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catslvrr · 6 months ago

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you know all my dreams (you were one)

danielle marsh x fem!reader | one shot

Synopsis: Being a superhero involves a lot of saving, like saving people from burning buildings, saving cats stuck in trees, and even saving yourself from being evicted from your apartment. There’s one thing that you haven’t saved yet, and that’s your relationship with Danielle.

Contains: cursing, blood, violence, death, cliche hero stuff

You would like to believe that you are a good roommate.

But when you come tumbling through the window, landing with a raucous thud, all you have the strength to do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to the heavens that your roommate graciously ignores you. Again.

This is the fourth time in a week that you have managed to enter your room in such a manner. You rely on the fact that your roommate is abnormally nocturnal and is most likely asleep by now.

You grimace as you remember that one time you accidentally crashed through her window, blacked out, and woke up to her grim face as she poked you with her foot. It wasn’t that far off from how she originally found out you were Spider-Woman two years ago.

It had been a rough day. You didn’t leave exactly scot-free after fending off the attempted escape of some maximum security prisoners at the Raft.

This attempt may have been catalyzed by the recent blackout that you may have caused by fighting off another escape attempt, but who’s to say that’s the case?

Regardless, all escapees were given a scenic swing, free of charge, straight back to prison—a temporary one anyway. Now all you had to worry about was making it home in one piece.

By the time you reach home, the muscles in your arms giving in from the endless web-slinging, you don’t have enough energy in you to ease your landing (which really just meant trying to land on cool superhero poses). You swoop right onto the floor, face-down and limbs sprawled out like a measly bug helplessly trapped in a web.

You’re not entirely sure of the full extent of your injuries in the moment—mostly because of the way your whole body is burning, reminiscent of the building you were thrown into, but you’re pretty confident you have at least multiple bruised ribs, a black eye, and a mild concussion.

“So, all things considered,” you say half-heartedly to no one in particular. “Not too bad.”

(Future note: You actually also had one fractured toe.)

You’re happily drifting off into unconsciousness, with nothing but the belated, slightly panicked thought of whether you locked your door or not, when three sudden strikes at your door jolt you awake.

Suppressing a groan, you roll over and pull yourself up as best as possible, ignoring the way your ribs scream at you. God, you were in so much pain. You let out a breathy exhale and even muster a crooked smile, even though you know your roommate can’t see you.

“Roomie! What’s up?”

A pause.

You cringe. Seriously, ‘Roomie’? You should’ve gone with the name you saw on the leasing contract.

(When you first saw it, you thought that the lease was some sort of scam, because your roommate’s signature looked like someone trying to draw Australia from memory. Upon further questioning of the landlord, you were left with the information that your new roommate, Haerin, was indeed real.)

Before you can even apologize for your lame attempt at a greeting, Haerin’s response comes curtly.

“There was a crash.”

You pick up on a slight inflection of curiosity in Haerin’s tone—is glad that despite her nosiness, she didn’t decide to barge in and see you in your full Spider-suit glory. You force out a chuckle, hoping your roommate doesn’t notice the strain.

“Oh—right. I just fell. Tripped over my own feet. I mean, while dancing. Well. Trying to, you know?”

Your embarrassment grows with every word that bumbles out of your mouth, and when the heat in your cheeks is too much to bear, you manage out a simple:

“Yep,” to eloquently finish it all off. You cross your fingers and hope your roommate doesn’t question the fact that there is no music playing at all.

You barely hear a non-committal hum over the pounding in your ears, and only release your breath when you hear the familiar obnoxious typing of keys, finding your heartbeat in tandem with its rhythm.

There are some things you can always depend on, and one of those things is Haerin’s perpetual typing as she attempts to finish her journalism assignments at the last minute. The incessant clicking of the keyboard gradually becomes soothing, almost therapeutic. You pass out before you can even register any sliver of drowsiness.

And then you wake up to a deafening bang and splinters of your doors ricocheting toward you.

Reflexively, you flick your wrist, effectively webbing any stray pieces of your door to the ceiling. But you also web your roommate’s face. There are a few seconds of silence as you both just stare at each other.

“Funny how you find me in my Spider-Woman cosplay,” you chuckle awkwardly. “Because I’m not, you know, Spider-Woman.”

Haerin slowly peels the web off her face, face wholly impassive, still menacingly holding the ax. “I’m hungry. Buy me Wingstop.”

It takes you an hour to get the Wingstop back home. Ten minutes was dedicated to a mini meet-and-greet.

“What the fuck, Haerin,” you say with a mouth full of lemon pepper fries. “You broke my door down with an ax.”

“I was hungry,” she replies matter-of-factly, as if that’s a reasonable justification for the insane property damage she just inflicted. “But you were also not responding for sixteen hours.”

“I was out for sixteen hours?”

“A bit of an exaggeration. Maybe around 10.”

“Why do you even have an ax anyway?”

“Look at where we live,” Haerin clicks her tongue. “And you being Spider-Woman just slaps a big target on our backs.”

“Pause,” you raise your hand and stop chewing. “I’m not Spider-Woman. I’m just… a huge fan.”

Haerin’s exasperated eyes flicker to yours.

“I’m serious!”

“Yeah right,” she scoffs. “You make way too many spider puns.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘I’ll swing by’, or ‘I’m kinda tangled up in something right now’,” she explains with air quotes.

You noisily take a sip of a lemonade you bought from a random stall. “Huh.”

“So,” you chew thoughtfully. “Hypothetically, if I was Spider-Woman, how would you react? Would you tell anyone?”

Haerin scans you, still wearing the Spider-suit, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, ungracefully shoving chicken tenders in your mouth with ranch dribbling down your chin. “I’ve known for, like, three months.”

You almost knock the ranch cup over in shock. “What?”

You swallow the chicken tender too quickly, and have to take a breather because you almost choke on it. “How—I mean, why would you think that?”

“You discarded one of your broken web-shooters in my room.”

“Oh. That’s where it went,” you scratch your cheek. “So… you won’t tell anyone, right?”

Haerin smiles. “Only if you pay for the door.”

You hear the screeching of a chair against the floor, hear the imposing footsteps headed toward your room. You feel something poke you. It’s probably the handle of that stupid ax she’s so attached to.

“You good?”

You respond with an unintelligible noise.

Another poke. “Rent’s due soon, you know.”

You roll over with a groan and pull off your mask. “Spare me some sympathy, I’m dying.”

“No you’re not. You’ve had worse.”

Haerin squats down to your level and dabs a cut on your forehead, leaving a burning sting. “Ow!”

You stay mum as Haerin wipes your face free of grime and blood. It’s rare, but when Haerin patches you up, there’s a tinge of gratefulness that twists your heart, and you know it’s better to leave it unspoken. That’s just how you two are.

You break the silence after a while. “I really need to find a job, don’t I?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Haerin replies. “I think you should start your own business: Spider-Eats.”

“Like… Uber Eats?”

“Exactly,” Haerin nods proudly. “But you don’t need to pay for gas, because you just swing over. And I’m sure people will tip you because you’re Spider-Woman.”

“Huh. That’s actually a really good idea.”

As you shuffle out of your Spider-suit and wince at the way your bloody clothes stick to yourself, you make a mental note to start designing and coding a Spider-Eats app. And to also do laundry again. You languidly stretch your limbs, trying to ignore the aches and pains.

“Thanks, doc,” you grin at Haerin. “I feel better already.”

Haerin nods and walks out to the living room. You hear some faint rustling, and the smell reaches you first: pepperoni pizza. You can practically hear an orchestra of trumpets and horns and trombones sing as Haerin re-enters your room, like an angel from heaven, holding three boxes of pizza. It’s even from the same parlor joint the two of you always loiter around.

“Wait,” you pull a can of grape Fanta out of her hand and toward you with a web. “I’ve always wanted to try something.”

Haerin watches as you dangle from the ceiling upside-down and crack open the can. You bring it to your mouth and attempt to drink it, only for you to choke and spill it on your floor.

“Oops.”

After that sad display, you both find yourselves in a familiar position: sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, absolutely devouring the food you’ve chosen to be a victim to your outrageous appetite. It comes with being a superhero.

“Seriously, Haerin,” you sigh in satisfaction. “I love you so much.”

You and Haerin mostly eat in silence and scroll on your phones until all three boxes are demolished. You pack up all the boxes and push them to the side, flopping into a starfish position and feeling bloated already.

“You know,” Haerin starts, her voice surprisingly sincere. “Tomorrow’s the day.”

You slowly exhale. “Yeah.”

She flops down beside you. The two of you stare at the LED strips (set to red and blue) that you both went to hell and back trying to tape on the edges of the ceiling.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

You offer a small smile. “Nah. You know how it is.”

The two of you lie there for a while until you both fall asleep.

Unfortunately, being a superhero is not all glitz and glamor. You find yourself to be quite the average Joe, living an ordinary life. At the end of the day, you’re just an engineering college student with no job. Well, besides the occasional side gig of being a masked vigilante.

You tend to relish the mundane moments these days, and maybe it’s the age. (Haerin would roll her eyes if she heard you say this.) Those fleeting moments where you can bask in the serenity of a night without any pings from the local police database you hacked into, although often only lasting several minutes, are valuable to you. Sitting on rooftops and indulging in the view that is the city skyline at night—you never get sick of it.

You used to hate this—being human, that is. After the bite all those years ago, being Spider-Woman was riveting. The novelty of your superpowers made you feel competent. Made you feel like someone. (Only after you persevered through the beginner's clumsiness.) Of course, there are the not so great parts of still being human. Like attending mandatory labs, dealing with group project partners who go M.I.A., and the exorbitant rental rates. Regardless, you believe the good still outweighs the bad.

But like most good things in your life, they never stay. How foolish of you, to think that your newfound powers could somehow transcend the inevitability of pain and loss. If anything, you face it more now.

That youthful naivety led to more trouble than you can handle. That night when you swung past that robbery at the bodega, without a care in the world, unwittingly sealing the fate of your aunt. Any last connection you had to your family was violently torn from your grasp.

It was your fault. And nothing can change that. It haunts you every waking hour of the day, manifests itself as a wicked virus, and its suffocating tendrils latch onto you on the nights when you’ve delved too deep into your own thoughts.

You try to block it out now, but the best you can do is repeat to yourself that it’s a reminder. A reminder of who Spider-Woman has to be and what she means to the city. An unwavering hero who stands for justice and protects everyone. A hero who does the right thing.

You hum to yourself as you push the door open with your shoulder, exiting the shop with a bouquet of pale purple forget-me-nots. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie after adjusting your backpack, slightly shivering at the crisp chill of the early morning.

You greet the local store owners as you pass by, even giving a hand in moving crates or supplies to help set up shop. It would be so much easier to just swing to the cemetery, but there’s a sense of reverence you feel you need to uphold, and the only way to do that is just to visit as yourself. No mask, no secret identity. Just you.

You’ve just crossed the threshold to the cemetery with one step when there’s a prickling sensation on your skin. As you get closer to her grave, the discomfort only grows, and so you swing to the nearest tree and perch yourself there.

And then you see her. In the flesh.

“Danielle?” You whisper to yourself, dumbfounded. What was she doing back here, after all these years?

Danielle stills for a moment, and so do you. She turns around and eyes the surroundings as if she heard your voice. You duck and burrow yourself deeper within the leaves.

You observe her quietly, donning her own bouquet of roses, and you smile wryly at the sight of them. Of course, she remembers her favorite flowers. Danielle sits at the grave for a while, her lips moving as if talking, but the music blasting in your headphones blocks it out. You don’t try to eavesdrop.

She’s dyed her hair blonde now, and you didn’t think it possible, but she stands out even more. The color suits her—it matches her personality, akin to a warm and inviting sunflower. Seeing her treat the grave with such care and tenderness makes your heart pang. You grip the tree branches tighter to try to steel yourself, swallowing the guilt and heartache that arises. You don’t expect anything less from her. She’s still so kind and loving even after what you did.

She takes out a small pouch, eventually settling down and crocheting. You’re surprised for some reason, but you also make yourself comfortable in the tree. Even though you’re a hundred feet apart, being in the same vicinity of her fills your body with a sense of repose. You allow yourself to believe that you’re sitting next to each other, still friends, grieving together, and you think that helps you heal a bit.

Half an hour passes before you feel a droplet hit your face. And then another. You and Danielle look up at the same time, only to see the billowing clouds roll in.

Without a second thought, you slip your mask on and shimmy out of your clothes, fishing an umbrella out of your backpack before webbing it to the tree. You clear your throat as you land behind her, as gently as possible so as to not scare her.

“Need this, Miss?” You forcefully deepen your voice, holding out the umbrella above Danielle’s head.

She turns around, lips slightly parted in shock, and it takes all your willpower to not visibly tremble.

“Thank you,” she smiles sweetly. You wonder if she would greet you like this if she knew who you really were. “Let me give you something in return.”

Danielle hands you a crochet ribbed beanie, a bright red just like the roses she brought, with a white pom pom on top.

“This one took me a few days.”

It’s incredibly endearing, but you’re panicking at her presence so you can only express your gratitude with an awkward, “Thanks!”, voice crack included, before slinging to the nearest building.

You make sure to wear it on the way home.

Haerin notices it as soon as you return.

“What’s with the new look?” She asks, not looking away from her laptop.

You set an iced Americano for her on the coffee table, and then proceed to drape yourself on the sofa, feet nudging Haerin’s side to annoy her. She chooses to ignore you rather than resort to violence only because you bought her coffee. She also chooses to ignore how your suit is still wet from the rain outside, droplets of water permeating the sofa. You take off the beanie, making sure to gently lay it on the table before slipping your mask off.

You rest your head against the arm of the sofa and close your eyes, but all you can think about is Danielle. The sincerity in her eyes as she gifted you the beanie and her saccharine voice rings out in your mind. You lay there and reminisce in silence for a while. You end up falling asleep for a few minutes.

Then Haerin wakes you up.

“Hey.” She slaps your foot. “Answer my question.”

“What—oh.” You mumble in confusion, trying to regain your senses. “I saw… someone at the cemetery.”

She finally turns to give you a deadpan expression. “Be more specific. A ghost? One of your many archnemeses?”

“Worse,” you rub your face tiredly. “Danielle.”

Her typing pauses. “Wait, the childhood best friend you told me about?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you ghosted?”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“The one you pitifully pine over?”

“Well—yeah.”

Haerin lets out a low whistle. “She gave you that?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “She didn’t know it was me.”

“You should keep it that way,” Haerin says. “It’d suck to open up old wounds after so long.”

“I know.” You puff your cheeks out. “And that’s not even the end of it. I spent forty bucks on flowers just to leave it to rot in a backpack in a tree.”

She glances at the wet puddle you created on the couch. “We can go back tomorrow and get it?”

“It’s okay,” you reply, opening your eyes to the pouring rain outside. You hope Danielle made it home okay. “I’m gonna wait for the rain to die out a bit and then head out again to investigate that weird case. I’ll put the flowers where they belong on the way there.”

“Is there a new lead?” You can practically hear Haerin’s ears perk up.

“Yeah, all the reports of the disappearances seem to pop up in the same area. I just checked for a location that shares an equal distance to all of them and came up with an abandoned warehouse.”

Haerin sits in thought for a second before asking, “Can I come with? You know how the college blog always relies on me for Spider-Woman content.”

“Fine.” You begrudgingly acquiesce. “Only if you get a cool shot of me.”

Haerin takes out her camera and snaps a quick photo of you.

“How about this?” She turns the camera around to show you the result.

You scoff in offense. “Seriously?”

“Is it not flattering enough?” Haerin teases, wrestling the camera away from you.

“I look like a wet dog!”

You web the camera to yourself and delete the photo.

“Stop abusing your powers.” Haerin clicks her tongue. “Go web a towel to clean this mess up.”

“What a coincidence,” you cheerfully ignore her. “The rain’s stopped.”

Like a miracle, the rain has cleared out, the darker clouds making way for the sun. You web a towel to dry your suit (but not the couch or floor) and slip your mask back on again.

“Alright,” you step out onto the balcony and turn to Haerin. “You want a ride there? Uber? Spuber…?”

“Let’s just stick to Spider-Eats.”

“Yeah.”

“And, no thanks,” she winces. “You almost swung into a pole last time.”

“Oops,” you say with no sign of regret. “Anyway, I texted you the coords. Meet you there.”

You hop on the balcony railing and salute Haerin before proceeding to fall backwards with your hands behind your head. The rush as you swing through the city is unmatchable. You savor the wind rushing against you, the boisterous noise of cars honking and mindless chatter zooming in and out of your ears.

You’re back at the cemetery in no time, and after checking if anyone’s around, you stand before your aunt’s grave once again. Danielle’s roses are still lying there. You wipe some raindrops off the headstone before laying your bouquet down. Then, you’re off again. There’ll be time for that later.

The abandoned warehouse is not too far from the docks, a very typical location for people who are up to no good. You perch on the roof of a building opposite it, where Haerin is already squatting and taking photos. You can spot her motorcycle stationed in the parking lot behind the building. She barely flinches as you tap her shoulder.

“How did you get up here?”

“A good journalist never reveals her secrets.”

“Isn’t it ‘sources’?”

Haerin shrugs. “Same thing.”

You squat next to her. “So… did you notice anything before I came?”

“I did some research. Think this warehouse is registered under the name of just Jace.”

“Just Jace? That’s such a sick name.”

Haerin doesn’t bother to correct you.

“Name doesn’t ring a bell though.” You squint and scan the seemingly innocuous warehouse. “And I’m not picking up any heat signals… looks like nobody’s home.”

“How are we getting in?”

“This is a job for Spider-Woman!”

You leap off the roof and swing around the warehouse, sweeping the perimeter to search for a way in.

“There’s always an entrance when you can climb walls,” you muse to yourself.

You open up a voice channel as you crawl up the side of the warehouse, eventually reaching the roof where there is a conveniently open skylight. “Bingo!”

“Psst, Haerin,” you say. “There’s an open window on the roof.”

“Awesome,” she replies, although you note that her tone lacks excitement. “Can you get in and open the door for me?”

“The door?” You peer inside the open skylight. “You mean the gigantic sliding doors?”

“Don’t tell me you’re too weak to open those.”

“No,” you huff. “It’s just that… wouldn’t it be too loud?”

Haerin’s response is reluctant. “I guess.”

“You know what that means,” you sing-song. “It’s time for a Spuber ride!”

There’s some silence followed by a long sigh.

“I thought we agreed to not use that anymore,” she grumbles. “Hurry up and get back here.”

Haerin’s pick up and drop off is quick and easy, much to both of your satisfaction. You asked her to give you a five star rating, to which she replied, “That took literally less than thirty seconds.”

Inside the warehouse is dark, with only some dim flickering lights providing you with a shadowed view of the interior. The warehouse is stocked with looming cargo containers.

“Seems pretty filled for an abandoned warehouse,” Haerin muses, her voice echoing in the void. The silence feels foreboding, which makes you glad that Haerin asked to come, not that you would ever admit that.

“There’s gotta be something here,” you run your hand over the undulating surface of the steel containers. “A secret room, or some complicated contraption.”

“What about that?” Haerin points at a scrape mark on the floor in front of one of the containers, which coincidentally matches the circumference of a quarter circle.

“Oh. That was fast.”

You walk over and tug on the latch, before pulling the door open.

“No worries,” you strain out. It’s heavier than you thought. “Leave it all to me.”

“If you say so,” Haerin says with a smug smile on her face, standing there with no care in the world.

Once you finally get it open, inside the container is a set of stairs that lead downwards to an ominous tunnel.

“Totally not creepy,” you laugh nervously and gesture to Haerin. “Ladies first?”

She rolls her eyes before making her way down. The tunnel is fairly well-kept and it’s not long before you find yourselves in the secret room. It’s a lab, wires running hazardously on the ground, bits and pieces of machinery scattered on tables and filling up boxes, and computer screens displaying complex data and research.

“Okay,” you drawl. “Kinda getting evil mastermind vibes.”

You ruffle through some papers lying around. It seems to be sketches of some cylinder machine with cogs and complicated wiring in it. After inspecting the lab for a bit longer, you both come to the same conclusion.

“He’s trying to time travel,” Haerin notes as she snaps some shots of the lab.

You nod. “His experiments are probably what’s causing all those people to disappear into thin air.”

“What were the statements of the witnesses again?”

“Like the victims were just sucked into an invisible portal.”

Haerin pulls up some files on one of the computers. “It makes sense. It looks like he’s trying to time travel to the year his daughter died.”

You both are silent at this information. Until that silence is broken by a screeching sound outside, one that oddly sounds like the gigantic sliding doors opening.

The two of you immediately break out into a sprint and up the stairs. You don’t hesitate to scoop up Haerin once you’re out of the container and soar up to the roof with a web.

“He’ll know someone was here,” Haerin whispers.

“I know,” you sigh. “Hopefully it won’t lead to anything. We’ll have to come back later.”

Like the true neighborhood-friendly Spider-Woman you are, you give Haerin a Spuber ride back to her motorcycle. She revs the engine once to get your attention, then bids you farewell with a teasing “Race you home!” as she accelerates into the distance.

“So not fair!” You shout out at her retreating figure, swinging to catch up. You’re straining your arms to keep up with Haerin’s motorcycle, but a police car passes by with sirens on, and you know what you need to do. At the last second, you snap your left wrist to make a breakneck turn. Haerin will understand.

You can barely keep your eyes open as Minji nudges you with her elbow.

