#i always think about how in game his graffiti or pictures have him smiling. when in canon he never does. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bahrtofane · 2 months

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here we go again - pt.3

pt. 1 , pt.2

jude x fem!reader , trent x fem!reader

empty promise after another leaves you walking in the cold. alone. on valentines day. youre never speaking to another player again. or will you? can things be forgiven?

Word count - 1.9K +

Watch it - reader so sad but dw bae it gets better ! jude. Just jude. hehehe

—--

Madrid is bleak and bland when you get back, eager to find a routine, to busy yourself with anything, everything.

It's almost like there's a big joke being played on you because you're given Jude to create promotional posters for. It makes you want to cry, but you suck it up, download the pictures and get to work. Even if you have to scribble his face out the whole time.

Avoiding Jude becomes your obsession. You make it your top priority to avoid seeing him in person under any and all costs. You refuse to go anywhere near the stadium, training facilities. Blocking official accounts and avoiding tv when you know they're set to play.

You find jude everywhere. In the cracks of sidewalks where flowers bloom. Inside coffee shops when the smell of vanilla hits your face, under bridges where graffiti of smiley faces litter the concrete.

His presence looms over the city like a specter, mocking your attempts to move on. You long for the day when his memory no longer haunts you, when you can walk through Madrid without feeling his presence at every turn.

Until then, you cling to the hope that time will heal the wounds he left behind, and that one day, you'll be able to reclaim the city as your own. But for now, Madrid remains a bleak and lonely place, haunted by the ghost of a love lost.

—-

Trent calls you about a week after you land, in the middle of your morning routine.

“How are you?”

You stifle a sigh, picking at your nails, “I'm really just peachy Trent,” padding over to your kitchen, opening the fridge.

“You know what I mean.”

You grab what you need, using your hip to close the fridge “I don't know why you keep calling me Trent. I'm fine. Tell jude to fuck off yeah?”

You hear a sigh from the other end, “jude has nothing to do with me checking up on you.”

“Sure.” you hang up. And he doesn’t call again.

—--

The office is always full of energy on match days, and you hate how it's become a tradition to all watch together. Weather in the stands or from the actual office. Your desire to show up in a barca jersey is very very strong.

Today is one day where you walk single file to the stadium and find your seats. Curse working for madrid, it brings you a little too close to the pitch for comfort. You spend half the game on your phone, even when your coworkers gently nudge your shoulder when Jude speeds to the post, you mumble something about work that needs to be done (you're on your settings.)

Jude scores, of course he does. And it's a beautiful goal, straight power, nothing but net. You're up cheering before you can stop yourself, smiling. You're smiling at Jude scoring.

He jogs over to the crowd per usual, caught up in the adrenaline. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to scoring at home. The feeling is unbeatable. His eyes scan the crowd, and they just so happen to land on you.

You're here? The cheers of the crowd fade out, his arms falling to his side, he's staring right at you. He's taken back to the night he left you alone. He’s a fucking idiot. You don't look away, if anything you lean forward in your seat. You're here.

—--

Against better judgment he goes looking for you after the game. Running down hallways still in his kit, looking a mess with grass stuck all over him. At least he managed to kick his cleats off and grab the nearest slides he could find. He's pretty sure these aren't his but he doesn't care. Not right now.

He knows the staff tend to hang around after games, the issue is where.

Curse the never ending construction. The place is a maze, an awful one without, with it feels like he's entering a different dimension at every turn.

He hears laughing and speeds down to find himself in a lounge full of people, all who rush to him to sing praises. He smiles. Trying not to get blinded by flash photography. A voice cuts through the crowd, a soft laugh.

You're here. Oh you're here.

He sees you tuck a piece of paper into a folder, smiling softly, patting the back of what he assumes to be a coworker as you make your way to the exit.

He tries to get past the people who surround him, but you're already gone. He's lost you again, all while you were right in front of him.

He goes home that night unable to sleep, eat, think. He blames himself, of course he does. It's his fault isn't it?

Somewhere during his night routine he thinks that there's an ounce of hope to fix this.

He calls trent.

“I don't know man.” Trent mumbles on the other end.

“I gotta at least try right?”

There's a beat of silence that lasts a moment too long, “if that's what you want.”

Jude thanks him for his time anyway. Tucking himself into bed.

He scrolls through instagram on his burner account, finding your account again. The request button taunts him, but he knows you wont accept. Instead clicking on your profile picture, watching it take up his screen and he sighs. He really has to get his life together doesn't he.

—--

The next time Jude sees you is at an event. Black tie in a nearby hotel. He misses getting ready with you for these, with all your products and accessories lining his sink while he watched you fondly.

“Do I look okay?” you would ask each time, leaning a hand on the sink while the other smoothed down the creases on your dress. Doing a once over in his mirror.

He would hum softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “you look amazing.”

You'd blush, swatting him away playfully. Pressing a kiss to his cheek and promising to see him there.

The same mirror now stares back at him cooly. His sink is empty, as his house is. He misses the smell of your perfume, your clothes that littered his space. He misses how you made it a home.

He sees you there all the same, mingling with your coworkers. You look amazing, that hasn't changed. The dark circles under your eyes have, two purple half moons stamped rather aggressively on your skin. How long has it been since you got proper nights rest jeez.

He makes his rounds to everyone. Brand ambassadors, staff, teammates, a list of high profile people he doesn't care to repeat. He leaves your little corner last on purpose. He doesn't want anything to get in the way.

He slides over to where you hug a glass of water to your chest, nodding along to something a man in a blue suit is saying. Pfft blue what a rookie choice. Jude is in all black, did you notice? It was your favorite on him.

You did notice, and try to suppress the desire to hurl when he walks over to you.

Jude gets to say no more than a sloppy greeting in Spanish before he's grabbed by the arm and taken back to where he thinks the owner of the hotel is standing.

You sigh in relief, and he sighs in frustration.

Fate has driven you apart once more it seems.

—--

Jude is a stubborn stubborn man. You can't seem to outrun him, no matter how many calls and texts you ignore, or block his accounts. Nor how you manage to slip out from right in front of him. Fate is on his side today it seems.

He shows up to your office, flowers in hand. Your favorite flowers, tied neatly with a ribbon of your favorite color, a card neatly tucked under the petals.

Your coworkers are in uttersock, not even trying to hide their surprise as he marches over to your desk.

You type faster, ignoring him, or trying to. The gazes on you burn, almost as much as they did on the night he left you to rot. Why is he here?

“Hey,” he tries, meekly. He wants to punch himself in the face. Hey? Really?

You don't look up from your monitor, opening more tabs, swiping your mouse against your desk furiously. You think the battery just fell out.

“Listen, I know I'm horrible, a piece of shit, the worst man alive, I don't deserve you in the slightless. But I love you.” he scrambled out in one breath.

You whip your head up at him,”love? You love me so much you took me to a club on valentines day?”

He winces, “it was so stupid. I'm so stupid. Please, let me make it up to you.” he pleads.

You sigh, throwing your head back in your chair, rolling your eyes,”are you actually going to change Jude. Are you going to stop this nonsense and treat me like you actually mean what you say?”

“Yes,” he nods furiously, “I promise. Not a day will go by without me proving it to you, I swear.”

You look back at him. He's worn your favorite cologne, the sweater you used to always steal on cold nights. The flowers are beautiful. You missed him, you missed him so much, to the point that you're really considering it.

