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revunant · 1 year ago

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"Can we talk?”

DAMON IS LAID ON HIS STOMACH, arms and head dangling off one side of the bed, eyes fixed aimlessly on the dark static of the carpet. The lights are off, and he clearly sees the bright yellow crack that splits across the room when Regan opens the door, even though she’s behind him. (He doesn’t like having his back to the door, but he’s too worn out to care.)

She must take his lack of response as a yes, or at least not a no, because he hears her come in - and then, a moment later, the weight of someone else sitting on the mattress next to him. He waits for her to speak first, something she’s by now used to doing.

“I don’t know how much longer I can cope with this- us. You. I’ve probably put up with it for too long, and I know you probably agree with that.”

It’s not something he’s given much thought to. But even if ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind’ was a valid excuse, rather than just an explanation, it’s not like he can tell her about the things that have kept him so occupied. Yes, yes, she’s probably put up with it for too long.

In the pause, she reaches over to rub his back, this timeless, immortal gesture of I know it sounds like I’m mad at you, I know I probably should be mad at you, but I’m not. All the same, he tenses almost imperceptibly under her hand, like his skin knows of its own volition to shy away from human touch. She’s not surprised by it. She’s also not surprised by the patches of gauze she can feel under his shirt.

She’s a little surprised, but more confused than anything, by how cold he’s felt lately - in more ways than one.

“You’ve been gone for days, you don’t say anything to me or Femi, you don’t even take your phone with you, and then you come back all beaten up and you won’t even say, like- hi, sorry I dropped off the face of the Earth? The fuckin’ physio office have been ringing nonstop ‘cause you keep missing appointments and they’re gonna have to fine you for it…”

Damon resists the urge to agree that it all sucks, and he’s the worst. He knows how it would come across, but he’d mean it, wholeheartedly, with all that he has. Not even remotely had he expected Regan to care about him to this degree - he’d assumed their relationship was less about that, and more about we’re young and we’re bored and we’re horny, and we live together, so we may as well be an item - but he’s not entirely sure how to cut off the supply without hurting her in the process. It’s probably too late to.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m worried about you, I’m still gonna worry about you, but I can’t, I’ve…I have other stuff I need to be focusing on, and so do you. And I can’t make you stop whatever it is you’re doing when you go on these benders but I can make the decision to not have a boyfriend who’s one wrong move from getting himself killed.”

A beat.

“No, that sounds shitty. I don’t mean it like that. I just don’t think I can help you, not unless you let me, and there’s no point attaching myself to a ship that insists on sinking. Plus…”

“Plus?”

Pathetic. The first thing he’s been able to say to her and it’s echoing her words back at her like a brainless, half-dead parrot. He cringes inwardly at how limp and empty and small he must seem to her, especially as she reaches over to confiscate the envelope of Davidoff and its both tobacco and non-tobacco contents from his bedside. It’s a good thing she at least did something to fill the silence, though, because it lasts a good minute as she tries to figure out how to put it.

“...Is there something you’re not telling me, James?”

He stammers, but only barely, see-sawing between it’s about the supervillain thing and it’s about the recreational anaesthetic thing - he’s not sure whether to feign complete ignorance or risk outing something she doesn’t already know about. Blessedly, she continues before he can do either, blocking him from making another mistake in a long string of them.

“I mean…am I an experiment to you? Or, like, a part of you being in denial, or…I dunno, some form of self-harm?”

It’s so far removed from what he’d been expecting to talk about that the “What?” he squeaks out is almost entirely involuntary.

“Maybe I’m losing it. I didn’t even figure anything out on my own, I was just talking to Myla about you, and…she kept saying weird stuff, like, are you sure he’s actually into you? and I got to thinking-”

“Of course I’m into you?”

She lets him interject, but doesn’t honour it. “Are you gay or something?”

“What? No.”

“Come on, James - we’ve never even fucked!”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Staunch atheist, but you just love the whole no sex before marriage thing, huh? You’re full of it. It’s not about that, even, it’s about the going missing and not telling us why, I just…I wanted to believe that you trust me. Like, you’d at least trust me enough to tell me who you are.”

You don’t want to know who I am, he thinks, even though by now he knows she’s talking about him being secretgay; something that he definitely isn’t. He lets it hang in the air for long enough to make it clear that he doesn’t trust her, even though he’s not entirely sure where she’s been coming from for the last few turns.

Instead of huffing and storming out like someone with a normal amount of patience would, Regan stays. He hears her sigh softly, feels her weight shift as she leans back on her hands and looks at the ceiling. The conversation wasn’t comfortable, but the silence somehow is, and they’re both grateful to sink into it. Damon is grateful, even, to feel the slightest touch of her leg against his hip. He knows he’s doomed himself to be alone for a very long time, for as long as it takes, but for now, it’s nice to pretend that he hasn’t.

After about ten minutes; after Regan’s moved again to lie on her back next to him, their shoulders rubbing together; after the distant hum and clatter and hiss of Femi making dinner has begun;

“So we’re breaking up?”

“Yeah,” Regan replies, casual without being distant. Sad, but not expecting it to take too long for her heart to unbreak. “I guess we are.”

It’s for the best. He makes a soft, tired sound of resignation. (A clatter; Femi curses; Myla laughs. Damon can tell Regan’s watching the door. He doesn’t want to keep her any longer, but he doesn’t know how to say much of anything without sounding like a martyr.) It’s not long before she sits back up, and he feels her eyes on the back of his head.

“We’re here for you. Y’know? Whatever mess you’re in, whatever you’re doing out there, even if it’s bigger than all of us combined…it’s gotta be better for you to not face it alone. We give a shit about you. We want to help.”

“I know.” He also knows she’s about to leave. “Are you really confiscating my baccy?"

”Yes.”

And that’s that. She doesn’t even say it’s not about the baccy and you know it like she’s done every other time he’s asked that question before. She just removes herself from the room without another word, taking the envelope with her, and Damon makes no move to protest or follow. He listens to them talk outside, too indistinct to make out anything that isn’t shouted; he listens to them eat dinner, watch TV, say goodnight.

He stays stuck in place well past the point that the rest of the house must be asleep, and then, like a ghost, or perhaps a stranger living in the walls of his own home, he wolfs down some leftovers from the fridge, leaves some cash for the next collaborative grocery shop, and disappears again out of the back door.

#this is kinda long and contextless i just wrote it a few weeks ago and realised it wasnt here #implied drug use // i think that's all. i did not re read it #┆entries.#VERSE┆first abandon kindness‚ you need to learn to hate.#┆ic.#┆ooc.

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conscharacterscentralised · 1 year ago

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💯 and 💙 for any OC(s) u choose!!

I’ll be doing the 6 main OCs for Operation Peridot (Caleb, Jason, Maribel, Lewis, Mina and Siân) as well as my deity OCs (Eris, Carina, Aster, Pyre, Vanta, Danielewski, and Unnamed) as they’re the only ones that 💙 applies to. Also sorry this is long lol, I love discussing my OCs (thanks so much for the ask!)

Caleb Booth:

💙: As a part of Operation Peridot, all characters involved with Iridium Orbs can utilise powers associated with one word. For Caleb, that word is contain. He mostly utilises it for self-preservation purposes (contain yourself) and for keeping his powers in check (contain it), but also is useful for binding powers together. He also uses it to seal objects away from him, or to seal himself away from the outside world as a form of shield.

💯: Caleb is a huge fan of panel shows (a subset of comedy shows often involving comedians, a fairly simple premise and a lack of meaning for points) with his favourite being one I made up called Sleight of Hand about truths and lies (though real life panel shows he’d enjoy are Would I Lie To You and The Unbelievable Truth); he is ambidextrous, initially left handed but when his corruption set in he started to use his right hand more to compensate; Caleb would never use any forms of social media due to fears of being traced.

Jason Anastas:

💙: His associated word is warp. He mostly uses it in the form of portals and distortions

💯: He joined the organisation when he ran away from home thinking his parents wouldn’t accept him for being trans, turns out they did now he’s got superpowers and a supportive family (woo!); his favourite food is anything breakfast related, especially eggs; his favourite place is in urban locations at 3am.

Maribel Ignacio:

💙: Her word is fire. She mostly uses it in an arson way, but has recently started to be more creative, such as boosting luck (you’re on fire!) and charm (you’re looking fire). She has also used it to make enemy guns go off (aim and fire)

💯: She is a keen gardener and really likes roses; her favourite video game is Super Smash Bros Ultimate (she mostly plays random but secretly she hopes for Roy/Chrom or Samus/Dark Samus to show up); tried to make her middle name Danger when she transitioned but her family wanted a more namey name instead, she went with Gaia “because if I can’t be powerful, I’ll be the Earth herself!”.

Lewis Ford:

💙: His word is stun. He uses it to stun people.

💯: He is the least creative person on the team, and the only person to only have one use for their word; his default pose in pictures is finger guns; his nickname “Fore” comes from initially being the fourth person on a previous team before joining up with Maribel and Mina but said team didn’t really get to know him outside of being the fourth member, so out of spite he’s always number four even when there’s less than four members.

Sae Mina:

💙: Eir word is chill. Ey mostly use it to freeze their settings and to make things colder, though ey also occasionally use it to relax and unwind (chill out) which can act as a local anaesthetic ala laughing gas.

💯: Eir name is written in eastern order (last name, first name) which has led to many people calling em Sae as eir first name when it’s not; Mina primarily uses ey/em/eir pronouns but does like ae/aer and she/her; once Mina and Jason were bored and combined their powers for a “drug trip” (in reality it was just them chilling out and relaxing to weird warped visuals but it did help them relax).

Siân Nevitt:

💙: Its word is bounce. She mostly uses it to deflect attacks and to run away (gotta bounce). She has also used it to survive long jumps down.

💯: Doesn’t actually like basketball or any sports despite what her word may imply; actually has blue hair but due to experimentations in her youth her hair turned silvery white with a purple corrupted streak (it doesn’t mind and thinks it looks cool); has way too many board games and jigsaws at any point in time.

Eris:

💙: Power to create gods and other godlike entities, domain over every world in existence. Powerful reality bender

💯: has existed for a very, very long time now and doesn’t remember her original family or purpose, has taken to rebuilding a new family to help; thinks the best thing mortals have created is cherry flavoured cola; his child self has once been brought back to haunt over a small town by transforming the residents into monsters unwillingly, but has since been freed from the curse and now has a new son… yay?

Carina:

💙: Messenger to Eris, can see basically anything with xyr third eye, can warp to any universe they please

💯: Favourite animal is a turtle, probably related to her enjoyment of the Discworld series of novels; uses Tumblr (it runs a blog dedicated to shipping the Milky Way and the Andromeda galaxies) and is cursed with the knowledge of what a Tumblr sexyman is; first became a god/deity by wishing on a star to join it and sometimes watches over past/alternate versions of herself and her family.

Aster:

💙: Deity of fluidity, stars and wishes. Can grant wishes within certain reasons

💯: Was the one to make Carina into a deity so technically he’s her dad, but also they’re siblings thanks to Eris doing the hard work… not like it matters because they’re technically unrelated; very aroace and very bigender; on account of her arms constantly melting, doesn’t really like doing super fiddly things like Legos and origami

Vanta:

💙: God of darkness, nightmares, etc. He has recreated towns, people and situations to torment humans in and to make them break and submit to his will. Not a very pleasant guy

💯: First became a deity by disturbing natural spirits who cursed him to be only a shadow for his hubris, unfortunately he thrived on being one; once tried to scare some deer by uncanny valleying himself into one and accidentally caused a national scare of deer disease and gave a 9-year-old boy nightmares (that boy turned out to be another OC called Xander); surprisingly not into horror, but is into high fantasy shows (like Game of Thrones), has consumed a very large amount of isekai anime that way. Extra fun fact: he has tried many times to usurp Eris as the full holder of power in the spaces between but has failed. Repeatedly. Not out of lack of trying, Eris is just better than him.