“Late nights playing 2K again?” The image of her stupid grin floats by in your mind.

“Something like that,” you whine, flicking your head up so your lab goggles fall on your nose. “I should’ve skipped today.”

Minji pulls up the DXF files you made for the project and resumes with the task of readjusting the ratio of some gears. “You don’t even need your lab goggles for today.”

“I look smarter with them on.”

“Yeah, right.” Minji peeks at your rough outlines of the gearbox transmission on paper. Some edges are ripped and it’s crinkled under your folded arms. “Damn. When are you gonna digitize that and render it?”

You slump back in your chair and close your eyes. “When I get a good night’s rest.”

“So, never.”

“Yeah.”

“The assignment’s due next week.”

“Yeah.”

“I hate you.” But she doesn’t. Because the two of you have been lab partners ever since you tripped on her lab coat in class a year ago and knocked over a bunch of her circuits and wires, which, to this day, she still blames you for, which is ridiculous, because who on earth owns a lab coat long enough to the point where it spills on the floor? But, you digress. Her lab coat is now properly tailored.

You’re half a second from drooling and snoring when there’s that prickling sensation on your skin again, and the hairs on the back of your neck shoot up, leaving you with that sinking feeling in your stomach. You sit up so abruptly that you almost slam your forehead onto the table.

Minji’s arm flies in front of your chest to steady you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you stammer. “I just… need to go to the bathroom.”

You grab your backpack and sprint out of the lab, navigating yourself to the nearest exit. You’re on the roof of the building in no time, in your suit, and you immediately see what’s wrong. There’s a man in the middle of campus, floating above the ground, and whatever objects are around seem to be gravitating toward him. The objects begin to orbit around him, creating a mini tornado.

You try to call Haerin, but she doesn’t pick up. You try to call Minji too, but no luck. Your stomach coils with anxiety. You don’t have long to dwell on it though.

As objects slam into one another, students begin to file out of class and understandably panic. Campus security is screaming and directing people to emergency exits, but the whirlwind only gets worse and things are smashing into windows and buildings.

“This isn’t good,” you mutter, immediately diving into action. You web benches, bicycles, poles, and trees in all sorts of directions to disrupt their trajectory toward anyone. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a blur of orange amidst green, and hear a very distinct meow.

“Tiko!”

You hurtle yourself toward the flying tree and narrowly shoot through the branches, successfully grabbing Tiko. You were going to plop him down somewhere safe, but it seems he had other plans, because he crawls into your backpack and nestles inside it, sticking his head out.

“Hang tight, Tiko,” you scream, swinging toward the mystery man. “I’m going to stop this!”

The man now stands on a rooftop, the debris around him thrashing against the building which is threatening to fall apart. You land not too far from him.

“Hi!” You yell over the deafening winds.

He whips his head around, raising his palm to hurl a rock at you. “Stay away!”

“Wait!” It narrowly misses you as you skillfully duck just in time. “You’re Just Jace, right?”

“How do you know my name?” He falters for a second, taking a step back. “…And it’s just Jace.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” You mumble to yourself in confusion.

You shake your head to focus on the situation at hand. “Please stop this, Just Jace. You’re hurting others!”

“I… I know!” Jace’s hands tightly grip his hair in frustration. “I don’t know why it’s not working.”

As his ire flames up, so do the winds, dust and small rocks starting to obscure your vision.

“Please, calm down!” You desperately yell, slowly making your way toward him with arms raised as a sign of peace. “Let me help you!”

The sound of police sirens grows louder, and you can hear the whirring of helicopter blades behind you. The police helicopter sways in the midst of the tornado, and you fear for both Jace and the police.

“No, no, no!” You try to wave the police away, knowing their presence would only distress Jace more.

“Police! Hands in the air!”

Police officers begin to rappel down from the helicopter, guns aimed at Jace. He scrambles in fear, sending rubble hurling at them in defense. Bullets fly out immediately after.

The sound of gunshots rings through your ear as you expertly maneuver through the ricochets and try to keep everyone safe. You burst through the combat and tackle Jace whilst he’s busy with the officers, trying to Spuber him to somewhere safe.

He wrestles in your grasp, screaming at you to let him go. Tiko gives him a few smacks in response. As you swing through a window, you release your hold on him, both of you rolling over to catch your balance.

You lean against the wall, taking a moment to catch your breath. You’re rubbing your head that’s throbbing in pain, not noticing Jace’s sudden silence.

“The police really have the worst timing, am I right?” You awkwardly laugh.

You look up to see Jace stalking toward you, like a predator to prey, a dark intensity in his eyes. Any trace of the Jace you encountered before is gone. You bounce on your feet immediately.

“Jace?” You say hesitantly, walking backward. “We can talk about this…”

“You broke it,” he snarls. That’s when you notice what he’s clasping onto so stiffly. It looks awfully similar to those sketches you and Haerin saw in that secret lab. He lets it go and it clatters on the floor.

“I didn’t mean to,” you try to ameliorate the situation. “I was trying to save you.”

Your pleas don’t seem to reach his ears. He just simply repeats, “You broke it.”

“No need to get so upset,” you laugh sheepishly, hands in the air, discreetly scanning for the nearest exit. “I know a really good tech support guy.”

Your skin tingles. Jace then lunges at you, and out of instinct, you web onto the broken device and you swing it around to slam it into the space between you and him. The device makes contact with the concrete and shatters into pieces, shards of glass flying everywhere. For a moment, you feel as if time has slowed down, and everything sounds muffled, like you’re sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean.

And then everything goes black.

You wake up with a gasp, cold sweat sticking to your body. Haerin steps back, surprised. She’s holding her beloved ax, its handle hovering dangerously close to your cheek.

“You’re awake.”

“What?” You look around frantically, hands squeezing the sofa. “How am I back here?”

“What do you mean?” Haerin frowns. “You fell asleep.”

You stand up and squish your face against the window. The college campus is untouched. “What happened to Just Jace? Is Tiko alright?”

Her eyebrow furrows. “Who’s Just Jace? And Tiko the campus cat?”

You don’t respond, still lost in your own thoughts.

“Did you get a concussion on the way to the cemetery?”

You stop pacing and look down, and sure enough, you’re still in your suit, wet from the rain just like two days ago, and the beanie Danielle crocheted is lying on the table.

Then it dawns on you.

“Oh my god, Haerin.” Your jaw is slack. “I just traveled back in time.”

“What.”

It takes you fifteen minutes to sum everything up.

“But the weird thing is that the device didn’t seem to be done when we were in the secret lab.” You bite your cheek in thought. “I don’t know how he would’ve been able to get it working in the next two days.”

“He probably knew someone was onto him when we left the door open,” Haerin says, searching up ‘If you travel back in time, will you break time and space if you get into contact with someone?’ on Google. Most of the results are fruitless.

“That makes sense,” you nod. “But I wonder why he would end up at our college campus out of all places.”

“Maybe it’s the college his daughter went to?”

“Right,” you nod again. You prop your laptop on your lap as you start scouring through the map of the area around the college. “I need to know where he first appears so I can stop him before he gets to campus.”

Haerin ponders for a second. “You mentioned that there was some research on nuclear fusion, right?”

“Yeah… hold on.” You zoom into a nuclear power plant just a few miles from the college. “The device must need a lot of energy to work. He probably got it from here.”

“So,” Haerin hums. “What’s the plan?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Haerin’s voice is unimpressed over the static. “This was your plan?”

“You know me,” you quip ironically while weaving in between the blasts of energy that Jace is throwing at you. “My plan was to come up with a plan now.”

“And have you thought of one?”

“Not really!” You coolly avoid his punches and slide in between his legs. “I’ll call you back!”

When you manage to catch Jace off guard with a roundhouse kick, he stumbles and you use the opportunity to swoop into a vent to hide. You did not expect this alternate version of Jace to be so hostile. You tried to talk to him, really.

(You lower your web bit by bit as you dangle upside-down behind Jace. His back is facing you, clearly focused on wiring his device to the generator.

You tap his back. “Hey.”

He swivels around so fast he almost loses his balance, but immediately regains it and squares up. “Stay away!”

“No, no.” You plop on the floor. “I’m not here to hurt you. I know you’re trying to time travel. I’m from the future, actually.”

There’s an air of hope in Jace’s voice. “The device worked?”

“About that,” you rub your nape and flash an embarrassed smile under the mask. “I kinda had to smash it onto the ground for it to work. You were kind of trying to kill me. But no biggie, I forgive easily!”

Jace narrows his eyes. You stiffen as you feel dread trickle into your stomach. His fist jerks out and you jump back just in time, feeling the wind from the blow brush against your face.

“What the hell, man?” You pout. “I literally just forgave you.”

He doesn’t waste time and continues with a flurry of punches. “I must’ve been attacking you for a reason.”

You shake your head as you roll to the side. “Don’t say I didn’t try to be nice.”)

“Come out and face me!” Jace yells, his voice reverberating throughout the power plant. “You’re nothing but a pest.”

You silently crawl out of the vent and onto a supporting beam. Once you’re positioned right above him, you web him up, landing a nasty uppercut. You don’t have time to celebrate though, because on the way down, he grabs your ankles and pulls you down back to Earth.

“Oof!”

“This ends now.” He hisses, blood dripping from his mouth. He charges toward you, bearing a metal rod in his hand.

“Really getting into the villain role now, huh?” You joke, voice strained as you leap off the ground and kick him square in the face. “Give me some time to think of a name for you.”

You side step another one of his tackle attempts. “Oh! How about Prime Time?”

The only response you get is Jace surging forward with more punches and kicks. “You could just say you don’t like it!”

Jace doesn’t deign you with an answer. He unexpectedly throws a crate toward you, and just as you duck to avoid it, he gets his revenge with a successful blow to your chest with the metal rod.

You slam against the wall, slumping as the wind is knocked out of you.

“Like I said,” Jace says with heavy breaths, towering over you and looking down with a sneer. “This ends now.”

You can only see his silhouette because of the light shining through from the entrance to the power plant behind him, and this gives you an idea. You muster up any remaining willpower and web onto two pillars, pulling yourself toward it and using the momentum to swing kick Jace.

You both fly through the air and outside the power plant, crashing on the roof of a passing car. You wince as you feel the dent in the car. Jace rolls down to the hood of the car. Logically, the driver starts steering off course because the windshield is blocked and they’re probably freaking out at the fact that there are two injured people on their car.

Your body moves before your mind processes what’s going on—you’re webbing people out of the way of the speeding car, even though you’re still lying on your side. But the car spins out of control too fast for you to react. It ends up ramming into the front of a cafe. The impact of the crash sends you flying into the glass wall and into the cafe. You’re getting deja vu: glass is shattered and people start screaming and running away.

“Oh no,” you groan, trying to ignore the burning pain. “This will not look good in the press release.”

What’s also burning is the car that you’re pinned under—the heat from the crackling fire licking at you, so hot that you can feel it through the spandex. All you can see is the thick smoke that blankets the cafe. From the shadows emerges Jace.

“Please,” you wheeze, feeling like you’ve been hit by a train. Which actually happened once, an experience you wouldn’t recommend to anyone. “This isn’t what your daughter would’ve wanted.”

“Don’t mention her again.” He digs his boot into the car, forcing pressure on you, and you’re exerting all your muscles in your arms to hold the car up. “And some superhero you are. Look at what’s left of this place.”

You strain your neck to stare at the inside of the cafe, and the sight horrifies you. It’s a complete wreckage. Your eyes zero on blonde hair that peeks out under a table that’s been flipped over. Your blood runs cold and there’s a sharp pain in your gut, like a knife sickly twisting itself over and over again.

Jace chuckles cruelly at your silence. “What, no more snarky remarks?”

She can’t be dead. It’s all your fault—you were too busy slinging people out of the way to notice where the car was headed. How did she not get out in time?

“No,” you choke out. Your lip trembles pathetically. “Turn back time. Please.”

He follows your gaze and smirks. “See someone you know? I guess now you know how it feels.”

Any empathy you felt for him is overridden by the sheer anger that engulfs you. Your body shakes with rage. What comes out next is guttural and raw.

“I’ll kill you,” you spit. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Jace turns around and cackles, and you wonder how everything went to hell so fast. You wonder how he changed so fast. He’s walking out of the cafe, to the college campus probably, and as much as you want to grab him and beat him until he’s blue, there’s something more important. Or rather, someone.

The adrenaline from the rage earlier is still coursing through your veins and you use your remaining strength to push the car off you. (You wanted to hurl it at him too but your arms were failing). You know exactly what you need to do. You sling a web to the device he’s holding loosely, then repeat that same swinging motion that you did the other timeline, slamming it so hard on the ground you almost feel like your arm will rip off.

Time slows again, and you find yourself in a familiar position, deep in the abyss. The world goes black.

It takes you three times before you realize you’re stuck in a time loop. You don’t know why, but you only get sent back a few hours to the nuclear power plant. You try everything, anything to keep Danielle safe. You know it’s selfish, that you should be caring about everyone else too, but you can’t stand the thought of her dying. You’ve already lost her once, back then when you left her. You can’t be the reason for the world losing her.

In the first loop, you spray the wheels of the car with webs to prevent it from crashing in the first place, but the car stopping in the middle of the road only causes another car to veer off the streets and into the cafe. In the second loop, Jace hurls a boulder mid fight and despite you redirecting it to the building next to the cafe, that building ends up collapsing… on top of the cafe. Everytime, you saving other people leads to Danielle dying in some way.

It’s the third loop. You’re at the nuclear power plant again, head in your hands, and Jace hasn’t noticed your presence yet. You want to cry. Nothing is working. Maybe this is karma for ghosting Danielle all those years ago. Being a superhero is all about sacrifices—is this the sacrifice you have to make? You thought you would be better at letting go by now.

Haerin’s voice is soft in your ear. “Have we had this conversation before?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “This is the fourth time.”

“I’m sorry I can’t remember. And that our solutions didn’t work out.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” You bite your lip. “And it’s my fault anyway.”

There’s some faint rustling of paper and typing.

“Nuclear fusion,” Haerin says after a while. “Have you tried slamming the device into the generator? The sheer energy might just break the loop.”

“I might as well.” Your voice is thick with fatigue. “I have nothing else to lose.”

You don’t even bother to greet Jace this time, just immediately pulling the device toward you and slamming it onto the generator. The reaction is instantaneous—the device explodes and the generator rumbles, sparks flying. Waves of energy start pulsing out in irregular patterns. It’s so strong that you’re knocked off your feet and your back hits a railing.

You’re knocked out again. Maybe you’re setting a new world record.

Hidden under the knitted quilt, you stir, the thin web of strands barely stifling the bite of the morning cold. Someone is sweetly humming a melody that’s on the tip of your tongue. The constant hum finds its way into you, it softens your bones and eases your heart. The constant hum sings, enveloping you, lulling you back into the solace of the darkness.

This tranquility is swiftly broken by you remembering. You launch out of bed, blinking your eyes to gain a hold of your surroundings. You’re in a campervan. Nostalgia washes over you as you realize that this is the campervan Danielle’s family used to take on road trips. You wearily eye the photo frame stuck to the rustic fridge. Gleeful smiles and sand-covered faces adorn the frame, reminding you of what you left behind.

You were known as that quiet kid who had no parents. Any attention you received would consist of pitied stares and hushed whispers. You didn’t mind the loneliness—you were used to it. And your aunt took care of you and showed you love. That was enough. You didn’t think you needed any more love until Danielle moved in next door and changed your life.

She was the first to approach you, holding out a four-leaf clover with a bright smile, saying “Hi! I’m Danielle, you look like you need some good luck!”. It only took you a few months to warm up to her, not that it was hard, because she was so understanding and cheery. She never cared about what other people said at school. She cared about what you had to say, and that’s something you never thought you needed, let alone deserved, until her.

Danielle’s family is equally as sweet, and they welcomed you with open arms. Every few months, they would go on a road trip and you and Danielle would always say farewell with teary eyes and lingering hugs. Until Danielle insisted you tag along, and that’s how it became a tradition.

Lightly caressing miscellaneous decorations as you make your way outside, you take it all in. The gentle twinkle of fairy lights shyly shines through the tinted windows that are littered with stickers and magnets. This caravan was your second home. Inextricably imbued with memories with Danielle, the two of you left no inch of this van unexplored and untouched. Outside, the fresh smell of subdued smoke (bacon and eggs) wafts to you, beckoning you. Your stomach growls. You forget about the ravenous appetite of a superhero.

But you’re not a superhero right now. You’re twelve, not yet bitten, meant to be blissfully unaware of the terrors that await you as you grow up. You run outside to find Danielle. She’s preparing a plate of breakfast for you.

“Danielle!” You rush toward her and tackle her in a hug, tears subconsciously spilling onto your cheeks. She steadies herself so that the plate of food isn’t knocked over.

She gasps out your name, concern etched in her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head and nuzzle her neck, sniffling like a baby. “I’m just glad you’re my best friend.”

Your voice is so high and prepubescent, which makes you burst into laughter out of nowhere. Danielle laughs with you. “I’m glad you’re mine, too.”

“Where’s your parents?”

You lean back as she tilts her head to the barbeque grill a few yards away. “Cooking up their breakfast.”

You eventually let go, quite reluctantly, and take a moment to admire her. You’re smitten. Her hair is brown, bangs slightly ruffled, and she’s sporting a toothy grin. You’re so overwhelmed with love you can’t even speak, but this is soon overshadowed by guilt. This is the girl whose heart you broke.

Nothing about you gets past Danielle, so she immediately notices your wavering.

“You okay?” She intertwines your fingers together “Let’s eat breakfast.”

‘I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling a wave of nausea hit you. “I feel a bit dizzy.”

She quickly sets down the plate of bacon and eggs, her hands instantly finding their place on your waist.

“Maybe you should get some more rest,” she pouts, gently squeezing your waist. You try to suppress the shiver that this causes.

“Yeah,” you agree without a sliver of resistance. “Come with me?”

Danielle sends you a knowing smile. “Okay.”

You both make your way back into the van, ditching breakfast. You climb into the comfort of the bed, lifting the same knitted quilt so that it hugs both of you. Your body relaxes, for the first time in a very long time, and you bask in the heat radiating off Danielle.

As your eyes involuntarily close, you can hear the faint sound of ticking. You’re unsure of what is to come, but the curl in your stomach unfolds and pardons you, allowing you to feel Danielle’s love. For just one more time.

��

There’s a brief moment where you regain a shred of consciousness at the nuclear power plant, but everything is too bright and you have to squeeze your eyes shut. You only feel another wave of energy vibrate against your skin before your vision’s black again. Definitely a world record.

Someone’s playing with your hair. Deft fingers weave through strands of your hair and twirl it, lightly pulling on it before letting go and repeating. You blink your eyes open and are met with Danielle already staring at you. She’s older than the last time-travel episode, but younger than the current her. You’re still smitten.

You’re laying in her bed, in her room, in her house. You surmise it’s probably a sleepover night. She’s wearing those glasses with a clear frame, so it must be midway through senior year. You smile to yourself as you remember that she breaks it just before graduation by sitting on it. (She forgot that she put it on her seat.)

“What are you smiling about?” Danielle pokes your nose. “Are you thinking about how that one kid fell off his chair while falling asleep in class?”

“No,” you giggle as you sit up, nostalgia pervading your chest. “But that was funny though. Thanks for reminding me.”

She’s playing with your fingers now, head tilted with that starry look in her eyes that always leaves you dumbfounded. Your smile slowly fades. You feel like a kid again, even though this was only the two of you from three years ago.

“Danielle,” you say shakily, eyes locked onto your entwined fingers. “Would you believe me if I said I’m from the future?”

She considers your question for a second. “What happens in the future?”

You swallow a lump. Where do you even start? ‘Well, I’m actually gonna ghost you in a few months and we’ll never speak again, but then we meet, well not really—it’s more like I see you, and then you die in a cafe because of me. Oh, and I’m Spider-Woman.’

“You dye your hair blonde,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. You’re holding back tears. “And you go to college overseas to study.”

Danielle’s face shifts into something sadder, half sympathetic. “That doesn’t sound too far-fetched.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” your voice cracks. “I do some really bad things in the future, and I’m really sorry.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Danielle tries to lift the mood. “Can’t be worse than the time when you spilled orange juice all over my biology assignment the morning it was due.”

Your rambling teeters on the line of coherence. “I push you away—and I’m such an asshole. But I had to, you have to believe me. I can’t tell you why because it hasn’t happened yet and it will probably break some rule of time-traveling, but I just want you to know that I’m so–”

“Hey,” she cradles your face like you're something delicate. Like you’re not the person who will leave her behind with no explanation. “It’s okay.”

“I miss you so much, Danielle.” It’s all you can say. “I miss you so much.”

Her thumb tenderly swipes away any tears that fall. “I’m right here.”

But she’s not.

You’re sobbing pathetically into her hand. You can’t remember the last time you cried. It must’ve been at your aunt’s funeral. Your head is pounding and even though you’re in the body of your younger self, you can still feel the phantom repercussions of fights with Jace. Danielle continues softly, “I could never hate you, no matter what. All you need to do is talk to me—the me in your world.”

“I love you,” you hiccup, lip quivering. “I never got to say it in my timeline. I hope you know that.”

“You know I do too,” Danielle smiles, bitter-sweet. “Promise me you’ll say it to the other me.”

You nod, looping your pinky finger with hers.

