to leave without saying her own goodbye. Mia had been a mentor to her, a woman to look up to, and she’d gone and destroyed that trust, that relationship, so it was only fair she honoured her wishes. Jamie, Daniel and Gwen had been a little harder to say goodbye to - although still not easy. They seemed to understand that she needed a break at least, whether that was temporary or permanent yet she wasn’t yet sure. All she knew for certain was that she couldn’t be in Seattle, in the hospital, not for the time being.

“No, no, I haven’t changed my mind.” She paused, letting out a sigh as her eyes drifted up to the departure board. “I’m coming home.”

[ptrparkcrs]

if the world should end (self-para)

summary: after mj gets hurt, peter prepares for what comes next word count: 1298 trigger warnings: injury mention, death mention, existential angst

May had come, brought a change of clothes and cheap hospital coffee and a hug he couldn’t bring himself to accept. He was still wound up tight, every sense dialed well past their upper limit, every muscle vibrating with the weight of it. MJ would be fine, the doctors had said, it looked bad, but she’d recover, nothing too serious. They’d gotten lucky.

But Peter never got lucky. This was someone sending a message, a threat. It had to be. He’d been too late. He hadn’t stopped it. He didn’t know who had done it, not yet. When he found out—well. They wouldn’t get away that easily.

As the shock wore in and daylight began to break and Peter spent hours pacing the waiting room, tugging uncomfortably at the sleeves of his hoodie, he realized.

He’d forgotten his mask.

It had seemed like such a small thing at the time: a matter of life or death versus a little piece of (very expensive, highly engineered) fabric. Letting MJ see that he was there, all there, even when Spider-Man’s choices came back to hit Peter Parker. He loved her with all of him, both halves of his life, even though the line grew less distinct every day. The choice was between her and hiding his face to playact at protecting a secret he didn’t even keep anymore.

It wasn’t a choice.

(If it was, he’d still choose her. He’d choose her every time.)

But he’d forgotten his mask.

Someone was going to find it, cause a fuss, either keep it for a trophy or sell it for some exorbitant amount online. Or maybe they’d think it was worthless, remnants of Halloween still strewn about the city weeks later. Maybe it would end up moldering in a garbage bin on the banks of the East River. Maybe it wasn’t too late, and he could go looking for it, skulking back to the scene of the crime. It wasn’t his best idea, but it wasn’t his worst. He was down to half a suit, and though he’d repaired it plenty of times, making a new mask from scratch would take a while. He could commit to the no-mask look, but it felt wrong. He could dig out the Iron Spider, or go rooting around Tony’s workshop for one of those ultra-high-tech 3D printer situations, which would speed up the whole thing. But going there would bring questions, and Peter didn’t have answers. He wasn’t ready to be coddled or pitied or admit that he’d let this happen, he’d let this happen.

Again.

(There was also the Vegas wedding and the new wife of it all, which was another mess entirely, and he just really didn’t have the energy to wade into it.)

The Tower was out.

If he went to the Tower, if he told the Avengers, they would either, A) laugh at him, or B) try to help him. This was his problem. His alone. He didn’t want help; didn’t need help; couldn’t take help. He couldn’t drag anyone else into his mess, couldn’t risk it happening all over again (and again and again and again).

They said insanity was doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result.

Maybe Peter was insane.

Gwen was dead, and it was his fault, and he couldn’t fix it. Ben was dead, and it was his fault, and he was still working every day to fix it. MJ was hurt, and it was his fault, and he would fix it. Peter would do whatever it took—anything. Anything at all, no matter how much it hurt him. This wasn’t about him; this had never been about him. The second Peter had put on the mask the first time, he’d renounced his right to vanity. Spider-Man was born from guilt. Spider-Man was paying off a life debt that would never be paid. Spider-Man was saving the people he could to make up for the ones he couldn’t. Spider-Man was knowing that he was dangerous—to himself, to his enemies, to the people he loved—and doing all he could to channel it for good. It was pulling his punches and holding back his strength and dousing himself in humor so no one could see how scared he was.

How hurt.

How angry.

Wade always said that the red Deadpool suit hid the blood. Spider-Man’s bug eyes hid the anger. A core of rage, an inferno that he kept at bay, that he’d spent years learning to tame into a gently sparking ember.

But he didn’t have the mask now. He didn’t have the bug eyes. There was nothing to hide it now.