Someone coughs in the cubicle next to you and you groan, gathering your things and hastily walking to the door, motioning for Jude to follow.

He looks like a newborn puppy, almost tripping on his feet while he follows you through hallways and corridors till you reach a stairwell you know for certain no one will walk through.

“Jude, I hope you know what you did broke me, it really broke me. I think you ruined my ego, permanently.”

He nods, leaning on the railing while he clutches the bouquet with so much force you're scared they're going to be wrung like a wet rag.

“But,” you raise a finger to him, “ and this is a big big but, if you can prove these things instead of saying them, i'll consider giving you another proper chance okay?”

You see the tension visibly ease from his shoulders as he sighs softly, “Okay, yes, thank you. Thank you so much,” he brings the flowers forward, waiting for you to take them.

And you do, gently picking the note from the petals, you'll read this when you get home.

“I uh also, booked a dinner of your favorite place in a few days, in case you were willing to give me another chance i didn't want to mess it up again and if you don't have anything else going on and i just-” you take his hand in yours, stopping his ramblings effectively as he looks away. All of a sudden so shy as if you haven't stayed at his place for days at a time.

“I'll go Jude. I'm free, don't worry.”

“Great. 7 sound good?”

“Sounds perfect. Ill see you then okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, soft and sweet.

With a smile you send him off, almost flying down the stairs in pure glee. You shake your head fondly, heading back to your work. The flowers weigh more than just their physical weight. The letters feel like a ton on its own.

You hope you made the right choice.

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bxbu-chuu · 9 months

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I talk a lot about Tooru not feeling like he's good enough, having regrets, self doubt etc on here but

What about early Oihina. Maybe they just started dating after they met in Brazil, maybe they're even just close friends at this point. They text and call daily to tell each other about their days. Shouyou basically just texts every thought he has throughout the day to Tooru and they comment them at night while on call.

He sees a cool graffiti while he's out doing some deliveries and he sends a picture to Tooru, he has something good for lunch and tells Tooru about how he thinks he'd like it and they should have it together when he comes to visit. He also texts him when he's managed to do something in a match he wasn't able to do before, when he makes a specially cool play or when he wins against a really tough opponent. He sends dozens of texts about all the good things he experiences during the day, full of exclamation points and emojis. Hoping not only to save those memories for himself, but also brighten Tooru's day when possible.

Tooru gets used to them and looks forward to them every day, he's teammates have even caught up and mock him everytime his phone dings and he rushed to look at his texts like a maniac. He still can't help but smile and giggle like an idiot when he sees them. The overenthusiastic tone, the exclamations and emojis, he can basically hear the Shouyou screaming and jumping around when he reads them.

One day, after long hours of practice. Once he's showered he rushes to check his phone, eager to see the texts he must've accumulated while absent, but no smile comes to his face. There's no colorful pictures and messages witten in all caps, there's just a series of texts, all uncharacteristically well punctuated.

10:00 AM

"Tooru, don't your legs just hurt sometimes?"

"Like they won't listen to you. You're like come on, jump, do something, and they just don't?"

"I've been really tired recently. I guess biking everywhere all day really does tire you out"

"Back in highschool I always had energy for practice because I didn't have a job. I miss those days haha"

2:21 PM

"Hey, how long did it take you to learn Spanish? Not fluently, just enough to communicate with people"

"I'm so jealous that you live alone Tooru, I wish my roommate talked to me"

3:46 PM

"I think you're at practice right now, but did you watch the Adlers' game? It was good"

3:56 PM

"I don't think I'll ever be that good"

4:05 PM

"It's scary to think that maybe I moved all they way here for nothing. It's a little frustrating,no? That others didn't have to go through this for their dreams?"

4:30 PM

"Look at me being all down! I'm sorry Tooru senpai, don't mind me! :))"

#haikyuu #hq #oikawa torū #hinata shouyou #hq oikawa #haikyuu oikawa #hinata shoyo haikyuu #hinata haikyuu #oikawa tooru #oihina #oihina headcanon #hinata headcanons #oikawa headcanons

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steele-soulmate · 4 months

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Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 556, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) hit and run pedestrian accident, precipitous labor, neonatal death, abandoned baby

WORDS: 1016

“Hey MC, how are things over on your end?”

“Well, hey ho to you too, Danny boy!” I greeted my older brother as I was making lunch for everyone- grilled cheese and pepperoni sandwiches, seasoned French fries and sliced fruit. “Whadup?”

“I have some extra tickets for the Giants vs. Chiefs game coming up next month!” he told me. “And since I knew that Peter is a massive football fan, I thought that I would offer them to you and the family!”

“Hang on, I’ll ask him!” I set my cell phone up against my collarbone as I went over to the back door. I stepped out into the backyard and automatically grinned at the sight of the kids frolicking around in the freshly fallen leaves. “My love!”

“Sweetheart?” he called out, standing and lumbering my way with the triplets cradled in his arms.

“Daniel’s on the line,” I told him, practically breaking out into purr when he reached out to cup at my face.

“Daniel…” He blinked owlishly, clearly trying to think of who I was referring to. “Daniel who?”

“Daniel Bradley, my big brother, the NFL quarterback for the Kansas City Chiefs,” I deadpanned before turning back to my laughing brother. “I’m guessing you heard that just now?”

“Hey Peter! How do you feel about attending a Giants vs. Chiefs football game next month on the 31st?” chortled Daniel and I could only picture him eating a bowl of cereal, which had always been his favorite food source. “It will be at the MetLife and there will also be a trunk or treat event for the kids of the team after the game out on the field!”

“Sounds like fun!” he said, motioning for my cell phone, which I handed over with a hum, accepting the three tiny babies from him and watching as he padded away to his office to hash out a plan of action with my older brother.

“Hey kids, what will you be for Halloween?” I called out as I wandered out into the backyard and dropped into a chair.

“I really want to be Rapunzel!” Elizabeth giggled, cackling as she threw fistfuls of leaves up into the air for Mittens to leap at. “Mittens, you are a silly kitty!”

MEOW the motherly cat shrieked with kitty joy as she rolled over onto her back and began to roll in the crunchy leaves, acting more like a dog than a cat. Primrose crept up to her not a skunk mother, jumping onto her with an excited chitter.

“Katie wants to be Raya and Baby Tommy wants to be Snow White,” Elizabeth was saying. “Katie and I have already sketched out a plan and she made patterns- we plan on going to Mood fabric store next week to look at fabric!”

“Also, I want to looks for Raya’s conical hat in little China!” Katie chimed in from where she and Baby Tommy both had been raking up leaves for an epic jump.

“Ah, sounds like you both got everything under control!” I hummed, cooing down at Baby Teddy as he sneezed.

“Bless you, Baby Teddy!” Peter said as he bounded out into the late September air. He puffed his chest out as he tossed his head back to inhale a sharp breath of crisp autumn air.

“My love, did you get everything squared away with Daniel?” I asked, noting that he had gone upstairs for Baby Eve, who was battling a case of the sniffles.

“I sure did, sweetheart,” he told me with a smile. “Also, James and Aaron had made plans to go to a haunt over in the next county over, so I told them that they can drop off little girl and that she’ll come with us. Oh and also Adam and Anna will be in New Jersey for an event with the Navy, so he’ll also be dropping off the twins for a few days.”