Pyre:

💙: Minor domain over fire and twins. Can set itself on fire at will

💯: It is the child that set Eris free of the curse, as a thank you it is now a god instead of dying alongside the curse that brought it back to life (it’s complicated…); doesn’t quite understand what being a god entails and thus mostly just follows their alive, non godly twin sibling in the real world as they solve mysteries and do cool stuff without him; due to the fact that both of them have orange skin and are not fully solid, Aster considers Pyre to be her successor and is trying to beef with it, Pyre doesn’t understand and thinks Aster is the coolest.

Danielewski:

💙: Servant of Vanta, but also holds minor domains over music. No special powers

💯: In real life he used to be called Daniel Lato and was a part time SynthV producer under the pseudonym Danielewski (mostly used Eclipse Studio synths like SOLARIA and ASTERIAN), but was murdered and brought back by Vanta; doesn’t require the mask he wears, he thinks it makes him look cool; his favourite book is House of Leaves, favourite game The Stanley Parable, favourite non-vocal synth producer/band Tally Hall (he especially likes Miracle Musical II)

Unnamed:

💙: Servant of Vanta, holds minor domain over writing. Has minor healing hands and can perform other weak spells.

💯: In life, her name was Esme Lin and she was a ghost writer, upon resuscitating Danielewski and forfeiting her own life to rebirth them as gods she went by Unnamed to reflect how she felt in life: unnoticed and unrecognised; her body is covered in magical scarring from her ritual; she and Danielewski frequently have dance-offs in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep.

(Quick note: both Daniel Lato and Esme Lin exist outside of their god forms in another universe, hence why I will not be tagging them in here, I will expand upon the still living Daniel and Esme in another post hopefully)

#original character #original character prompts #caleb booth #jason anastas #maribel ignacio | aurum #lewis ford | fore #sae mina | silver #siân nevitt #eris #carina #aster #pyre #vanta #danielewski #unnamed #cw drugs mention #cw guns mention #long post

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madsdefencesquad · 2 years ago

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We see ya Justin we see you lol

LOL! Look, I really don't want to harp on any ship because the shippers have their own reasons for shipping them, but this entire episode, including 4x12 was... something.

4x12 bored me to death and I've always thought was the show's weakest ep (I believe many people thought that too), and now this ep is up there with it too and probably have overtaken it now.

Chemistry is subjective indeed, but whatever this was that they tried to put on in this ep and/or the times they're together? Goodness.

#I'm truly sorry for those who see something with these two #because they give me nothing #like I just love the lack of energy #yes girl give me nothing #lol #ask #also is this fae's meme?#lmaoo #just yikes #it's like being put to sleep quicker than anaesthetic

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anauro · 2 years ago

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hi roc!! i finally have the time and emotional capacity to type my very long "Thoughts" re: dass into your ask box :) i sent you the previous ask right after finishing my reread and i kid you not -- life immediately dipped right after. sooooo, here i am. a few days late :[[ -------------- 1) Regulus as a doctor. Okay, OKAY. I cannot tell you how much i appreciate the way you've written regulus as a doctor. Dass!Regulus -- through representation -- provides such an honest insight into some of the pits of most healthcare systems. I've never gotten to see the depth in his characterization as a doctor until MY sister started having trouble with hers. There is one flaw to regulus as a doctor that i think shines: The way he falls back on textbook knowledge when it comes to james. It's such a good and well thought out flaw. He likens, the hit of nicotine from a cig to that of what james usually takes -- or at least thinks they're somewhat comparable. And james finds this amusing. He refuses to acknowledge the doctor in charge of the clinic concerning James' dental visit. He falls back to what he knows as hard facts through what he's learned in med school, thinking it simply is the most logical approach, when simple, rigid, textbook knowledge often lack/s important insight. what happens? james ends up in pain much, much, faster than he should've had. when james was clearly struggling with withdrawal, the way regulus simply offered anti-sickness medicine and paracetamol to james just. felt. so. off. detached? and i know, in that particular scene, it may also have something to do with his and james' early relational distance. but, it does, very much tie into the fact that regulus, even with all his medical knowledge, has much to understand regarding james' needs and current condition. he thinks the science is "sciencing" but it's not. the thing is, regulus isn't stupid! gosh he's so far from that. and you've continuously established reg's prodigal skills. aside from him being a junior anaesthetist, dass!regulus simply mirrors today's reality. we see doctors as great scholars. surrounded by all that knowledge, sometimes it's hard for them to see how what they know, isn't always enough. they're not all-knowing. and for the science to science -- you need insight and empathy. otherwise, there can be observational gaps. for doctors, it's a tight line they have to walk between asserting their professional knowledge and, well, taking into account a patient's unique needs. when they lean far too much on the former it's the patient who suffers.

i think, the way you've taken the time to write regulus out this way is so... very cool of you. i wish i could've noticed much sooner. P.S. this ask was supposed to have more than one item but -- hehe i've made this one wayyyyyy too long!! sorry T^T i do believe that i have to send this one out first ~

Hiya!

Omg, thank you so much for popping back!! 🫶🏼 I do hope life picked up again now 🤞🏼

This answer turned out to be a bit long so I’m gonna put it under the cut and content warn it as addiction talk and inequalities in healthcare (also pls do not reblog)

So yeah, doctor Regulus and addict James really can be summarised as “science isn’t sciencing”. You’re right, Regulus is smart and not just smart enough to be a doctor, but one of the smartest in his hospital (I think it’s Marlene who mentions it that he’s the youngest to pass the exams and anaesthetics is known for having the hardest exams) and yet James puts him in his place really easily.

Regulus tries to break down James’ problems into biteable chunks and fails to realise that’s not how James experiences it. He doesn’t want anything for the nausea or the pain or the insomnia, and part of it is cause he genuinely doesn’t want to bother Regulus and doesn’t think he deserves help with these, but also that’s not what bothers James the most. He’s not gonna go and take drugs cause he’s vomiting, he’s gonna do it cause he can’t cope with the Harry situation, his parents, his crush on Regulus…. And Regulus’ sole reaction to it is “everybody has problems. Go to therapy.” Which is probably very reasonable and kind of what James needed to hear, but also does highlight Regulus’ lack of understanding of how people who struggle with addiction process things and deal with problems.

And James remarks on how Regulus already treats him better than doctors at the hospital did, whilst at the same time Regulus chastises himself for not being understanding enough. And as Regulus’ feelings towards James develops, he starts to compartmentalise James into his and addict, failing yet again to realise these two are the same person. Which. As you may have predicted, will cause issues further down the line as James can’t hide the addict side of himself deep enough.

But the overarching theme of doctors and other healthcare workers in all healthcare systems lacking to distinguish textbook knowledge from what’s in front of them is a huge topic and a sad one. It doesn’t affect just addiction, but also ethnic minorities, people with disabilities (ask any diabetic how easy it was to do their insulin whilst in a hospital and you’ll know) and members of the LGBT community, especially trans people. Ranging from basic nomenclature issues (only having F or M as gender or font on paperwork being too small or otherwise inaccessible for disabilities) to blunt oppression (not respecting pronouns, asking questions not related to current health needs).

I understand there’s only so much that can be taught at universities (or else the courses would be 10 years long lol) and just the pure clinical knowledge is heaps to learn, but I think that’s a poor excuse for not teaching healthcare workers basic empathy and understanding of challenges they might face whilst looking after patients outside of the “white, rich, able bodied and cishet” population.

Anyway, its a topic I could talk on forever and I don’t think anyone would be particularly interested, but the bottom line is: healthcare workers are amazing and brilliant people, but they need to constantly educate themselves on topics that are not pure science, but yet are inseparable part of their jobs. And the healthcare system should encourage that, both by providing resources as well giving time off to learn all those things and reward those who do. Needing to go to a hospital is stressful enough without having to worry about being, bluntly put, disrespected.

#roc answers #dass #drugs and surgical scrubs #tw addiction #tw drugs #tw transphobia #tw ableism #tw healthcare #do not reblog #please

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aspec-culture · 2 years ago

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Anaesthetic is also used to mean lack of aesthetic attraction. You can find it on the miraheze lgtb wiki and it's also known as a-aesthetic, nonaesthetic, or ansthetic. Sorry for the confusion

Oh wow. I didnt know that.

Thank you!

#aesthetic attraction #a-aesthetic #nonaesthetic #ansthetic

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thedanceronthestreets · 4 years ago

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PEDRO PASCAL GQ GERMANY - OCTOBER 2020

Original text by Esma Annemon Dil

Fotos by Doug Inglish

Styling by Simon Robins

Translated by @thedanceronthestreets

Intro: A broken tooth could almost have been the reason for our meeting with Pedro Pascal to be cancelled - and with that our conversation about roots, his new movie and times of change.

Interview: It is almost eery how empty the streets of Los Angeles are under the gleaming sun. While Europe is finding its "new normal", people in L. A. are cutting their own hair even without being neurotics. Many of them have not seen their friends in half a year. The pandemic is out of control. So are the reactions to the situation. Inviting someone to a "distance drink" in the backyard can lead to the same consternation as proposing a relationship partner exchange.

All the more of a surprise was Pedro Pascal's immediate confirmation. To the drink, not the partner exchange. He is one of the winners this year - and if Corona had not forced the movie industry to go on a holiday, he probably would not have had the time for this drink. After "Game of Thrones", the series in which his head was squished, followed 2015 the leading role in "Narcos" as a DEA agent on the hunt for Pablo Escobar, and now the leap onto the big Hollywood screen. As of 1. October the Chilean will appear in the blockbuster "Wonder Woman 1984". Furthermore, the second season of the "Star Wars" series "The Mandalorian" will start in October with him as the main character - unfortunately underneath the helmet. But we all seem to be under the same helmet in 2020. It is this man we want to meet, who worked as a waiter in New York a couple of years ago. Whose parents are political refugees that settled in Texas, and one day their son decided to walk into a drama club in high school.

And then the cancellation. While we were preparing the house and garden for Pedro's drink and fashion shoot, which isn't an easy task under L. A.'s restrictions, his management called in with terrible news: Pedro has - no, not Corona - had to receive emergency surgery due to a sore tooth and is now lying in bed with a swollen cheek, making talking or shooting impossible. The sun shines onto empty streets. And our empty garden.

A few days later, he stands in front of the door anyway, no huge bulge in his face, but stitches in his gum. No limousine service that dropped him off, he arrived in his own car and picked up his makeup artist on the way. He helps her to carry in all the equipment and states first and foremost: "I've got time today!" What a star! It does not seem like we are about to ask him how he managed to become a Hollywood sensation, but rather him asking us that question. Pedro Pascal! So, what kind of star is he then?

Pedro Pascal: Sorry for ruining your plans. The operation was a total emergency.

GQ: Really? We were wondering whether the swelling was the result of a secret trip to the plastic surgeon. Apparently, because of the quarantine in Hollywood, their schedules are packed.