She seems satisfied. “You’ve been through a lot. Let’s get some rest.” She guides you back onto the pillow and onto your side, nestling behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and clasped on your stomach.

The ticking sounds again, and it slowly floods your mind as your vision fades to black.

“Please tell me it’s over,” you plead weakly as you wake up to the sight of peeling plaster on the ceiling. You force your body up, and you see an unconscious Jace collapsed against the wall. The broken device is just a fingertip away from you. This is the room you Spubered him into while distancing him from the police. You’re back.

“Thank you,” you breathe out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Tiko hops out of your backpack and rubs his face against yours.

“Hey, buddy,” you coo, scratching his chin. “Thanks for the help. I’ll see you around campus.”

You pick yourself up, shaking stray shards of glass off you. You web Jace against the wall, and make sure to add extra to ensure he doesn’t escape. You briefly notice the wrinkles on his face and his calloused hands.

“Some things we have to let go,” you say softly to him, even though he can’t hear you. “I need to take this to find the missing victims.”

You leave a space in your heart to mourn for Jace’s daughter, and genuinely wish the best for him. Tiko’s already run off somewhere. You take the device and stretch your limbs, preparing for the long journey home.

Actually, you have two stops before you go home. First stop is a safe place to change out of your suit and temporarily hide the device.

Second stop. You run to find Danielle. You think that this has been a long time coming, considering that you’ve been running away from her for the past three years.

You’re standing like an idiot outside the cafe, hands in your pockets, just staring at Danielle through the glass wall. She seems to feel the weight of your gaze though, because she eventually looks up and her eyes widen at the sight of you. You wave awkwardly, to which she starts packing up her things in a hurry.

You breath hitches as she says your name. It rolls off her tongue in a way that is so familiar.

“Care to join me on a walk?” You rock back and forth on your heels, avoiding eye contact with her.

Her face is passive. It scares you more than it should. But she complies without any questions. “Okay.”

It takes around twenty minutes to reach your aunt’s grave. You pat the space in front of you as a gesture for Danielle to sit down, and she does.

“Before I start,” you say. “I just wanted to say thank you for visiting my aunt. You didn’t have to.”

But she did. Because that’s what she always does—go above and beyond. You take a deep breath before releasing it. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, showing that she’s listening, but doesn’t respond.

“I… was an asshole,” you clench your jaw and close your eyes. “I said some hurtful things.”

(“Are you avoiding me?” Danielle asks, eyebrows furrowed.

It’s another morning of a school day.

“No,” you exhale deeply. You don’t spare her a glance. “I’ve just been really busy.”

“We’ve both been busy for a while,” she counters, frustration laced in her voice. “But the difference is that we still made time for each other.”

You slam your locker door shut. The spider bite thrums with pain. “Take the hint. I don’t have space for you in my life anymore.”)

“And even after I said those things, you still tried to reach out to me.”

(More unread texts from Danielle. Can we talk? I’m sorry about the other day.

Hey, I’ve been trying to give you space, but I just wanted to check in.

Why are you ignoring me?)

“There’s a reason I ghosted you. Not that I’m trying to justify it, but I just wanted to let you know it wasn’t because of you or anything.”

The other Danielle’s words flash through your mind.

“I love you,” you finally say, and it feels as though there’s this weight lifted off your chest. “I have, for a long time. And I needed to leave you because I love you. Because I was scared.”

Her eyebrows crease in thought. “Because you were scared I didn’t love you back?”

“No—well, not no! Of course I care about that. But that wasn’t my main concern.”

“How do I say this,” you scratch your head. “Oh. You gifted me a beanie the other day. Crocheted by you, red with a white pom pom.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Oh.”

You fiddle with the grass that you’re sitting on. “I accepted a long time ago that anyone close to me will be in danger because of, well, who I am. And being Spider-Woman… it’s a responsibility that I have to commit to. I can’t just fall in love.”

A pause. “Who said you can’t?”

“Well,” you stutter. “It’ll put you in danger. And I have to put my Spider responsibilities first.”

She shifts closer to you. “And what if I’m okay with that?”

“You’d… you’d have to actually like me back anyway.”

Danielle punches you on the shoulder.

“Ow!” You frown. “What was that for?”

“For being an asshole.”

“Oh.”

“You should’ve just talked to me.”

“I know,” you admit. “But I just felt like I couldn’t.”

“I never stopped thinking about you all these years,” Danielle shakes her head. “I was a mess. I wanted to hate you so much, but I just couldn’t. And I hated that even more.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Danielle says, and the look in her eyes tells you that she really does mean it.

You hesitantly reach out toward her. She grabs your hand and moves it to her face. It’s your turn to cradle her, making sure that she’s really here and that this is real. Her smile is teary.

“I love you,” you breathe out. And that’s the only thing you want to say for the rest of your life. To make up for all the times that you didn’t.

“I love you, too.” Her smile is so enchanting and you want to lean in and kiss her.

But gunshots ring out nearby and there’s shouting. You turn to Danielle, distraught. She grabs your phone from your pocket and adds herself as a contact.

“Go,” she nods softly, handing you back your phone. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll tend to your wounds.”

Your eyes flit over to your aunt’s grave. You hope you’ve become a hero she can be proud of. And you thank her for everything. You slip on your mask and stuff your clothes in a backpack.

Being a superhero isn’t all that easy, but you’re glad you have people you love to lean on to relieve the burden. You leap off the ground with confidence, swinging toward the chaos.

Dedicated to user phamphamz... happy early birthday!

Title is from Autumn by Niki :]

#newjeans x reader #newjeans fanfic #newjeans fic #danielle marsh x reader #mo jihye x reader

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waltricia · 8 months ago

Text

Regardless of whether anyone actually reads this, I need to show appreciation for the writing, blocking, and editing of the last scene of 3x03, “Forces of Nature.”

Recently, I noticed that the LW line “this author is captivated” was very specifically placed over a shot of Colin and I knew it was intentionally done to convey the double meaning of the narration being about her and him.

Since then, I’ve realized that the same thing is happening throughout that entire LW narration. And it is fucking BRILLIANT.

So, first of all, this is the transcript of the narration:

“This author believes that all of man’s greatest inventions are nothing more than a distraction from what is most natural to us. Our instincts. The innate animal impulse that is inside even the most sophisticated of us. For when all is said and done, our nature will always win out. It seems Lord Debling’s instinct has led this man of nature to the most surprising pick of the season in Miss Penelope Featherington. Suffice it to say, this author is captivated. For in the battle between man and nature, it is quite clear that the battle is in fact between man and himself.”

Now I’m going to break it down with captioned stills so that you can see which words line up with which frames and I’ll explain what I believe it all means.

“This author” - When it’s first said, it’s on Pen. The second time it’s on Colin. I think there are several meanings here. Firstly, she’s Whistledown and she’s published. He will be, assuming he publishes his travel journals or whatever. Secondly, I think it highlights how they will be united, in the Whistledown storyline along with everything else. There’s a third meaning, but I’m going to get back to it later, once we get to the second use of “this author.”

This is the Innovations Ball, so on the surface, LW is speaking about man-made technology versus the natural world. But with the introduction of “man,” the shot immediately cuts to Colin, so the second layer of the narration is about him. All of Colin’s invented personality traits are a cover, hiding his true self- his sensitivity and his feelings for Pen. Obviously, this echoes what she wrote about him in 3x01, but it’s different. The context is the same, but this time, she’s not speaking directly about him, and really, she may very well not be thinking about him at all in writing it. After all, she still doesn’t know about his feelings for her. But we know. And the feeling of what she’s saying this time is less jarring; more, fittingly, natural. Because he’s starting to confront all of it as well.

In this shot, Colin has been walking across the room to get to Pen. There were people on his right, obstructing his view of her, but as LW says “natural,” Colin passes those people and, though we cannot yet see Pen, we can tell from Colin’s face that he finally clearly can. She is what is most natural to him.

He comes up to her and says that he has a question for her. The narration starts again. But on this shot, it’s only the one word, “our.” Aside from this just being romantic, I think it highlights that the narration is about both of them. But I also think that it’s not just about them. It feels to me as if, metaphorically, it’s written by both of them. Hence, my emphasis on the importance of “this author.”

We cut to our first close-up of Colin in this particular intimate sequence of close-ups. And we’re really in his perspective now, as he’s struggling to manage his feelings.

Again, he had been masking, trying to be like the other “sophisticated” gentlemen.

But a shift is occurring within him.

And this where I really hope there is at least one other person out there paying attention because all of the elements are coming together to tell us something incredible here. We have our beloved Julie Andrews delivering the line with a profound heaviness. We have Kris Bowers’ “Call Me Simon” coming to a close, sounding like a clock striking midnight. And we have the decisive sentiment of the words themselves. I'm convinced that the words “done” and “win out” being said on Pen speak to the finality of Colin’s feelings. If there was uncertainty before, it is gone now and there is no turning back. He is in love with Pen.

But before Colin can say anything else, Debling steps in and takes Pen away to dance.

Side note: Amazingly, I can back up my theory with this shot and another one of my theories:

I had said, when the trailer came out, that when true red shows up behind Colin, that indicates his love for Pen. This is the first time we see that happen.

But anyway, back to Whistledown…

Debling is the literal “man of nature,” while Colin is the metaphoric “man of nature.” Both have picked Pen.

We’ve finally come to the second “this author” and here’s the third thing I wanted to say about it: Possibly my favorite thing about this sequence, is that it acts as a vehicle for the representation of the Polin role reversal. From one end of the Whistledown narration to the other, Pen and Colin literally and metaphorically switch places, seamlessly. They exchange their physical places in the room. She’s the wallflower, then he’s the wallflower. She’s the author, then he’s the author. In a metaphorical sense, they’re both writing this Whistledown piece. This whole sequence serves to show us how Colin and Pen have really been equal this whole time. They’re just star-crossed. It’s like what Luke has been saying in interviews, Colin and Pen keep missing each other. They have brief moments where they eclipse each other and then they slip right past until the next time they orbit around to each other again.

Ok, here’s the final stretch, and it is a fucking fascinating maneuver:

The battle isn’t between Colin and Debling. In fact, Debling doesn’t signify at all here. I’d say there are actually three other battles being referenced: Colin and himself, Pen and herself, and Colin and Pen. The first “man” of that sentence is said on Colin, while “nature” is said on Pen. So in the battle between Colin and Pen- for there is a battle, as Cressida will mention in 3x04 when she says “Eros and Psyche, battling it out”, and also there will be more blatant battling in part 2- the real battles Colin and Pen are facing are the ones within themselves.

Of course I’ve already written about Colin’s battle with himself.

The reference to Pen’s battle with herself is particularly interesting to me. At first, I didn’t see it and I didn’t understand why that bit of the narration was spoken over the Pen and Debling dance instead of over Colin. Then I realized that the second “man” of that sentence is said directly on top of this shot where, again, it’s not about Debling; it’s her face we’re seeing. Then, Debling spins her and the “himself” is on Pen too. And I know I’m right about this because the shot was in the trailer and I watched it so many times. And I noticed that Sam Phillips is very specifically looking away from the camera in this moment. I figured it was because we had to know that the moment was about her. And I was right.

Pen’s journey is her reconciliation with herself. Colin and Pen really have the same inner battles. They both need to drop their masks. That’s why the mirror scene is going to be so important- it’s about exposing and embracing the bare parts of both of them. They are already equal and united. They just need to see it.

Ok that’s it. I’m done. I got it out. And I literally can’t add any more images to this post. To anyone who will have read this fuckin novel I just wrote, thanks for sticking around. These ballroom sequences are particularly difficult for the cast and crew to do, and there is obviously so much complexity in this one, so I feel like it should all be acknowledged. Someone has to acknowledge it, and if that has to be me, I will gladly continue using up my Friday afternoons to do so.

To the cast and crew, to the captain of the season 3 ship, Jess Brownell, to the director, Andrew Ahn, and writer, Eli Wilson Pelton, to everyone’s favorite choreographer/movement director, Jack Murphy, to Luke, Nic, and Julie fuckin Andrews, I see you and I love you. Please keep doing what you’re doing. It’s all worth it. ♥️

#my obsession with this show and specifically this episode is unlike anything i’ve ever experienced before #forces of nature #innovations ball #hawkins ball #polin #lady whistledown #bridgerton #bridgerton season 3 #netflix #andrew ahn #jack murphy #jess brownell #eli wilson pelton #obsessive bridgerton things #bridgerton analysis

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trippinsorrows · 6 months ago

Text

looking through your eyes + seven

authors notes: so this one leaves probably more questions than answers, but there's also a lot of things sprinkled throughout, and all questions will be answered....eventually.

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: fluff, language, discussion of parental loss, brief (two line) flashback of aftermatch following csa, suggestive themes, ptsd trigger

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 8k

Solana: Are you busy today?

Normally, Roman would keep his phone face down during business meetings but with increasing communication with Solana, he’s leaned more on the side of having it face up so he’s aware when notifications come through.

It’s not a priority. Just a…..preference.

Grabbing his phone, he quickly shoots her back a text.

Roman: What do you need?

Before he can put his phone back down, those three dots appear. He keeps the thread open for her reply to slide in.

Solana: Nvm. I’m sorry to bother you.

Roman curses inwardly, barely keeping it to himself and not making the room of men aware of his frustrations. He can acknowledge Solana has slightly improved with her over–apologizing over the past couple weeks, but it’s moments like this that get him upset all over again.

He fucking hates repeating himself.

But….

There’s that small, annoying ass, nagging voice in the back of his head that reminds him of why she’s always so apologetic, why she thinks her damn existence itself is an inconvenience. And he can’t really fault her, blame her for years of trauma fucking with her mental.

Roman: You’re apologizing again. How many times I gotta tell you to stop that shit?

It could probably, definitely, be worded better. Maybe even a bit…kinder. But Roman is a lot of things.

Kind is not one of them.

He then adds, knowing she’ll probably try to find another excuse to not be honest with him.

Roman: What do you need? The truth, Solana.

There’s an appearance and disappearance of those dots at least three or four times. He can picture her biting down on her bottom lip as she tries to word what probably is a simple request as best she can.

The amount of overthinking she does has to be fucking exhausting.

Solana: I was just gonna see if you could meet me at the library. I wanted to show you something.

Solana: But, it’s not a big deal! Please forget I said anything.

A couple of things strike Roman strange, two in particular. The first being that as soon as she says what she needs, the answer is an automatic yes. Like, it’s not even something he really thinks too much about, but he also chalks it up to a level of genuine curiosity. This might be the first time she’s actually directly asked him for something.

It must be important. Important enough for her to ask him to come see whatever it is, at least.

It’s why he doesn’t even comment on her second, follow up text.

Roman: What time you get off?

He can make whatever work.

Solana: It’s okay. Really.

This damn girl….

Roman’s jaw clench as he types out a text that matches his mood.

Roman: Solana….

She’s giving him a damn migraine. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just ignore her at this point. If it’s that fucking important, she wouldn’t be giving him such a hard time.

But then the stupid nagging voice returns, reminding him that her even asking in the first place is a huge deal that shouldn’t necessarily be shot down because of lingering struggles that are probably going to be around for a while.

Solana literally has years of baggage and trauma she needs to heal from.

And that shit doesn’t happen overnight.

Solana: 3pm

Roman blows out a breath. Fucking finally.

He lays his phone back down, not necessarily wanting to hear any pushback or counter arguments she might try to supply, fake ass reasons she wants to back away from her assertive request.

Not happening.

Roman: I’ll be there.

“Jey.” Roman’s deep voice cuts through the group who set their eyes on him. “I need you and Jimmy to handle the Barrett meeting for me.” While the twins are annoying as shit majority of the time, they’re effective all of the time. Roman has trusted countless meetings with them, and none have turned out badly. They always get shit handled.

His cousins both echo okayness with this change in plans, as expected. The same way Roman expected his Wise Man to be the one with questions.

“My Tribal Chief, we’ve had this meeting scheduled for weeks. What could possibly be more important?”

It’s a fair question, Roman isn’t too stubborn to admit that. But, it’s also not a question that applies. Again, it’s not that Solana is important, per se, it’s just that if his alternative is dealing with Barret’s loquacious business dealings, he’d prefer Solana.

He’s also partially intrigued by the mere fact she’d even had the balls to ask something of him in the first place. It’s promising. Assertiveness has always been more attractive to him than passiveness.

Roman’s answer is both simple and vague. “I have somewhere to be.”

“But—”

“Wise Man.”

Paul’s childlike smile deepens suddenly, as if he’s been picked to be fucking line leader. “Yes, my Tribal Chief?”

“Who’s the Tribal Chief?”

Rikishi is the only one to offer a visible reaction, hiding his chuckle. He knows exactly where this is going, even if his decades old friend does not.

“Y–you are, my Tribal Chief.”

Romans voice is sharp and lethal. “So why the fuck are you asking me to answer to you?”

Paul’s expression pales. “I would never, my—”

“Sound like it to me,” Jimmy’s messy ass chimes in. He looks at Jey. “What you think, Uce?”

“Sound like it to me too.” Jey, as expected, agrees. Only for him to nearly fall back in his seat when he jumps up so both feet are on the expensive ass leather. Roman is annoyed all over again for a new reason. “Ayo, Uce, ya’ll got a rat problem!”

At that, Jimmy is twinning with his brother in more than just appearance, also with his feet off the floor and onto the leather chair. Roman hopes they both fall over and break their goddamn necks. Rikishi can handle Barrett just fine.

“Ain’t you like a goddamn billionaire? How the hell you got Stuart Little and his fam running around your crib!”

Roman’s gaze follows the line of vision the twins are so damn focused on only to be met with Dulce calmly walking past both of them to sit in front of him, looking up with a tilted head.

She’s clearly looking for Solana.

And he knows this because it’s become a bit of a habit. If he’s home and she’s not, Dulce’s nosy ass seems to seek him out as if he’s supposed to magically make her owner appear. It’s not something he’s brought up to Solana, because he knows she would just freak the fuck out and over apologize for Dulce “bothering” him.

And that’s not the case.

It’s a bit annoying, but it’s not a bother.

His staff keep an eye out for her when Solana works, and he’s even seen Solana come back to the house on her lunch breaks to check in Dulce, so he doesn’t mind. She’s keeping up her end of the deal, being the primary caretaker for the puppy.

“That’s Solana’s dog.”

Jimmy’s bewildered gaze is on him. “This a dog?”

“Yes.”

“You let her get a dog? Like a real ass dog?”

“You fucking see her, don’t you?” At that moment, Dulce calmly lays down on the floor next to Roman’s feet which are literally bigger than her small ass. It’s followed up by Paul starting to sneeze.

Jey, who is now sitting back in his chair like a normal human being, points out, “man, you hate dogs.”

Naturally, Roman goes a bit on the defense, shoulders straightening. “I don’t hate them.”

Jimmy makes a sound, also with his feet planted on the ground. “Bruh, you literally use to tell us when we was growing up, ‘I hate dogs.’ That’s why we started calling you Big Dog, cause it was funny to see you get all mad and shit.”

Roman may or may not remember that, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to acknowledge it. Besides, he’s allowed to change his mind. Hate was always probably too strong of a word to use anyway.

There are a lot of things Roman hates, even more people that he hates, but dogs are not on the list.

It was more irritation than anything.

“Whatever.”

“What’s her name?” Rikishi asks, bending over his chair to try to catch Dulce’s attention.

Roman watches the puppy gradually make her way over his cousin, ears dropping as he gently rubs the top of her head. “Dulce.”

“Dul–what?”

This…..this is why Roman is on high blood pressure medication, why Dr. Michaels recommended he start wearing one of those smart watches to monitor his heart rate and other shit. Not that he did it.

“Dulce. It’s Spanish.”

“Aw man, why you ain’t say that in the beginning?” Jimmy turns to Jey. “The dog only speak Spanish.” He looks over at his dad who now has Dulce in his lap, continuing to pet her. Roman rolls his eyes. This dog is a damn attention whore, just like he predicted. “Hola, lil’ chalupa.”

Jey punches his brother on the arm. “Uce, you can’t be saying that kind of shit. It’s racist.”

“No, it’d be racist if I called the dog Taco Bell since her mama half Mexican, but I ain’t do that shit, cause I like Soso.”

“Stop calling her that.”

Jimmy avoids Roman’s warning and proceeds to ask with all of the intrigue. “So not only did you let her bring a dog up in here, but you let ole’ girl pick a rat for said dog?”

Already irritated and on edge, Roman isn’t sure why Jimmy’s question irritates him as much as it does, and not even because it's a question that’s being posed when he’s trying to review a contract. It’s that Jimmy is questioning Solana’s decision in general.

He answers as calmly as he’s capable of responding. Roman also notices that Paul is red as a tomato as he pulls out an Epipen. Roman easily brings his focus back to Jimmy. “It’s what she wanted.”

“Should have got a big dog,” Jey suggests, hovering over by Rikishi as he tries to interact with Dulce whose eyes are fluttering closed. Roman swears this damn dog sleeps 23 out of the 24 hours in the day.

That answer is simple, Roman grabbing a pen to sign off on the contract in front of him. It’s satisfactory enough. “She’s scared of them.”

“What is she not scared of?”

But that comment, for whatever reason, is what makes him snap. “Get out.”

Both the twins are unfazed, but it seems to trigger something for them as Jimmy exclaims, “I forgot!” He looks over at Jey, reminding. “Remember, Soso made some extra food for us.”