“My love, I hate to say it, but it does sound like you have a massive case of the baby fever,” I accused him with. “And also, you’re just lucky that I really love having a full house also.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I should’ve cleared it with you first,” he acknowledged his rush of excitement of having his family under his roof. “But as I said time and time again, there’s always room for more love in the Ratajczyk house.”

“You’re forgiven, my love,” I tutted at him, immediately thinking of everything that needed to be done- the twins’ Jack and Jill bedrooms would need to be aired out and have their beds dressed with fresh linins, little girl’s big girl room would need to be swept and vacuumed…

“You’re forgiven, my love. Just as long as you help me prep the house for our guests.”

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@ch3rry-c01a

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punemy-spotted · 3 years

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Of Blackbirds and Barons: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: You Make The Rain Fall Harder

Relationships: Mob!Helmut Zemo x Reader; CEO!Billy Russo x Reader; Mob!Helmut Zemo x Reader x CEO!Billy Russo

Warnings: Non-con/Dub-con; Dark!Fic; Mob and Mafia Elements; Character Death (Minor and Major); Threesome; Possessive/Obsessive Characters; Blackmail/Coercion; Kidnapping; Mentions of War; Human Rights Violations; Contract Killing; Mafia AU; Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat; Complete Disregard for Actual Rules of Journalism and Style Guides; Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply

Chapter Specific Warnings: Non-con; Drugging/Date-Rape; Fingering (F-Receiving); Vaginal Sex; Unprotected Sex; Possible Breeding Kink; Kidnapping; Obsessive/Possessive Zemo; Dark!Zemo; Human Rights Violations; Discussion of Destruction of Novi Grad and Sokovia; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: The problem with having sympathy for the Devil is that he will drag you down to Hell regardless.

Author’s Notes: Another series! Because I can’t get enough of Mob!AUs! Zemo makes his dark entrance. And this IS dark, so read at your own discretion. As always, all of my work is 18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Masterlist

The long tradition of the Duchy of Sokovia, that which once stood the test of time against the Tsars of Russia, began to crumble long before its borders did, its sweeping architecture and decadent mystery giving way to the sharp lines of Brutalism and the characteristic industrialism of the Eastern Bloc. Still, the Sokovian people managed to maintain their identity in the face of a new kind of empire, bringing greenery and art to a brisk, concrete world.

There is no Sokovia now, not the way one would think, but there are still Sokovians scattered around the world, clinging to the traditions of their once-home and searching for a banner to be united under.

A banner carried by a man like Helmut Zemo.

The caret blinks back at you with a mocking sort of finality, a metronome counting down the seconds to your ultimate frustration. Once. Twice. Thrice — you lose count, staring at the screen until your vision crosses and the words blur together, until only his name remains.

Zemo.

Baron Helmut Zemo.

Your notes are expansive, excessive, papers strewn about you and you look at each scribbled anecdote, each carefully dictated word, each photograph you have annotated until it is more red marker than actual picture and you are… frustrated.

Where do you put all that passion? He asked you over champagne and charcuterie.

You know this man.

You know this man like you know your own soul. You know this man who has bared his soul to you in turn and how are you supposed to impress upon the world that he has shown you the broken heart beating slow and painful in his chest in just a thousand words?

There is nothing. Nothing you can do, nothing you can saywhich could even begin to encompass the horrors which he has experienced and now as you painstakingly tap out word after word describing the grand beauty of his apartment, you wonder if this really was what your life was meant to be.

These are… fluff.

This is a man who has managed to unite an entire fractured country under his royal banner and yet the project wants to know about the indoor garden of his apartment, wants to photograph him in fine suits and know his haircare routine and this can’t be it. This can’t be the face of the man you see everywhere now, moreso since you picked up the assignment, purple-masked and surrounded by brass wings, over the homes of Sokovians all over New York.

And not just there.

I am a man, he told you with his hand on your thigh, But I can become an idea. And an idea is immortal.

You let your eyes skim over the photographs you took, a collection of banners and graffiti and billboards all proclaiming the need for the Sokovian people to come together and heal. To show that their small country — broken and divided in the wake of an attack by a rich megalomaniac’s private military — could not be taken down simply because its borders had been erased and its capitol turned to rubble.

We live in an age of information, and through information we are boundless.

It should terrify you.

It does terrify you.

But inside of that terror is a sick fascination with the man, isn’t there? That’s the trouble with you investigative types — peel back the layers enough and you find yourself capable of feeling sympathy for anyone.

He flaunts his power, and yet it’s innocent. Is it so wrong, then, to want to bring my country back to its glory?

No, you remember answering shakily, but not as well as you remember the pinpricks of heat his fingers left on your skin when that gloved hand brushed over you arm.

Breathe deep, hover fingers over your keyboard and try not to feel like you owe him the weight of the world. He approved of this, even suggested a word count and a topic of conversation — any chance to put his name out into the consciousness of the public, it seemed, to raise interest for the gallery by raising interest for the cause. Make it indulgent. My people, they enjoy art. They enjoy knowing that their leaders have preserved the past for them.

So do it.

… Baron Zemo’s New York penthouse is its own garden amongst a sea of steel and stone, a veritable museum of priceless artworks rescued from what remained of Sokovian museums and ministry buildings. It is, in its own way, an ode to the spirit of Sokovia, which lives on in the hearts and minds of its people around the world. He displays artworks of the many displaced Sokovians, gesturing broadly to a 3D model of an art gallery he intends to have built near the memorial at Novi Grad — with the consent of the Slovakian government — and speaking fondly of his intention to showcase the lost art of Sokovia as a reminder that loss of land cannot be the loss of an identity…

The artworks, they will be painful at first. But the gallery will showcase more and more, and eventually we will have hope.

He waves a gloved hand over the pieces he has preserved. Sokovian history. Scenic expanses, fields and flowers, a city skyline dotted with domed cathedrals. Each painting marred some way too, you can see when you look close. Patched canvas, the dusting of ash and rubble in the corner of an ornate frame, a trick of the light revealing repainting to cover up damage.

A stone hoof sits on a bookshelf, The attached horse and rider blown to rubble in the attack. I’m told it was of Emperor Ferdinand, but my archivists have not been able to confirm, he tells you as he stands behind you, his hand resting soft on the small of your back.

Come. There is more to be seen.

More to be experienced.

His living room is a garden.

It smells like fresh jasmine the moment you walk in, ivy climbing the walls and you swear you can hear birdsong from more than the pigeons cooing outside. Flower arrangement is an often looked down upon art, but the gardens in Sokovia were impeccable. My father won several awards for his pieces before his…

He trails off and you watch him, seeing the pain paint his face as openly as if he meant for you to watch the facade crack and then back to that placid, pleasant calm, a serpentine smile on his face as he extends to you a hand and guides you to the open air of his balcony and bids you Sitbids you Enjoy bids you I have looked forward to his meeting.

It is a pleasure to meet you, Baron Zemo, you begin politely, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear and trying to avoid the way his eyes follow your fingers, feeling seen, We’re grateful for the honor of your patronage for this piece, we know you could have —

Nonsense, he cuts you off with a wave of his hand, gesturing to his butler and then leaning back comfortably in his seat as champagne and various cheeses are brought forth, You are my guest, and I am grateful you agreed to come meet me here, to assist with my… project. Now. Please, enjoy, I do not want to treat this as strictly business.

Is that why he had you come alone?

Don’t.

Don’t dwell on it.

It happens all the time, right? It has to.