Sorry to disappoint you. A few days before our appointment I raced to the hospital with a tooth fracture and the worst pain I've ever felt - a hospital where the severe Corona cases are treated. I was unable to contact any dentists! Right before I parked, a specialist called back. I'll spare you the details of the surgery, gruesome. The pain was excruciating despite the 10 anaesthetic shots. The doctor said I wasn't the only one going through this, a lot of people grind their teeth at night thanks to stress.

What are you most afraid of at the moment?

The way the government is handling the pandemic scares me more than the virus itself. The lack of intelligent crisis management is a moral disgrace. The leadership crisis makes orphans out of all of us - we're left to fend for ourselves.

How have you spent the last few months?

With frozen pizza in jogging trousers in Venice Beach. I live in a rear building that's in the garden belonging to a family. In reality there are enough good takeout restaurants around that area, but for some reason I like salami pizza from the supermarket.

That doesn't exactly sound like the movie star lifestyle. What does it feel like to be forced from top speed to zero?

Considering the things happening in this world, my own state really isn't the top priority. But I would have to lie, if I said I wasn't disappointed. The entire cast and crew of "Wonder Woman 1984" put so much heart and soul into the production. We had so much fun on set. I had hoped to carry this feeling of exuberance around the globe to the openings of this movie.

You are part of a political, socialist family that fled the Pinochet regime in Chile. What do you remember from back then?

My sister and I were born in Chile, but I was only nine months old when we claimed asylum in Denmark. From there, we moved to San Antonio in Texas, where my dad worked as a doctor in a hospital.

Texas isn't exactly considered to be socialist utopia. How well did you settle in?

San Antonio isn't a cowboy city but rather very diverse with large Asian, Afro-American and Latino communities. In my memory it's a romantic place, culturally inclusive. The cultural shock only hit when we moved to Orange County in California later. Suddenly, the environment was white, preppy and conservative.

How were you welcomed in California?

To this day I'm ashamed when I think about how I let my classmates call me Peter without correcting them. I'm Pedro. Even without growing up in Chile, the country and language are part of me. I was quite unhappy in that place. At least I was able to switch schools and visit one in Long Beach, where I felt more comfortable. With its theatre programme, I found my path.

Could you visit your family's homeland as a child?

Yes, after my parents ended up on a list of expats that were permitted to re-enter the country. First, there was a big family gathering, then me and my sister were parked at some relatives' place for a few months while my parents returned to Texas. They probably needed a break from us. They'd had us at a very young age, had a vibrant social life, and my mother was doing her doctorate in psychology.

Was your mother a typical young psychologist that tested her knowledge at home?

You mean whether I was her lab rat? Absolutely. I can remember weird sessions camouflaged as games, where someone would watch my reactions to different toys. Even though I couldn't have been older than 6, I knew what was happening. My favourite thing was to be asked about my dreams. That was always a great opportunity to make up fantastic stories.

Was that your first performance?

Definitely! My strong imagination alarmed my mother, because I'd rather live in my fantasy world than in real life. I didn't like school. I ended up in the "problematic kid" category. At some point the subjects got more interesting and my grades improved. So many children are unnecessarily diagnosed with learning disabilities without considering that school can be daunting. Why is it acceptable to be bored out of your mind in class, when there are more stimulating ways to convey knowledge?

With everything happening in the world this summer: Do you believe that social hierarchy structures are genuinely being reconsidered?

Hopefully. After the lockdown my first contact with people was at the Black Lives Matter protest. The atmosphere was peaceful and hopeful until the police got involved and provoked violence. At least during these times we can't avoid problems or distract ourselves from them as easily as we usually do. It seems that the pandemic provided us with a new sense of clarity: we don't want to go on like this.

The trailer of "Wonder Woman 1984" represents the optimism of the 80s. That almost makes one feel nostalgic nowadays.

That holds true. It's two hours of happiness. Patty Jenkins, the director, managed to make a movie full of positive messages. We shot in Washington, D. C., then in London and Spain - which now sounds like a different time.

Do you miss travelling?

I've only now realised what a privilege it is to just pack up your things and fly anywhere. With an American passport you can travel freely. And that's why the small radius we live in now is kind of absurd. Over the last few years I often retreated in between takes, because I was always on the road and overstimulated. Friends complained about how comfortable I had become. We all took social interactions for granted and realise now how reliant we are on human connection. Now, I wistfully think about all the party and dinner invitations I declined in the past.

In L. A., people spend more time indoors or in nature than in other metropolises. Could this city become your safe haven after New York City?

My true home is my friends. Ever since I was young I've lived the life of a nomad and haven't set roots anywhere. Until recently, my physical home was a place for arriving and leaving and hence I didn't want to overcomplicate living by owning lots of things. The opposite actually: Without having read Marie Kondo's book, I got rid of all the stuff that was unnecessary and lived a very minimalistic lifestyle.

Is there something you collect or could never say goodbye to?

Books! I still own the literature I read during my teen and university years. Recently I found a box of old theatre scripts and materials back from my uni days at NYU. I can't separate from art either, same as lamps or old pictures. Furniture and clothes are no problem though, they can be chucked.

Do you remember any roles that were defined by their costumes?

Yes, "Game of Thrones" comes to mind immediately. During that time I first understood what it means, as an actor, to be supported by a look. I owe that to costume designer Michele Clapton. She developed these very feminine robes and brocade cloaks for my role that looked very masculine when I wore them. I felt sexy in them. And very important were of course Lindy Hemming's power suits and Jan Sewell's blond hair for the tycoon villain Maxwell Lord in "Wonder Woman 1984". Relating to the style, I couldn't really see myself in the role since the shapes and colours of the 80s don't really fit my body. My type is the 70s.

Do you adopt such inspirations into your private closet?

At this point in time, I'll choose any comfortable outfit over a cool look. Sometimes I mourn the days when I defined myself with fashion. It's a bit mad when I think about how, in the 90s as a teenager, I would go to raves; a proper club kid with crazy outfits: overalls, chute trousers, soccer shirts and a top hat like in "The cat in the hat knows a lot about that!" by Dr Seuss. Later in NYC I was part of a group that placed immense value on wearing a certain style. The fact that I only walk around in joggers nowadays is actually unacceptable!

Normally, actors who work on comic screen adaptations become bodybuilders and eat ten boiled chicken breasts per day. You don't?

My body wouldn't be able to handle that. I find it difficult enough to maintain a minimum level of fitness. As of your mid 40s, you suddenly need a lot more discipline. Until the tooth incident happened, I worked out a couple of times a week with a trainer to keep the quarantine body in shape.

What would annoy you the most, if you were your own roommate?

I can be very bossy. I have to gather all my goodwill not to force my movie choice on to everyone else. When I want something, I'm not passive aggressive about it, I attack head on. Also, I can get caught up in tunnel vision: When i feel down, I can't imagine that I'm ever going to feel better again. I have difficulty with seeing the bigger picture when experiencing problems or emotions. Method acting really wouldn't be my thing. That's why I try to only work on projects that feel good and where people encourage and lift each other up.

While you were trying on the outfits you pointed out a lack of self-esteem. How does that coincide with your career?

Isn't it interesting how traits and circumstances go hand in hand? Self-esteem comes from the inside, but it's also influenced by what society believes. We use critical stares from the outside against ourselves. I lived in New York for 20 years, I studied there and worked as a waiter up until my mid 30s, because I couldn't live off acting. It was always so close. The disappointment of always just barely missing a perfect part or opportunity is exhausting. When is the right time to stop trying and what's plan b? That's not just a question actors ask themselves, but anybody who struggles to earn a livelihood - unrelated to how much potential they have or how close their dream may seem. We are beginning to see now how our narrow definition of success is destroying our communities. At the same time, it's becoming obvious that, until this day, your family background and skin colour determine your chances of living a dignified existence.

What are the positives of becoming a leading man later in life?

I have the feeling that I've got control over my life - without the pressure of having to accept projects or be a social media personality. That surely also has to do with the fact that I'm a man. Women are surely pressured to appear quirky at any age.

Life is always a management of risks - especially at this time. For what would you risk losing something?

Usually, if you don't play the game you're not going to win anything. That applies to friendship, love, work, creativity. Anything that really means something to me, is worth the risk.

Wonder woman 1984 will appear in cinemas 01.10. The 800 million dollar earning DC comic franchise is moving into the New York 80s with its sequel. It looks spectacular - only Pedro Pascal with blond hair in a three piece Wall Street suit looks better.

#pedro pascal #gq germany #Gq

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childrenofthenightt · 4 years ago

Text

only the black rose (chapter 6)

pairing: jimmy page x layla porter (oc)

warnings: jimmy page’s stubbornness (and his stressy hands), exposing jpj as the mom friend, fluff

words: 3.4k

summary: in the blink of an eye, it’s 1975 and layla’s suddenly joining led zeppelin for their north american tour. throughout the chaos, the band take a liking to her, she builds friendships with the boys, and love blossoms. but all good things must come to an end.

author’s note: so this one was fun, but we’re getting into the nitty-gritty of this fic :)) hope you enjoy, and please if you have any feedback it would be much appreciated!

masterlist

playlist

chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

--------

“Mr. Page, you must be extremely careful when taking these,” Dr. Vane lectures, shaking a bottle of pills. “They should help with the pain, but they are very strong.”

Jimmy sits on the side of his hospital bed, hunched over like a young child being lectured for their misbehaviour. His hands are balled into fists, though the injured finger is coiled much looser. In the corner of the small, sterile room, Robert and Bonzo glance at each other, noticing the way Jimmy grits his teeth, curling and uncurling his hands on his lap. He wants out of here, and fast: that’s plain to see.

“Doc, is Jimmy free to go?” Bonzo breaks the fragile silence that had settled over the group, pushing himself off the wall he had been leaning against.

“The anaesthetic has mostly worn off, so he should be good to go when he’s ready,” Dr. Vane turns to Jimmy then, mouth a serious, somber line. “Mr. Page—”

“Please, call me Jimmy.”

“Jimmy, I recommend taking a pill from the bottle we’ve supplied you, very soon. The pain should come back, due to the anaesthetics being out of your system. These are codeine tablets, and like I said before, they are very strong…”

Jimmy tunes out most of the doctor’s words from that point on, too preoccupied with thoughts of the upcoming tour. He knows Jonesy would memorize whatever the good doctor says anyways, the mother hen. Jimmy didn’t realize he had been shaking with anxiety until a cold hand lay across his, pinning it to the bed. He looks beside him, and on the bed sits Layla, brown ringlets a mess from their lie-down in the hospital bed. Jimmy stares back, enchanted by the woman in front of him, as he always is when she’s near. Still holding his gaze, Layla smiles, a question clear in her doe eyes.

“Are you okay, Jim?” she whispers, drawing nonsensical patterns on the back of his hand. He nods, flattened curls bobbing with the movement. Layla isn’t fully convinced, but she lets it go, vowing to keep an eye on the man. Bringing her attention back to Dr. Vane, Layla asks the question on everybody’s lips.

“Dr. Vane, I heard you talking to Peter about this last night… Do we know for sure if he can play or not?”

Silence falls once again like a cloud over the group, as the doctor taps his chin in thought. The mighty Led Zeppelin wait with bated breath to hear the fate of their guitarist.

“I would…” Dr. Vane clears his throat, face apologetic as he glances around the room. “I would advise against it. Ultimately it is not up to me, of course. I can’t make you do anything, but Jimmy, you need to recuperate.”

The room feels as though all the energy had been sucked right out of it, as Jimmy fiddles with a loose thread on the hospital gown he was wearing, disheveled locks obscuring his handsome face as he looks down at his socked feet. Jonesy looks on with pinched features, concerned for the man, while Robert and Bonzo sigh, sharing another wordless glance. Things just got a lot more complicated, it said. Peter sends Jimmy a smile dripping with sympathy, and walks out the door, no doubt to make some important calls.