“Oh shit, she sho’ did!”

Roman makes a mental note to write Solana about that. It’s not her job to keep feeding his grown ass, married ass cousins.

The two bid their farewell, Jey shouting out as his parting term, “yeet!”

“Stop doing that,” Roman calls after their retreating forms as Paul also excuses himself for some air.

Maybe he really is allergic to dogs.

Rikishi stands up and walks over to him, still holding Dulce but not saying anything. He’s just looking like he wants to say something. Another of Roman’s pet peeves, of the many.

With a mutter and scowl, he asks, “what?”

His cousin simply shrugs, nonchalantly commenting. “The girl is growing on you, Uce.” It’s an assessment, for certain.

However, Roman has zero desire to have this conversation with his older cousin, or anyone, in general. Hence, his vague ass reply of, “she’s tolerable.”

Because that’s the truth. Solana is neither amazing nor insufferable. She’s in a pretty balanced space between the both: tolerable.

Rikishi gives him that sly ass look that makes Roman want to punch him in his fucking face. “E tua le fale tele i le faleo’ o.”

It’s an old Samoan proverb that means “Even the mighty need others.”

Instantly, Roman’s gaze is cutting. “I don’t need anyone.” He never has, and he never will.

Rikishi just offers a knowing smile, lowering Dulce back to the ground and placing a hand on Roman’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. “Of course not, Uce. Of course not.” The older man says nothing else, just walking out, Dulce returning back to stand by Roman’s feet, head up, staring at him.

He rolls his eyes, murmuring as he gets back to work. “She’ll be home later.”

Dulce barks in response.

________

The minute Roman pulls up to Solana’s job, sees the expression on his cousin’s face, he knows something is up.

Solo may have a dangerously good poker face, but Roman invented that shit.

He got the blueprint from Roman.

Solana is sitting near the front of the building, surrounded by fucking children as she reads some basic ass book that they’re all clearly eating up based upon how they can’t seem to take their eyes off her.

Roman isn’t entirely indifferent, instantly taking note of her outfit, more colorful, less covered. It reeks of Naomi’s influence, but in a good way.

As always, she looks good, better than good.

Not wanting to interrupt, Roman motions for a few of his men to take Solo’s place as he gestures for his younger cousin to follow him.

As soon as they’re outside the building, Roman gets right into it. “You got something to say, so say it.”

Roman knows his cousin well enough to know that despite his brutal fighting abilities, the man is always careful and meticulous with his words. Unlike his hot headed older brother, Jey, Solo always thinks before he acts.

It’s why Roman doesn’t think twice about the space between the issuance of his prompt and Solo’s answer.

“You made me your enforcer for a reason, yeah?”

It’s an easy answer. “Yes.”

“You upped me in the ranks to prove myself, right? To earn my way into the inner circle?”

Roman is already bored with the conversation, but considering this is family, he throws a bone. “Yeah.”

“So just how am I supposed to do that when you got me playing babysitter to your new wife?” The turn in topics as well as increase in Solo’s volume does slightly, very slightly, take Roman by surprise. Granted, he does a masterful job, as always, hiding that surprise. “Any lower guy could do this shit. She don’t—”

“Solo.” Roman gives him that tight smile and scratches his beard, typically the last thing people see before they meet their maker. “You answer to me. You do what I say you do, and I say you’re assigned to Solana.”

Roman doesn’t know what’s in the fucking water for people to be testing him the way they are, but it’s really starting to piss him off.

Solo looks down, clearly embarrassed by this talk down but not enough to shut his mouth. “I get that, but—”

“Wasn’t she already hurt once under your watch?” Roman’s voice is razor sharp as he reminds the younger man of his failure. The memory of that fucking bruise on Solana’s wrist from her bitch of a brother returning all of those strong emotions. “I gave you a job, and you didn’t do it. She got hurt while under your protection. It’s because you’re my cousin, you're even still breathing right now. You know better than anyone I don’t accept failure.”

At that, Solo concedes, knowing good and well there is no excuse or justifiable reason. “I understand, my Tribal Chief.”

Roman does his best to chip away some of his anger at this outright disrespect as well as the memories of Solana hurt. He steps past his cousin, calling out over his shoulder. “And Solo, don’t think because you’re family I won’t put a bullet in your head for questioning me.” Out of the corner of his eye, Roman can see Solo still has his head down. “Fail me again, let her get hurt again, and I’ll put your ass six feet under.”

Roman doesn’t allow the conversation to persist beyond that, big steps taking him back to the library just in time to see the children disperse, whipping past him as Solana approaches. The wedges on her feet give her a bit more height, but he still towers over her, which is a usual experience for him.

But, it doesn’t negate the fact that she’s so damn small.

“Hi,” she greets in that familiar unsure voice, eyes darting from him to the ground. “Sorry—I mean—story time ran a bit over.”

He’s appreciative she at least caught the apologizing before he had to call it out. “It’s fine.”

She offers a tight smile and motions for him to follow her, which he does, just as his eyes follow the sway of her ass as she leads the way.

He’s starting to really enjoy seeing her in jeans.

She leads him up the stairs and in the back area he’d visited her before what seems like so long ago, finding that her bastard of a brother had manipulated her into being alone with him. The last fucking time that shit will ever happen.

She pulls a key out her back pocket and unlocks the door, informing, “I have to grab something first.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods. It’s like she feels the need to justify every little thing she does.

Roman watches her walk over to the desk, leaning over as she grabs him something out of her bag, a notebook, the journal he first found her writing in the first time he came to see her at her place of employment.

She’s back by him, closing and locking the door. “Come on.”

Typically, if this was anyone else, Roman would have demanded to know just what the fuck was so important that caused him to have to rearrange his whole schedule. Granted, he can’t take that out on her, nor would he ever, when he’s the one who rearranged his whole schedule for her. She didn't ask him to do that shit.

He did it on his own volition for reasons unknown.

The walk to the next stop doesn’t take long at all, Solana soon sticks her key in another, unfamiliar door, opening and stepping aside but directing him to walk in.

He does as such, naturally and instantly taking in his surroundings once she hits the light switch. It’s a room obviously, a previous storage room he would guess based upon the large filing cabinet lined against the wall to the right of him. There’s also another couple pieces of furniture against that same wall, like a desk and mini bookshelf, but that’s not what immediately catches his attention.

He’s instead more interested by the remaining walls that are essentially lined with larger, white bookshelves, all filled with a combination of notebooks, books, and journals. Completely filled.

Intrigued but also confused, the latter of which is unfamiliar to him, Roman turns to Solana, asking, “what is this?”

Her cheeks redden, but she manages an answer that’s somehow not marked by as much stuttering. “There are all my journals—well,” she stops, giving a nervous laugh. “Most of them. Some are books I’ve read, and….” She walks over to a section that somehow seems different from the others, albeit lined up neatly with the rest of the items. Solana’s hand almost hesitantly feathers over the spines of the journals. At closer look, Roman can see they’re a bit dated and worn than the others. “These were my mother’s.”

Her answer surprises him, but he quickly recalls her sharing that she started writing because of her mother, because they wrote to each other.

She clears her throat and then turns back to him, sharing, “every time I finish a journal, I leave it here.”

Obviously. “Why here?”

“My mom started it. It—it was an arrangement she had with Mrs. Jensen. She worked here, and along with her pay, she arranged so she could keep her writings here and after….” Solana starts to hesitate, and Roman can see it’s because emotion is brewing. Just gently bubbling under the surface. “After she died, I kept up with it.”

Roman recognizes the sensitive nature of the subject and makes a subtle effort to change the topic on her behalf. “You’ve really written in all of these?” It’s impressive. He has to give her that. The thought of writing in general has never appealed to him, so for her to have a room full of journals she’s completed is fucking impressive.

She nods, adding sheepishly, “filled em’ up.” Solana then takes the one in her hand, lifting it a bit. “Finished this one this morning.” He watches her squeeze it into a row that’s probably already being pushed to the limit.

She’s going to run out of space eventually.

She’ll need something bigger, sooner rather than later. Roman compartmentalizes this for a later date and time to navigate.

“You keep em’ here to hide them also, don’t you?”

“They can never know what I’ve written….” She doesn’t need to say who they are. It’s more than obvious. It’d be a sure death wish. “I just—-I know you said you’d write for now and it’s been almost a month, but—but I—I figured if you knew just how important and helpful writing is to me—”

“Solana.” There’s no need for her long ass, drawn out explanation. He understands now why she wanted him to see this space, the goal behind the request. “We’ll write as long as you need it.”

He watches her shoulders drop, a sign of relief. She bites back a smile he wouldn’t be opposed at seeing. She looks even better when she’s smiling. “Thank you.”

He only nods, and Solana finds herself taking him in.

All of him.

In recent weeks, she’s discovered yet another newfound difficulty and source of anxiety for herself. And that new addition would happen to be in the form of the 6’3 man before her.

Roman has always made her nervous, for a variety of good and valid reasons, but recently, the cause of that anxiety has shifted to something else, something a bit on the unfamiliar side for her, or rather something she hasn’t really had to think about since her last disastrous relationship.

Attraction

Solana has come to terms with the fact that she’s attracted to Roman, yes, but also that she hasn’t the slightest clue of what to do about and with that said attraction.

It’s always been there, to a certain extent, but it was more dormant, something she knew was present but voiceless and nameless, almost invisible.

Now, in interacting and engaging with him more, it’s formed more defining characteristics, creating a sense of butterflies in her stomach whenever his smoldering gaze falls on her or when he says something to her, that deep, baritone voice sprouting goosebumps on the back of her neck.

It also doesn’t help that he’s indicated a couple of different times now that he also finds her attractive, or pretty, beautiful even.

That he thinks she looks good.

None of that makes sense to Solana nor can she understand why he would believe any of those things, but she would never make him out to be a liar, so it must be true, to some extent.

And therein lies the dilemma.

One of many that exist in her life.

How she’s supposed to balance attraction with fear, desire with aversion, peace with trauma. It’s all a muddled mess.

“Solana.”

“Sorry.” He only has to sigh one time for her shoulders to sulk, but instead of apologizing, she points out in a small voice. “It’s—it’s a habit.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a fucking habit to break.” His irritation is palpable, and Solana feels even smaller around him, like she’s done something wrong. “It’s not you I’m annoyed with.”

“Oh.” And that genuinely surprises her. In Solana’s experience, she’s always been the source of people’s, especially the men in her life, exasperation. But before she can step out of her comfort zone and ask him what’s wrong, he informs her of something that completely makes her emotions flip and twirl into a puddle of distress.

“Your father called for you today.” And just like that, any sense of relation and ease she’d achieved is dissipated, replaced with growing unrest. “Relax…” It’s not missed upon Solana how Roman’s tone quickly and almost easily jumps from irritated to almost soothing, like he’s trying to calm his nerves. “I told him to fuck off.”

That doesn’t make her feel any better. “He doesn’t like being told no.”

“And you think I give a fuck?” His deep voice is full of indifference and edge, but this time around, Solana knows it’s not directed towards her. He then asks, “do you want to talk to him?”

It takes her off guard. “What?”

Roman repeats himself with a surprising lack of irritation. “Do you want to talk to him?”

Solana can’t remember the last time she was asked such a question. Been given a choice. Then again, it’s happened quite a few times since her marriage to Roman, starting with Bayley asking her something as simple as how she wants her makeup done.

She doesn’t know what to make of that. Just another thing added to that mounting list of confusing and conflicting thoughts and feelings.

“If you want to, I’ll allow it.” He quickly adds the caveat. “But not without me present.”

Prior to the past couple weeks, Solana would suspect Roman’s stipulation stems from a place of possessiveness. But now….now it feels like it comes from someplace else, something so unfamiliar and foreign.

Protectiveness.

It feels like he’s being protective of her.

His proclamation from earlier returns to the forefront of her mind.

“I’m not going to let anyone lay a fucking hand on you.”

He’d also included a list of people he wouldn’t allow to do as such, including her dad and brother, which is why he clearly would only let Solana speak to her father if he’s around.

It’s just the why that has her stumped.

But, back to the question being posed, the easiest and most simple answer is no. She’d rather not be around someone who’s only ever left her hurt, emotionally and/or physically. Or allocated that task to her brother.

Not to mention the fact that the only reason he probably wants to talk to her is to discuss this nefarious plot she still refuses to allow herself to think about because it’s so inconceivable.

“Not really,” she answers after what feels like forever, “but…”

Roman picks up on her hesitation. “But?”

“Like I said, my–my father doesn’t like being denied.” And before he can protest or again reiterate his outright indifference to her father’s feelings, Solana adds in a quiet voice, “and I usually end up being the one to pay for it.”

Roman steps towards her, and before she can process what’s happening, his finger is under her chin, tugging so that her head is lifted, eyes locked with his.

His voice lowers, quietly asking, “you still don’t believe me when I say I won’t let anyone hurt you, huh?” It’s rhetorical, sure, but Solana is too focused on the fact that this man is touching her. It’s as innocent as innocent comes, but it’s still touch, something she usually hides away from like the plague. However, outside of the initial shock and borderline discomfort, Solana doesn’t jump away, doesn’t feel the need to put as much distance between them. She’s almost….almost comfortable.

“I’m going to kill them both, eventually. Fucking with them in the meanwhile only makes the outcome that much more worthwhile. But…” And the surprises keep coming, especially as he makes her aware of his intentions. “One word. All I need is one fucking word from you. That you want them gone, and it’s done. No questions asked.”

Power.

Solana wonders if this is what power feels like, the ability to say one single word and have a life be ended. How she feels about those lives belonging to her brother and father remains to be seen, but even being given such an option, such an almost promise, it’s an indescribable experience.

Roman’s brown eyes, light and contrasting everything about him that is sharp and hard, study her. “You understand me?”

Naturally, she nods against his index finger that’s under her chin, demanding maintained eye contact.

“I need words.” It’s a reminder from the infamous wedding night, something that seems so far in the rearview mirror now.

“Y–yes.”

He seems pleased by this acknowledgment, enough to pull his hand away from her, Solana trying not to make too much of the strange sensation that floats in her stomach at the absence of his touch.

Roman suddenly offers. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll up your security detail.” Before she can protest and probably apologize if she’d unintentionally indicated it wasn’t already enough, he asks, “you get off at 3 every day?”

“Essentially, y–yes.”

“I’ll start meeting you.”

The surprises just keep on coming.

Instantly, she feels bad, shaking her head. “You don’t have to—”

“Solana.” This man must get tired of having to say her name, she’s certain of that. “I’ll meet you.” He says the same thing, but this time, she knows not to push back because it’s a done thing. “Just make sure I have your updated work schedule.”

“Wh—what about Solo?”

“He’ll still be assigned to you for any other outings.” This makes her feel a little better, that he’s not entirely rearranging and inconveniencing himself for her. “You ready to go?”

Yes. No. Maybe. There’s so many different questions she has with only a select number of answers, but in this moment, she goes with the one that feels most right.

Especially with Roman reaching for her hand.

Nodding, she swallows and accepts his gesture, noticing how his large hand closes over hers, almost protectively.

“Yes.”

________

“That for me?” Solana looks up from the notebook she’s almost certain she’ll have filled and completed by the end of the month. Roman’s presence and question both catch her off-guard. She didn’t really expect to speak to him again today, especially after he already spent time with her earlier that day. She figured he’d had his maximum daily dosage.

Especially after she’d already prepared and fixed dinner for him, the two of them falling into their now routine of him eating in his office, her in the living room before she makes her way out back to the patio where she either writes or, now, plays with Dulce.

Solana shakes her head, answering softly as Roman sits on the chair opposite her. “no. It’s…”

“About your mom?”

With him now aware of the nature of some of her writing, she answers, “yeah.” Roman’s question triggers something she’s certain she intentionally never commented on because it was such a shock to her system that she really didn’t know how to respond. “When….when you said it wasn’t my fault….did—did you mean that?”

If she expected there to be delayed response or even confusion on his end, she was entirely wrong because he answers almost on the spot. “Yes. I told you, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

She’s starting to believe that.

Wetting her lips, she informs in that same small voice, “no one’s ever said that to me before.”

Xavier’s unshaven face and dark, judgmental gaze is focused on her, Solana doing her best to ignore the pain that wrecks her body, the beeping of the machines and IV’s in both her arms. The throbbing between her legs is equally scary as it is confusing. What did they do to her, and why did it hurt so much?

He pulls the cigar from his mouth, dropping and stomping it on the floor, gruff voice asking, “why didn’t you fight back?” He shakes his head, spitting at the same spot that’s littered with remnants of one of many poor habits. “You’re weak just like your mother.”

Roman’s firm voice snatches her away from spiraling too deeply in dark memories of an even darker past. She does her best to shake away any sign she was about to dissociate when he surprises her for what feels like the 10th time today, almost quietly sharing, “My mother was killed when I was ten years old.” There’s a synchronous dropping of her mouth and stomach at the exact same time. “You think that shit was my fault?”

The answer is obvious and immediate. “No. Of–of course not. You were—you were just a kid.”

While her response is borderline automatic, coming from a place of pure logic, everything else is so confusing. Roman’s mother is….dead? Not even dead but murdered when he was a child?

Just like hers.

Solana doesn’t know how to process this. It’s not until this very moment that she realizes not once has she ever considered or thought about his immediate family, like parents and even siblings. At the wedding, so many people were present, obvious family members of his, but she’s just now realizing she never considered who was who. Were they all cousins, aunts, in-laws even?

Where is the rest of his immediate family? Better yet, who makes up his immediate family? She’s aware of the twins and even his older cousin Rikishi, but is there not more?

“So were you.” She can’t tell if Roman intentionally works to redirect the focus back onto herself or if he’s unaware of the fact she’s suddenly wondering just how much about the man across from her she still knows nothing about it. “So why is it different for you?”

It’s an effective diversion and valid question that she’s never once asked herself.

“No one’s ever said that either.” Her voice is only a couple octaves above a whisper, and Solana finds herself sharing more than she’s probably ever divulged to anyone. “When I….when I’m writing, a lot of the times, I’m writing letters to my mom.” Having this conversation with anyone, let alone Roman, of all people, wasn’t on her life agenda. But, it seems like a lot of ‘nevers’ are gradually morphing into ‘actualities.’

It’s such a strange experience, too.

“Like I said, we used to write to each other, and after….after she was killed, I couldn’t find it in me to stop. I think at the beginning, I kept doing it because….because I didn’t want to accept she was gone.” The understanding and underlying emotion shifts to the surface, resulting in her quickly wiping at her eyes to keep the tears from falling. “Like I was waiting for her to write me back.” It’s not missed upon Solana how Dulce suddenly moves closer, tucking her body right up against Solana’s thigh. “And I’ve kept at it over the years, cause—she was the only person I could ever talk to.”

Roman repeats the same message he wrote to her, almost reminding her of a lifeline she’s gradually starting to realize is available for the first time in almost twenty years. “You can talk to me, Solana.”

And she is. She doesn’t know how and especially why, but she is, and as heavy as the topic is, there’s a hint of relief at finally having another living, breathing person to speak to and with about these things.

Especially…..especially someone who can maybe relate to her. “How did you do it—how did you….move past it?”

It’s not the best wording, she’s certain of that. Losing a parent. Having a parent be murdered isn’t something one gets over.

Solana knows this better than most, but Roman….he’s so composed, so together, so unbroken.

So unlike her.

His expression darkens as he answers in an eerie but calm voice. “I got my revenge, and I killed every single son of a bitch who played a role.” His delivery unsettles her a bit, but he seems to easily shift back into that almost patient tone she’s only ever heard him use….with her. “But, I’m not like you, Solana. You're innocent. My ledger bleeds red.” Solana doesn’t know what it looks or even sounds like for Roman to be uncomfortable, but his delivery in the next part definitely feels as such. “I don’t….feel things like you do. You feel everything. I feel nothing.”

She whispers. “I wish I was like that, that I didn’t feel.” Because it’s true. Because it’s how she initially started to self harm, because she wanted to feel something other than emotional pain. Even physical pain was better than the anguish that racked her every day, 24/7.

He’s quick to shut that down, to tell her the complete opposite. “No, you don’t. That would mean you’ve lost that innocence you have.”

That actually makes Solana smile, chuckle, but there’s not an ounce of humor as she shakes her head. “I–I lost my innocence a long time ago.” Stolen. It was stolen from her a long time ago is the more appropriate way to word it. Stomach a complete freaking mess, she does her best to power through her anxiety at what she’s about to tell him. “Roman…..I—”

“Ayo, Uce—”

“What!” Roman snaps, Solana jumping back away from him, hypervigilance back on high and alert. He briefly casts his gaze back in her direction, and she can almost swear she sees a speck of guilt. Like he’s apologetic for scaring her.

Jimmy, however, is unfazed by his cousin’s temper. He’s lived with it his whole life. Ain’t nothing new. “Rhodes men were on Bloodline territory—”

“What?” At that, Roman’s head snaps back in Jimmy’s direction. And Solana watches as any sign of Roman, patient and almost kind, is replaced almost instantly with that same cold, stoic demeanor that could strike fear in the heart of even the strongest man.

He stands up, hands on his hips as he moves a bit away from her. Solana also stands, fighting her urge to move closer to him.

Jimmy also presents with a seriousness she’s never seen in him, never even really knew he was capable of, to be honest. “We got three guys down. Another two critically injured.”

Roman curses, turning away, back toward Jimmy and her. He then asks, “you got a location on em’ yet?”