A somewhat reclusive man, not keen to be in the limelight, in need of public attention to achieve his goals — you are a means to an end and he is your means to an end, surely you can understand.

Is that why he wipes the honey from your lips and kisses it off his fingers?

This is going to be a difficult conversation and you know it. You can only gush over houseplants and rose décor for so long before it becomes… trite, before you’re a part of the problem, painting a shining veneer over a half-decade old injustice

But he is warm, warm and friendly and you cannot help but laugh to his response when you draw attention to the architecture to draw attention from your blush — Very modern, yes. We are in New York, after all, and the old ways are fine for country houses but not so fine, for sunny penthouse apartments —not noticing the way he looks like he’s just smelled blood at the sound of it, the narrowing of his eyes and the hiding of his inscrutable expression behind a sip of champagne.

Well then. Shall we get started?

Of course.

Why don’t we start with your plans for opening night?Your notepad is out, the recorder sitting in front of you to pick up the sound of your voice and his, ready to commit everything to memory.

Of course. We cannot deny the… elephant in the room, I think you Americans call it. There are many who took pictures of the aftermath of the attack, and not enough who have seen it immortalized…

… The tragedy of Novi Grad and the consequential absorption of Sokovia into its surrounding countries weighs heavy in the Baron’s living room, draped in ivy and jasmine and hanging vines but also in photographs of what was left after a private military corporation chose to turn human lives into a war game.

No one knows who Ultron is, only that he is dangerous, that his technology rivals that of the SHIELD Syndicate’s Tony Stark, that he is willing to ally himself to the highest bidder, and that he is fully capable of unleashing endless destruction upon the world…

You will never forget the photographs he shows you, all that death and destruction in the golden light of his balcony, all that warmth and all you can see is cold bodies bathed in concrete dust.

They call to you, when you close your eyes — answer for our crimes — and you remember the way his voice changes too, so soft and solemn, the brush of fingers against yours when you touch the bombed out shell of a country mansion My home, in Sokovia, to the gray-and-blood horror which forms the centerpiece of his display, and you remember your research too, that the Baron is a widow, that his title is inherited from the most tragic of circumstances, that his son was an innocent lost in the attack and you are furious too, at the senselessness of it all.

It is a tragedy yet unanswered for, more than half a decade since the dust settled.

That quote sits front and center on your mock-up, wondering if you could make whatever editor who would inevitably rip this piece to shreds — just before publishing its corpse alongside some glamour picture of the Baron his coat — finally see the error of ignoring the tragedy. You won’t, but it’s worth a shot, as you lean back in your chair and stare at the screen again.

Sometimes you think about it.

Watching Novi Grad happen from the comfort and safety of your living room, wrapped in blankets as open war broke out in the capital city of what had once been a crown jewel in an ancient dynasty. A playground, a show of force.

Sometimes you hear the screams.

The blinking carat waits for you to add more to this story, to decide where you want to go.

… The Baron plays a game with his interview, insists on knowing his guests just as we insist on getting to know the enigmatic leader who has risen up a beacon for the displaced people of his homeland. We will not be recreating our answers in this article, as they were of course of a personal nature, but we do thank the Baron for taking the time to get to know us just as he bared his soul, his sorrows, and his hopes to a gaggle of strangers seeking to make him known to the world…

Tell me of you, sweetling.

Me? This interview is about you.

And so I must tell all my secrets for free? No, I insist. A secret for a secret.

He watches you with a hunger, coal-black eyes an invitation. Slide your gaze away or fall and who knows what depths he will drag you into and what you will find there?

No.

Don’t look, don’t look as you sip the tea Oeznik brought when you politely declined the champagne — Another time, probably — and let it brace you with its bitterness, let it clear your head.

Breathe.

You’re in too deep now, trapped in this cave of wonders… and wouldn’t it be worth it? Know him as he knows you, follow the trajectory of the smiling man before you.

What would you like to know?

Tell me how you taste his eyes whisper.

Tell me what it would take says the curve of his fingers over your hand.

Let me put you on display hums the razor-blade of his smile.

Tell me what drives a woman to take on such a … dangerous line of work, is the final inquiry, innocent and curious and gentle and you sip your tea and smile.

Is it dangerous?

You must know how many secrets you uncover — and the lengths the keepers will go to in order to hide them.

If people get hurt, shouldn’t I bring that to light?

How noble of you, he tells you with another hum, with his fingers squeezing yours, with his eyes fixed on the gaze you refuse to send his way, It must be quite thrilling.

Let me thrill you too, sweetling.

Pull away.

Do it.

Pull your hand away, make an act of it, pick up a candied strawberry and press it past your lips, let the sweetness soak your tongue and wash away the bitter thoughts, let yourself be bright and chipper and pretend you are not afraid.

Because you’re not.

Of course you’re not.

You are in control here, you must be in control here.

This is nothing. This is a casual interview with a handsome man in his handsome penthouse, an interview about architecture and art galleries and you were a correspondent once and you are meant to be friendly here, not afraid, so what are you afraid of?

What is it about his coal-dark eyes and too-sharp smile that turns your blood, that sends you back into your hutch, little rabbit, what is it about the way he prowls at the corner of your thoughts that makes you shudder so?

What are you running from?

Who are you running from?

Your turn, sweetling.

Mmh?

Our deal, or have you forgotten already?

Yes. You have.

It’s his eyes, you keep insisting to yourself. They drag you in, so dark it feels like you’re drowning in the void of them, searching for the light at the end of the tunnel.

It’s a chase.

It’s what you’re good at.

Right — I’m sorry, I’m…

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

The fog in your thoughts doesn’t fade, confusion crossing over your features and ill delight crossing over his. All you had was tea, tea and some of the candied fruit his butler brought for your enjoyment, how can you feel so…

Hazy?

So…

Upturned?

Something clatters behind you and you realize it’s the chair you were sitting on as you stand, unsteady and abrupt, lost in the moors of your own frantic thoughts and there is his hand on your elbow, so careful and soft and there are his lips before yours, so…

Tempting.

Somewhere, a woman croons to you of falling rain and rushing blood and the room does spin round as you stand still in the open air of a desire that is yours and not your own all at once. Shhh, shhh, let me help you whispered in your ear, a hand to your cheek and you…

You blink.

Reality flows into view like a sudden bath of ice water. Jerk away from his iron grip, raise your hands and try to resist, shake your head and N-no, I think. I think I need to go, I’ll just call a cab —

I cannot let you do that, sweetling. Not when you are finally within my reach.

His hold is steady. Unbreakable, even, as he pulls you close and you might even be dancing with the way his arm wraps around your waist the moment you fall into his chest, Don’t look so afraid, sweetling. No one will hurt you, here.

I will protect you like a jewel.

Your mind is still yours — the dose was just enough — but your limbs? Your limbs are tied to his strings, lost as he guides you right back inside, lost as he gestures for Oeznik to close off the balcony.

Your place is somewhere else now.

You belong underneath me.

He guides you inside, jasmine intoxicating your senses and wisps of smoke seeming to float past your eyes. Reality blends into the fantasy, the Baron and his prize, the gentle touch against your soft cheek, the cradling against his form and he is…

Determined.

A door opens. A portal into another kind of decadence, with soft sheets and softer touches, the sliding of a mouth over yours as your escape clicks shut behind you and you are pressed between wall and man and you are consumed.

