#thep is anger

[paint-music-with-me]

This show really said "Nanon you are going to carry most of the weight of the show" like holy damn they basically forgot abt Jarunee MY GIRLLL aaaahhh!

[niklaus-the-mad]

All I Want

request: Hey I was wondering if I could request a outer banks JJ imagine to the song “All I want” from High School Musical TMTS where reader dated JJ and it didn’t workout and she for some reason dates Topper and he’s not good for her and you can finish it!

pairing: ex!JJ x reader, topper x reader 

warnings: some angst and violence against the reader, mostly fluff, there’s some language too 

a/n: for some reason, I’m not really feeling this I’m not sure why. It’s not bad, and I’m proud of parts of it so I decided to post it anyway! I hope this is what you were thinking of with the request! Also, I know the song is kidna about finding yourself outside of a relationship, but I think the reader realizes what she wants at the end, so I hope that’s okay. I tried my best to relate it to the song. Enjoy!

I found a guy, told me I was a star He held the door, held my hand in the dark And he's perfect on paper, but he's lying to my face Does he think that I’m the kind of girl who needs to be saved?

Topper was a kind of parent’s wet dream. He had a good lifestyle, he’s smart, and he’s charming. He was exactly the kind of guy your parent’s wanted for you. So when you and JJ broke up, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. And when you told your parents you and Topper were dating, they were overjoyed. Not that they didn’t like JJ, they just liked Topper more.

At first, everything was fine, and your relationship with Topper was alright. You didn’t really have much in common. Either way, you still enjoyed being around him somewhat, and you liked to cuddle. But there was a voice deep down in your head telling you that something wasn’t right. You knew you weren’t in love with Topper, but you’re a teenage? What does love even mean? So you went along with it. For a week or two. That’s when things started to go down hill. Topper would yell at you. A lot. Yell at you when you didn’t say the right thing to impress his parents or friends. Yell at you when you didn’t look “pretty” enough for whatever party you guys were attending. 

Until one night at a party, you were dancing with Topper, when you noticed he was looking at someone that wasn’t you. It was some girl whose name you didn’t even know. Throughout the night, you noticed their glances towards each other. Later that night, you were dancing with some of your friends and you noticed Topper was nowhere to be found. 

“Hey guys, I’m gonna go find Top. I’ll be back.” So you looked around the house of thep arty, but he still wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“Hey Rafe, you seen Top?” You asked the boy.

“Uh, maybe I think he went upstairs early, I’m not for sure though.” Hearing his words, you climbed the stairs to the next floor. You knocked around on the bedroom doors to see if maybe Top was in one of them for some reason. You opened one of the bedroom doors and there he was. Making out with the same girl he had been locking eyes with all night. 

“Whoa! Hey, yea! Sorry to interrupt your cheating sesh Top.” You said, stepping backwards to leave the room.

“Wait, no Y/N. It’s not-” He tried to plead his innocence, but you cut him off.

“Actually, you know what Topper. I was never really that into this relationship anyway, mostly because your an ass! So enjoy your night. We’re done.” You knew that was kind of a bitchy thing to say, regardless, you slam the door to the bedroom before he could chase after you.

And there's one more boy, he's from my past We fell in love, but it didn't last 'Cause the second I figure it out, he pushes me away And I won't fight for love if you won't meet me halfway And I say that I'm through, but this song's still for you

A flashback for some insight, your relationship with JJ was the most important thing in your life for a really long time. You guys were inseparable. Everyone thought you would get married to each other. You guys fought, but you both always knew when to apologize. You knew each other’s limits. That was why you guys fit so well together. You balanced his craziness with your anxious personality and vice versa. JJ was there for you when things went wrong in your life. You were there for him when he needed comfort. Than Things got bad, and you fought. You fought and fought and fought. Until finally, you left. You walked out on JJ. And when you tried to apologize for leaving, JJ shut you down. He didn’t want to hear your apologizes. You guys were done.

So, instead of working through your problems and trying to get JJ back, the next night you through a party. A party that ended up not making you forget about JJ, but somebody was there to comfort for you. Topper. You were upset, drunk, and you made out with Topper. That’s how you met Topper. And a few days later, that’s when you essentially started dating Topper. JJ didn’t seem upset over you relationship ending, so why should you? You’d seen him around with girls in the cut, so you weren’t gonna wallow in self-pity. You were gonna move on. You knew making out with Topper was a mistake. 