“Pearce should have it any minute now.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Roman nods, stepping away from Solana and in the direction of Jimmy just as Dulce walks over, clearly wanting Solana to pick her up. She must also pick up on the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

Dulce in her arms, Solana finds herself calling for Roman. “What—”

“Not now.” His dismissal is sharp and sudden. It shouldn’t hurt her feelings, because it’s obvious he’s in an entirely different zone now, but it does.

Solana sinks back into her shell of silence as Solo steps forward. “You want me—”

“Stay with Solana. She doesn't step foot outside this fucking house, you understand me?” Roman’s orders are indisputable, an almost sense of urgency in his tone. “Heighten security around the premises.”

Solana has so many questions. Just what is going on? Why is Roman so on edge all of a sudden? Who is Rhodes and why do they present such an imminent threat where Roman marches out the house, Jimmy on his heels without even a second glance at her.

It’s all so confusing.

“You need to get inside.” Solo’s equally stoic reminder, command maybe, pulls her from her thoughts. And Dulce suddenly growling at Solo definitely redirects her focus.

“Shhh. It’s just Solo,” she comforts, petting and trying to calm the puppy who quickly upgrades her growling to barking. This also confuses the mess out of Solana.

She’s not sure she’s ever seen Dulce both growl and bark at someone.

Wordlessly, she walks in the house, past Solo who she notices makes sure to lock the door behind them.

“Stay in your room," he instructs, and while she has more questions than anything, his austere tone is more than enough for her to not push back.

Dulce will just have to use the crate if she has to use the bathroom.

Without another word, Solo carries Dulce up the stairs and into her room where she lays the puppy in her bed and Solana climbs onto her.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she grabs her phone and opens up the latest group text thread she was messaging in.

Solana: Can I ask you guys something?

Their replies come in not even five minutes later.

Bayley: Of course!

Naomi: Anything.

Without allowing herself too much time to overthink it, Solana sends out the simple question.

Solana: Who or what is Rhodes?

Solana: Roman just rushed out of here after Jimmy said something about Rhodes men being on Bloodline territory. I’m not allowed to leave the mansion.

Just like the start of the conversation, the replies come in almost instantaneously.

Naomi: Fuck.

Naomi: Yes, stay put. Solo’s there with you, right?

Solana: Yes.

Solana’s anxiety is only growing. Naomi sounds just as intense as Jimmy and Roman were.

Her follow up text doesn’t do anything to help the confusion either.

Naomi: The less you know, the better. The guys will handle it.

Handle what, though? That’s what Solana really wants to know. What is the story here, and why did this Rhodes person or group have Roman so wired.

Just then, another notification comes through. From Bayley, but in their individual thread and not the group chat.

Solana switches over, reading her messages as they arrive almost back to back.

Bayley: Rhodes is a person, but…that’s a complicated story.

Bayley: And I'd feel bad telling someone else’s story, but what I can tell you is that Rhodes is Cody Rhodes, head to the Nightmare Factory, the Bloodline’s biggest opp. Tensions have been at an all time high for like two generations with countless bodies dropped on both sides. It’s always a bloodbath when they’re in the same vicinity.

Solana is regretting even asking anything in the first place. Bloodbath when they’re in the same vicinity, the same vicinity Roman is heading for as she types. Her shoulders drop, anxiety starting to shift to a new target.

Concern for his safety.

Bayley: If you’re somehow ever in a situation where someone from the Nightmare territory is around, get the hell out of dodge. They won’t hesitate to kill you, especially with you being Roman’s wife.

Bayley: Or Rollins. Seth Rollins. Especially him. Guy is fuckin’ psycho.

Solana: Rollins?

Bayley: Roman, Seth, and Cody used to be friends a long time ago, like way long ago, and it just….it went bad. Really really fucking bad, and Cody and Roman have hated each other since. Like, I don’t know if hate is even a strong enough word for how much they can’t stand each other.

Solana: But why?

Bayley never replies.

________

Roman doesn’t step back into the house until almost 4am. He feels every bit exhausted as he probably looks, more physical than anything, some mental, maybe more than he’d like to admit.

Dealing with anything Nightmare related typically has that impact on him.

Solo meets him at the door, looking as on alert as he did when Roman first saw him at the ass crack of dawn this morning.

The first thing to leave Roman’s mouth isn’t intentional as much as it is unintentional. “How was she?”

Solo motions to the marble flooring leading to the spacious living room. “She’s waiting for you.”

Roman wasn’t expecting to hear that, and he’s certain it shows in his facial expression. “What? Why? Why is she still up?”

Solo shrugs. “You’ll have to ask her. She don’t talk to me.” Which is more Solo’s preference anyway. It’s his job to protect her, not be her fucking friend. “Everything good?” Roman nods but doesn’t say anything, still stuck on the fact that Solana is still up. “Imma head out.”

Roman’s response is as distant as his expression. He doesn’t care whether Solo stays or leaves. “Alright.”

Once his enforcer is out the house, Roman sure enough finds Solana sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, notebook in her lap as she writes away.

“Solana.”

She gasps, clearly taken by surprise, but when her head lifts and her eyes land on him, she untangles her legs and moves the journal to the side. Solana walks over to him, keeping a distance that makes sense for her. “You’re back….”

“What are you still doing up? Don’t you have work in a couple hours?”

“It’s okay.” She shakes her head, adding sheepishly, “I–I don’t sleep much anyway.” He knows this well. “I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Her eyes widen as she hones in on the nasty looking cut near the middle of his hairline. “You’re hurt….”

It’s really not until she says anything that Roman remembers the only “injury” he received from tonight’s bloodbath. “It’s fine.” He then redirects the focus to the main topic at hand. “Solana, you don’t have to wait up for me.”

She ignores him, actually ignores him and instead reaches up to feel the cut that’s maybe a bit more deeper than he realized because her feather light touch brings a bit of a sting.

“You need stitches.” It doesn’t sound like a suggestion, and he realizes as such following her next surprising action. She takes his hand and leads him into the kitchen, motioning for him to sit down on the stool as she pulls out the medical kit from under the sink.

Similar to the night of WarGames, she moves in between his open legs and starts tending to his cut, meticulously and carefully stitching him up.

She says not a word, and neither does he. Truthfully, it’s more an unconscious thing than conscious, like neither knows what or if to say something. Especially considering both are currently feeling more than what they know how to properly verbalize, or verbalize at all, really.

“There….” Roman can tell when she’s done. She gently runs her fingers over her diligent work, her eyes focused on the source of her apparent concern when all he wants is for her to look at him, for her eyes to lock on him. “I think I’m—” And just as Solana goes to move away, to step back and clean up, she’s stopped.

She’s stopped, because Roman reaches for her, keeping her near him.

His hand is initially on the small of her back, and Solana has the same experience from earlier. That initial tense feeling that quickly mellows into something almost calm, almost secure.

She’s not sure she’s ever been this close to him, not since the last time she tended to his injuries, not since their wedding day, since their wedding night.

But unlike that last almost traumatic time, she’s not pummeled with anxiety, not paralyzed with fear.

It’s just the calm.

His eyes never leave her, bouncing back and forth between her eyes and lips. He then says in a low voice that’s unlike anything she’s heard from him before. “Solana….”

There’s something different about the way he says her name, something more sincere, something almost….vulnerable.

Roman suddenly has both hands on her hips, holding her, just as her nervous hand moves to lay her palm against his chest.

His eyes instantly shut at her touch. Interactions with anything regarding Rhodes have always done something to Roman emotionally, but it’s always been something he can manage relatively well. Something simple and easy. There’s nothing simple and easy about whatever the fuck is coursing through him at having her so close to him, having her touch, soft and unsure as the expression in her eyes.

She doesn’t know what to make of his eyes closing nor does she have time to consider what to make of that because an image, a flashback of a different kind of touch, a much more painful, visceral touch shoots to the forefront of her mind.

And her chest starts tightening, that fear drawing back up.

“I–I can’t.” Because as much as some part of her, albeit big or small, likes this, likes being close to him, feels safe being this close to thim, another part, much larger and much stronger, can't handle being this close to him. “I’m sorry.” Eyes watering, she breaks away, Dulce is quickly behind her, Solana reaching to hold the puppy as she dashes up the stairs.

Roman sits unsure, confused, angry. He stands up, pacing across the floor, hands up and on the side of his head before his fist slams against the refrigerator door. He curses, but not from the blow. That shit doesn’t hurt.

His reaction and frustration is directed solely toward the fact that he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling right now.

The same thing Solana is struggling with as she sits on her bed, legs pulled up to her chest, silently crying into her thighs.

Both of them wondering the same exact thing:

What the hell just happened?

#roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns x black!poc #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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applestorms · 4 months ago

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i love near so goddamn much. i finally read the c-kira and a-kira post-canon one shots all the way through last night and AAAAAAAAA my heart. nate river 🫵🫵🫵

c-kira in particular hits me hard bc you can really see that he's still reeling from the events of the main story. it’s a very specific era of near that’s so horribly awkward and insecure about his place in the world, about his role as L, and has so very few people left behind to support him-- really just lidner, rester, and gevanni. so much of that story is about near struggling to figure out who he is and who he wants to be in the wake of Everything, scrambling around in the shadows of all these false gods and blown up egos, trying to grow up and be a Person in the smoking remains of all these people who killed themselves with their own hubris. i mean, just look at this page:

LOOK AT THIS. near is almost shockingly expressive in this story, his grief and regret is fucking Palpable in a way that you very rarely see with a guy like him. it really gets to me that this is the story where near actually opens up about his mixed feelings surrounding the original L, about the interview he held where he picked near & mello out to be his two successors, and all while hiding himself within these massive card towers that you only see to be these giant L's at the end-- a kid barely out of his teens already getting dwarfed by the enormity of the history he is expected to continue and represent. the winner of the game who's only prize is the legacy he now holds on his shoulders, the grief he is cursed with as the only one left behind. this kid barely has anyone now, never even got the chance to truly, fully know what he lost in the first place, these all-powerful figures that have dictated every inch of his life from the moment he stepped foot in that damn house.

and i mean, goodness. what did we expect? i can talk all i want about the cinematic parallels of light & L as opposites, but look at near & mello in literally every piece of official art-- near truly loses his other half when mello dies, and you can just Feel the discomfort, the deep-seated, underlying imbalance in his soul through this shit.

a-kira near, on the other hand, has had the time to grow a bit more at ease with himself, but he still gets to me in a slightly different way. i cannot emphasize enough how utterly fucking perfect the decision to make his hair longer is-- for so simple of a detail, it really sums up so much about his character. this version of an older near feels like a guy who's been stuck outside of time for ages, barely even noticing the constant shifts of the outer world as he holes himself up in his room, hardly aware of the way that his own body stretches and grows and changes with each passing day. doing his job, all just for a bit of entertainment. there is still that distinctly privileged, childish part of him that hides in his forts of toys and makes whatever demands he pleases, but it's more smoothed over, more exhausted, more Done.

he's packed away the grief by this point. dealt with it properly? not necessarily. but the wound isn't as raw now so he can set it aside to be ignored or looked over more easily, focus on the things that he wants to. blow up his toys when they don't meet his standards.

i strikes me as important that near's view on the new kira's shifts so much over the course of even just these two little stories. in the c-kira story, near is so Quick to shit on the new guy as fast as possible, literally snarking him into submission with the fear of his presence alone until he writes his own name down. we never see this "cheap" kira, this pathetic fake that couldn't possibly stand up to the original. (projecting a little there, nate?) he's barely more than a panel or two of hands, and then he disappears from the story forever.

in a-kira though, you get something a little more desperate, a little more hungry-- near really fucking wants to meet this new guy, purely for the sake of talking to him, and is a lot quicker to respect him & the depth of how well he's thought through this plan. at first it seems like he's intrigued by the idea of finally finding yet another equal, someone to match his freak after years of standing on his own, and knowing DN you're inclined to trust that the mind games will eventually happen. but, in the end...

he loses. and doesn't he seem so happy about it?

minoru really is the perfect match for near in a way-- a new, passive kira, uninterested in the bullshittery of killing and shinigami and evil murder diaries, to reflect and match the tired, new L who was done with his job before he even started doing it. RIP minoru dying due to shinigami bullshit, but i'm genuinely happy that this is the ending near gets, the chance to finally lose at something without having to pay the price of human lives for it. winning has almost never been a truly positive thing for near-- his winning wammy's house only gave him the many pressures & stresses of a job as L, his winning against light only gave him a dead mello and a notebook to quietly burn, hell, all of this shit happening at all is what made mello resent him so much in the first place.

but now he can lose. and i think he's all the better for it.

near is immature, yes, he bossy and snarky and blows up his toys without giving a fuck what anyone else has to say-- but he doesn't get ahead of himself in the way that light and L and the others did, a trait which ultimately lets him win but also leaves him behind to shoulder the grief of a generation. but now he can lose, he can let the fate of the world fall of his shoulders for just a moment, and everything is still going to be okay. it's good to see him getting older. it's good to see that you can still move on and grow, even when it seems like the legacies of the past are locking you away in a cage. i'm glad these manga exist, and i'm glad near can still make it out alive.

#death note #astronaut rambles #near #nate river #NATE RIVERRR #a-kira #c-kira #'short little post' i need to stop lying to myself. do your fucking homework apples

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innerfare · 5 months ago

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Random Beckman Headcanons

Summary: a random collection of Benn Beckman headcanons

CW: None // SFW

———

Beckman mends the holes in Shanks’ shirts because otherwise, he has to listen to Shanks complaining about pricking his only thumb, followed by a barrage of one-arm jokes Beckman has heard a million times by now.

Though his captain and crew prefer a summer island with large swathes of beach on which to lay about, Beckman prefers a peaceful fall/autumn island. His favorite activity is sitting in the crisp, quiet air, chain-smoking cigarettes and watching the breeze carry away the smoke. He might clean his gun or read the newspaper while he does.

His father was a good man, and they had a close relationship, but he died when Beckman was twelve, leaving him to take care of his grieving mother, who passed just a few years later. His father is the man who taught him how to shoot, and Beck hasn’t missed a shot since he died.

Is the best poker player on the crew, better even than Shanks. Doesn’t play outsiders without the crew there to back him up because his clean sweeps usually end in another pirate player claiming he cheated and starting a fight with him.

That’s actually how he and Shanks met. Shanks had started a fight on one end of the bar by hitting on the wrong man’s girlfriend, and Beckman had started a fight on the other end after winning a pirate captain’s ship, the Red Force, in an illegal card game. They ended up back to back in the middle and fought their way out together.

Super intelligent. Is actually very well read, comes from a fairly good family, received a good education from an expensive school, and joined the navy as soon as he came of age. Though he quickly gained a strong reputation as a marine, he was disturbed by some of the things he saw (served under a certain Sakazuki) and deserted.

Went on the run, considered joining the Revolutionary Army but didn’t want to be a soldier anymore, started gambling as a means to make money under the table. Had a few close calls with the government but was otherwise fine on his own- until the night he met Shanks.

Shanks saved his life in that bar and proposed they combine his experience with Beckman’s new ship and start a pirate crew. They did just that and never looked back, though there have been a few hangovers that made Beckman momentarily regret his decision.

Isn’t just typically intelligent, though. He’s actually very high in emotional intelligence, far more emotionally intelligent than the average pirate. It really works to his advantage as a first mate, as he’s able to better predict how people will react to Shanks’ various schemes and plan around that. The crew thinks he’s some sort of psychic or possesses a secret, fourth form of Haki. It’s really just above average listening skills.

Something of a gentle giant. A bit sensitive. Always the first to realize when one of his captain’s jokes didn’t quite land and might have caused offense.

That being said, isn’t as good a guy as everyone thinks. The only reason he doesn’t cheat at poker is because he doesn’t have to, and he definitely fights dirty.

Speaking of fighting, Beckman is a bulldog. Lives for a good fight. Loves boxing, doesn’t hesitate to climb into a ring. The man is a perfect shot but doesn’t fire a bullet unless absolutely necessary, not because he’s particularly frugal but because he loves getting his knuckles bruised and bloody.

Such a smooth talker it's unreal. Does his best work without a wing man. Despite being tough as nails, manages to strike women as the sensitive type. Does very well with the ladies.

After all this time, doesn’t know all the particulars of Shanks’ relationship with the Clown. Is a little worried about those particulars so he simply doesn’t ask.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

#one piece #benn beckman #red hair pirates #shanks #akagami no shanks #red haired shanks #beckman #beckman headcanons #benn beckman headcanons #buggy the clown #buggy one piece #one piece headcanons

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notsofrozt · 1 month ago

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So, for y'all "S2 Jayce meets S1 Viktor" hungry folks, here's a list of 5 of the bookmarks I've been collecting (for you specially @maiawhimsicalt) in no particular order and with no particular comentary, my braincells are on strike rn:

1. Of Memories and Tomorrows by Lieyantosh

Post-Season 2 Jayce and Season 1 Viktor, the grief of having lost your soulmate while having to look at his younger version who doesn’t even know you, the endless exhaustion of being a second-hand love and also science.

This fic has changed something in my I cannot describe, and if anyone here even remotely likes Arcane (or even if you don't know the series at all, it's that well written) y'all should read it right know.

You didn't hate me because of what my future self did,” Viktor said, feeling distinctly pathetic. There was a certain vulnerability in this, like he was opening up his ribcage for Jayce to see. “You hate me because I'm not him. Because you came back. And he didn't.”

2. the future came undone by Lieyantosh

Instead of appearing several months after the wild rune took him, Jayce lands in the past and decides to take out Viktor before he can turn into the monster he saw in the future.

This author is just *chef kiss*

3. intertwined, sewn together by lamoureg

Just as soon as the dance begins, it’s over.

In the silver, the faint mist rays of light, he can make out a face. One that’s achingly familiar, one he knows like the back of his hand, yet isn’t familiar with whatsoever. A man, bronze skin pallid and devoid of the life Viktor is so used to seeing. Shaggy dark hair hanging in curtains around his face — a face littered with cuts and bruises, stained with dirt and soot. Heavy set brows and eyes wide in shock.

Rather inappropriately, Viktor’s first thought is oh, fuck. And his second. And his third.

Because staring back at him is Jayce.

If you read this with Jinx and Ekko's song playing in the background you're going to cry.

4. You’re starting to look really weird by anónimo

Viktor lays awake, listening to the steady breathing beside him. The breathing of a man sleeping on his husband’s side of the bed, in his husband’s clothes, with his husband’s face, but who is most certainly not his husband.

This one has a very original concept: the reunion from Viktor's POV. Older Jayce got Ekko'd into his other self's body, so there's a stranger inhabiting his partner. It delves into that whole psychological horror aspect. I love it.

5. Stay Your Pretty Eyes On Course by Neibba

“I do not recall telling you my name.” Viktor stated matter-of-factly. “Yet you know it. Have we met?” Yes. Many times. Practically lived together inside their lab, but he couldn’t tell Viktor that. No, this Viktor had no idea who Jayce really was, and he intended on keeping it that way.

After the Hexcore collapsed, Jayce gets sent back to where it all started, the day he met Viktor, but Viktor seems to have no recollection of him. What happens when Jayce gets another chance, knowing what he knows now.

This author is a writing machine powered by glorious evolution and brainworms. I love this fic, its updated almost daily, and the way the relationship between the two of them develops is wonderful.

I have many, many more saved, especially one shots of S2!Jayce having all kinds of breakdown as soon as he sees S1!Viktor. I'll make another list later when deadlines aren't breathing on my neck.

I hope you like it!!!

#jayvik #s2 jayce meets s1 viktor #I love them #I love this troupe #They have been my food and air the last few days #fic rec #arcane #arcane season 2 #jayce talis #viktor #viktor arcane #jayce x viktor #arcane jayce

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starkidlabs · 2 months ago

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Just for anyone interested. Some highlights from the London production of Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812

In general instead of leaning into 1800’s Russia the show leaned into the club/electro aspects of the music. Which was reflected in the clothing and the overall set. The set felt quite bare and like a club in a sense. But there was some really great set pieces that made some scenes super effective like the Opera and the final scene.

I think the opera was the first scene that had me like wow this is something. Very striking and completely different from anything I’ve seen at all. There was a use of light up opera glasses (binoculars) in general Anatole’s entrance was entrancing.

The club in the The Duel had well club vibes, a lot of glowing green shots and glowing green batons being twirled. The Duel itself was performed on the balcony railings both Pierre and Dolokohv’s actors were holding onto a rope and leaning heavily to the side with their guns (made it a lot scarier) Dolokohv was climbing all over the place

Just to talk about Dolokohv in general he was a lot sluttier (in the most affectionate way possible) made out a ton with Helene - made out with Anatole and touched his face lovingly a lot - tried to make out with Balaga - he was denied. Generally loved his costume. Painted nails, see through shirt. Honestly a vibe,

I think Cat’s performance as Helene definitely reviled Amber’s. And during Charming Natasha was far more into it. She 100% wanted Helene to kiss her.

In terms of Dust and Ashes the choir appeared from no where behind me - which made my hair stand on end - entirely heavenly.

The Ball felt a bit like a sex club? If that makes sense. Surprisingly worked very very well. There was some great direction here - use of actors and where they were placed made everything feel more confined and some great lighting made everything feel so intense.

Now for Natasha - I love Chumisa’s performance so much. You felt her youth and naivety, in every scene. And it really came out in the scenes where she was arguing, she came across as more confident but also more petulant. It worked really well and I think it really made Natasha more endearing as a protagonist as you can tell just how in over her head she is without her ever realising it.