And, he realized, he had another option. It had been a joke at the time, a relic of some bad choices he’d made in college, a bad look for him. He’d stashed it on top of a skyscraper when he and Felicia had collapsed for the final time. Unless she’d come back for it, he had every reason to believe it was still there.

“Wait here,” Peter told May. “Stay with her. I’ll be right back.”

He headed for the street, still in the street clothes she’d brought him, what remained of his suit stashed in a backpack at her feet. She probably thought he was getting bagels. That he’d be back in twenty minutes, maybe. He hated lying to her.

As he swung up and over the city, he didn’t care that people were staring. Let them. They knew, anyway. There was nothing left to hide, and nothing mattered but him and MJ and making this right. This was what he’d been afraid of all along, what he’d dared the Bugle’s readers to do. It was only a matter of time; he was amazed it had taken as long as it had, really.

This part, this trip, was step one.

Step two was making whoever had done this pay.

Step three was making sure it never happened to anyone again.

He was probably long past due to move—they knew his address, they could follow any visitors to his doorstep, and he had some money saved up now. He could afford it. It would only buy him so much time, but it would buy him some (and maybe a real stove, if the hellscape of Manhattan real estate was feeling cooperative).

The real part, the hard part, wouldn’t be so straightforward. There was no guidebook for this kind of thing, and it would hurt. It would near kill him, probably. But she’d get over it, eventually. They all would. Better this than dead.

He found the building quickly, and landed on its roof into a crouch. Web-swinging in jeans was uncomfortable. Stiff, rough, not aerodynamic, and he had a hell of a wedgie. But there was a bundle up ahead, right where he’d left it years ago, webbed deep in the shadows to the back of a gargoyle where no one would think to look. Black and white, easy to miss if you didn’t know where to look. Perfect.

There, on top of the building, he slipped it on. aIt wasn’t as high tech as his old suit, the one he’d abandoned at the hospital with the people he loved most in the world, but it fit. It worked. It would do just fine. Felicia had wanted matching suits, and, barely twenty and ready for a dare, he’d given it a shot. It had felt fake at the time, hollow, a mask in the worst kind of way. That red mask, the one he’d worn for years, that was him. The black suit had been a costume.

But now—now it was a message.

The gloves were off, the lines were crossed. The board was set.

No more.

[ofaspiderboy]

𝐓ags

▌⁺˚*🕷   𝐘eah business as usual . i'm just a misunderstood guy with a good heart .    ∕  disposition .

▌⁺˚*🕸️  𝐄esh ! & i thought i was obnoxious  !   ∕  dialogue .

▌⁺˚*🕷  𝐁e right back . gotta hit the little peter room .    ∕  study .

▌⁺˚*🕸️  𝐁ein' a super-hero's no bed of roses  ...  ∕  tongue .

▌⁺˚*🕷   𝐈 need a place to change ! a phone booth ? nah! even i'm not that corny !    ∕  fad .

▌⁺˚*🕸️  𝐇ey. you uh. i heard word on the uh street is you're making a documentary ? on me ?  ∕  headcanon .

▌⁺˚*🕷  𝐈t's funny how life turns out sometimes... isn't it ?   ∕  ic answer .

▌⁺˚*🕸️   𝐒omething's wrong . my human sense is tingling .    ∕  self-para .

▌⁺˚*🕷  𝐇ave no fear spidey's here  !   ∕  event .

▌⁺˚*🕸️  𝐑ight now i'd trade the whole Spider-Man bit for a rocking chair & a subscription to reader's digest .    ∕   task .

▌⁺˚*🕷  𝐖ith great power there must also come great responsibility .   ∕  spider-man .

▌⁺˚*🕸️  𝐒pider jams .    ∕   playlist .

▌⁺˚*🕷  𝐃on’t swing & text kids  !   ∕  phone stuff .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐓ruth be told  ...  i don't know how aunt may put up with me  .   ―   May Parker .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐈'm nothing like the torch  !  i'm prettier  !   ―   Johnny Storm .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐐uiet as a cat - sneaky as a spider  .   ―   Felicia Hardy . 

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐓he great thing about mj is  ...   ―   Mary Jane Watson .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐍o spider-man isn't a party trick ! i'm just gonna be myself  .   ―   Ned Leeds .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐁ut we’ve made it this far mr stark  .   ―   Tony Stark .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐈t’s all a bit tragic really but oh so worth it  .   ―   Harry Osborn .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐃ude this is going to be awesome - remember baby powder ...   ―   Miles Morales .

▌⁺˚*༓ 𝐃o i have to lose you too  ?   ―   Gwen Stacy .