All I want is love that lasts Is all I want too much to ask? Is it something wrong with me? All I want is a good guy Are my expectations far too high? Try my best, but what can I say? All I have is myself at the end of the day But shouldn't that be enough for me?

Flash forward to the present, Topper had been cheating on you. He didn’t love you. But frankly, you didn’t love him either. To be honest, you weren’t that upset about it anyway. Yeah you were crying. And yea, it sucked he was cheating on you. But you knew rushing into a relationship with him was also a mistake. The word you would use to describe it: rebound. Honestly, you were crying because you missed JJ. His laugh and his antics. You were trying to drown out your feelings for JJ with Topper. And it definitely wasn’t working, because the house you ended up at that night was John B’s. You wanted to see JJ. He was the only person you wanted to talk too. And you knew JJ barely ever went home, so you wanted to check the place he mostly likely was.

Before you could even knock on the door, the blonde haired boy you had missed so much appeared before you in the doorway. 

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” JJ asked. He still had a stern look on his face, but when your eyes met his, his appearance softened at the sight of  your swollen, blotchy eyes from the crying. He opened the door to step outside.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I jus- I guess I just wanted to see you.” You said, taking a step away from him and looking at the ground. He didn’t say anything so you continued, “I know I don’t really have a right to say all of this. I’m the one that walked out on you the night we were arguing, and I’m the one that already moved on, but I broke up with Topper because he was cheating on me. Well not because he was cheating on me, because honestly I was going to do it anyway. I guess what I’m trying to say JJ is that I’m sorry for everything. For not trying harder, and for throwing a party after we broke up. Just seeing you hanging out with other girls and them basically throwing themselves at you, I was jealous and upset, and Topper was there. I’m rambling now. I miss you JJ. I miss you a lot.” You finally finished. You finally looked to meet JJ’s eyes, and he was looking at you with no anger, only guilt.

“You aren’t the only one who has things to be sorry for, Y/N. You weren’t the only one who didn’t try harder enough. I shouldn’t have turned you away the night you came to apologize for leaving. I shouldn’t have broken up with you that night either. We were upset, and I wasn’t thinking straight.” He took a step closer to you. “Honestly, Y/N. I don’t care about what happened between you and Topper. The fact of the matter is I miss you too, Y/N. You were the best thing to happen to me in a long time.” You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his neck while he pulled your body in for a hug. 

“I think I’m in love with you, Y/N.” Instead of replying, you pulled away from the hug and leaned your head in to kiss him. He kissed you back. He knew that was your way of telling him the same thing. The way you had your hands on the side of his face, and his hands were wrapped around your body. You guys just fit together like the two perfect puzzle pieces. Everything that had happened in the past few weeks had been a mistake, you both knew that. You guys were just happy to finally be together again. You wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

[applsauss]

Mors Ab Alto [3/8] - Act 1

Description: Tieria’s arm twitches, and he frowns, then looks away, testing his fingers by curling them into his palm. After moment’s hesitation he raises a gloved hand to the glass, pressing his palm lightly against the window, low, by his waist. He meets your gaze, and it’s a concession, you realize. He doesn’t smile; neither do you, but you press your palm against glass of your own, mirroring his, and his shoulders slack enough for you to notice.

Fandom: 
Gundam 00

Pairing: 
Tieria Erde/Reader

Word Count: 4.1k+


Warning(s): Talk of Cancer. Death Caused by Cancer.

One year before the armed interventions. Lagrange Three, The Ptolemaios (Krung Threp).

     The news anchor’s voice is pitchless as she speaks into the camera, face pretty, dark eyes steady. With her back to the gathering crowd of protestors, she enunciates her words clearly, the familiar english rolling off her tongue without effort, like it belongs in her mouth. The microphone slips a millimeter through her gloves, she gestures widely to the scene behind her, and your chest begins to feel tight, hot with an emotion you’ve yet been unable to smooth a label over. 

The crowd of veterans and supporters jeers, then swells. You breathe out harshly through your nose, and pull yourself forward towards the screen, then push yourself back; one foot hooked under the handrailing, another flat on top. On screen, the wind picks up, and you pull your sweater tighter over your middle. Earth is frigid, the Ptolemaios is frigid.