Letters was so fun. That is all I’ll say. That and also Jamie stuffing a letter down his pants was just !!!!

Let’s talk about Anatole - maybe it’s just because I love Jamie Muscato (ever since I saw him in the Bonnie & Clyde workshop) but he honestly gave one of my favourite performances I’ve ever seen on stage. I think he brought so much charm to the role that you can tell why Natasha falls for him. I think there is a slight awkward nervousness there that Anatole seems to use to his advantage especially when around Natasha and Pierre. He was fantastic in every scene he was in and in Pierre & Anatole, you could see all the layers of his character come out at once. Honestly a fantastic performance.

The Abduction/Balaga was definitely my favourite scene. There was so much energy. And Helene, Dolokohv and Anatole just sort of lit up every scene they were in, but there was a particular energy in this scene that made it really stand out. Like you could feel the rush. At some point Anatole gets one of the audience members to kiss him on the cheek which was 10/10. And Balaga just straight up sits on someone’s lap. Not to mention Balaga was in leather with a leather whip. Honestly the energy in this scene was amazing. I was bopping up and down (I was in the back row so it’s fine). - also I’m not sure if this was changed in past reworks of the show but it’s now ‘Goodbye my moonlit lover’ (or moonlight - I forget)

I’ve already mentioned Pierre & Anatole - but that was definitely one of my favourite Pierre scenes. Enjoyed seeing the fear in Anatoles eyes. And yes Petersburg was high!

Natasha Very Ill was extremely haunting and sent shivers down my spine. Honestly Maimuna’s voice is incredible and while obviously not the same as Brittain’s - it was just as unique and striking. Sonya Alone definitely had one of the largest applauses of the night.

I feel like in general this version of Pierre had to grow on me a lot. I feel like he was the only one whose voice was vastly misaligned with the original BW cast. Definitely less classical more rock. But I think he really came into his own during the final few songs where I feel like he could lean into that Pierre softness. And Chumisa brought so much sadness and tenderness into that scene that it made it super hard hitting. (One thing I didn’t like is the spoken line felt a little rushed - it needed to be dragged into a few more beats for that impact).

There were lightbulbs scattered around the seats which all lit up during the final song which really made the entire thing very beautiful. There was also a halo of light beating down on Pierre. I think the harmonies hit the most in this scene.

#the great comet #natasha pierre and the great comet of 1812 #musicals #theatre

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sammaggs · 4 months ago

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4x02 Easy Money // 3x01 Burning Down the House // 3x02 Eclipse | Rift

Something that always strikes me about Ray's moment of reconciliation with his father (in a show that might as well be subtitled Fathers Kinda Suck Huh???????) is the way this scene in particular is shot.

They focus especially on Ray's bracelet as he extends his hand:

Which isn't the only time they've focused on Ray's bracelet during Important Character Building. There's of course, his intro in Burning Down the House,

The close-up on the similarity with Marcus Ellory's bracelet in Eclipse,

And a bunch of other moments over seasons 3 and 4 that basically use the bracelet as a quick visual stand-in for "Ray Kowalski's a little bit different."

It’s something Ray Vecchio would never wear; hell, it's something most cops would never wear. It's a little bit, as Ray Kowalski would say, queer.

And so is Ray Kowalski.

The decision to focus on this bracelet during the exact moment he offers his hand to Damian as a peace offering is therefore, to me, worth considering. I personally read this as an indicator that part of the reason for Ray's rift with his father was his queerness.

And the first thing Damian says to Ray after they shake hands?

He compliments Ray’s experimental hair! He mentions another “queer” element of Ray’s physical appearance—one his father has likely given him a lot of grief for—and accepts it. Metaphor!!

It is, of course, understandable that Damian would have wanted better for his son than to be a cop, and this isn't to say that there isn't a world where that might have been enough to cause Damian to lose meaningful touch with his son for a decade. It certainly made sense for Ray Vecchio's father, who was likely involved with low-level mob business. But it does seem pretty extreme for Damian!

There's also the beautiful scene where Ray tells Fraser about his family in the precinct mess. At the very end, it really does look like he has something else he wants to say... but then Huey interrupts.

Now I am, of course, aware that Ray was dating or engaged to Stella at the time he graduated Academy. So what could his queerness possibly have to do with anything?

Well, as much as many of us wish it would, your queerness does not disappear when you enter a straight-passing relationship. I've even seen interesting ruminations in fic that some of the early hardship in Ray and Stella's relationship—remember, they broke up for a while during her college tenure—might have been due to the fact that Ray was interested in (or even caught) experimenting with men.

A personal anecdote, if you'll indulge me: I was in my mid-twenties, four years into a relationship with a man I thought I was going to marry, and tormented constantly by the idea that I was, probably, queer. I had no way of finding out while I was in a committed monogamous relationship. When I told my own mother that I thought I was bisexual, she told me it was all right—but also to never, ever tell my father. Even though I was in a relationship with a man, the knowledge of my queerness would have been enough to potentially cause a rift between my father and I that I don't know if we ever could have repaired. [editor's note: i'm a lesbian now and my dad and I have a stellar relationship ftr but i did have to marry a whole man first so] [editor's note: i am also the editor]

Ray gets caught with a man while Stella is in college? Or Stella knows and tells Ray's mother while they're drunk on wine one night? Or Ray's parents find a magazine... or a photo... or a stamp from the wrong club... anything. There's a million reasons why Ray's queerness could and may have come up even while he was with Stella, even while he was monogamous. Because he was still queer.

I know there's a certain element of "sometimes the curtains are just blue, dude, chill” to all of my meta, but when it comes to this show in particular I very much operate in my analyses from a place of "everything is intentional." Small details really do matter; the way scenes are shot matter, the words that are used matter, there's intentionality behind it all. We can't know or understand authorial intent, of course, but we can read our own interpretation of that intent into it. (The author is dead but Paul Gross thought Callum Keith Rennie was hot, so)

This is, after all, another episode directed by George Bloomfield, who also did Burning Down the House and is responsible for that "love at first sight" moment in Say Amen, so the direction here is in the hands of someone who is clearly in lock-step with Gross around the inclusion of queerness in the latter seasons of the show.

This moment is interesting to me in particular when considering intent because I actually would prefer to see Ray and Damian's faces in this moment! I want to know what Damian is thinking, or if he frowns. I want to know if Ray looks nervous or concerned. We don't see that at all.

Instead of seeing them over the GTO, we get the close-up on the hands and the bracelet over the rebuilt engine.

Rebuilding!! They're doing it.

And that makes my little queer heart pretty happy.

#due south #benton fraser #ray kowalski #fraser/rayk #otp: there's no ships like partnerships #fraser/kowalski #maggs due south meta #4x02 easy money #3x01 burning down the house #3x02 eclipse #sneaking in JUST under the wire for easy money week!!!!!#it’s chill if you disagree this just my meta

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kalinara · 3 months ago

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So one thing I really love about the Original Five in the future issues is how so many artists have such wildly different takes on Scott Summers's design, but each one works incredibly well for their respective contexts.

Take this one, from All-New X-Men #1:

This is the first look at Baby Scott that we get. Immonen's Scott here looks a lot like the Scott we see in the original issue that this is referencing:

I included the third panel because the resemblance is the most striking there. All cheekbones and suit that's just a little too big. A very young man trying to fill a big role and doing it about as well as anyone can.

I'm going to put the rest of these behind the cut, because this is a very image heavy post.

Anyway, as soon as we get to the past, the depiction of Scott changes sharply.

Six issues and one day later (All-New X-Men #007), Scott looks profoundly different:

He looks younger, softer, and that furrow in his brow is not going to be going away any time soon. Understandable. This poor kid has been through the wringer and life is not done with him yet.

Dauterman's Cyclops in...Cyclops #2 is pretty consistent with this portrayal:

He looks young, adolescent. A bit softer in the face. Perpetual furrow is still there. Well, not actually in this particular shot, but trust me, there's lots of furrowing in this series.

See? (Cyclops #03) Corsair can really bring out the furrow in a kid.

Actually, I hate to say it, but Corsair actually seems to have done this kid some good. The Cyclops that we see in the SECOND run of All-New X-Men actually seems almost confident again.

Bagley's Scott still got his issues, but aside from the scrawniness, he looks damn near adult. But also mostly content. This road trip that the team is on, away from the adults and the pressure, seems to be good for him.

Even injured, he seems to be doing pretty well (from All-New X-Men #12):

This is notable to me, because this issue came out in August 2016. Fast forward to late 2016 (specifically Champions #3), and we get:

Ramos's Scott is completely recognizable of course, but he is, very clearly, a CHILD, in a way that none of the previous versions really get to be.

And it works. It makes perfect sense. Because this is the first time since the plane crash where Scott has been able to actually be a CHILD. He's not leading the group, he doesn't have to set an example. He can just play too. He can, as he tells Ms. Marvel much later, actually relax.

But all sweet things must come to an end, and the Scott in X-Men Blue #01 is back to form:

Jean's actually leading the team, which is nice. And there's some very nice banter. But Molina's Scott is very much back to proto-adult here. (And while Jean is leading and starts the scene in front, Scott's positioning makes complete sense when the next page reveals who they're actually reporting to - Magneto).

I'm not really an art person. Generally I pay a lot more attention to things like plot, dialogue, and character development than I do the art styles. It's how I got through the 90s. But this has been a neat thing to go back and notice. Each depiction is excellent. Each one is immediately recognizable. But each one says something a little different and fits the story in its own specific way. And that's really cool!

#scott summers #cyclops #original five #this post might just be another excuse for me to gush about Champions' Scott #he's such a CHILD and it's so great and it could never last but I feel like it's so important that he got that one experience #He will be emotionally attached to them FOREVER

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 10 months ago

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tapis rouge groovies + new rhythmic/twistune ✨

***Spoilers below the cut!!***

Ooooh!! As usual, Vil is striking a model-esque pose and showing off not only his own looks, but the best aspects of the ensemble he’s wearing. (If his outfit looks different than how you remembered, it's because Vil gets new sleeves and a cape added on in part 4:)

I like how the lights behind him and on his face are so bright, yet the shot is framed darkly since we’re looking from his shadowed side. It makes Vil look so mysterious!!

He’s holding up a black piece of cloth that seems to glitter; I believe this is “Black of Night”, the signature color of the high fashion house, Luxe, that prepared his and the other NRC boys’ customized outfits. (The name of the color is a reference to an ingredient in the potion the Evil Queen makes to turn into an old lady.) It’s iconic, and only Luxe knows the secrets behind achieving the color of this dye. Many celebrities wear certain brands on the red carpet as free advertisement for the brands they wear, so this makes sense for Vil to be doing as well.

JAMIL 😳 I feel like both he and Azul are helped out a lot by moving in their outfits; the in-game models are a little too stiff-looking to fully convey the elegance of these particular looks. Jamil’s braids are so pretty here, they flow in the wind with such grace!! His expression is also nice, he’s giving the camera a cheeky little smirk from the side…

The shot’s composition is pretty interesting too! Jamil sort of has his arms spread out and his back revealed, and Vil, in front of him, is blocked out by an onlooker/reporter’s elbow. It gives off the impression of Jamil both showing off his coat while also playing bodyguard to Vil. Jamil is a trained bodyguard and can be protective, so… very fitting! Even moreso since Jamil was the card paired with Vil on the limited banner.

Another outfit helped by movement!! You can see how the tailcoats trail behind him and how his jacket’s wide sleeves actually pull/bunch back to allow the green sleeves of his undershirt come out. The light being so prominent on him also highlights his golden frames very well; it’s usually hard to spot small details like this from the model itself so I’m glad we can better appreciate it here!

I love how Azul is soaking up the attention and making the most of it (as opposed to Jamil, who seems to be playing it cool and serious). Smiling and winking for the crowd… Azul stans eating good www He’s even in his usual “poor unfortunate soul, please allow me to assist you” pose 😂 Reeeeeally trying to paint himself in rbe most flattering way possible, eh??

We can see Vil’s head and Jamil’s pants + shoes here. Vil’s the SSR and the star of the show so of course he won’t be left out! Jamil is the other card on the banner that goes with Vil. You can tell it’s Jamil because of the long coat and baggy pants; his shoes are white but appear darker in this illustration probably because of the shadow over them. Ace is not high enough in rarity to cameo in other Groovies/j

Note: Ace is the R card, so his illustration does not change significantly. A shame, really. I like his look the best in this batch 😔 It would have been fun to see what an interpretation on an Ace Groovy would have been!

There is a second rhythmic/twistune that features Vil and co. strutting down the red carpet! There are many cute details in it, such as Vil interacting with his fans by taking selfies with them, giving his signature, and speaking with a reporter.

Jamil and Azul play their parts as "huntsmen" to the Fairest Queen by bringing Vil boxes akin to the one that was meant to contain Snow White's heart.

When Jamil presents Vil with the first box, Vil pulls out his poison apple luxury bag. Then a fog of green covers the screen and when it fades away, Vil is in his new sleeves and cape combo.

Here he is, posing glamorously for the camera! The others do their best to show him off too. (fhbalifiyabifeab Azul is really doing his best to present Vil...)

At the very end, Azul and Ace step up to help Vil with final makeup touch-ups. Jamil seems to spritz him with some perfume too! Then Vil finally ascends to his rightful place up high!! Such a triumphant ending for a super fun rhythmic 🥺

#twisted wonderland #twst #Azul Ashengrotto #Vil Schoenheit #Ace Trappola #Jamil Viper #groovy spoilers #tapis rouge in the shaftlands spoilers #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #notes from the writing raven #Evil Queen

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ramjam · 11 months ago

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Hi... long time no NnT-Analysis.

I want to talk about Lancelot and Tristan's dynamic. I'll be putting it under a read-more so I don't spam your dashboard.

First, let's take a look at their designs.

Tristan's Signature Color: Blue-ish Teal

Lancelot's Signature Color: Pink-ish Red

According to color theory, these two colors complement one another. Nakaba utilizes complementary colors quite often in his designs. You'll notice this in many of the most important pairs. It's a visual way to emphasize the connection between two people.

The use of complementary colors goes as far as Lancelot's Sin disguise. When he takes that form, he wears a teal collar... Just like how Tristan wears a collar with Lancelot's red.

Both of them also got their hair colors from their mother, while the style is more similar to their fathers. They have what has been described as a "feminine" appearance. Lancelot is incredibly bothered by this, to the extent he tries really hard to present as masculine. Tristan on the other hand doesn't seem to be bothered by it himself.

Their first volume covers also mirror one another.

Their namesakes are pulled from Arthurian mythos. In some of the original stories, Lancelot and Tristan do act similarly as friends who are "two sides of the same coin" in a way. Fated companions who counter one another.

Going into actual plot stuff now. The way their stories are intertwined, the particular tropes their relationship embodies, and why it's important.

The growth of both of their characters is often explored through their connection. For example, Lancelot first learned to read hearts while dueling Tristan.

Ban references the moment Lancelot received his scar here. Tristan was so excited while dueling his friend, that he lost control of himself. The heightened emotions awakened the dark magic in him that he inherited from his father. Tristan blacked out, striking Lancelot.

This was a significant moment for both of them. Tristan and Lancelot both experienced an "awakening" here, which set them down their respective paths and cemented their bond.

Lancelot is quite literally marked by him. With this scar, there will always be apart of him that is irreversible tied to his relationship with Tristan.

Additionally, the fact Tristan had hurt and permanently scarred Lancelot is what triggered Tristan's anxiety about fighting. It affected him so deeply that he began to fear combat, instead wanting to pursue a path of healing. So that it would never happen again.

The bulk of this film takes place when they're both 14. Which is a few years after Lancelot initially went missing. He felt the need to hide his identity, but even in his disguise, he wanted to somehow push Tristan to his peak performance.

This illustrates how Lancelot never once viewed him as a threat. Tristan isn't a monster to him... He wants to see him exercise the strength that Tristan is so terrified of.

(I wish this site had CC, but Lancelot wolf-whistles at him before this line...)

Lancelot knows Tristan well enough to be aware that these fears would hold him back in combat. He takes action when they fight together, pushing and prodding him until he is forced to conquer that fear and act.

Tristan's hesitancy comes from his care for Lancelot. He's terrified at the thought of ever hurting him-- or anyone-- again. Lancelot sees this differently. He views Tristan's attitude as if he's viewing Lancelot as someone weak who needs protection. He has faith in Tristan's strength and never doubts him. But that faith only makes things more complicated when Tristan avoids facing him. Lancelot knows he's capable and he wants to be his equal in that regard.

Earlier, I referenced Ban's comment in the one-shot where he wonders if Lancelot's behavior at that time had to do with this duel. There's an implication that part of why Lancelot felt so restless and inadequate had to do with Tristan's rejection. This was worsened by the fact that Lancelot had learned to read hearts, so he could see what Tristan must've been thinking in that moment. Tristan's concern doesn't come from viewing Lancelot as weak, but that's how Lancelot interpreted his heart and his words.

Between that and being babied by his parents, he lashed out and ran away to "prove himself." Which is how he went missing to begin with.

He didn't want to stop like Tristan did. He wanted to keep going. Tristan's strength motivated him, but Tristan didn't return those feelings because of his own self-loathing.

In the end, Lancelot is the one who convinces Tristan to embrace his power. He vowed to be there to stop Tristan in case things ever go too far.

Lancelot reads Tristan's heart in this moment and smiles to himself.

Lancelot's love for his friend manifests through his desire to propel Tristan to his peak potential. Through Lancelot's affection, Tristan changes forever. His pure faith in Lancelot and his intentions was all he needed to conquer his fears. To him, he doesn't need to be worried about losing himself, because he has Lancelot.

Many years pass since this moment, but Tristan still views Lancelot as that anchor he needs by his side. Tristan's control over his power has grown significantly, but he still fears using it without Lancelot by his side.

Something interesting about their dynamic in the present day is the way the dynamic has flipped. While Tristan respects Lancelot's power, now he is the one feeling weak in comparison. This is also a testament to the strength of their bond. While Tristan feels they're no longer "equal", it doesn't drive a wedge in their relationship. He isn't resentful or jealous, it doesn't push him away from Lancelot. Their bond is too strong for that.

Not to mention, what seems to bother him more than anything else is the fact that Lancelot won't discuss how he gained this new power. He's bothered by the way his friend vanished without a word for so long, and now refuses to talk about what happened.

Regardless, this just means that Tristan trusts Lancelot's abilities without question. The moment he arrives, Tristan believes so strongly in his ability to win above anyone else. If anyone can defeat the King of Camelot, it will be his closest companion.

Circling back to Lancelot being his anchor: This is pretty common in fantasy Shounen. Leading characters who possess dark magic often have a partner who they rely on to bring them back down, or stop them from going too far and losing themself. However, you usually see it between the leading male main character and the female secondary protagonist... In fact, this is the exact dynamic Meliodas and Elizabeth had with each other in the original manga.

This dynamic came up frequently whenever Meliodas went full-demon mode. But this page from the Holy War arc in particular really reminds me of Lancelot's line where he says he'll "beat Tristan into the dirt if he has to."

Considering these two are Tristan's parents, you'd think the parallel with Tristan would be between him and Isolde, or something. But it's not. It's with Lancelot.

Their chemistry is so natural. They spend some time apart, but nothing really changes. The play off of each other so easily and understand each other so deeply.

Lancelot teases him for a lot of things. Being air-headed, being childish around his parents, etc. But it isn't mean-spirited, and Tristan knows that. It's just an aspect of their relationship and one of the ways Lancelot shows affection to people. That's Tristan's best friend who is mean to him, but he still calls him by a cute little nickname ("Lance.")

The implications that Tristan has called Lancelot out for being like his father before is really funny. Quick lines like this convey a lot about a relationship, it demonstrates that familiarity.

I have a lot more I could say about them, but Tumblr apparently has a 30 image limit per-post. I'm just really excited to see what comes next for them in the timeskip. I suspect all of these building themes are going to come together in some pretty important ways the closer that we get to the main conflict of the sequel.

This analysis isn't necessarily meant to be shippy... But I do ship them, lol... ❤️

#nanatsu no taizai #mokushiroku no yonkishi #nnt #4kota #trislance #tristan liones #lancelot #nnt analysis

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b4mpyre-k1zz3s · 6 months ago

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Hear ye hear ye

Can u make some more cannons with Bam? I loved your last ones they were so cute, also how do you think Bam would react if he saw someone else being a bit too flirty with the reader lol

Possessive Bam HC’s + Fic!

Bam Margera X Gn!Reader

Warnings: Highly suggestive content, alcohol, unwelcome flirting, violence, masochism, hickeys, biting, marking, kissing

An: This fic was inspired by this post by @ittydoor, which i couldn’t get out of my head until I wrote something based off of it!! Special thanks to @camariesintrusivethoughts for sending it to me in the first place ;D

Bam doesn’t like people touching (or hell, even staring at) things that belong to him,

Namely, you.

So if he caught wind that a guy even looked at you funny, much less started getting flirty with you, the situation could end in one of two ways.

Since he’s a little shit in general, it makes sense that his go to response to someone trying to hit on you would be flaunting that you were his

Let’s set the scene: The two of you are out at some bar and your boyfriend stepped away for a minute to go take a piss,

And he returned to some some asshole tryin’ to chat you up.