Curl your fingers into the lapel of his coat, lose yourself to the pressure of his lips, the sharp nip of teeth against soft flesh. He tastes of champagne and honeycomb and you are saccharine on the tongue, a mess of sighs and admonitions left unsaid.

My precious thing, whispered into your unfocused sighs, I will take such fine care of you.

And you want to protest, want to insist you are free you are uninterested you do not want this man and his hands under the cotton of your blouse but the words tangle on your tongue and instead all you can do is whimper.

Whimper, and hear him chuckle against your skin, a line of kisses drawn from your parted lips along your jaw until he’s found the thrum of your pulsebeat to draw a gasp the moment his teeth scrape against the delicate skin. He must mark you his, after all, and this he will gladly renew, over and over.

Over and over as he draws you to bed, lays you amongst soft cushions and softer sheets, indulges in the soft curves of you in the golden glow of the room. Your clothes — so conservative, so professional, so unnecessary — he makes short work of even with what mild resistance you manage, Shh, shh, do not fight me.

The heat is yours and not yours all at once, warming your skin and leaving you flushed, leaving a trail of burning want along your skin where his fingers trace over you and centering in your core You need this, sweetling, look at you…

Do you?

Is it you who needs this or he, he who has begun to kiss along your skin, he who presses himself between your legs so impatiently? The accusation lives in your thoughts and passes past your lips as a strangled Nnh-no, ignored without ceremony or appeal.

Protests are useless when your tongue can form no words and your limbs can do nothing but writhe, seeking structure in the grip of his sheets as he unravels you with a press of his lips to that soft center of yours, slick with a need you cannot own and yet all yours.

He maps you with a hungry gaze, fingers already tracing the plushness of your folds, gathering slick like he might have been collecting nectar and you watch him pull back, watch him bring his hand to his mouth, watch him wrap lips around his fingertip and drag the taste of you onto his tongue, One day I shall make you taste how sweet you are…

One day, after he has savored you so deeply.

You are so full of words they burst out of you on a normal day and yet nothing you say comes to light, just the bare whimpers and anxious mewls of your needy self as he returns to inspecting, to enjoying, to savoring the reactiveness of your body.

He touches. He touches as if he has owned your body a thousand times, he touches as if you are delicate, as if you are breakable, as if his fingers might lead you to shattering around him here and now and you…

Are so close, already.

So close, trying to find the strength in your muscles to pull away, to speak something beyond desperation with every curl of fingers against your cunt, with every pleased hum he utters in response to the flex of your sex. Shh… no more fighting, sweetling, I know you can be good.

He knows you can be good, he says, with all the innocence of a man trying to convince his cat to stop clawing the couch, not a man presently holding your legs open with one hand at your thigh and the other curling against your walls while you arch your back. It builds, the pressure, it builds and builds and builds and — Let go, sweetling. Let me see your ecstasy.

Is that what this is?

You keen. You keen softly, desperately, brokenly, as skilled fingers find the spot which makes you, which leaves you breathless and flushed and sobbing, a trickle of tears making their path down your cheeks as you bite your own lip to muffle the sounds you did not know you could make. Wordless and pleading and he notices with a cold smile the way you seem to succumb, hips no longer desperate to escape the curling, stretching assault of two — no, three — fingers preparing you for him.

Hips pressing back towards him now, a betrayal of your conscious-yet-barely-focused mind, that lustful sweetness in you taking over and he can only watch in awe. Awe not at your surrender but at your perfection, muttering in a language you do not understand and yet you understand perfectly what he means — he will have you, all of you.

Ah, I shall so enjoy playing with you more, sweetling.

But not now.

Now his impatience outpaces your need and both outpace his cruelty, his desire to see you beg and so instead he pulls back his hand — and hears the desperate N-no, please don’t — to bring a cruel gleam to his dark eyes and even barely conscious as you are you know he is beautiful.

Beautiful and cruel, as he frees himself and curls fingers around his cock, rubs your own slick onto that soft skin, hisses at the very feel of you like it must be a preview to how you will make him throb, and presses himself over you. Presses himself over you, absorbs the cry of pain or anguish or relief which pours from your plush lips with the punishment of a kiss just as he sinks, hips pressing against yours, stretching you with his full length and Now we are one, my sweet.

Now we are one.

He will take fine care of you but you, you take finer care of him, so plush and tight around his senses, so desperate as you cling, so lost and wanton and he kisses away the tears which continue to sting your cheeks and hisses half-sensible promises into your ear — You will always be mine — as he ruts his hips and practically shoves you forward with every thrust, dragging you back with a snarl and the pressure builds.

Builds and you moan, builds and you sob into his hungry mouth, builds and you hold to him as if he were the last thing which made sensein the world builds and you are consumed and he is consuming, and the release is both of yours, spilling deep inside of you and that too is the final shackle upon your soul.

You sit. In the darkness of your office and you remember, worrying the cuticle of your thumb and staring at the words you have typed while your memory drifts back to that hazy reminder.

… A discussion with the Baron about Sokovia reveals a country rich with history. Once a Duchy of the Hapsburgs during the era of the Holy Roman Empire, the deeply Catholic country clings to the Austrian and Italian tradition of ceremony and indulgence. Baron Zemo plays an example of the hymns sung in the many cathedrals which once filled the country, a mixture of Sokovian and Latin to raise the soul to divine heights.

The Baron speaks of the country’s culture with a warm fondness, of how even during Soviet occupation, the people managed to enjoy games like ice hockey, and football (the European, variant, the Baron would like to emphasize), and even spent time indulging in horse racing. Surrounded by Slovakia and the Czech Republic, it keeps a similar tradition, with a twist…

No, that cannot encompass all that you discussed, and yet that is what the recording shows, words traded back and forth which you do not remember, a conversation of laughter and warmth and none of it slots into what your mind tells you occurred.

You erase. You rewrite. It is the same passage, over and over, fingers acting unbidden of your frantic will and eventually you give in, demand to be done with these words and this screen, eventually you desire peace.

… Baron Helmut Zemo is many things. A historian, an ambassador, a politician, an activist. He is a widower, a man trapped in the past, a man with lofty dreams for the future. He wears his sorrow as well as he wears his happiness, and for those who still call themselves Sokovian, he is their shepherd into a new age.

And as the door to your office opens, your keeper.

#baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #dark!baron zemo x reader #dark!helmut zemo x reader #billy russo x reader #dark!billy russo x reader #helmut zemo smut #dark!fic #mob!AU #helmut zemo #billy russo

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starcats1219 · 3 years

Text

Intrulogical Week: Day 2 (Science/Art)

For @intrulogicalweek2021

Art of the Heart

Ao3 || 1276 words || qpr intrulogical

Summary: Remus loved to create. Logan did not. Remus shows Logan how much he loves his creativity.

Warnings: swearing

Read here!

Remus’ favourite thing to do was create.

No matter what it was. Paintings, sculptures, stories, pictures, creatures, whatever it was, Remus enjoyed it. Of course, Roman loved all those things as well, further cementing how similar the two were. But neither of them enjoyed thinking about that.

Logan's least favourite thing to do was create.

His area of expertise was things that were known. Things that were facts. He could tell you the history of a specific art form, tell you techniques that helped improve it, but every time he attempted to create any sort of art, it always came out looking...wrong. Not wrong in the way Remus' were, where something was just off enough that you could tell, but not enough to tell what it was. His creations were just objectively bad.