Docked in Krung Thep, and still not the full-time residence of its future crew, the environmental controls haven’t been optimized. You’d do it yourself, here and now, but you’re off-duty, and the twilit corridors are inhospitable--abandoned, except for the strange shadows cast around corners.

It’s the graveyard shift, most normal operations have halted and non-essential personnel have retreated to their quarters for rest, but you’re too amped up on what’s happening down on Earth to sleep--too amped up on the promise of the armed interventions, not even a year away. You’ve got a buzz in your limbs and a stutter in your chest that won’t leave you alone. 

The projection of protestors is wide across the screen, the scene a familiar city, but not your home. Shots of the Washington Monument turn into pans over the Reflecting Pool as the crowd only expands and intensifies; Bulky jackets and brightly colored hats filling the broad avenues of the Union’s capital city. 

The lag between the commentator’s question and the anchor’s response is long enough for the shouting of the crowd to be heard, but there’s no unifying chant, it’s just angry noise. Above their heads, they’re waving scraps of cardboard and picketed signs scrawled with slogans: ‘Veterans! Unite and fight back,’ ‘medals for jobs,’ ‘what happened to social SECURITY?’ and, ‘we fought for you. Now you fight for us.”

The civil unrest settles at the bottom of your stomach until memories rise like bile. You should be down there, with a catchphrase of your own, but instead you’re on a space colony, watching the Earth churn far, too far, down below; and your mom should be there, marching for her life, but instead her ashes were taken by the wind and dumped into the rolling waters of the Pacific. Her life her own until it wasn’t, after the Union refused to give it back.

You can still feel the warmth of the sun, her hands, the ghost of her voice--but soldiers are soldiers until they’re useless, and though she still had arms for hugging and a voice full of reason, she couldn’t march or use a wrench and so they let her die, hollowed out and bedridden.

The protestors are flanked by riot police, they’ve got the streets intersecting the path of the march taped off and manned. With machined guns strapped to their fronts, and the snow feathering the ground, they paint a distinctly dystopian picture: Grey slosh falling around black helmets strapped under white faces, but it doesn’t look like it’ll get ugly. There’s no telling for sure, the anger at injustice is potent in the air, but this is a crowd filled with tired soldiers done with fighting wars.

The door to your left hisses open, and you tear yourself away from the railing, curling in slightly as you look towards the entrance way.

Tieria’s suspicious look melts into indifference at the sight of you, and after some deliberation, he pulls himself into the room. The news anchor picks up her commentary, bullet-pointing the protesters’ demands, and his eyes drift towards the screen.

“Too excited for tomorrow to sleep?” you ask in an attempt to draw his attention away from the broadcast, the display too close to home to share. 

He stares critically at the feed for a lingering moment, then seemingly writes it off as unimportant. He pulls himself farther into the room, catching himself on the railing closest to the door, and gives you a look that tells you he’s not going to dignify your flippant comment with a response.

“What are you doing up this late?” you rephrase when some more movement on the screen catches his attention. The protesters are testing the boundaries of the police tape, and beginning to throw taunts over the riot shields. Maybe you were wrong about tired soldiers and wars.

Tieria blinks as you switch channels. Quickly, the screen is filled with images of smoke rising off the shell of a town, mobile suits flying overhead. After a few seconds of the anchor reviewing the carnage in french, you cut the feed entirely. No such thing as a tired soldier.

Tieria looks at you, then huffs. “I was performing a systems check on Veda’s terminal aboard the Ptolemaios.” 

You shift uncomfortably. “Why?”

“You can never be too careful.”

You nod, then for lack of a better response, shrug his empty answer off. “You’re not tired though?”

“Are you?”

You don’t expect the laugh that his quick reply pulls from you, and neither does he. His eyes widen fractionally and his face loses its serious grimace. Huffing, you bend your knees, pulling yourself towards the handrail you’ve been anchored to, and grasp it, twisting your body around to mimic sitting on it. He’s quiet as you do this, his glasses picking up glare from the ring of lights embedded on the floor, lining the walls. You notice he’s wearing something that would more resemble sleep-wear than casual clothing: A plain shirt, his sweater hung open at the front, and loose fitting leggings, though he’s still wearing work boots, like he’s caught between worlds, unable to ever fully relax. 