“Why don’t we all step out of the room, so Jimmy here can get dressed?” Dr. Vane suggests, and the group files out slowly. Layla stands up to follow, stopping in her tracks almost immediately. She turns around then, meeting Jimmy’s sad eyes, gleaming like a diamond in the morning sun, and walks towards him.

“Petal, I don’t…” Jimmy mutters, trailing off, dark curls a veil, hiding him from the world once again. Layla stops in front of him and tips his head up, a familiar hand on his chin. She runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back to see the man’s face. There are stress lines on his forehead, and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears, shining in the artificial hospital light. He looks as beautiful as he always does, to Layla. Jimmy’s lips quirk up subtly in the semblance of a grin, and he presses a kiss to the woman’s wrist.

“You’ll be okay. I believe in you, and you’ll get through this.”

“How can you be so—”

Layla leans down, face to face with the man, and swallows his words with a chaste press of her lips to his. It wasn’t a particularly heavy kiss; their lips moving together softly, but it meant more than either would ever know. It was a kiss of comfort. Finally pulling away, Layla places a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and squeezes lightly, before turning on her heel and walking out the door, leaving the man to get dressed.

Stepping out of the room, she is met with serious faces and whispered discussions of the injured guitarist. Robert and Bonzo are against the far wall, chatting quietly, while Peter, further down the hall, is using the hospital phone, no doubt to see what can be done about the tour. Layla turns her head, and sees Jonesy, who looks up as she nears him.

“Hey, Layla. How are you holding up?”

“I’m not the one with a fractured finger.” Layla snaps, immediately regretting it. She opens her mouth to speak, but Jonesy beats her to it.

“No, you’re not,” The bassist puts a hand on her arm, smiling wryly. “But you care about him. Just because he’s hurting, doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to.”

“Jonesy, I… I’m sorry for snapping at you, I’m just—”

“You’re concerned, and that’s okay. Don’t worry, I get it.”

“But I snapped at you, and you didn’t deserve it, in any way.”

“Layla,” Jonesy presses closer to her as he says this, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace. “I know you didn’t mean it. We’re okay.”

Layla looks up at the man, a hint of skepticism apparent on her face. Not believing that he forgave her so easily, so completely, she presses on further.

“Jonesy, how can you be fine with—”

“Look, Layla,” Jonesy chuckles, looking down at her fondly, much to her confusion. “We can talk about your guilt complex later if you need, but I think there’s someone you might want to see.”

“Guilt complex? I don’t—”

Layla spins around as a soft click echoes off the walls, and spots Jimmy, who shyly closes the door to his room. Dressed in a pair of dark flared jeans and a crisp white button up, a black suede coat folded over his arm, he looks sheepish as he walks towards the group, shoulders almost up to his ears. Peter, noticing the entrance of his guitarist, hangs up the phone with a hasty goodbye, turning to face the band.

“Right. Now, we’ve got a lot to talk about,” Peter starts, biting back a sigh. “Let’s all ride back to Swan Song, and go over our options.”

After a short car ride devoid of any chatter, the group finally walk through the double doors of the building, faces drawn and severe. Evelyn, at her post by the front desk, notices the lack of chatter and giggles that usually fill the room whenever the band enters. Finding Layla’s eyes, she reads the worry and concern in them, and lets her smile fall, snuffing out the light that always seems to surround the receptionist. Evelyn walks up to the young woman, placing a hand on Layla’s arm as she turns around to face the receptionist.

“Is everything okay, darling?” Evelyn asks, confusion in her hazel eyes as she stares at the retreating backs of Peter and the boys.

“I hope so,” Layla replies, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of her neck. “There was… an accident, and everything's a little up in the air. I’m sorry, Evelyn, I wish I could stay and chat, but—”

“Oh no, go ahead, darling. Go figure things out.”

With a grateful smile and a nod, Layla rushes to catch up with the group, slipping into the room behind Robert, the mahogany door shutting behind them to prevent prying eyes.

----------

Standing stock-still in Peter’s office, Layla glances around the luxurious office, taking in the grim faces of her companions. A soft cough echoes off the walls, courtesy of Robert, Layla guesses, if his guilty expression and the hand pressed to his mouth are anything to go by. All eyes are downcast, as hands fold over each other to distract from the silence pressing down on them. It feels like the walls are closing in on them ever-so-slowly, set to suffocate them, until Peter, sitting at the large wooden desk, clears his throat, clapping his hands together. Attention firmly on him, Peter begins to speak, his often kind voice determined.

“I’ve been calling around, and it seems as though we have two options: we postpone the tour for a later date, so Jimmy can heal… Or we continue with the tour as planned,” Peter explains, shifting his gaze to Jimmy now. “Jimmy, how is the finger feeling?”

“It’s good, I took some pain meds earlier. I can tour still.”

“Jim, you haven’t played on it yet.”

“It’ll hold up. I’m fine.”

There’s movement in the corner, as Bonzo crosses his arms over his chest, green eyes soft as he glances at Jimmy.

“Jimmy, I really don’t know if this is the best idea.” This is met by a look of betrayal, Jimmy turning around in his seat to face the drummer.

“Bonzo, I really am fine.”

“Look,” Bonzo presses on, meeting the guitarist’s eyes. “I know you don’t want to let anyone down. The thing is, you wouldn't be in the first place, Pagey. If this injury gets worse, because you played when you shouldn't have…” Bonzo trails off, averting his gaze now, Jimmy’s eyes on him too much to bear.

“Bonzo’s right, Jim,” comes from beside Layla, as Jonesy pushes off the wall to make his point. “Taking some time off would be good, we don’t want to make anything worse.”

“Nearly 18 months is enough time off, Jonesy. Any longer and the fans won’t even remember who Led Zeppelin is. I’m ready.”

“Jimmy, really—” Robert’s reply is cut off by the guitarist’s normally soft voice, hardened with frustration.

“Shows have already been sold out. All the arrangements have been made. Peter, call them back. We’re doing this tour.”

“Pagey… Alright. I’ll call them back, if you’re sure.”

“I am.” This is followed by the scrape of the chair he had pulled up to the desk against the floor, as he stands, and storms out. The remaining occupants of the room lock eyes, panic apparent.

“I’ll go after him.” Layla murmurs, starting towards the door. She knew exactly where she would find him, after all. Easily finding her way through the hallways of the massive building, she opens the door to the studio, spotting him slumped on the drum riser. Guitar in hand, he raises the bruised finger in the air, grip on the fretboard bordering on awkward. Jimmy strums, letting out a wince as the pain rears once again. A grunt full of frustration grinds out past his lips, and he tries again.

“Are you supposed to be doing that? Doctor’s orders, and all.”

Jimmy lifts his head to glance at her, and, with the hint of a sneer at the sarcastic comment, he resumes his playing. Layla huffs, and moves closer, taking in the man before her. His dark hair is falling into his face, casting shadows upon it, and his jaw is clenched, ready to snap as he misses yet another note. Jimmy lets out another frustrated sound, and swipes the hair out of his eyes, as if that was exactly what was messing him up.

Layla takes a seat on the drum riser next to him, and watches, as he fumbles a note she’s seen him perfect many times. Before he can adjust his grip on the fretboard to try again, Layla places a hand on the man’s strumming hand, and keeps it there. Jimmy looks up at her, a glint of determination in his mossy green eyes, brown in the lighting of the studio. His hair shines, jet black curls messy, as though he’s been running his hands through it more often than not. Eyes dropping to his guitar in embarrassment, he opens his mouth to speak, Layla beating him to it in the end.

“Jim, it won’t get better if you keep straining it like this. You know that.”

“Are you here to tell me to give it a rest too? Cause if you are, you might as well just—”

“I’m here,” Layla starts, shaking her head at the stubborn nature of the guitarist. “Because I trust you. You’re the only one that knows how you feel, and I trust you.”

“You do?” Jimmy says, looking up in confusion.

“I do, angel. If you think you’re ready, then I’ll trust that,” Jimmy takes his good hand off the guitar and threads it through hers, caressing the back of it with his thumb in thanks. Layla looks down at their joined hands, and continues. “If you’re rushing this for the fans, though, or because of whatever crazy scenario you’ve thought up in that brain of yours, I think I’m allowed to say I told you so.” The couple smirk at each other, as Jimmy gives the hand in his a warning squeeze.

“Okay, mum.”

Layla unlinks their hands to give him a soft shove to the side, the beginnings of a smile tilting her lips upward. Gripping his arm, she hoists him up to a standing position, and he goes willingly. Jimmy places his guitar carefully back in its rightful place, and stretches out a hand for Layla to take. Walking out of the studio together, hope settles over them like a well-worn blanket.

Hope that everything will be okay.

----------

“Please, just don’t push too hard. You’ve got this, angel.”

After dedicating just under a week to perfecting a new guitar technique, and making adjustments to the original setlist, the band waits in the dressing room of the Metropolitan Sports Center, native to Bloomington Minnesota. Layla’s palm raises, stopping to rest on Jimmy’s shoulder, as he looks down at her, his furrowed eyebrows betraying the picture of calm he was trying to emulate. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, and pulls her to his chest, arms wrapping themselves around her back.

“You can do this. Just remember that, okay?” This is followed by a nod from the dark-haired guitarist, as he smiles gratefully at Layla. A chorus of groans sound from behind them, and, turning around, they are met by the exasperated faces of the others. Already dressed in their stage clothes, they look ready to perform.

“Are you lovebirds done? Bloody saps,” Robert grumbles, the corner of his lip raising in a smirk, the playfulness in his tone obvious. “We’ve got a show to play.”

Following the boys backstage, Layla watches as they slip past the velvet curtain and onto the stage, ecstatic and powerful under the bright lights around them. They pick up their instruments, and with a collective breath and a look shared between them, the band does what they do best: play. The boys launch in, and Layla can’t help but be brought back to the last concert she witnessed. The atmosphere and the enthusiasm amongst the crowd was infectious, and Layla smiles as she looks out from the wings. Robert commands the stage, as usual, while Bonzo and Jonesy link up almost telepathically, creating a beat almost heaven-sent. Jimmy, for as awkward as it looks, three usable fingers grappling with the fretboard, makes the guitar scream and cry and sing. The winces of pain that she can see from her spot are worrying, though. To an outsider, it would seem as though he was simply somewhere else, the guitar becoming one with its handler.

But Layla knows better. She can see the exhaustion in his face, from hours spent bent over his guitar, adjusting the way he’s played for most of his life. She can see the lines of discomfort around his mouth, his lips bitten red out of concentration, from trying his absolute best to put on a good show. As she leaves her post near the stage to tune up Jimmy’s guitars for the next numbers, just as Peter had asked her to, she can’t help but let out a nervous sigh. Layla has seen how just stubborn the man is, how much he wants to succeed, and please the audience. She knows he’ll leave everything out there on stage. She just wonders how much of him there will be left over, in the end.

Completing the rest of the menial backstage tasks, the brunette walks back to the mouth of the backstage area, intercepting the boys as they come off after a thrilling encore, the deafening cheers of the crowd following them as they exit.

“If you keep this up, you’ll really get popular! I’m just kidding, but really, guys, that was incredible,” Layla raves, accompanying them to the dressing room. Bonzo sidles up next to her, wrapping an amicable arm around her as they walk, basking in the glow of her kind words. “All of you did such an amazing job!”