Remus didn't think that at all about his partner's art, but he wasn't sure how to get him to believe that. So, he made a plan.

During each of their weekly hangouts as a duo, they would take turns picking an activity for them both to do. Previous activities ranged from stargazing, to making explosives, to playing video games together. This week was Remus' turn, and he intended to use it well.

Right at 7pm on the dot, Remus heard a knock on his door. Opening it, he was greeted by the sight of his partner, smiling softly at him.

"Salutations, Rem."

"Oh get in here, you nerd."

After Logan stepped in the room, Remus immediately shut the door and spun around to face him.

“Ready for tonight, Lo?”

“Of course. What is it you have chosen for tonight?”

Remus gave him a sly smile. “You’ll see.”

With a snap, the two were transferred from Remus’ room to what looked like an art studio. It was messy, supplies crowding tables and floor alike, canvases leaning anywhere there was room. The walls were covered in murals and graffiti, forming beautiful but haunting images that were not easily forgotten. Finally, in the center of the room: two untouched easels and canvases, back to back from each other, and paints and brushes on the accompanying tables. Logan stared at the room in poorly disguised awe, as Remus bounced excitedly next to him.

“Remus this is...satisfactory.”

“Come on, nerdy wolverine! This place is pretty fucking cool, and we both know it!”

“...alright. It is, as you put it, ‘pretty fucking cool’.”

“Aw, I knew you loved me!”

“...I can not argue with those facts.”

After clearing his throat for a moment, Logan continued.

“Now, what exactly are we doing here?”

“Oh, right, I nearly forgot. Whoopsie!”

Remus dragged his partner over to the blank canvases, smiling broadly.

“Tonight, we’re gonna paint for each other! Whatever you want, no limits, just pure creating. Whaddya think?” He waited, anticipating Logan’s answer.

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded, and Remus sighed with relief.

“Well, get to work!”

And so, they began.

After a couple hours, Remus stepped back from his canvas. He had worked hard on this piece. Sure, it wasn’t one of his more...extravagant pieces, but it was for Logan, and he knew Logan would appreciate it.

On the canvas, a galaxy stared back at him. Blues and blacks and purples all swirled together to create space, while planets and stars were added with their bright colours of rock and gas. He had tried to keep everything as accurate as possible for Logan’s sake-he had been the one to teach him about space after all-but he allowed himself some creative liberties. After examining his creation for a moment, he snapped his fingers. There was still one tiny touch he needed to add. He flourished his hands dramatically, and sat back to watch the magic happen.

Slowly, the paint began to move on its own, swirling together, creating an almost glittery sort of look. The stars seemed to actually shine, the planets seemed to actually rotate around themselves, the colours changing slightly as they moved. The painting felt alive, as if it was a living, breathing, thing. Remus had always been good at adding little touches like this to his work.

He glanced over at his partner, seeing him still working. Feeling eyes on him, Logan looked up, meeting Remus’ eyes.

“Have you already finished, Rem?”

“Yep! How about you?”

Logan looked down at his painting for a minute. “I’m afraid I have not completed it yet, apologies.”

“No problem! I’ve had tons of practice, so it makes sense for me to finish first.”

“Correct. May I see what you've done?"

"Of course, Lo!"

He walked over and gasped in surprise when he saw the painting.

"Oh my, that is...satisfactory, Remus."

"Aww, I love you too, Lo!"

Logan blushed slightly, and Remus' grin grew.

"Hey nerd, can I see yours? Even if it's not done?"

"Of course, Re, though I'd have to warn you it isn't very good. Especially compared to something as magnificent as this. Objectively speaking, of course."

"Hey, I'm sure it's amazing. After all, you made it."

Remus walked around to Logans canvas and stared.

The painting was of an octopus. It was relatively simple, orange with bulging yellow eyes. Its tentacles floated around it, the suctions attached. A blue background of the deep sea was behind it, as the octopi rested on the seafloor. Remus noticed small things immediately, how it lacked the level of depth that his own did, or how the colours weren’t blended as perfectly as they could be.

He loved it.

“Lo! You never told me you were an artist!” He gasped dramatically. Sure, he was being a little over the top, but come on, he was creativity for drawing’s sake!

Logan adjusted his glasses as he spoke coldly, “There is no need to patronize me, Remus.”

Remus deflated a bit. He didn’t want his partner to think he was mocking him. He quickly reassured him.

“No Lo, I love it. Really.” He smiled, but Logan didn’t smile back.

“Remus, really. I mean, look at what you’ve done! It’s magnificent! And mine is...painfully mediocre.” He continued to look forward, but his posture sagged slightly, letting Remus know how upset he really was.

“Lo, it’s perfect because you made it. I, frankly, don’t give a damn about the technique or accuracy or anything else. All that matters is that you, my delightful dork, created this, and that’s enough to make me love it.”

“I...thank you, Remus,” Logan adjusted his glasses again, voice wobbling slightly. Remus chose not to comment on that, “that means a lot.”

“Oh, come here you nerd.”

Remus’ favourite thing to do was create.

No matter what it was. Paintings, sculptures, stories, pictures, creatures, whatever it was, Remus enjoyed it. But, his absolute favourite thing to do was create with Logan.

Logan's least favourite thing to do was create.

His area of expertise was things that were known. Things that were facts. He could tell you the history of a specific art form, tell you techniques that helped improve it, but every time he attempted to create any sort of art, it always came out looking...wrong. But, when he and Remus went to their studio, making art for one another of all different kinds, he began to not find his art so awful all the time. Remus helped change his perspective on it, and made him begin to enjoy it.

“Maybe,” he would say one day to his partner as they sat in the studio, mirroring their positions of their first time there, painting for one another, “maybe art isn’t so bad. When it’s with you, at least.”

And Remus would smile.

#fanfic #ao3 #fanfiction #writing #archive of our own #my fics #sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #intrulogicalweek2021 #intrulogical #science/art #day 2 #art of the heart

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brywrites · 4 years

Text

Flight Risk IX

Summary: An answer to the age old CM question, “who’s flying the plane?” And the story of a pilot and a profiler. Part IX: In which a profiler and a pilot try their best not to care, featuring an incredibly tacky hotel.

(Series Masterlist) ( Previous | Next )

----

The case closes. When it’s time to go home, Reid sees her leaning against the wall of the hangar with a book. Their eyes meet. He stops walking, frozen to the ground. And in response, she walks away and disappears into the jet. Neither of them knows what to say. She gives herself over to the sky, he loses himself in paperwork. The jet has never felt so big. Like there are miles between them instead of just mere feet.

Y/N thinks of Peter Pan. “The moment you doubt whether you can fly you cease for ever to be able to do it.” She doesn’t know what they are to each other anymore. Are they still friends? Were they ever at all? Was Arthur right all along? Maybe she simply is made for staying, not with her airplane heart. Hopelessly circling, never quite finding a place to land.

Reid has never had to do this before, to hurt someone in this way. He’s not sure how to reach out to her after putting this distance in place. And so he doesn’t. It doesn’t ease the loneliness. Only Garcia notices the change, when he stops talking about her.

“She told you how she felt, didn’t she?” Penelope asks, her cheerful smile deflating. Reid averts his gaze. The pained look on Garcia’s face mirrors the ache in his chest. “Oh, Reid,” she says. “Do you really still believe that you’re not allowed to be happy?”