The clothes don’t fit right, not without gravity to pull them down, and so the normally appropriately buttoned sweater billows around his waist and rounds off his shoulders. You remember his question. “I guess I am,” you say, covering an ill-timed yawn. “Don’t rat me out?”

Tieria scoffs. “As long as it doesn’t affect your work.” And maybe it’s the late hour, or the hazy, violet light that’s swathed the briefing room, but you think his words come out kinder than they usually do. He’s off-kilter, his tone is smooth, borderline soft, and he seems to realize this, if his sudden frown is anything to go by. He doesn’t meet your eyes, and you wring your hands around the railing.

The briefing room smells like formaldehyde, there’s an open panel of exposed wires in the corner, and there’s this buzzing in your head, like an early-warning system that’s perpetually being tripped. You’re reminded of why you’re here, and what you’re meant to do, the crescendo this is all building towards. Your stomach flips.

“Are you…” You suck in a breath like it’d clear your head of the fog. Cold, uncomfortable air fills your lungs instead “...Do you think you’re ready for the interventions?”

The corners of his mouth twitch downwards. “Of course I am.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He folds his arms in front of his chest, and lets himself float away from the bar towards the wall. “Of course not.”

You exhale, long and slow, and scrub your face with cold hands. The skin around your eyes feels tight, and this upset growing in your gut is so volatile you can’t rest--not with the protests, not with the armed interventions, and not with Tieria, as fragile as he is. Every conversation you have with him leaves you floundering to make him stay, and you don’t have the time to think about why--you don’t want to think about why.

“Sorry, I’ve just been out of it lately.” 

It’s an off-hand confession, unthought-out and rough ‘round the edges, and you’re prepared to face the detached silence that’ll surely follow when he asks, “Does this have anything to do with what you were watching when I entered?”

You pull your face out of your hands with mild urgency, but before you can figure out how to respond, he wrinkles his nose, and looks towards the dark screen once more. In a flatter tone he says, “I am eager to have our operations underway.” 

“...What?”

“The armed interventions,” he clarifies. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t meet your eyes. He stays where he is, displaced against the stark white of the wall behind him. 

“Oh…” You swallow thickly. “Me, too.” 

He kicks off the wall towards the exit, pauses briefly in front of the door, then retreats back to Krung Threp proper. When you hear the distant clang of Ptolemy’s airlock, signaling you’re once again alone on the ship, you turn the projector back on, but the protesters are gone and replaced by a daytime talk show.

***

Present day. Lagrange One, The Ptolemaios.

      Ptolemy lurches and groans under the unnaturally tight turns Lichty forces the ship to follow through with. It’s awful, the stench of your own breath and fear as you fumble with Dynames, the dome of your helmet colliding with the scraped metal as you rush through repairs. 

You never meant to work on weapons of war, despised them for all your life, and yet here you are, elbow deep in a mobile suit responsible for nothing but war, trying to bring it back online. On the good days, you can convince yourself that you’re okay with giving up what makes you human so long as you can be a shepherd ushering in change. 

Today is not a good day. 

A violent shutter moves through Ptolemy’s bones, and Dynames is jostled in its supposedly shock-absorbant restraints. The adrenaline makes you hyper aware, but your fingers are clumsy, and you have no idea what’s happening outside the hangar, whether you’re winning or losing, suffering through the beginning, middle, or end of a battle. 

The hangar is your world, and it is even larger without the other Gundams occupying the space, and it is even lonelier while The Ptolemaios is in battle mode, with the lights dimmed and flashing. The utter silence is only broken by the aftereffects of explosions. 

One of Dynames’s restraints comes loose and you see it as Ptolemy’s momentum sends it towards you. You feel the impact, but don’t remember anything after that. 

When you wake up, Dynames is gone, the hangar is even more empty, and Haro is in your cracked helmet chanting Lockon’s name over and over again. You can’t help but feel like you’re fast approaching the end of everything you’ve fought for.

***

Present day. Lagrange One, The Ptolemaios.

      The background hum of the GN drives surges in the overbearing silence while you wait for the doctor’s final verdict. Dull pain and disbelief numb your thought process, sift everything out except for the singular longing for a universal pause button. 