“Do we get a kiss now? Last time you saw us perform, Jimmy got one…” Robert asks, flipping his hair, damp and dark with sweat, off his shoulder.

“You’d like that, wouldn't you, Robert?” Layla chuckles, throwing a smile at him over her shoulder.

“Hey, it’s only fair!”

“In what way is that fair?”

The group finally reach the dressing room, lounging on the comfortable chairs strewn across the room. The boys take turns changing out of their stage clothes, and greet the guests in the room, shaking hand after hand. Soft laughter trickles like a steady stream in the background as Layla, sitting on a loveseat with Jimmy, places a hand on his thigh, prompting his eyes to meet hers.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, petal.” Jimmy’s voice is soft, faraway as his hand meets hers on his lap. The guitarist lets out a sigh, staring at the wall, expression neutral.

“That was a great performance, Jim. I hope you know that.”

“It was… good. It could've been better.”

“You know, I really am so proud of you,” Layla says, turning his head to face her, her fingers at his jaw. She looks deep into his eyes, and he stares back, an unreadable expression on his face. She’s always been able to read him, since the day she met him. Layla feels a pang in her heart, and continues. “It was great, and you made a lot of people happy… even if you’re not 100% yet.”

This is met with silence, as Jimmy lowers his head, hair falling into his eyes. He’s developed a habit of this now, and Layla resolves to break him out of that. His beautiful eyes make her day, after all. Reminders of their stay at the hospital flash through Layla’s mind, and she moves the hand that rested softly on his cheek to the small of his back, rubbing soft circles into the fabric of his stage clothes. He hasn't changed out of them yet, or done much of anything, in fact, trapped in the prison of his self-deprecating thoughts. His gaze lifts from his shoes at the contact, which Layla takes as a good sign.

“Now,” Layla clears her throat, pulling him up from the couch with a small hand at his arm. “Go get changed. You’re all sweaty, it’s a wonder you didn’t get heat stroke.”

“It’s a good thing I have you to take care of me,” Jimmy mutters playfully, a shadow of his usual smile creasing his delicate features. “Seriously, Layla, you could give Jonesy a run for his money.”

“Isn’t it just terrible of me to want to make sure you’re alright?” Layla grumbles, the smirk playing on her lips betraying the annoyed expression she sends Jimmy’s way.

Jimmy chuckles, pressing his lips to the side of her head.

“I appreciate it, petal.”

Walking to the changing room, slipping out of the grasp Layla had on his arm, he sends her a grateful smile over his shoulder. Layla watches him, appreciating the view as he walks away.

--------

taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis @timetraveller4 @earthfire-75 (let me know if you want to be added!)

#only the black rose #jimmy page #led zeppelin #jimmy page fanfic #jimmy page fanfiction #led zeppelin fanfic #jimmy x oc #jimmy page x oc

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twiistedgalaxies · 4 years ago

Text

Cuck for One Uses Tinder

"All for One, infamous boogeyman of the underworld, felt his non-existent eye twitch as one of his minions slid a stack of forums onto his desk. They were divorce papers. In a matter of moments, said minion became a red smear on the office wall. He had broken out of Tartarus for this nonsense? Seriously??"

A/N: I'm sorry, I don't have any excuse for this. I woke up in the middle of the night with the plot idea for this fic and thus this monstrosity was born. Bone Apple Teeth.

All for One, infamous boogeyman of the underworld, felt his non-existent eye twitch as one of his minions slid a stack of forums onto his desk. They were divorce papers. In a matter of moments, said minion became a red smear on the office wall. He had broken out of Tartarus for this nonsense? Seriously?? Made even worse was the fact that, with the aid of search, he found that All Might, kami damn him, and his now ex-wife were constantly spending time together. He had half a mind to head to the apartment complex that he owned and paid for and reclaim what was his.

“Sensei?” A familiar, raspy voice spoke up behind him and he felt the onset of a stress induced headache. The brat was meant to be his successor and potential replacement body. Unfortunately, those damn heroes had broken into the hospital before he could be fully developed, and All for One had to fish the young man out of a decayed crater the size of several city blocks before he could be thrown in Tartarus in a cell next to him. He wanted eventual retirement, and has had his plans foiled at every turn.

“Yes Shigaraki?” he replied, standing up from his chair.

“What happened? I underwent the operation one minute and the next thing I knew-”

“Ah, that. You were awakened several months before you were meant to. That’s why I called this doctor here to-” He glanced at the red stain, realizing that the man in question had been eviscerated in his divorce-papers induced rage, “-No matter, I’ll do it myself, come.”

All for One led Shigaraki down a series of winding hallways and stairs into a room filled with large test tubes and the few Noumu that remained after the raid on Dr. Garaki’s hospital. He stood before one that was open, not yet filled with the preservation fluid that left the Noumu in suspended animation. “Everything should be calibrated properly, if you’ll just step inside, the process will resume.”

Shigaraki scowled, “I’m not doing this for you,” he clarified, scratching the back of his neck, “This dream is my own, this is just the means to an end.”

If All for One had eyes, he would have rolled them with disdain, instead he said, “Sure, just step into the machine Tomura, or would you like to remain in your half-finished state?”

The young man let out a huff and begrudgingly complied. All for One injected him with enough anaesthetic to subdue a horse and closed the convex glass door. He fiddled with the controls for a moment - he hated being, for all intents and purposes, blind - and soon the tube was filling with preservation fluid as Shigaraki’s upgrades resumed. It was only then, in the greenish glow of the underground laboratory, that All for One realized with some dread that he had months of unfilled time on his hands.

-@~*^*~@-

All for One’s first course of action was to break into the bedroom of a young girl on the UA campus. He had, through his various underground contacts, heard of the Overhaul incident. How a man so incompetent had managed to go so far in his plans baffled him. Truly, the state of the hero industry has fallen since his prime. It was not the man’s fanaticism nor his sadism that fascinated him, but rather the child he’d had in his possession that was now under UA’s care. Her quirk, Rewind, was rather interesting with infinite and overpowered applications. He’d be tempted to take it for himself permanently had she not emotionally latched herself to a certain, green haired teen that proved time and time again to be a thorn in his side. It was simple enough to slip through UA’s security in the dead of night, to disable all nearby cameras with a mere flick of his hand. It was a wonder what a technopathy quirk could accomplish.

She was asleep, small face peaceful. He could feel contentment radiating from her. Likely having a good dream, he mused. Gently, All for One placed one of his large hands on her forehead. He borrowed her quirk, and felt his body rewind several years, before his fateful battle with All Might. He couldn’t help the satisfied smile that crept across his face as he opened his eyes for the first time in nearly a decade. Quickly, he returned Rewind to her and used a warp quirk (the same one he used in Kamino) to leave the premises. There was no need to alert the heroes to his restored state. Yet.

At least he’d be able to show up to his divorce hearing in person, though it would take every ounce of willpower he had to not level the courthouse.

-@~*^*~@-

All for One was lounging on his couch in his makeshift home and using his phone in an attempt to understand The Youth (which to him, was anyone who wasn’t in a nursing home). On a whim, he installed Tinder, it had been decades since he really got into the dating world. His lover has been villainy, generally being an asshole, and terrorizing aspiring heroes. Having to wait for his plans to unfold was making him restless. Anyways, he was planning to get into politics now that he had his face back, as a way to enact social change without having to deal with a slew of moronic underlings. It didn’t hurt to build the foundations for his retirement, and having at least some people in his life could make him more relatable to the public and help his long term goals. He was planning to use his ex-wife and estranged son for this, but the divorce threw that plan out the window. People don’t tend to trust those who spring into existence seemingly from nowhere. (To be honest, he was just lonely, not that he’d admit it to anyone, especially not himself.)

Where was he? Ah yes, Tinder. As it stood right now, he was swiping through the incredibly vain and shallow app, no one had truly caught his eye. No one that is, until his gaze (and didn’t that feel good to say?) landed on a disheveled man with long dark hair, stubble, and dark undereye circles that stood out against his pale skin. Aizawa Shota, 31. Eraserhead. He was tempted to swipe left on impulse when he paused. Getting close to heroes could be convenient to his political goals. There was no better or more ironic way to take out the hero commission than from within after all, plus it would give him information his underground contacts lacked. Yes, this would do nicely. (And if he found the man’s sleep deprivation and dry sense of humor charming as they spoke through text that night, well, that was just a side benefit.)

They had decided to meet at a nearby cat café that evening, and All for One showed up in his best suit. It was a dark, wine red and chosen to match his eyes. Belatedly he realized he was overdressed when Aizawa showed up in a simple t-shirt and dark jeans. Whoops.

He extended his hand for the other to shake, “Hisashi Kamiya, a pleasure to meet you.” It was absolutely not a pleasure to meet the erasure hero, but Aizawa didn’t need to know that. He couldn’t help but quirk his lips at his own last name. He had chosen it after the divorce, Shigaraki most certainly wasn’t going to fly, especially since his protégé had gained some degree of infamy.

Aizawa nodded, eyes narrowing, as he shook his head, “Aizawa Shota.”

The cat café was a small, square building lined with blue wooden panels. The windows glowed with a warm orange light, and the smell of java floated through the air. The interior was just as quaint, Hisashi noted as he opened the door for the other, among the table and chairs were various cat towers and potted plants. Despite its humble appearance, the café was rather busy this evening, stuffed to the brim with overworked college students and romantic hopefuls. They ordered their drinks (Aizawa ordered a black coffee and Hisashi ordered an espresso with extra foam) and made their way to a small round table in the back corner.

“I just want you to know that I’m married and don’t want to pursue any sort of relationship,” Aizawa began, petting a small orange tabby that somehow already made its way onto his lap.

Hisashi balked at that, but quickly composed himself, “So why are you on Tinder? I assume you don’t take random strangers on dates for the joy of it.”

“I’m here because my students are villain catnip, and I want to make sure they don’t get maimed while they're out and about. Especially that one,” Aizawa gestured to a table across the room from them, “Problem child seems to attract the League of Villains everywhere he goes.”

Hisashi followed Aizawa’s gaze to the table in question and felt himself pale when he saw a familiar mop of curly green hair, his son. He swallowed, trying to ignore the fact that his estranged kid was sitting only fifty feet away. “I can understand that, but why a cat café?” he asked.

Aizawa shrugged, “They’re on a date, plus I like cats.”

He had to do a double take, Izuku was with a boy that had dual toned hair. A date? Seriously? He hardly approved of his son doing such a thing at his young age. Part of him wanted to walk over and drag the teen from his table and out of the café. Instead of making his internal screams external, he smiled saccharinely, “It’s rather thoughtful of you to take time out of your busy schedule for your students, I’m sure it must be hard to juggle hero work and teaching.” And rather creepy. Who pestered and surveilled teenagers in their free time? Other than Hisashi of course, but he was the exception.

Before Aizawa could give him a response, their drinks were set in front of them. The foam on Hisashi’s espresso had been poured in the shape of a smiling cat. He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to launch it at his date and run. Instead, he took a sip, grimacing slightly. Too much sweetener. They sat in an awkward silence, Aizawa didn’t seem like one to make conversation. Somehow the man had attracted more cats to his side.

“So you said you were married?” Hisashi asked, probing for information.

“Mhm, my husband’s name is Hizashi. He’s kind, if a bit much sometimes.” That was an understatement, Present Mic was one of the most obnoxious heroes in the public eye, right after All Might in Hisashi’s books. More awkward silence, and then:

“So Hisashi, what is it exactly that you do for a living?”