“I’m really flattered, but I hav-“

You were cut off by the pair of hands that quietly snaked around your waist. One glance at those rings, and you knew who was behind you

Bam pulled you in close, enough that you could feel the warmth from his torso through his clothes as he leaned his head onto your shoulder, nuzzling against you like a needy cat-

Hell, he was practically purring like one too.

Before making coy eye contact with the guy and flashing him a ‘they’re mine’ grin, “Hey.”

One word, and so much condescension- so much Animal Planet style territory claiming.

Speaking of claiming territory, Bam has all these little ways of showing off that you’re his

Sometimes it was sweet, like when he was a little too eager to loan you his clothes to wear in the morning after you slept over at the castle

Or the delicate, silver heartagram necklace he bought you for your anniversary- this small, unmistakable symbol marking you as his

Other times, however, his methods of letting people know exactly who you belonged to weren't exactly as innocent…

Even if he didn’t have this whole way of viewing you as his territory, Bam’s generally a bit of an affectionate biter,

So no matter where you went, people would be gawking at the little pink love bites that littered your neck and shoulders (much to your boyfriend’s demented amusement)

Point is, what’s his is his, and Bam wasn't shy about letting other people know that.

Which leads me to the other way he’d make sure people know you were his…

The scene and the setting was as follows: it was Saint Patrick’s day, right around two in the morning, and you were walking home from Rex’s with Bam after having spent the night doing what everyone does on a drinking holiday, and maybe it was too dark for that guy at the payphone across the street and his dipshit buddy to see Bam’s arm coiled around your waist or the dark, maroon hickeys that littered your neck, because if they had seen them, they wouldn’t have gotten in this situation. You could’ve sworn you heard one of them murmur, “Nice ass…” to nobody in particular, but you paid him no mind, because you didn’t get that offended when people hit on you.

Bam, on the other hand, did. Very much so.

The guy he was with shot a sleazy glance your way and slurred half drunkenly, “Yeah, I’d fuck ‘em...” That comment is what set your boyfriend off like a cobra who had been waiting to strike, and in a flash he was across the street, swinging his fists in these full force roundhouses- different from the limp, wimpy Bam punches you were used to. Seeing that fight was like going to the zoo and slipping the wolverines angel dust, the way the two- now three of them were duking it out. And Bam was laughing his ass off, enjoying this type of thingway too much, “Yeah? How d’ya like that? Oh yeah, punch me. C’mon, punch me in the-“ Maybe, in some twisted way, he felt like he was defending your honor. Bam’s taunting was brought to a quick stop with a blow to the side of the head as his teeth planted jagged roots into his tongue and he could taste his own blood.

Ducking a punch from the other guy, he turned around and hit him straight on- pow! Like a spring loaded cartoon boxing glove right to the jaw. But Mr. Rubberbones bounced back like he’d done in a thousand stunts and bar fights, with this menichial little glint in his eye, sneering at the guy who just hit him with blood smeared teeth, “Yeah, do it again, fucker- I like that shit.” It was like Tarantino level violence, the badassness of which was not in any way dissuaded by the fact that the cocky smirk plastered across Bam’s face didn’t slip for a second through the torrent of fists.

Just as quickly as it had started, those two dickheads backed off from the two of you with their tails between their legs. That left you, trying to figure out if it was normal you got so turned on watching your boyfriend beat the shit out of two random strangers. Well, you didn’t have to deliberate it much given the way that in the time you were pondering this, Bam had returned to your side and pulled you in, kissing you like a soldier returning from war. His blood mingled with your saliva as he possessively ran his rough hands up your torso in a way to say ‘Mine. This one’s mine’. and you decided yes, it was totally hot.

#jackass #bam margera #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #fluff #jackass x reader #bam margera x reader

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tanobatcher · 24 days ago

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mingle

TCW SQUID GAME AU

commander fox (▵ guard) x fem (player) reader

summary: assigned as player 066, you’ve entered the squid games and made it through the first two days. under the assumption everyone around you is a complete stranger, you’re surprised when you discover that one of the guards is an old flame who disappeared on you a few years ago without explanation. warnings: violence and explicit content (oral + vaginal sex) .. also this is kind of toxic so pls don't mistake this for what a relationship should look like ig idk...it's complicated :) a/n: this one shot is inspired by the squid game universe with s2 currently trending rn. there is def canon divergence for there to be more realistic interactions (😏) between the guards and the players (each player has a room with a bathroom instead of the big common room. like what the guards have in the show. hygiene is very important guys!!) tbh this is a crossover i never expected to do but the idea randomly came to me as i was watching and i thought fox fit the guard persona super well. here we are!! if you’re not familiar with squid game, it’s basically a kdrama where people compete against each other in a series of survival games to win a LOT of money. most of them are in crippling debts or need the money for a bad situation. elimination during a game = death so there's a huge morality aspect to participation and just the overall idea. triangle guards like fox are responsible for eliminating losing players, among other things like maintaining order and making sure people follow the rules.

Blood is strangely dark after it’s been spilled for some time. The color only deepens with despair, staining flesh and fabric like a reminder of every choice that has brought you here.

“The lights are out, 66. You’re not permitted to leave your room at this time.”

Exhaling slowly, you look up at the guard standing before you as the door to your private room swings shut with an echoing bang. Unfortunately, you can hardly consider it up to standard with what a room should be. It’s a sanitary little space, but there’s only a cot barely elevated on a rickety bed frame for rest. You’re more grateful for the bathroom attached, given the amount of other players who wound up in these games. Sharing is not caring anymore. It never was.

“I was just wondering if you had an extra change of clothes,” you explain to the guard, “I…couldn’t get all of the blood off.”

Your fingers find the hem of your sweater as you stretch the fabric out to show him some of the lingering stains from a few hours ago. Getting through a series of childhood games thus far didn’t seem so difficult until bullets started raining from the sky. One by one, you had to watch the people around you drop like flies as their blood splattered across your body. It felt like a warning at the time. You’re next.

“The lights,” the guard replies tersely, “Are out. Return to your room.”

A frown tinges your expression as you register this dismissal. It’s hard to read what this guard is thinking—what any of them are thinking, for that matter—because everything about them is kept hidden. Their bodies are completely covered in their pink uniforms. Their voices are altered through a grainy modulator that leaves zero room for vulnerability. It’s as if they’re robots. Finally, to top it all off, their faces are left to question under their masks. This one in particular has a triangle on his. What’s more striking to you, though, is the firearm in his hands. It’s not pointed at you, but you imagine that it could be. Sooner or later.

“This place doesn’t have terrible hospitality…” you begin while thinking about all that’s been provided already. Food. Water. A bed. A bathroom. And clothes, which you’re really hoping to get a new pair of. Showering feels ridiculous if you’re just going to wear the same, dirty thing every day you spend here.

“…So, I’m surprised you’re not able to give us a fresh set of these upon request,” you continue, tugging at your sweater before letting your hands fall to your sides.

“We’re not. I suggest you comply with the rules,” the guard tells you in a monotone. You don’t miss that he’s taken one step forward, too. Just as his fingers tighten around his firearm, you instinctively shift backward and feel your heartbeat quicken.

“Or what?” You retort despite the goosebumps rising across your skin, “You’ll shoot me?”

He’s now right in front of you, still not pointing the muzzle at you even though you know he’s more than willing to do so. Just before, you and your fellow players voted on whether or not to continue the games. Stopping here would have meant walking away with an equal cut of what’s already been collected from the first couple of rounds. But, just as money makes the world go round, it’s also starved most of the people here. Everyone, including you, is hungry for a chance to collect as much as possible from this opportunity.

But the question of whether or not it’s worth all of this bloodshed lingers in your mind. Hence why you keep voting for termination after each game thus far, earning a red patch on your sweater that indicates your unchanging decision. There were many like-minded individuals who felt disappointed upon seeing that the majority consistently chose continuation. Arguments arose, brawls festered here and there, but the triangle guards hardly tolerated such behavior. A simple threat from someone carrying a weapon was enough to silence the crowd. You know better than to test the patience of this one.

So, you don’t wait for his response. Turning around, your hand latches around the cold doorknob that is just about to turn when he speaks from behind you. His voice is cold, unfeeling. Stern and unflinching. Just as someone like him should be.

“Don’t waste your time asking for favors around here.”

“Got it,” you breathe, ignoring the chill running down your spine, “Thanks.”

You steal a glance at him over your shoulder before heading inside your dark room. Expecting the door to close behind you, you’re startled when it’s pushed back open a little aggressively. The action is unpredictable, like the sudden presence of the guard standing in your door frame. Your eyes go wide as he just stands there, heaving a ragged breath. But right when you open your mouth to ask what you’ve done wrong this time, he leaves. The door finally slams shut, and all is quiet except for the question of why he nearly followed you into your room. It’s unclear what his intentions were at that moment, but your thoughts don’t keep you awake. Only your memories do, as you try to sleep away the screams that will haunt you for the rest of this shortening lifetime.

Eventually, your body slips into a half-assed slumber that is quickly interrupted when you hear thuds and curses in the distance. These sounds are muffled through the walls, but there’s no doubt about their existence. You flinch when someone shrieks in pain, sending all sorts of questions about what’s going on tonight. For the past few days, the lights-out period has been your only time of relaxation. But with the growing hunger among your fellow players, it’s hard to determine if you’re still safe without any immediate allies. There have been some groups banding together, some of which cause more trouble than others. The worst ones are always provocative, looking for a fight. Has it arrived tonight? Or have they brought it themselves?

Your doorknob suddenly rattles, startling you out of bed. The sound is quickly paired with banging amid a pleading cry that causes you to stand and move forward.

“Help!” The person on the other side says, “Please, help me—they’re trying to kill me—Open the fucking door!”

Pressing your ear against the cool, metal door, you reply, “Who’s there?”

“Does it matter? Hurry—Please—“

The desperation in his voice wracks your body with a brief shiver. Noticing that the hallway outside has gone quiet all of a sudden, you crack your door open just a tiny bit to catch a glimpse of what’s going on. You’re not even able to blink before you regret this. Having been under the impression that this was just one person seeking solace in your room from whatever threat was nearing, you’re surprised when a rowdy group infiltrates your space as if it means nothing to them. Their faces are shadowed by the lack of lighting, but you don’t need to recognize them to know you just made a mistake when you should’ve minded your own business.

One of them reaches forward to grab you by the front of your sweater while the others circle your position like hawks stalking their prey. They’re definitely all men, bloodthirsty at that. Are they hoping to raise their chances of winning by morning? Collect more money from the silent deaths to occur tonight? This seems to be the only feasible explanation for why they suddenly have you pinned to the floor on your stomach with a switchblade to your neck.

“Told you this one would fall for it,” an unfamiliar voice snickers, “I think we’re getting lucky tonight.”

Despite the voice in your head telling you to fight back—even while the odds are against your favor—your body is locked and frozen. A bead of sweat drops from your forehead onto the floor as you inhale shaky breaths that can’t be controlled no matter how hard you try to remain calm. The blade presses into your neck harder, almost teasingly like the chatter going on around you. At this point, you’d rather these assholes just get it over with and kill you. That would save you from the panic crushing your insides so painfully that you almost can’t breathe.

“Aw, don’t cry…I think we’re scaring her…” The blade is now tracing a line down your cheek, still not digging past your skin. You didn’t even register your own tears until your assailant pointed them out.

“Fuck you,” is all you spit out in return.

“Careful. You’re not really in a position to get rude with me.”

You scoff at this, ensuring the tone is more mocking than meek. “Kill me, then. I hope it’s fucking worth it.”

The blade moves lower, and you fully expect this player to slit your throat right then and there. Biting your tongue, you internally curse yourself for not even trying to bargain or beg your way out of this situation. But it would have been useless. Throughout the past few days, you’ve witnessed the animalistic nature of greed firsthand. Even felt it yourself, at times. There’s no eventual escape in these games. Vote after vote, you now know the only way you’ll ever return home is if you die and search for that peace someplace else. You’re a victim to nostalgia as your final thoughts swarm your mind, but all of that subsides when the door suddenly swings wide open. Your eyes, still blurry from your tears, widen as a shower of bullets pelts across the room like a rainstorm. It’s ear-shattering, causing you to cover your head with your arms as soon as they’re freed from your attackers’ grip. Everything smells like blood and sweat. These two scents only heighten when some bodies, now dead, fall on top of you after hardly putting up a fight. They’re limp but heavy, suffocating you as you try to push them away and sit up.

Through your dizzy and darkened vision, you can see a guard standing in your doorframe, kind of like the one from a few hours ago. This could be a completely different person, though, given how many triangle guards you’ve seen over the past few days. His gun lowers, and he seems to take a step toward you until new orders sound from his radio device. You’re not sure what he’s told to do by whoever is talking to him on the comms, but you do hear his response. “Understood.” It’s one word, clear and firm as he leaves you behind with more blood splattered across your clothes. And now, your floor and walls. Your face. Your hair. Your hands. Everywhere.

The gravity of the situation sinks in as your eyes dart around the bodies strewn across the room with their eyes still open. It’s horrific, just like the oozing bullet wounds gaping through their chests and stomachs. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to make your way to the bathroom, simply feeling your way around with your hand braced against the nearest wall. This is where you remain for the next couple of hours, still stripped naked even after your second shower of the night. Standing over your sink that’s more of a bowl because of its meager size, you plunge your blood-stained clothes under warm water and much more soap than you can spare. Your ears are still ringing, distracting you from the fact that a few guards had come into your room and taken away the bodies at one point in the night. It isn’t until there’s a knock against your bathroom door that you realize someone is still here, inside.

“Yes?” You ask, clearing your throat when you hear how quiet you sound, “Yes?”

There’s no response at first, but you’re not planning to open the door with your current state of decency. Hoping whoever is there can just say their piece and go, you brace your hands against both sides of the sink and wait.

“Are you hurt?”

You straighten your posture, surprised by this question. Judging from the sound of this person’s voice, it’s another guard. Or maybe the same one as before—you don’t even know at this point. It hardly matters, though. They all look the same, talk the same, and kill the same.

“No,” you answer, confused as to why this person seems to be displaying compassionate curiosity toward your well-being, “But…I’d appreciate another set of clothes. I asked someone before, but he was a bit of an ass about it, and—”

“Open the door.”

“No!” You immediately react, surging forward to press your body against the door, “I mean, no. I can’t really do that right now.”

Another silent pause lingers until you hear some keys jingling on the other side of the door. Quickly realizing what’s about to happen, you snatch up your towel and wrap it around your body as tightly as possible. Once the bathroom door opens at the hand of another triangle guard, you furrow your eyebrows into a scowl that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a red, blushing mess.

“Having a master key doesn’t mean you can just invade my personal space like this, you know—”

Your mouth snaps shut when the guard grabs your chin, turning your face from side to side so he can examine your lack of wounds for himself. Keeping one hand on your chest, you press it into your towel as the other pushes his arm away.

“Don’t touch me,” you tell him while taking a step back.

He crosses his arms over his chest and replies, “Full offense, but I really don’t know how you’ve made it this far.”

Your face burns hotter as you copy his movements, but it’s more to cover your chest than anything else. “You don’t even know me.”

His head tilts to the side a bit, and you’re not sure why you suspect that he’s smiling behind his mask. It’s almost ironic how you’re borderline naked while he hasn’t even bared a single inch of flesh to your perception. You can’t confirm this for certain, but you feel his eyes on you. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance behind him and notice that his firearm is rested against your wall beside your bed. The room looks a lot cleaner from here already. You’re about to ask about that when his figure suddenly moves, occupying your peripheral so that all you’re seeing is him.

“That won’t dry by the morning,” he nods toward the sink where your bloody clothes swim in soapy bubbles.

“I don’t care. I just…” You inhale a deep breath, not to break in front of him, “I’m just trying to wash off the blood.”

“It’s only going to come back.”

“That doesn’t really make a difference to me. I know I’m not making it out of here alive.”

He’s quiet at this, casting his head down a little. You assume he’s looking at the floor, but there’s no telling where his eyes are fixated. Just like there’s no explaining the reason for his presence—whoever he is. You want to tell him to leave before this interaction becomes more awkward than it already is, but he lifts his head again and seems to stare right at you.

“You shouldn’t even be here.”

It’s a claim, or maybe an observation, but it sounds demanding. Even through his voice modulator, you pick up on a familiar type of tone you shouldn’t be thinking about at this moment. It’s long been forgotten, only because it left you behind first.

“I don’t think any of us should be here,” you reply before pointing out, “But you work here. Don’t know how you sleep at night.”

“Not very well, actually.”

“Oh. Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

He chuckles softly, and an odd feeling clenches your stomach as you watch his shoulders shift before relaxing. It’s not that you recognize this specific reaction, but it feels too distinct to let go. Maybe it’s just your nostalgia kicking in, though. Teetering on the edge of death every day has left you reflecting on your life thus far, including what you’ve lost. What you never expect to gain back, even if you survive this place.

“You never go easy on me,” he murmurs, slightly exhaling with his words.

Your lips part in disbelief once this sentence sticks in your mind. Instinct takes over as old memories resurface. Someone has said this to you before, not once or twice, but numerous times during arguments that went in circles until nobody really won. You’ve tried to forget about the yelling, the laughing, and all of the affection he threw away for a reason you will never know. He’s not here to provide that closure. Or so you initially believed, until hearing this timeless phrase for yourself.

“Take off your mask,” you whisper.

The guard leans forward and tells you, “I can’t do that.”

Despite this, he doesn’t move away when you step forward until you’re directly in front of him. You’re so close that your feet slide between his boots, and his face tilts to accommodate your proximity. Fear tingles your fingertips as you push his hood back before pausing in expectance of some sort of resistance. An order to stop. But nothing comes, so you reach for his mask while holding your breath. It doesn’t take long for you to unlatch the covering, but you wait a few seconds to pull it completely away. He’s so still that part of you thinks this is all a joke or a dream.

“Fox?”

The hand holding his mask drops to your side when you don’t receive a response, revealing the face that’s been hidden all this time. Not the complete picture, though. Just the eyes. But that’s enough for you to know that your memory hasn’t failed you when fate certainly has. You let his mask clatter to the ground when he pulls the remainder of his face covering away, never taking his gaze away from yours. He looks…the same. Just more tired and sunken from the lack of sleep he mentioned before, but otherwise…that’s Fox. You can’t deny it. Blinding, hot rage seizes your chest automatically, sending your next actions into an overdrive with no brakes.

“You. Fucking. Asshole!” You punctuate each word with a fist to his chest, “This is where you’ve been? I thought you were dead! Or…you found someone else, and…“

He takes both of your wrists in one hand to stop you from hitting him again. “Are you done?”

You stare at him, breathing hard and heavy from the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through your blood. He tightens his grip around your wrists before you can respond or pull away, bearing down on you with a hardening glare you find utterly ridiculous. He has no right to be angry at you. Not after he disappeared from the face of this Earth without so much as a simple text explaining himself.

“Let go of me,” you snap, trying to twist yourself out of his hand.

He only tugs you forward at this, causing your frontside to collide with his. “Tell me why you’re here.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes that are suddenly a lot closer than before. There’s barely any breathing room between your faces now, which is both frightening and exhilarating. The sudden rush of emotions accelerating your heartbeat isn’t easy to take in all at once, distracting you from what’s important right now: your survival. Anguish, sorrow, relief, and desire all cloud together in your mind before you blink away the tears that have begun welling in your eyelids. He doesn’t get to see you cry.

“Not unless you tell me tomorrow’s game,” you bargain, purposefully drying your tone of any vulnerability.

You realize this response disappoints him when he clenches his jaw and averts his gaze from yours. “I can’t—“

“You can’t do that,” you admonish sarcastically, “Figures. Let go of me.”

But he ignores this, lulling your conversation into a silence that allows you to register his other hand fisting your towel just along the dip of your waist. He could pull it away if he wanted to. If you wanted him to. The truth of this matter stings your cheeks as you frown at him, unable to mask the pain he caused throughout the past few years. All that you buried for the sake of moving on is now erupting once again, manifesting into pure hatred. It’s hot, and it burns. You feel it everywhere, just as you feel his eyes tracing over you with an uncharacteristic desperation. He looks apologetic—you can see it in his expression—but he hasn’t said the words yet. You’re not sure if you would even accept them, which is probably the reason for their absence. Because you hate him. You hate him so much that you feel the need to prove it just so he can experience an ounce of what he put you through after leaving without a trace.

“I hate you,” you whisper, “And I’m not telling you anything.”

“Is it your parents?” He squeezes his fist around your towel, “Did they—”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You’re an idiot for coming here. So, you better have a good fucking reason—”

“How long have you known?” You interrupt, pushing your bound wrists into his chest as your eyes widen with your question, “When did you recognize me? Was it tonight?”

A subtle flicker of guilt shadows his expression, so you press harder. It’s not enough to hurt him, not even close, but he looks as if he’s in pain. Good, you think to yourself.

“Since the first day,” he eventually answers, “I thought I was imagining it when I saw you, but…I wasn’t. Clearly.”

“And you didn’t think to help me?” You breathe harshly, knowing he doesn’t owe you that support even though it would’ve been nice, “Did that just not cross your mind once? I can’t even count the number of times I’ve almost gotten killed here, and it’s only been two days. Two fucking days, and you’ve been acting like I don’t exist.”

His scowl deepens, reminding you of the time when such an expression used to upset you. Not anymore, though. There are much scarier things in here than him. He lets go of you just to grab both of your shoulders, meeting your eye level to ensure you’re hearing him loud and clear.