Tieria didn’t even look at you when you tried to pull him off Setsuna, just stopped his clenched, white fist from flying into your face, and then Miss Sumeragi issued her orders with a tone so stern and warm that it made you want to throw up--because she’s a military woman born from everything you despise and no matter how far anyone walks, they can never quite shake their past. 

“Nine to ten hours.” Doctor Moreno pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and you frown. “The damage is extensive, it would never heal right without the regeneration pod.”

You’re sitting sideways on the examination table, cradling your right arm in your lap. The heavy leaded vest you wore during your x-ray is tangled with your feet. Your hospital slippers are weightless, and slowly slipping towards the center of the room. The walls are a mocking beige, their voices are cold, and the hallway is quiet as death.

You look away towards the door as Doctor Moreno and Miss Sumeragi begin discussing your treatment between themselves, trading words back and forth; the doctor in his chair, Miss Sumeragi with an errant arm keeping her anchored to the desk. Her joints are locked; her hair swims around her. 

You dig your nails into the synthetic leather of the bench and hold your tongue. You can’t help but feel distinctly betrayed by the garden of conspiracy they’re taking turns watering. 

“You’re undergoing the treatment,” Miss Sumeragi finally addresses you after a moment of intense thought, and behind her, you spy the regeneration pods. They seem to loom over her shoulder, distorted through the glass separating this room from the one beyond. You see Lockon’s ghost in one of them. You see your ghost in the other. Your stomach sinks. 

“It’s just a fracture,” you say, eyes fixed on your fate behind her, fingers moving to pick the velcro on your wrist guard. “And besides, you need me right now. I’ve still got a good hand-”

“You’re undergoing the treatment.”

“I’m fine-”

“You’ve got three broken fingers and a fractured wrist!” her voice wavers, loud. Your mouth snaps shut, and she at least does you the service of looking apologetic before continuing, this time more reasonably, “You’re not fine. We can’t risk this again. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Lockon...he…” She wipes her hands on her pants. “It would be a disservice.”

“This is...” You suck in a breath as your right hand twitches in pain. “...Different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is!”

“No.” Miss Sumeragi pulls herself closer to the desk with a resolute grimace. “It’s not.” She turns to look at the regeneration pods in the room behind her, then says, “It’s just nine hours--no time at all.” The words are quiet and insecure and convince no one. 

You look at your feet as Miss Sumeragi’s grip on the desk tightens, shoulders knotting, and then she lets out a breath and returns to herself. “Make the preparations.” She nods to Doctor Moreno, and then she pushes off the desk and towards the door. It slides open, you see purple lingering in the hallway, and Miss Sumeragi begins speaking. It shuts before you hear what she has to say.

And you seethe.

A couple minutes later, the door opens again. 

Tieria doesn’t say anything as he enters, barely acknowledges you. He’s got a far off look in his eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s the guilt or the grief that’s eating him, probably both. Doctor Moreno wisely excuses himself, holding his data pad to his chest as he disappears into the next room. The air grows heavier once the door shuts behind him. 

Tieria’s got his uniform on, but he’s gone and switched out his contacts for his glasses--he’s this odd mismatched version of dressed and undressed, one foot in the battle field, the other in his grave.

You can’t bounce your knee in zero gravity, so you settle for agitatedly tapping your thumb against your thigh, though it’s clumsy with your off hand; You can’t keep a steady rhythm.

Tieria crosses his arms in front of his chest, and the silence begins to make you itch.

“Are you okay?” The question burns your tongue before you manage to spit it out. 

He’s quiet for a beat too long, and then opens with, “I agree with Miss Sumeragi--”

“I know!” you grit out. He drags you right back into the pit of overwhelming indignation Miss Sumeragi tossed you down. “I’m doing it. Just stop talking about it.”

You can never guess his mood or what he’ll say next and it drives you up the wall when you’re in a bad mood. You can never tell what you are to him, he’ll act like he cares one day and then ignore you the next and it makes old insecurities surface no matter how hard you try and hold your head up high.

You both watch Doctor Moreno through the glass as he tucks his sunglasses into his breast pocket and begins fiddling with a regeneration pod. You feel the familiar unease begin to crawl under your skin. 