“But you looked so happy together,” Yeeqin laments when Y/N tells her what happened. “I just don’t get it.” She and her girlfriend Saoirse offer to key his car, an offer Y/N promptly refuses. They’re both hurting enough as is. And besides, knowing Yeeqin she’d vandalize the wrong car and need someone to bail her out. After the “graffiti incident of 2014,” Y/N has no interest in doing so again.

And so they stay away. Things return to the way they always were – pilots and profilers. Two separate worlds on the same G550 jet. The only exchanges are simply pleasantries or requests from the team to the pilots, but they never come from Reid. Or announcements about takeoff and landing that almost always come from Captain Dobson. On the rare occasions when Y/N’s voice floods into the cabin, he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine that she’s speaking only to him. Sometimes when the agents disembark from the plane, she watches him go from the cockpit window and tries to remember what it was like when they sat so close.

He stops arriving early. She stops reading in the hangar if she’s not on the jet. They both pretend it’s normal. They both pretend it’s possible for them not to care. That it’s easy, that it doesn’t bother them one bit to be apart like this. That it wasn’t better before.

Y/N goes to dinner at Arthur and Malik’s house. Martin and Theresa are there and she runs around the yard with their older children, Carolyn and Benedict, and coos over baby Douglas. They share cocktails and swap stories and it feels so good to be surrounded by her own team, this makeshift family of aviators. She has movie nights in with Yeeqin and goes out with her and Saoirse anytime they invite her along and it’s so nice to be among friends. But then Martin looks at Theresa with all the love in the world and Saoirse falls asleep on Yeeqin’s shoulder in the cab on the way home and it’s acutely apparent to her that something is missing in her life.

Reid distracts himself with work and with books and tells himself that he’s always been just fine this way, with words and obligations instead of laughter over takeout or meetings at coffee shops. But then he discovers Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in his bottom desk drawer at work, the copy she’d loaned to him and he’d sworn he would remember to give back to her and suddenly he’s trying not to cry in the bullpen and he doesn’t quite know why.

She learns from Arthur, who knew him, that Spencer’s mentor has been killed. And she can see on their next case that he’s hurting. The sadness in his eyes, the exhaustion evident in his slumped posture makes her want to run to him and wrap him in a hug, hold him close like he held her that night on the couch. But she’s not supposed to care about him anymore.

He sees the way she looks back at him as she boards the jet that day, her eyes lingering on him for just a fraction too long, and he thinks that just maybe she’s going to say something to him. But she doesn’t and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. Either way, Gideon’s death seems only to prove his theory – the people he loves get hurt.

When they come home from the bombing case in Indianapolis, he’s drained from a week of mourning and a grueling chess match with Rossi. As Reid stands in the hangar searching for his keys in his bag, he hears, “Doctor Reid,” and turns to see Captain Dobson standing a few feet away.

“Yes?” he asks.

The captain opens his mouth, falters, and then says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The sentiment is confusing, as he already told Reid this as he boarded the plane three days earlier. But perhaps Dobson has forgotten the conversation. So he thanks the captain and continues on his way.

Y/N and Reid seek solace in their friends, in their books, in the places that make them feel safe. And they try so hard to convince their hearts that they don’t feel anything that they wonder if it was ever even real to begin with. And for a little while, they almost believe it.

But then comes Nashville.

---

“Did you see the picture Martin sent of baby Douglas in his pilot’s cap?” Y/N asks.

“I did,” Arthur says. “It was cute.”

“The cutest thing I’ve ever seen!” she insists. “I wish he could bring the kids by for a visit sometime, I’m sure they’d love to check out the jet. Do you remember being a kid and how they’d let you go visit the flight deck and see how a plane worked? And they’d give you those little plastic pilots wings?”

“Relics of a bygone era,” Arthur sighs. “I’m sure I still have a pair of PanAm Junior Pilot wings stashed in a box somewhere.” The millennium ushered in a new vision of aviation security and sharp pins and strangers in the cockpit simply aren’t considered protocol anymore. “How are we looking?”

Y/N glances at the altimeter and airspeed indicators. “Flying at 46,000 feet. Currently at Mach point nine. Should be about one hour and ten minutes to destination.”

“Let the cabin now we’ve reached out cruising altitude, will you?” Arthur asks. Typically it’s her job to shift the jet into cruise while Arthur makes the announcement, but she nods and takes the speaker.

“Good afternoon passengers, this is your co-pilot speaking. We’ve reached our cruising altitude of 46,000 feet. At this time please feel free to resume using electronic devices and move about the cabin. We expect to be landing in Nashville in about an hour. Skies are clear, should be smooth sailing ahead. In-flight refreshments will not be served, but you’re welcome to help yourselves to anything stocked in the galley.”

A part of her wonders if he thinks of her when he hears her voice. Not that it should matter anymore. Before she can lose herself in her own thoughts, Arthur asks, “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

“Lincoln,” she decides after a moment to think. “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

Arthur says, “The Terminator,” without missing a beat. The captain is well-versed in cinema, which makes Double Feature one of his favorite in-flight games. The first movie must always be a question, and whoever can come up with the best films in response is declared the winner. Arthur almost always wins, and it’s a challenge to think up films they haven’t already used.

“What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?”

“Hannibal.”

“That’s terrible,” Arthur laughs.

“Dude, Where’s My Car?”

“Brokeback Mountain.”

“Oof, that’s gonna be a long and sad trek to retrieve it,” she sighs. “I’m not prepared for that kind of emotional devastation.” But the game does help to take her mind off of what she’s really feeling. She can lose herself in words and not in wishes. They land GEFF gently on the tarmac in Nashville and when they pull around to the hangar, she doesn’t look out the side window. Y/N stares straight ahead at the horizon. The sky fades from deep royal blue to soft pale periwinkle where the distant skyline rises up to meet it and she loves every single shade in between.

Once the team has departed, she and Arthur walk through the cabin tidying up and making note of anything that needs to be cleaned or restocked prior to takeoff. Arthur won Double Feature (“O Brother Where Art Thou?” “Soylent Green.” “Oh, that is incredibly twisted!”) so it’s her turn to clean the bathroom. Fortunately a short flight like this means it’s fairly clean to begin with. She wipes sanitizes the sink and toilet, empties the paper towel bag, makes sure there’s enough soap and toilet paper. Garbage is deposited in the trash can at the back of the hangar and they return to Geff to grab their own go-bags.

“Listen, Y/L/N,” Arthur says as they lock the cockpit door. “About the IRT job.”

“Arthur,” she cuts him off. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.” When he looks as though he’s about to protest she adds, “Please. I just want to go to hotel and take a nap and watch whatever silly romcom is on pay per view.”

He nods and says nothing more. They catch a rideshare from the airport together and she stares out the window at the buildings and billboards that line the roads. She already knows what she’s going to do about the offer. She made her decision after her conversation with Spencer. The choice was clear. But she doesn’t want to discuss it yet. She’s not ready.

They step into the lobby of the Graduate Hotel and her mouth falls open. It’s hideous. There’s a fuzzy tapestry – a fuzzy tapestry of a woman with a hat against a pink background that appears to be made out of the same material as a shag rug. The lamps at the concierge desk have hot pink floral patterns on them. A neon installation that looks similar to a vintage gas station sign announces vacancies in bright green and red light. The armchairs are blue velvet and the hanging lights look like tulle skirts. There’s too much happening at once.