He blinked, “Oh, I’m a quirk analyst,” a lie, though quirk analysis was a pivotal part of his job, it had to be with his quirk, “I’ve just always found them interesting. It’s like how inventors feel about electronics, I just can’t help but want to pull them apart and see how they work.” Hisashi’s grin turned almost predatory at that, and Aizawa tensed. “The first quirk I ever analyzed was a neon quirk, the holder’s sweat glowed in the dark, they were like a walking, talking glow stick.”

Hisashi rambled about quirks for a while (this was the first he’d spoken so much in a long time and the words seemed to gush out of him, like he had to pay some sort of deficit), and Aizawa eventually cut him off, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, “You know, you remind me of one of my students, he’s just as obsessed with quirks as you are.”

He visibly perked up at that, “Really? It’s rare to find someone who shares my interest, most find it creepy.”

The underground hero nodded, then glanced at the clock, “I should probably get going, my students have already left and I’m expected at the police precinct soon.”

Hisashi nodded, reaching to take a sip of his espresso but finding it already drained, “This was fun, even if it didn’t go anywhere,” perhaps this night could be salvaged and still give him some sort of in, “Would you like to catch a drink again some time?”

“No.”

-@~*^*~@-

His next date was considerably more disastrous than the first. He had matched with a young woman named Iwata Setsuko. His date in question had admittedly plain features, was a single mother with three children, and looked chronically stressed. She had taken time off from her crammed schedule to have dinner with him at a small Italian restaurant. The restaurant was small, quiet, and made to resemble a courtyard in an Italian villa. At the moment, she sat across from him in the cramped restaurant, honey eyes nervously peering at him from a veil of straight mousy brown hair. Iwata worked as a nurse practitioner in a nearby hospital, and seemed impressed by his extensive medical knowledge. She presumed him to be a doctor of some sort, and while inaccurate he could become one easily with a few forged documents if this proved fruitful.

Throughout the meal, she hardly spoke, leaving him to fill the silence with spun tales and falsehoods. He was telling her a particularly interesting anecdote about South Korea when she abruptly cut him off, “You’ve been lying to me all night.” Fuck.

Hisashi tried to laugh it off, “Now what reason would I have to lie to you?”

“My quirk allows me to read the vital signs of anyone close to me, I don’t know why you’d lie but I can tell you’re full of it.”

His eyes widened, “That’s a rather interesting quirk you have, it’s certainly perfect for your field-”

“Oh shove it, I know you’re deflecting,” She dismissed, a fire lit in her eyes that was previously absent.

He felt something flutter in his chest, he liked a woman with spark, it’s why he’d married Inko after all, and he couldn’t help but think of all the possibilities and applications her quirk had, and how helpful it could be for his goals. So caught up in his fantasies of world domination, was he, that he ignored whatever was coming out of her mouth. It probably was as helpful as white noise, as most mundane people’s words were, “You’re one of the only ones whose ever seen right through me,” he said with a widening grin.

“What?” She replied, confused.

“You know, with you at my side, we could have everything you can dream of! Think of the possibilities as the world crumbles at our feet-!”

He was cut off by Iwata, who was shoving breadsticks into her purse, “Look, it’s been fun but I have to go, my kids are waiting for me at home.”

“Think about my offer, you have my number!” he shouted to her as she rushed out the door, he glanced down at her plate, “She didn’t even finish her meal either.”

Iwata never got back to him, and All for One, dark lord of the criminal underground, was ghosted.

-@~*^*~@-

After another series of failed dates, Hisashi was slumped over a bar as Kurogiri, the noumu he had broken out of Tartarus for this sole purpose, awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. “Uh there, there?” he said.

Clearly, this online dating thing was not working, “I don’t even know why I try!” All for One proclaimed dejectedly, “Clearly the public cannot handle their awe of me.”

If Kurogiri had a face beyond a pair of glowing yellow eyes, he would have winced, “Right, well, sir, if it’s my place to give you advice I’d like to do so.”

Hisashi gestured vaguely with his hands, indicating that the sentient black mist should continue.

“Why don’t you go back to what you had before, you were married were you not?” Kurogiri suggested, “Surely it can’t be that hard.”

The supervillain lifted his head from the table, looking as if Kurogiri had just handed him the world, “You know what, you’re right, why don’t I re-enter their lives? They’re mine after all.” All for One stood up, a little drunk, “Kurogiri, if you had a mouth, I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, sir.”

A few hours later, at some ungodly time in the night, Hisashi was standing outside of the Midoriya apartment, boom box perched on his shoulder, blasting romance music like he was in a shitty 90s romcom. He was oblivious to the lights that began to turn on in windows up and down the street. Using a quirk to artificially project his voice, he shouted, “Inko baby, take me back, I’ll be better I promise!”

Soon he saw an uncharacteristically glaring, plump face in the window. Inko popped it open, slipper in hand, “Hisashi, I swear to god, if you don’t leave right now I’m calling the police, do you know what time it is?!”

“Time doesn’t matter in the face of love,” he replied, “Inko I-” Hisashi was cut off as a slipper hit him square in the face.

A/N: I hope this at least got you all to laugh, feel free to leave a comment! Happy holidays everyone, I should have the next chapter of Genesis posted on Monday.

AO3

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anika-ann · 4 years ago

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Errare Humanum Est - Pt.5

When Life Gives You Lemons...

Type: series, soulmate AU series (part 1, part 2) x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?) Word count: 3420

Summary: As one of you put it, we shall see how our lord and saviour Steve Rogers is doing - hint: not good. And spy!Natasha is plotting, because of course she is.

Warnings: mentions of violent death, vomiting, swearing, angst and more angst, unhealthy coping mechanisms, breaking and entering, a bit of blood... and sad sad Steeb

Story masterlist

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It had been two days since he had woken up. The first day was brutal, but he had been in and out due to pain-meds and anaesthetics specifically modified for his metabolism, forcing him to sleep through the process of healing his burns and nearly broken bones. The second day, he had woken up with his body perfectly healthy and had been released.

He came to his room, his gaze falling onto his bed and his eyes immediately filled with tears. His insides twisted painfully at the memory of you, a ghost of sensation on his skin as he had always enveloped you in his arms and nuzzled his nose in your hair.

Just for that, he gaged on nothing, his empty stomach rolling over and he barely made it to the bathroom to spit the gastric juices—and the pit in his stomach remained, leaving his body trembling and cold.

His knees wobbled when he finally got up from the bathroom floor, stripping the t-shirt someone had brought him to the medical. He froze at the picture of his torso.

Soundless ‘no’ escaped his lips, his trembling fingers touching the most precious thing he had left in horror. His brain must have been playing tricks on him, right? There was no way it was… his fingertips brushed the angry line over the words on his skin. It was like God realized he had made a mistake and scratched the words, deciding to write something different and never sharing his next thought.

The words were… crossed out.

Steve closed his eyes burning with fresh tears and leaned onto the sink, his hands gripping the ceramics hard enough to make it creak. A bitter scoff echoed in the bathroom, coming right back at him, mocking him.

Of course the last piece of you tying you to him was inevitably ruined. It was how it was supposed to be, right? No memory of you would stay intact. Steve knew that.

If he buried his face in the pillows, he would be able to smell your shampoo – but with time, it would fade away. He would be finding your clothes, or the clothes he lent you, but with one wash, your mark would dissolve. Your words to him should have been the only thing for him to keep, his brain had rationalized, just barely beginning to adjust to the thought that you were gone; and it turned out he wouldn’t get that either.

Steve stumbled into the shower, hoping to wash away the past few days. As if it was possible. As if he could drown the gnawing guilt settled in his very core. As if it would bring you back, make you re-appear in his bed, waiting for him to tuck in beside you.

He knew it couldn’t. His brain knew that, his heart too, but neither would truly acknowledge it. Because it couldn’t be real.

When he emerged from the stall, water actually turning cold, which was something Tony claimed was impossible, his first steps went back to the mirror, wishing to see a change – someone taking an eraser and getting rid of the evil line denigrating your precious words.

He had no such luck. It was still there. An eternal reminder or how empty his life became – how empty he had made it.

You were gone. You were gone and never coming back. That fact alone hurt so fucking much. Every memory of your time together felt like acid poured into his chest. Recalling how exactly that happened though, how you had been taken away, that was like a punch to his solar plexus with his own shield. And wasn’t that ironic.

It was because of him. Because of what he had done. He had made that choice. He had killed you. He had your blood on his hands. He hated it with every ounce of his being, hated himself for it with every shed of his torn soul, now missing its other half.

He had lost you because he was the hero, always putting the lives of other people before his own. But this time he only destroyed his own and actually taken someone else’s. This time there was no numbing coldness of the ocean to welcome him, no, there was only a throbbing pain in his chest, a harsh line over the words you had told him when you had first met.

Oh no, there must be a mistake.

Yeah, it was a fucking mistake. You should have never crossed paths with him. If you hadn’t, you would have still been alive, smiling at people behind the glass at your counter. Lightening up their day with a simple curl of your lips; lips that were dead now, not cold and lifeless, but torn apart and burned to ashes in the explosion he could have stopped. But he hadn’t. He had chosen to kill you.

He choked on an angry sob, his fist hitting the mirror, where the words mocked him. The glass shattered, an unbearably loud noise, broken pieces falling in the sink and on the floor by his feet with a heart-breaking clutter.

Steve’s head fell in his palm, not caring for the blood that started dripping from the cut from where his strike collided with the glass. He felt like bleeding these past days anyway. He felt like his heart was bleeding and always would.

He was such a fucking idiot. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he let all the people die, the math should be so easy, but you-- he had lost you. He had thrown away his soulmate. The soulmate he could never hope to find after crushing the plane into the ice and waking up after seventy years.

He chuckled bitterly as he remembered his first words to you, regarding his age. How silly they had been. How much he would wish to tell you the words one more time, brush his lips over the scribble on your skin, the action always giving both you and him a special thrill. He just wanted to hold you and never let go of his perfect soulmate.

‘They’re right, you know?’ his own voice echoed in his ears, your playful response following.

‘Are we talking shedding clothes or us being perfect for each other?’

Sharp pain attacked his left collarbone, his hand automatically covering the incriminated place. It felt like having his flesh torn open and yet, it could barely compete with the pain he felt whenever he thought of you being gone – which was constantly.

Few seconds of agony, sensation not foreign to him, and then it ended as suddenly as it started. Steve frowned, raising one of the larger pieces of the glass to look at the spot.

His heart nearly stopped when he found a new set of words on his skin, causing him to throw the shard away harshly, breaking it into smaller pieces.

That was just insulting. A new soulmate? Was that what it was supposed to mean?

Steve wanted to puke again, the sudden dizziness swaying his world off its place.

He didn’t even get to bury you yet – not that there was a body to bury – and there was another promise of love of his life scribbled on him? Was it… was it a joke? Was the higher power mocking his pain? Or was this supposed to give him hope?

Well, fuck this.

He wasn’t gonna meet her, whoever she was. Ever. He loved you. You might be gone, but he would never forget you just to be happy in someone else’s arms. He didn’t want anyone else and he didn’t deserve another chance in the first place.

And if he ever was to meet this woman accidentally, he was gonna make sure to have her escorted to the other end of the world where he couldn’t hurt her, where he couldn’t be tempted by hope of something in his personal life actually working out, only to have it ripped apart.

No, Steve was done.