“What do you think I could’ve done?” He replies just as venomously, “Break the rules? For you?”

You betray your resolve when you flinch, but he keeps going. “You’re not even supposed to be here. But you are, and there’s nothing I can do about that. I have a job to do, and—”

“I don’t give a shit about your job. You think I want to be here?” You shove at his chest before fisting his jumpsuit and pulling him closer, “I’m stuck here because everyone else keeps insisting on one more game, but I’m the idiot, right? I’m trying to walk away even though I won’t have nearly as much as I need to survive out there. But you don’t care. You’re just an errand boy carrying a big gun as if that makes you half of the man you wish you were.”

His hands leave your shoulders to wrap around your forearms as they stay rested against his chest. “How much do you need?”

“Why?” You scoff, “Are you going to give me the money yourself?”

“Are you going to answer any of my questions?”

“Seeing as you’re not going to help me, no, not really—“

“I want to help you,” he brushes his thumb against your skin, and it feels warm despite the gloved barrier, “But you don’t understand the nature of this place. I don’t have a choice when it comes to the players.”

“You’re wrong, Fox. You do have a choice—you’re just not choosing me. That’s nothing new.”

He looks at you warily before sighing and shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to leave like that. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

His hands slide back to your shoulders to pull you even closer. “I am.”

Your stomach dips when you realize how little distance is between your faces now, with your noses touching and your lips sharing the same breath. His eyes are on yours until they’re not, lowering inch by inch across your mouth. Then your neck. Then your chest, which is still rimmed with the towel that remains wrapped around your body. You wonder how long that will last. The urge to let go of him screams in the back of your mind as your fists tremble around the fabric of his uniform, but you’re frozen in the past. Right when you expect him to close the distance and kiss you—or for you to do that first—he repeats, “I am.” His voice is hushed but not quiet enough for you to miss its warmth. An irritated muscle jumps in your jaw because you don’t want that gentle apology—it’s a facade, transparent like ice. You’re angry, so you want anger.

“Fuck you,” you hiss before yanking him forward, colliding his lips with yours with all the anger you can muster. His posture stiffens in surprise for a second that’s gone as soon as his arms wrap around your body. One hand fists your hair while the other grabs your towel from the back, tugging but not drawing it away just yet. He meets you halfway in the kiss, forcing your lips to part wider under his so he can take your mouth deeper. The intensity sends a rush of energy through your chest to your stomach, pooling into an ache that heightens when you feel his tongue slide over yours. It’s all so familiar. Recognizing his every move is what grows your annoyance but also your desire.

So, you bite his bottom lip hard, smiling when he grunts into another kiss. Your mouths meet, this time rougher like a test of who’s in control. At this moment, it’s him as he grips your jaw with the hand that was in your hair just before, tilting your face the way he wants every time his lips open and close over yours. Your breath hitches when he slows down and sucks on your bottom lip before soothing your swollen flesh with his tongue. And when he kisses you again, it’s soft—not the way you want it. You push at his chest until his back is against the bathroom wall, neither of you caring about the harsh impact. He exhales a low, disapproving sound before shifting your body so that it’s you pinned to this cold surface now, desperately kissing him in proof of how much you really do hate him.

“Is this why you’re here?” You whisper against his lips, “To fuck me and then leave again?”

He shakes his head and kisses you harder, nearly shoving you into the wall with his entire weight. “I thought those fuckers might’ve hurt you.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” you squeeze his shoulders, “Just take what you came for and leave.”

He leans back just slightly so you can see his face with more clarity. Glaring at you, he replies, “What did I say about asking for favors?”

You glare back at him, well accustomed to his intolerable arrogance. “I think I’d be doing you the favor.”

“Yeah?” He scoffs, “I doubt that.”

Grabbing him by the chin, you pull his face closer so your lips are just barely grazing each other. He can definitely feel every word you reply instead of merely hearing them.

“Prove it, then.” Your tone is soft but taunting, pressing right where it hurts: his ego.

He narrows his dark and glassy eyes at you, but you can still catch a glimpse of your own reflection in them. Instead of seeing the man you were once blissfully in love with, you try to recognize him for who he is now: a merciless killer, also probably victim to his manipulated greed. There’s no room for any remorse for whatever situation might’ve brought him here, though. All you can think about are the players who have already lost their lives to those wearing the same uniform. Perhaps tomorrow, it’ll be you in front of his trigger. Whoever’s arms you’re in now can’t be considered the Fox you’ve tried to forget but failed. He’s not your Fox anymore. And if it’s that easy for him to turn a blind eye to your current situation just to follow orders, then maybe he never was.

He seems to notice the growing hatred in your expression, dropping his gaze from your face to look someplace else. Your lips part in surprise when his hands find the knot of your towel, pausing as he just holds onto it for a moment. He glances up at you with a question brewing beneath his silence, to which you also respond nonverbally. All it takes is your raised eyebrows that ask, “What are you waiting for?” for him to undo the knot and let the towel drop to the floor. It lands at your feet, hardly making a sound, but a sharp exhale escapes your lips once the cold bathroom air hits your skin. Goosebumps rise all over your body that his eyes rake over, shamelessly taking the image for himself.

“Don’t just stand there,” you huff as you reach forward with the intention of undressing him, too.

He ignores this and pushes your hands away before taking off his gloves—the second part of his uniform he’s shed tonight. His hands are still large but also slightly scarred now, which must be why they feel rougher when he grabs your hips and pulls you away from the wall. You don’t get very far because he’s quickly kissing you again, touching you everywhere he can reach as if he can’t decide where to keep his hands. He doesn’t settle anywhere, groaning quietly into your mouth the more he feels his way around your body. You can’t decide what’s the most undoing—his hand around your neck, squeezing your breasts, holding your torso, cupping your ass, or caressing your face. It’s all feverishly desperate, warming your cold skin as the time passes with every kiss exchanged.

“What are you doing—“ you gasp when he suddenly pulls away and drops to his knees.

If he responds, you don’t hear it. A breathy moan sounds from the back of your throat as he drops a kiss against your inner thigh before parting your legs wider with an impatient hand. Closing your eyes, you lean back against the wall and tilt your head back for a surface that might ground you to this quickly escalating moment. You moan again, this time louder and more startled when he sinks his teeth into your skin—dangerously close to where you’re wet and waiting for him.

“Look at me,” he demands, “Or I stop.”

Your eyes are still closed as you push your hips into his face, clearly ignoring his command on purpose. “Fuck you.”

“You will if you’re lucky.”

You laugh at this mockingly, taking his words from before. “I doubt that.”

His lips immediately find your clit as he sucks, just once. You gasp and arch your back, widening your eyes at the sudden sensation that tugs on the growing knot in your stomach. A pulse begins to beat at the center of your body, beginning with that slow and anticipatory rhythm you’re used to. You don’t even realize that you’ve obeyed his command to look at him until you catch his smirk that’s partially masked, given that his face is buried between your legs. But you can see the amused arrogance in his eyes—it’s sickeningly triumphant. He hasn’t even won anything yet. And you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of any prize. This proves more difficult than expected when his mouth meets your pussy again, not even pausing to tell you what to do. Your chest rises and falls at the bottom of your vision as you stare down at him, watching him taste you with every stroke of his tongue. Everything goes spotty once his fingers find your clit, rolling it slowly for more stimulation. You curse under your breath, unsurprised he knows exactly what to do because this dance is just as familiar to him as it is to you.

The knot in your lower stomach only tightens, threatening to snap the faster his tongue pushes and swirls in and out of you with your clit pulsing and swelling in size. You try to control it, desperately writhing against the wall while a series of gasps and moans trap themselves within these four walls. It’s a miracle if your neighbors next door haven’t figured out what’s going on by now. He seems to know you’re about to come when he squeezes your thigh with his free hand before smoothing a caress across this specific area. It’s coaxing you into the release you realize you can’t prevent no matter how hard you try. It’s also soothing, unlike his rough devouring that drops your mouth open in a struggling cry as your body jerks and trembles after this game you feel like you lost. He’s still licking and sucking on you through your orgasm, savoring your taste for as long as possible. You rest your head back against the wall and take a few heavy breaths of air, closing your eyes to avoid looking at anything—not just him. The sudden urge to be alone while also fearing loneliness overwhelms this aftermath like the conflicting forces of your emotions tonight.

His arms quickly find yours, holding you upright before you can begin to slide down the wall. Your knees would have buckled if he didn’t do this, but you don’t tell him that. Opening your eyes, you look up at him and wonder why his expression is so unreadable at the moment.

“Do you have a condom?” You mumble, swiping some hair out of your face.

He snickers under his breath at this while bending down to lift you up in his arms. You’re about to protest when you notice that he’s bringing you to your bed, which is clean of any blood from before like the rest of the room. He’s silent as he lays you down and stands over you, just watching you catch your breath as the two of you hold eye contact. It would have been eerie if not for the noticeable softening of his expression that hardens when you speak again.

“Guess you’re just all talk now,” you hum, shifting under the covers a bit to keep warm.

“I don’t have a condom,” he answers, “And I’m going to guess you got off the pill.”

“Says who? Maybe I’m seeing someone. It’s been years, you know.”

His eyebrows draw together for a fleeting second. “I know.”

Your stomach twists when you hear how quiet his response sounded. It’s not the volume that provokes this reaction, though—it’s the weakness. You don’t want to feel guilty or sympathetic, but old habits are hard to kick. A small part of you wonders if he’s missed you after all this time, too. If he’s thought about you—if the mere suggestion of you finding someone else bothers him because he still…

“You’re right. I’m not on the pill,” you admit, hoping he catches the implication of this.

He runs a hand over his jaw. “Honestly, that makes me feel worse.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You should’ve just moved on.”

The blunt honesty is expected, but you can’t help how your mouth snaps shut at this comment. A lump forms in your throat as you look away from him, already feeling the bubbling return of your anger.

“I tried,” you close your eyes and press your tongue to the roof of your mouth to stop any tears from escaping, “You don’t even know.”

“It wasn’t easy for me, either. It still isn’t.”

“Then why haven’t you left this place yet?”

“This is my job now. I swore my loyalty to the Captain.”

The answer sends a chill down your spine because of how recited it feels. Fox has always been the most conscientious person you know, but to think that he’d ignore all the wrongdoing occurring around here just to be a good employee is almost…terrifying. No, not almost. It is.

“You sound brainwashed,” you tell him while sitting up and staring at his dark figure that’s now rested on the edge of your bed.

He turns his head to meet your eyes, clearly taking offense to this observation. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Yeah, I don’t. I don’t understand how you can go through with this—how many people have you killed here?”

“Players choose to participate in the games. And players who lose get eliminated. It’s the rules.”

“So, tomorrow,” you say, “If I lose tomorrow’s game. You’d kill me?”

His expression hardly wavers at this question, so you don’t notice the flicker of pain that crosses his shadowed eyes. “That’s a hypothetical.”

You lean forward and jab your finger into his shoulder. “Answer it.”

“I don’t know,” he snaps, “But I know what I’m supposed to do. I know my orders.”

You press your lips together and shake your head, not even trying to argue about this. At this point, you’ve accepted he’s not going to help you going forward. It’s been everyone for themselves since you got here, so you hold onto some hope that you can keep going without anyone else. You’ve made it this far, after all. Still, his words from just before echo in your mind like a torturous reminder of the person he’s become now. I swore my loyalty to the Captain. Whoever the fuck that is.

“You were loyal to me,” you whisper, your voice breaking slightly, “And I was loyal to you. Wasn’t that enough?”

You know he hears the vulnerable sorrow in your tone because he lifts his head and stares at you so deeply that you’re scared he can see right through you. Trying to act like these games—this entire situation—doesn’t bother you isn’t easy, but it’s necessary to push forward. With him in the picture now, it’s hard to keep putting up this front even though you don’t want him to know just how badly he hurt you. And just how desperately you want to return to the old days when nothing was wrong, and everything was perfect. That’s all gone now.

“Forget it,” you inhale shakily, not even letting him form a response, “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about anything right now.”

“What do you want?” He asks sternly.

You shift closer, smiling even though the expression doesn’t meet your eyes. Cupping the side of his face with a trembling hand, you whisper, “I just want to forget about everything. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

He closes his eyes, no doubt feeling your fingers caress his cheek before trailing down his neck. “We shouldn’t…”

You lean forward and drop a kiss right below his jawline. “I know.”

He curses under his breath before yanking you closer by the waist. You think he’s about to say something, but no words form as your faces gravitate toward each other until there’s no more distance. The collision of the kiss is soft and slow this time around. When he lifts you into his lap, though, the pace of your lips intensifies and quickens with breathy sighs that sound from both of you. Your hands find his face, squeezing a bit when his arms ravel around your body like he’s trying to seal this embrace into permanence. But everything about this moment is temporary. Both of you know this, which is why neither of you speaks. His increasingly heavy breathing is all you can hear over your soft gasps as he lays you back down on the bed before standing to undress himself. You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch each piece of his uniform fall away. That’s more like it, you think to yourself.

“You can still back out, you know,” he tells you as he pulls his undershirt over his head, “You should.”

“Would it kill you to stop telling me what to do for once?”

He tilts his head to the side a bit and smirks before pulling you toward the end of the bed by your ankles. “It might.”

You watch him reach for the waistband of his underwear while trying to ignore the sight of his broad shoulders silhouetted in the dark lighting of this room. Among all the things that have changed since you last saw him, you can certainly say his physique is one of them. Not that he’s never looked like this before, though. Before you can satisfy your urge to reach forward and touch him, starting with the hard plane of his chest before moving lower to his narrowing torso, you lift your hand to pause this moment. It’s not a good idea to be looking at him if you’re really going through with this.

“Wait,” you say before turning your body over so that you’re facing away from him on all fours.

You glance at him over your shoulder when his hands find your hips, curious as to why he looks more irritated all of a sudden. From the squeezing pressure of his grip, you suspect he’s about to turn you over, so you shake your head.

“Fuck me like this,” you tell him, “And pull out before you come.”

He briefly narrows his eyes at you. “When’d you become so bossy?”

Rolling your eyes, you face forward again to stare at the wall. “Shouldn’t be too difficult. You’re good at following orders.”

You hear an exhale and some rustling in the background before feeling his hands return to your hips, also palming your ass a bit from the size. You’re pulled toward him just a bit more, so slowly that you grit your teeth in anticipation of his next move. Arching your back, you press your face into the mattress until one of his hands fists your hair, and that’s when you know he wants to hear you like the smug bastard he is. All that escapes your lips is a startled, “Fuck,” before he suddenly slams into you from behind. There’s no warning, no patience. No inch-by-inch slowness that relaxes and stretches you out sweetly. You see stars as he buries his length inside of you all the way, unable to hear yourself moan loudly over the abrupt sensation. He’s thick and throbbing, just like you remember, but you hardly have the time to ruminate over what’s stayed the same. He doesn’t let you collect your thoughts, quickly sliding out of your wet folds just to push back in even harder than the first time. You gasp as he fucks you angrily, and the sound is sharp, unlike the sloppy noises that come from the joining and releasing of your bodies. It’s filthy and disrespectful, animated by the bed frame that’s banging against the wall with each thrust.

“Make it hurt,” you whimper, “Make it hurt, Fox.”

He sucks his teeth and groans, fisting your hair tighter as he doesn’t slow nor speed up. “I’ll fuck you how I want.”

You laugh through a breathy moan and steal a glare at him over your shoulder. “You’re hardly fucking me at all.”

“Yeah?” He pushes your face into the mattress right when he begins to pick up the pace, “What about now? Am I fucking you now?”

You fist the bedsheet as you muffle your cries in the thin fabric that hardly keeps you warm every night. Any control or precision he might’ve been displaying before is now gone. He’s completely lost in your grasp even though he’s the one driving you into the bed with every rough snap of his hips. Your skin collides loudly, leaving both of you raw and sensitive like your pulsing center that’s soaking his length so embarrassingly desperate. You’re so wet for him that there’s barely any resistance as he slips into you swiftly, hitting you deeper and wider the further you collapse with your ass in the air and your legs spread apart. His taunting question is now forgotten but definitely answered through the incoherent mess of your moans and curses, no doubt another win in his books. But feeling him inside of you like this can’t be considered a loss for you, either. You almost forget that you’re now on opposing sides.

“Close,” you moan, turning your face to the side so he can hear you, “I’m close, Fox.”

Your eyes crack open just in time for you to see him clench his jaw. A split second of decision-making crosses his expression before he pulls out of you completely and turns you over. About to protest and shift back to your original position, you gasp when he pins your arms down on either side of your head with his rough hands and leans over you. His stare is molten like his touch, both of which you can’t ignore. He enters you again just as his forehead comes down on yours in expectance of a kiss, but neither of you closes the distance. Your lips simply brush over each other with heavy pants that make it difficult for you to hold his eye contact. For some reason, though, you can’t look away. It almost doesn't occur to you that he’s changed his pacing despite your impending orgasm, slowing down when you’d rather he speed up.

“You don’t,” you gasp, “Fucking listen to me. Ever.”

His responding chuckle is ragged as he dips his head to suck on your neck. You instinctively tilt your face away to give him more access, closing your eyes as his mouth ravishes your sweet spot just above your collarbone. He grunts into your skin when your legs lock around his waist, hiking higher and higher to fold your bodies closer. This low sound only grows louder when you squeeze around him, almost pulling him inside of you every time you feel him pulse against your walls.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your neck before lifting his face to be directly over yours again, “I’m sorry.”

You lean forward to take his bottom lip between your teeth. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he breathes, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I don’t care,” you reply before kissing him. He moans and parts his lips over yours, not saying anything further. There’s no more conversation as his slow fucking returns to its normal, faster state that leaves you struggling to kiss him back through the whines and cries he swallows for himself. You arch your back when you feel the tightening knot return, now pulsing wildly in anticipation of your second orgasm for the night. He comes soon after you, pulling out as his cock jerks and releases over your stomach. It’s warm and wet like the last kiss he drops to your mouth once you’re both finished. His lips linger against yours almost innocently, without tongue or any harsh movements that implicate a step further. Your eyes flutter shut as his hands leave your forearms to cup your face, sealing this kiss into his final attempt at apologizing. You don’t say you forgive him, but you do wrap your arms around his neck now that they’re free of his grip.

But when it’s over, the room turns cold again. He pulls back, heaving a few breaths before stalking toward the bathroom where you hear him take your clothes out of the sink. He’s in there for some time, probably handling your forgotten mess, all while you simply stare up at the ceiling not thinking about anything in particular. You know you should probably clean yourself up, but that expectation is solved when he returns with a towel. He pushes your hand away when you try to grab it from him, wiping the sore flesh between your legs before your stomach.

“I’m surprised this shitty thing is still standing,” you remark when he stands again, pushing at the creaky bed frame.

“Are you disappointed?” He asks, taking his underwear from the floor to put it back on.

“No,” you yawn, “I’m tired.”

“You have a long day tomorrow.”

You ignore this, just as you ignore his presence for the next few minutes to use the bathroom and finish cleaning yourself up. There’s not much to wear, given your sopping clothes that Fox seemed to have hung to dry in your tiny shower. Staring at the wet fabric, you feel sick when you see that some blood still hasn’t come off, making your efforts useless. Once you step back into your bedroom area in nothing but your satisfactorily dried underwear, you notice that he’s not completely dressed yet. You look at his gun, which is still leaning against the wall beside him, and you remember all that occurred before he turned your night upside down.

“Will there be more fighting tonight?” You bring up casually so as not to appear scared, “Like the guys from before, I mean.”

He reaches for the outer layer of his uniform while replying, “I don’t know. We’re not supposed to prevent them from happening.”

“But you interfered,” you remember aloud, “That was you, right?”

No answer.

“Fox.”

“Does it matter?” He snaps, “You’re alive. Just keep it that way for as long as possible.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand as he crosses the room with his mask in one hand and his firearm slung around his shoulder. He looks so different all of a sudden, but he doesn’t feel different anymore. You swallow the lump in your throat and approach him cautiously, reaching for his free hand. He lets you hold it, but he doesn’t look pleased when he meets your eyes. That doesn’t faze you, though. He never looks pleased.

“I might not have many options left,” you tell him quietly, “But you always have a choice. Please don’t forget that.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“What about you?”

A half-hearted smile ghosts his expression before he pulls his mask over his head. Then, the final piece that covers his entire face with that lone triangle. When he speaks again, it’s through the unmistakable modulator that sends goosebumps across your bare skin. But you’re not afraid of him.

“Don’t worry about me,” he answers, “You’ll only waste your breath.”

With that, he drops your hand and leaves your room. You hear the definitive click of a lock before the doorknob rattles like a test of whether or not someone can still enter. When the door remains closed, his footsteps depart into the distant hallway as quietly as they came. All is silent now, including your mind which is devoid of any knowledge of what tomorrow is going to look like for you. So, you sleep on your fears until morning, which is only a few hours away. The classical music that’s woken you up throughout your stay here thus far plays in every room once the clock reaches the hour of your destiny. Rubbing your eyes and pushing your covers away from your body, you catch sight of something at your entrance just resting on the floor. It’s a fresh set of your uniform—Player 066—folded neatly without any blood stains. But that’s not the most surprising part about this gift. A small piece of paper rests on top of the clothes, also folded until you spread it open in your palm. Only one word is written, so only one word is read.

Mingle.

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