“Are you alright?” is the only thing you can ask, and it’s stupid, the way you’re just repeating yourself. You kick the leaded vest away from your feet, and watch it meet your slippers, then make them spin out in the center of the room. Tieria’s eyes follow the movement. 

He unfolds his arms, then folds them again. He doesn’t answer. Through the window, you accidently meet Doctor Moreno’s eyes, and quickly pretend to be interested only in your purple fingers. 

“Why’d you even come here if all you’re going to do is avoid talking to me?”

“I wasn’t aware I was required to answer questions by virtue of you asking them.”

“Tieria-”

“I’m fine.”

Your skin prickles, and you can feel it in your chest, the familiar need to be comforted. It makes your limbs buzz. You miss being held, you want him to hold you, but he...he just doesn’t understand, and you can’t find the means or resolve to explain. 

Your hands tighten around the edge of the bed, nails digging into faux leather. You don’t want to go in. You don’t want to be afraid. Your chest tightens. Your hands are cold. You bite your cheek and keep your gaze steady, expression neutral. 

You are afraid of missing something while you’re in there. You’re afraid of ending up like Lockon. You’re afraid of ending up like your Mother. 

Doctor Moreno approaches the door. You see him through the glass. Resigned, you curl forward, careful of your arm, then push off the bed with both feet. He holds the door open for you, but you’re clumsy and have trouble making it through the doorway. He helps you through.

“You’ll be out before you know what hit you,” Doctor Moreno jokes as he pulls the sling over your head and undoes your wrist guard. “Won’t feel like a minute’s passed.” When he moves onto your splinted fingers, he tugs just on the wrong side of too much, making you wince. 

He offers you an apologetic smile, but doesn’t stop.

Careful to keep your hand still, the doctor helps you into the regeneration pod. You lay down as he walks away, look to your left, and see Tieria waiting on the other side of the glass, watching you with eyes unfocused. The doctor joins him, and turns his attention down to the control panel at his fingers.

You’re surprised by the glass cover when it slips into place above you. The lid seals, then pressurizes slowly. “See?” Doctor Moreno’s voice comes on, rough, over the speakers. “Easy.” You watch Tieria and the doctor through the window. “Almost done,” he continues as the hissing dies down.

Tieria’s arm twitches, and he frowns, then looks away, testing his fingers by curling them into his palm. After moment’s hesitation he raises a gloved hand to the glass, pressing his palm lightly against the window, low, by his waist. He meets your gaze, and it’s a concession, you realize. He doesn’t smile; neither do you, but you press your palm against glass of your own, mirroring his, and his shoulders slack enough for you to notice. 

“Can you count down from ten for me, please?”

You nod your head, and begin: “Ten.” The air suddenly tastes too sweet, it makes your teeth ache and your toes curl. 

“Nine.” Your vision grows fuzzy, and your breathing picks up, which only makes you fall under faster. 

“Eight.” Your hands are freezing, but your chest is warm -– like black fabric in the sun. 

There’s no more sound. There’s no resolution. You don’t make it to seven.

***

One Year before the armed interventions. Lagrange Three, Krung Thep.

      Gundam Dynames is forest green, and it matches Lockon’s flight suit, though Dynames, nor his pilot, have been at the forefront of your mind as of late.Your thoughts keep returning to the image of dim corridor lights on rich purple and pale pink, eyes that you sometimes think glow. You’d bumbled along diligently through the start of your shift, turning over last night’s encounter in your head until Lockon made an appearance to check up on Dynames and you enthusiastically welcomed the distraction, the chance to tease and air some grievances. He has a habit of yanking too hard on the controls in the cockpit.

You reach up and pull the targeting apparatus down into place, then push it up, and pull it down again to make a point. “See?” you ask, continuing to mess with the attachment, your arms hanging above your head. “So smooth. No need to yank this baby off its hinges. It’s even got a lil’ bit of --” You let go with some flare, and watch as it floats back into its proper stowed position above you--“hydraulic magic.”

“I know how it works,” Lockon grumbles from outside the cockpit. He’s got Haro tucked under his arm, and his vest is open and breezy.

“He knows! He knows!” Haro chants, and you pull yourself out of the seat, then float up next to the pair with a playfully terse grin.

“If ‘you know, you know,’ then why do I have to keep fixing it?” You catch yourself on the ridge of Dynames’ chest plate, then stall to push your sleeves up your forearms, the grip of your gloves rough on your skin.