He had shown the world that he was always gonna put his own life last and that was his new mission. Save as many as he could and never stop, not for a second. Because if he stopped going, the world might as well stand still. If he stopped going, he might have to think of you or worse, of her, the one whose mark he carried now, dishonouring a memory of the woman he had fell in love with as easily as if it was meant to be.

Funny thing about fate – it sucked.

Steve was about to kick fate in its balls this time. There was no chance on happiness for him, not again. And some stupid words, telling him I’m sorry? would change nothing about it.

He crumbled into his bed in the clothes you had borrowed for sleeping the last time you spent the night and he face-planted into the fluffy pillow still smelling of you. If it wasn’t for the lack of heat coming from your body, he might even believe you were there.

He was lying there for what could be a minute or hours. He couldn’t tell and he didn’t care.

Jarvis had tried to communicate and to get him to the kitchen to eat something; it had been a day the A.I. said.

Steve wouldn’t have known. It didn’t make a difference to him. It didn’t really matter.

His soulmate, his better half, was gone. And all he felt was that you had taken the other half, the one that had used to belong to him, with you too. Steve hugged the pillow and fell asleep with a feeling of emptiness in both his gut and heart.

He just wished the emptiness swallowed his brain as well, hell, swallowed him whole so he didn’t have to feel anything.

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Samuel Wilson entered his apartment exhausted. Throwing his keys onto the shoe cabinet next to his door, he cursed as he missed the bowl and the keys slid from the wooden surface. Today was a very long day; while the streets were still busy when he walked them, it was freaking late. New York indeed was a city that never slept; he would know. He had talked to insomniacs, among others, every day at the therapy centre.

He sighed as he reached for the light-switch, already half-bent to raise the keys from the floor; only for the light not turning on and his eyes catching a glimpse of a figure near the window.

Sam froze.

Well, shit.

It looked like the very long day just stretched to an enormous measurement. His mind immediately jumped to the gun shoved in the shoe rack and he made the tiniest move towards it.

Samuel Wilson might have been a retired solider, but he still was one. There were three guns hidden in his apartment, mainly because he was a paranoid bastard; there had been an alien invasion, so sue him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a female voice warned him icily, a hint of a mockery scratching it.

Sam’s blood turned into ice. It wasn’t just because of the threat or the fact there was a stranger in his apartment, clearly knowing about his weapon, probably removing it so he couldn’t use it, no. It was because of the exact words the woman said. They were familiar. Too familiar in a way he didn’t want to think about, especially considering they came from a woman who had broken into his home.

“And why is that?” he asked in a voice that sounded way more strangled that he wanted to.

There was a beat of silence and Sam realized that this truly must have been it. Well, fuck this. The universe must hate him for sure.

“Something tells me you know why,” she accented her words with an unmistakable click of a gun and the magazine hit the floor a second later. Two more followed.

Yep, she had got them all. Sam shoved the intrusive thought of this woman maybe not being his soulmate since she hadn’t actually commented on their first exchange to the back of his mind. Really not the time. Then again, was it ever?

“You can come out, you know,” she sighed and Sam figured he didn’t really have a choice.

He peeked from behind the wall dividing the hall and the kitchen, seeing the woman standing by the window with her arms crossed on her chest. The street lights weren’t enough to show her face; Sam could only tell her height and built and watch the light reflect on her dark red curls.

Her stance seemed almost relaxed. Sam forced himself to ease the tension in his shoulders a bit, but was still ready to jump behind the couch in case she was about to draw a weapon and shoot at him. Those things happened, he knew. People shot at him – or hey used to. Perk of his past job. Not nowadays though and he didn’t feel like returning to the old days.

“Who are you?” he asked the logical question despite not expecting an answer. People didn’t break into houses to introduce themselves. “Why are you here?”

“I need your help,” she replied softly, causing Sam’s eyebrow to fly to his hairline.

“Really? Ever heard of a phone, lady?”

“I needed to meet in person.”

“Yeah, this feels really personal,” Sam bit back sarcastically, his mind racing. His help? “Are we talking counselling? Because there’s a therapy centre for that, once again with a phone. I have hours there. No need to break into my house… and murder my lamps.”

Perhaps he only imagined the corner of her lips rising for the shortest of moments, not trusting the game of shadows hiding her face.

“Yeah, I need a therapist.”

Sam swallowed the ‘clearly’ that was on the tip of his tongue.

“The sessions are listed on the internet or in the centre. Have a good night,” he grumbled and made the mistake of turning his back to her, trying out another light switch. He groaned in annoyance when it only clicked and the room was still drowning in the dark. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

“It’s for a friend,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. Her voice was low now, intimate, revealing a secret she wasn’t comfortable sharing. Yet, she did. “He’s… he needs help.”

There was a tinniest crack to that voice and Sam’s heart jumped, his brain switching into his job mode.

Oh dammit, shut up, brain! We’re not helping the lady who can pick up a lock and lurks in the dark, even if she cares for her friend. No. Nope.

“And he’s welcomed to join the group sessions,” Sam said levelly, half-blindly moving to the kitchen counter to help himself with a glass of water.

“You are the top therapist in the state specializing in PTSD and helping to find a way after losing one’s soulmate.”

Sam tried not be proud of her knowing that he was ranked as one of the best – that was a bit creepy, right? Plus, everyone liked different approach; for someone he could be the top; for another, he could be the worst person to talk to, ever. Still, he had an unpleasant feeling in his chest at the way she said it; there was an edge to it he had trouble identifying. Not to mention the faint longing that washed over him, knowing too well what it must have felt like for this friend of hers.

“Then he’s welcomed to visit my sessions if he wants to.”

The woman sighed as if losing patience with him, explaining something for the hundredth time. “That’s the thing. I don’t think he wants to – and he definitely can’t visit your support group.”

Sam downed half the glass before responding. She sure was insistent. No shit, Sherlock, she picked a lock and went to talk to you in the middle of the night.

“So pick another therapist who has private sessions. There are plenty in the centre, all of them great,” he offered, turning to face her – well, kinda face her.

“He lost his soulmate in a rather traumatising way. The guilt is haunting him on top of everything else. And you kn— you’re the best,” she said slowly and Sam could tell she hesitated. She held something back. He put the glass down, squinting to catch a glimpse of her expression.

He didn’t want to think of the worst, but she was making it really hard. She knew, he realized. She knew, didn’t she?

“I’m sorry,” he consoled. “But he’s not the only one. We deal with people who lost their soulmate to a car accident and were driving. People who lost their partner to a house fire, because they left a candle burning. We understand the guilt and we worked with it. He can join.”

The woman wavered again, but when she spoke again, her voice was determined. “The circumstances were a bit unusual, I’d say. There’s a reason why I came to you specifically. I know you know guilt. Riley was his name?”

Sam sneered, lunging after the woman, but she was like a hummingbird – one moment she was by the window, the other at the other side of the room. Sam didn’t give a fuck if she was dangerous or if her friend needed a help – if there even was one. How dared she to-

How dared she?!

No one spoke of Riley. No one. No one but him, never mentioning his name when he shared with people of his support group the grief of his own, the guilt of seeing his wingman and original soulmate fall to the ground, shot down by RPG.

“Don’t you say his name!” he growled as he followed her around and she released a frustrated huff.

“Sorry! Okay, sorry! I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot, goddammit!” she whisper-yelled in earnest. Sam didn’t let her deceive him this time though. Fucking bitch! “I’m sorry!”

Sam stopped in his tracks then, grinding his teeth, but giving her the last chance to explain herself. She had her hands raised in a harmless gesture, the streetlights now playing games of shadows on her face, tracing her delicate features. In any other situation, Sam would have found her beautiful, even without truly seeing her. Now she was simply pissing him off.

“I want nothing but to help my friend. I promise. I’m sorry about your partner, I truly am. But I came to you, because I think my friend could use a talk with someone who understands.”

“The offer to join the group still stands. Just don’t let him tell me he’s with you, ‘cause then I might hate him just because and that’s not exactly professional,” Sam spitted out and the woman lowered her hands and released a shaky breath.

“He can’t just walk into your support group,” she repeated, but explained nothing.

“Why?” Sam insisted, annoyed, but with his anger levelling as fast as it burst out. “What is so goddamn special about his case that he should get an exception?”

The woman slowly reached to her pocket, pressing a button on a device not bigger than a phone. Sam was ready to jump behind the nearest vertical surface to take cover, but it wasn’t necessary. The device only assaulted his eyes as the light he had previously tried to turn on flickered to life and finally revealed the woman standing in his living room.

Sam was pretty sure he was hallucinating now. Because the woman… she looked familiar. He had seen her on TV. But that couldn’t be. Right?

“You’re—are you…?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed simply and Sam only managed to stare, his mind blank. She simply couldn’t be. Then again, it would explain a lot of things.

“Your friend…?”

“Doesn’t know I’m here. I would merely appreciate at least an advice, to be honest. But if he ever agrees to meet a therapist, I think he would appreciate a little privacy. I think it was enough that his last moments with his soulmate were broadcasted all over the US.”

Sam gulped, remembering seeing the live-feed as well. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Black Widow sure was an annoying woman with no boundaries and she pissed the hell out Sam when she mentioned his deceased fiancé, but Sam found himself unable to say no. He rarely did, but when she asked for an advice to deal with Captain America – losing his soulmate in order to save thousands of others’ lives –, it was beyond impossible to ignore the cry for help.

His shoulders slumped with a heavy exhale and he fell to the couch, sloppily gesturing towards the rest of the seats in wordless offer.

“Alright. I’m listening. What can you tell me and what do you hope I can help you with?”

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Part 6

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I was ridiculously excited about this chapter. I guess I just enjoy torturing Steve as much as keeping him in a fluffy blanket of love. What can I say...

Also, LOOK OUT. Check the gifs I use, because now we have Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff and Sam Winchester and ‘Natasha Rogers’, so... you know 😂

Thank you for reading!

P.S. - a little surprise is coming up next ;) Hopefully you’ll like it!

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Tags: @mysterioh @smilexcaptainx , @murdermornings @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater , @polarcrystall @eliza5616 @rayofdawnworld @victor-criss-bish @skychild29 @elysianecho @simmisblog @scentedsongrebel @orions-nebula, @sergeantrosabellaswan @songofcosplay, @ilovesupersoldiers @wxstedhexrt @silver-winter-wolf @guardian-tn @janieavalos @vxidnik, @patzammit , @annathesillyfriend @maravderofthephoenix @thehumanistsdiary

Anyone wants in or out, shoot me a message or an ask :)) It’s (usually) no problem ;)

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whumpthisway · 5 years ago

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Alien Whump!

Hunted/captured aliens ->

- Forced to land on a planet/spaceship that’s not their own and being isolated/hunted/stared at for their different appearance

- Being hunted and constantly on the run from humans/other aliens who want to capture/kill them (bonus if they’re unable to leave the planet because humans/other aliens have taken/destroyed their spaceship)

- Hunted whilst the alien is injured, so they’re forced to run on an injury/collapsing from blood loss, etc. OR being injured when they’re captured, ie. through being shot down/cut by nets/hitting their head when they’re sedated/the tranquilised used being too strong and almost killing them, etc.

- Malicious hunters torturing an alien for fun and deliberately taking a long time before killing them

- Hunters discovering how to capture aliens who were previously too powerful/fast to capture (ie. with new technology, or if the alien was weakened/betrayed by another) and trapped (in a lab? Cage? Outdoor enclosure for public viewing?) to be studied or kept as a prisoner

- Alien hurt by another alien, who knows their culture/biology and so can hurt the alien the most

- Alien hurt by a human/different species of alien, who don’t know anything about them and neglect/hurt them unintentionally, ie. through wrong atmosphere to breathe, food/volume of food, gravity, environment of their cage, lack/excess of physical contact, accidental contact with poisonous substances, etc.

- Scientist whumper experimenting on the alien (and threatening vivisection), keeping them in a cold lab, not talking to them

- Captured and treated like a slave/pet, either by a singular whumper in secret, or on a planet where the alien’s whole species is enslaved and traded

General whump ->

- Prejudice against species of aliens being belittled/ignored/abused because of “tradition” or how they look, ie. a particularly small alien not being listened to/overlooked/refused to be soldiers because they’re seen as weak

- OR a certain species of alien being viewed as dangerous/hostile, so that no-one will trust the alien enough to talk to them/be their friend/employ them, or maybe even so that the alien is usually attacked on sight out of other aliens’ fear of them

- Language and cultural barriers between different alien species/humans and aliens causing misunderstandings, hurt and conflict, ie. by giving accidental insults, not understanding how to provide emotional comfort, etc.

- Medical whump and lack of knowledge meaning that the alien can’t be treated/helped when they’re sick/injured (bonus if the Caretaker doesn’t dare give the alien anaesthetic in case it kills the alien so the alien has to be conscious for surgery/painful injuries)

- Being injured by a human/another alien because they didn’t realise how fragile the alien was, or the reverse – the alien accidentally injuring a human/another alien and feeling incredibly guilty (bonus if the alien’s teammates are then nervous of them/don’t trust them anymore and see them as a dangerous liability)

- Getting lost in space, running out of fuel, and ending up somewhere dangerous, ie. asteroid fields, a hostile/radioactive planet or a planet with the wrong atmosphere, etc.

Hope this was okay for you anon, and sorry for the lateness! I hope you get to see it :)

(Mythical whump series 25 - continuations on request Feel free to send continuation ideas but at this point, I think I’ll probably finish up, unless any requests really catch my fancy~)

I hope this series has been useful to peeps~ :3

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bibliocratic · 5 years ago

Text

future jonmartin (cw for hospitals; no warnings for character death) The rocking against his shoulder knocks him shuddering from his worrying. It is like being unmoored, cast back into the tumult and it takes a while for Martin to blink, to align the vision of who is rousing him with who they are.

It's both a relief and a disappointment that it's not the doctor with news.

“Anything?” Lewis asks. A brisk voice, demanding, but it's unsteady and catches in his throat and little things like that have always given him away. “Have they... is there any news?”

Martin is standing up, gathering him up in a tight hug. He's tall, but not in the way Martin is – he's bony and meatless and his posture is terrible no matter how often he's been lectured on it, and it's such a relief that he's here, that Lewis is gripping just as hard and just as scared.

“Nothing yet,” Martin says, and he's attempting to sound optimistic, the sounds made wrong in his mouth, and it's too much like lying to comfort either of them. He doesn't want to deliver meaningless platitudes, repeat like rote statistics of recovery, of chances, but he doesn't want to worry him, and it's in that sort of double-think he lingers, the sort of equivocation that comes with parenthood.

Lewis must have come straight from uni, he thinks. He's washed out from the travel, wired and jittery from tasteless on-board coffee-grit. There was delays at every leg of the journey down from Liverpool, and when Lewis slumps himself down like a dropped bag, he's still not worn down those frantic mechanisms in him, the clock-watching, the checking for news, for updates.

“Have you eaten?” Martin asks, an old fall-back, casting an eye over him. He might have some change in his pocket, he thinks, for the vending machine back along the corridor. It's been a busy term, and video calls don't quite do things justice, because he worries that maybe Lewis has lost weight, maybe he's not eating properly, or it might simply be the unkind lighting of the waiting room.

“I'm not hungry,” Lewis says, providing a round-about answer to the question. He's a sharp young man, made of edges and this burning thirst to prove himself that Martin knows doesn't come from him, and to anyone else the way he sometimes talks can come across as dismissive, a hand-wave of a tone designed to disregard the topic. But Martin knows him. Knows his son. Knows it's not meant like that.

Watches him fiddle his bottom lip with his teeth, jitter his leg up and down, and wishes this was something he could kiss better like the old days.

“What about...” he fumbles for the strings of some other conversation. “Were your tutors ok? With you … just leaving like that?”

“They'll understand it was an emergency.”

“You had a... you have your final essay due on Monday, what will...?”

“They'll give me an extension, it's fine.”

Martin nods and goes back to twisting the ring on his left hand, round and round and round. Surely he should have heard something by now, it’s been hours of waiting, what if something's gone wrong, what if he wasn't fast enough...

“Dad?”

“Yeah?” Martin looks at Lewis, his glasses all smudged and mucky because he forgets to clean them.

Lewis puts a hand on his arm.

“Are you... are you ok?” he asks, uncharacteristically tentative, and looks right at Martin. A rare gesture of eye contact, held for more than a flicker of time.

“I'm... I'll be fine,” Martin says – Martin lies – because that's the best he can muster right now. What he thinks, but will never say out loud is – I'm not ready for this. I don't know how I ever could be. I can't imagine doing any of this on my own.

He hasn't moved from this chair. He's convinced himself that if he stays here, then everything will turn out ok, and it's stupid, yeah he knows it, but that this point he'll take any backwards ridiculous quirk of brain chemistry that counts as superstition.

His sleeves are damp and his eyes must be a mess and his fingers are bitten to nothing, and he's still got a coat thrown over his pyjamas for god's sake, and still he hasn't heard anything.

Lewis doesn't believe him, but he keeps his hand where he placed it on his arm. And Martin supposes that's fair. He'd called Lewis after a few minutes of building his composure, swallowing down shuddering breaths and pushing out air too hard, telling himself that he needed to calm down, that he couldn't go to pieces, not now, not yet – Lew? Lew, it's – it's your... I'm sorry to be calling so early but I think you should.... You need to come home. As soon as you... It's – it's your father. He's had... he's at the hospital.

(And he was proud of himself then, because stammering as it was, incapable of communicating the enormity of a moment he couldn't comprehend fully, his voice did not betray the terror it had. Not when he had heard the sound of the fire alarm sniping, assuming the toaster settings had been left on too high or something, walking into the kitchen to see the toast popped up, burning and ignored, Jon, frowning, confused, breathing funny with his palm over his chest, sucking in air in straggling little hitching gasps; Jon meeting his eyes, tears already sprung into the corners – Martin, something's wrong. Not when Martin had juggled calling 999 and holding Jon's weight bodily up, swaying and light-headed and his breathing seeming a whetstone to the pain, clutching him too hard and none of Martin's words being enough. Not when he was sat in the back of the ambulance, Jon barely holding his hand, wondering if this, this was the great joke of the bloody universe, the Archivist surviving everything but his heart in the end.)

There is a patting sound, sensible shoes slapping squeaky tile, moving towards them. Martin's world loses colour when he sees the doctor.

Lewis is standing immediately, tumbling through a number of quick-fire questions, and the doctor does a good job of not looking rattled.

“Are you a family member?” he replies, and he's not obviously looking between Martin and Lewis, failing to find much resemblance, but he is definitely looking. It's perhaps more delicate than others have been in the past, inquiring about their relationship to each other. Martin is well aware that Lewis looks nothing like either of his parents. He likes to think, in his more fanciful paternal moments, that he has Jon's prominent jawline, his propensity for scruffy stubble, sees something of his husband in the brown of his eyes.

“My son,” he gestures with a weak wave and the doctor nods, before he slides into explanations. Lewis is keeping up, asking questions about the procedure, the complications, recovery and where they go from there, and the doctor is trying to be sensitive but his son is bullish, wanting every detail and he's so much like his father like this, headstrong and unwilling to yield an inch.

It's good news. Better than hoped. Martin is too exhausted to smile. The rush of relief that should un-tense his muscles, pull the curtain down on the performance his anxieties have been playing out behind his eyes, instead it has left him hollow and dizzy.

“Lew,” Martin says, and Lewis turns, and must see something he can't because he quietens, his expression shifting softer, moves over to grab Martin's walking stick from where it's lent against the seat, pressing it into his palm. He puts a hand on Martin's shoulder.

“Let's go see him,” he says, and Martin takes the arm offered to help him to his feet.

They follow the doctor. Martin's not been fast on his feet, not since the Watcher's Crown, but he can't lay all the blame at the foot of that particular clusterfuck; age hasn't been on his side either in this regard, and his progress isn't as fast as he wants it to be. Lewis and the doctor are talking about Jon, something about local anaesthetic, sedation, how Mr Blackwood-Simms has an unusually high tolerance to anything they give him – and some part of Martin's brain thinks this is probably Jon's weird former Archivist powers, the rippling after-effects of which have never quite left him. Martin is not really listening to either of them. He puts one foot in front of another, and tries to feel relieved, and he should, he should, it's good news, this is what he wanted.

Jon nearly died today, his brain keeps reminding him. You nearly lost him, you nearly weren't fast enough.

And Martin is not strong enough to disagree.

Jon is awake when they go onto the shared ward. Propped up to sitting, already looking slightly bored at the lack of anything to do. There's an IV taped up and held in place on his scarred hand, and he looks like a wind-knocked scarecrow what with all the wires and tubes he's hooked up to, his hair unbrushed and tussled all over the place. He is not as pale as he was, more exasperated than frightened, and Martin tries to forget the last expression he saw on his husband’s face. He feels a hitch in his throat but swallows it down.

“Lewis?” Jon says, sounding surprised. “I thought you had an essay due Monday?”

“Before someone got themselves admitted to hospital,” Lewis replies easily, but he's striding forward, giving his father a hug that betrays his worries, holding on a bit too long, leaning over the bar around the bed with discomfort.

“Really,” Jon grumbles, but he seems pleased at the unexpected attention and hugs back with the hand not tangled up in wires. “All this fuss over nothing, you didn't need to come all this way.”

“I hear you got the ambulance service out. Doesn't seem like nothing,” Lewis responds and Jon waves a hand as though the comment is not worth his time.

“Are you eating?” he says instead, looking over their son critically. “You don't want your dad worrying. I won't hear the end of it.”

It's a teasing pattern of back-and-forth, familiar and shot through with affection, but Martin can't be part of it. His hands don't know what to do with themselves. He doesn't have any words that can make any of this palatable, none of this, because they're in a hospital, again, after surviving everything else, and he thought he was done being frightened of this.

He sees Lewis nudge his father.

“Go gentle, yeah?” he hears him murmur admonishingly. “You really scared him.”

Jon looks right at Martin then. There's sorrow cutting into the lines of wrinkles there, some acknowledgement of what just happened finally gracing his face. Martin is shuffling forwards to the side of the bed, and Jon is reaching up, cupping Martin's cheek.

“You saved me again, I see,” he says, teasing if it wasn't so soft, so quiet, so clearly for only the two of them. There's a weight of histories there, the many times they've both been here before, but Jon is looking at him so sadly, rubbing a thumb over the tear-stains on Martin's cheek. There's such blinding trust in his eyes. Martin doesn't know, because Jon doesn't know how to put it into words, but even as the pain spiked hard in his chest and he struggled to breath, Martin had been there and so some part of him knew it would have been ok. Martin would have made it so. “I knew you would.”

Martin is wrapping his arms around him then – oh god, Jon, don't you ever do that to me again – and Jon is solid under him, gripping tight, and it's like being able to breath again.

#let me know if this needs any cws and i'll add!#the magnus archives #post-watchers crown #tma #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan simms

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