Lockon opens his mouth to retort, stares at you for a moment, and shuffles Haro under his other arm. “Right.” He wrinkles his nose and offers you a sheepish smile. “I’ll remember that for...next time.”

“Next time! Next time!”

“Mmhm.” You cross your arms, then uncross them and pull your sleeves down to your wrists when the cold makes the hairs on your arms stand up. You’ll never get used to how freezing the Ptolemaios is.

The door to the hangar opens, and you both watch as Tieria enters. He lets himself drift towards the railing, scanning the large room until his eyes find yours. You raise a hand in greeting, offer a smile, and then his eyes flick to Lockon. He turns suddenly and begins inspecting a terminal on the wall.

Lockon laughs and you look back to him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “He’s jealous.”

You snort. “Yea...maybe.” Your tone is just shy of disbelieving, and you roll your eyes because the conversation is familiar and worn to dirt, but you can’t help but wonder sometimes. You’re not completely oblivious to your own feelings, to the strange tug in your chest when Tieria’s around, and you know that he at least likes you more than most, that he unconsciously seeks your company after a hard day, after a good day, after a normal day. 

You both push off Dynames and the cockpit closes behind you, “Y’know,” you address Lockon again. “Be more gentle and Dynames might not take it’s revenge next time.” You nod up to the dark bruise on his forehead, and he laughs good-naturedly.

“Alright, alright. You got me there.”

The muted tap of foreign boots on metal is the only warning you get before Tieria appears beside you. “You should be more concerned with the damage he’s done to Gundam Dynames rather than himself.”

Lockon sighs. “Gee, Tieria, nice to know you care.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmhm.” Lockon gives Tieria a reproachful look, then mock shrugs his shoulders in agreement. “Well, I guess you’re right. We don’t matter very much, do we? We’re replaceable, cogs in a machine and all that...” A rhetorical question.

His tone is too light to properly support the harsh reality he’s reintroduced into the forefront of your thoughts--and you don’t really want to think about your personal worth judged comparatively to Celestial Being’s ultimate goal right now, especially since Lockon seems intent on getting an answer he won’t find in Tieria.

Nobody says anything, Lockon’s stubbornly waiting for a response, Tieria’s narrowing his eyes like he’s been challenged, and you’re left floating between the two, floundering in the sudden and unpleasant turn the conversation took. Even Haro seems unusually subdued, and so you force yourself to scoff nervously and say, “Speak for yourself.” You try and break the clouds with some humor. “I’m indispensable!” 

It works. Tieria looks annoyed again, and Lockon laughs, then takes the dip in the conversation as his chance to slip away. “Yea, yea, whatever you say,” he says, his body already facing away so you can’t see his face, but his voice still carries an airy tone.

Haro flaps happily, still under Lockon’s arm. “Whatever you say! Whatever you say!”

Both you and Tieria watch as Lockon leaves, Tieria more tense, intense than you, and then you turn to him with a smile. “How are you today?” you ask like you hadn’t met him in the middle of the night barely ten hours ago.

He looks startled by your sudden question, then settles back into his usual self. “Fine. How are you?”

You melt a little at his tone. “Good. Did you need something?”

A/N: Tsunami, Told Slant.

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[we-are-emotion-gems-blog]

Joy,Sadness,Disgust,Fear and Anger the next alien ben can turn into is called Snare-oh species Thep Khufan they have limited shapeshifting,stretchable limbs,elasticity and regeneration.

Fear scoffed.  “Oh, that’s nothing.  I shape shift all the time, it’s a great way to hide.  Watch.”  Fear shape shifted into a purple copy of Joy.  Sticking out of his purple hair was a dark purple nerve with his spherical gem attached.  “Okay, so my form has a bit of a defect,” he claims nervously.  “It’s best for me to hide as something with a tail or something.”

“I think it’s pretty good!”  Joy shape shifted into a bright yellow version of Fear.  “Okay, who’s next?”

Sadness sighed, “I’ll go,” before turning into a light blue Anger.

“Oh that’s supposed to be funny?” Anger growled before turning into a red Disgust.

Disgust rolled her eyes.  “Ugh fine, but only for a minute.”  Shape shifts into a green Sadness.