“This is the ugliest hotel I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“Well the more affordable ones were nearly full – evidently this is a big weekend for admitted students at Vanderbilt – they had to double up all of the rooms for the team. But the Bureau managed to get us a discount here,” Arthur replies as they stand at the desk waiting for someone to check them in.

“I suppose a bunch of special agents wouldn’t blend in well at a place like this,” she admits. Hopefully they solve the case quickly and she’s not stuck here too long. True to her word she spends the first night relaxing in her room. The bathroom is beautiful – black walls with gold accents and a glass shower. The room itself is another story. The carpet is a rainbow of jewel-toned diamonds in a quilt-like pattern. The walls are pink and white striped, a candelabra sits next to a pink television. White curtains with a vibrant floral pattern line the window and form a hanging behind the bed. The bed, mercifully, has the standard white blankets and white pillows, though there is hot pink chevron quilt draped over the end and an eerie portrait of Dolly Parton stares at her from above the headboard. Y/N shudders.

Penelope Garcia calls her that evening. She’s waiting to hear back from the team and could use some virtual company. “I don’t even know if you’d like this place,” Y/N tells her. “It’s so garishly tacky. Like a sorority girl and her antique-collecting grandmother chose items from their storage closet at random.”

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” Garcia says.

“Penelope, I am ever the optimist. I love quirky, whimsical adventures. But this is something else. The Dolly Parton painting keeps staring at me, I swear!”

“Let me look it up.” There is the sound of fingers frantically typing on a keyboard. “Oh come on now, the lobby is way cute! And the patio? I just – oh. Oh my. Oh those rooms. You’re right. That’s bad. That’s very bad.”

“I told you!”

“That went from cute to crikey very quickly,” she agrees. After takeout for dinner and watching Serendipity, Y/N falls asleep under the unnervingly watchful eye of Dolly. The next day is completely free, and she heads out to explore the city. Wherever she ends up, she tries to take advantage of the adventures available to her. Just blocks from the hotel she discovers Nashville’s Parthenon – a full-scale replica of the Greek temple which hides an art museum inside. She wanders the galleries and stands at the entrance staring up at the pillars holding the roof up. What would it be like to visit the real thing? She wonders how many times the IRT has gone to Greece before. Maybe they’ll end up in Athens sometime this year.

Café Coco is the cutest coffee shop she’s seen in any city, and she grabs tea and a scone before returning to Centennial Park. Beneath the barely blossoming trees she sits and reads Dandelion Wine. It’s beautifully written and full of longing. That longing seeps through the pages and she can feel it in her bones. Nostalgia for times past and places far behind and things that cannot be. Everything that Spencer said it would be. As she reads she tries to imagine which lines would have made him smile or elicited a wistful sigh. Are the parts she loves most the same as the parts he loves most?

Her phone buzzes with a text form Arthur to ask if she wants to get lunch together at the hotel bar, and she shoves the book and her longing back in her bag and walks over to meet him.They step from the tacky lobby into a bar that seems remarkably normal. String lights and chandeliers cast an inviting ambient glow over the wooden tables and chairs. Country music is playing over the speakers. But as they she and Arthur move closer towards an open table, she sees it. The stage.

“What is that?” she asks. There’s a bear, a pig, and a fox in a wig atop a stage that says Cross-Eyed Critters. Each holds an instrument. And it’s then that she realizes the music is coming from them. It’s an animatronic band. Their eyes and mouths move as they sing and their fabricated bodies turn and jerk with the beat. “What?” she asks again, completely dumbfounded. “What?”

Arthur too is speechless. Then he shakes his head and says, “It’s nothing a drink or two won’t make more palatable.” She snaps a photo on her phone and texts it to Garcia, who will surely get a kick out of it.

As they sit down, a voice announces a new song over the speakers. A slightly tipsy looking man in a pair of red cowboy boots comes to stand in front of the stage. He has a microphone. The animatronics begin to play the opening notes of a song, and then the man begins to sing. This is not just a bar with an animatronic band, it’s an animatronic karaoke bar. The man in the red boots belts out an uncomfortably off-key version of a Kenny Rogers song –“You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away and know when to run!”– with just a little too much bravado.

“I think I’ll need that drink sooner rather than later,” Arthur admits begrudgingly. She has to laugh. This hotel, it seems is full of surprises. But the captain is right. When she receives a spiked cream soda and Arthur has a glass of bourbon and there’s a plate of tacos between them, it’s easier to tune out the karaoke band. She can just enjoy her drink and the light and the stories of Arthur’s first flights with the BAU that have her nearly in tears from laughing so hard. For someone who maintains such a serious demeanor most of the time, he knows how to tell a joke incredibly well. She’s always appreciated that about him.

“Y/N, there is something I wanted to talk with you about,” Arthur says. His tone changes and she knows the time for joking is over. “We need to discuss the IRT offer.” Before he can continue, her phone rings. She glances at the screen. It’s Penelope. Y/N sends it to voicemail. There will be time to discuss the disconcerting robot band later when she’s back in her room. Right now, she needs to focus on Arthur. She knows where this is going and he’s right. She can’t keep putting this off forever. She has to talk about this, and everything that it means.

“I’ve already made my decision,” she begins to say. But her phone begins to ring again, and her heart drops into her stomach. This isn’t about the picture. This is urgent. Arthur must realize it too. His eyes trail down to her phone and she hesitantly picks it up.

“It’s Garcia,” she tells him, before answering. “Hello?”

“Y/N, oh thank goodness you picked up.” The analyst’s voice is a little higher than usual, a little more strained. “It’s Reid. He’s in the hospital.”

#flight risk #fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #imagine #reid x reader #spencer reid x reader

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ichika27 · 3 years

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TWEWY 12

Grande Finale already!

I felt the same nervousness and excitement I felt when I watched the first episode while watching the last one. I’m excited, half knowing what I’d see but not knowing what else to expect.

Can’t believe we finally got to this point. I took so many screenshots... I had to limit myself cause they’re not all gonna fit in one tumblr post.

Also I don’t have to give a spoiler warning anymore. Length warning though cause this is super long!(longer than the usual posts I made for this series at least).

Kitaniji transforms into a three-headed monster and unlike in the game, he doesn’t capture any of Neku’s partners nor use Josh’s power to do so. I’m not sure what explanation there is as to how he got more than one noise form but I guess he’s the Conductor so maybe it’s part of his powers here.

Shiki and Beat awaken in the middle of Neku’s fight and help out. The trio then forms some kind of three-way pact (four if Rhyme actually counted although now completely sure?) and continue battling Kitaniji. The fight scene was pretty cool especially Beat’s attack with the chains. It just sucks the fight ended too fast. I guess all of TWEWY anime’s boss fights end kinda fast even though they’re uh, boss fights.

Final attack beam like in the game! It was too fast and I couldn’t get a good shot of the white version this transforms into (which looks like the one in the game). They have an explanation later as to why it looks different at first but they’ll talk about it later.

It’s sad Joshua isn’t part of this. This is supposed to be the four-way fusion attack. (;-;)

They defeat Kitaniji who disappears, sad that he was unable to protect Shibuya. Joshua never showed up in this boss battle so Kitaniji never got to talk to Joshua for the last time. In the game he at least dies happy in a way - he lost but he gave it his all and his Composer praised his efforts. He was also able to tell Neku that the rest is up to him now. Here in the anime, he just... he lost and felt bad. I wish they had Josh show up here but they had other ideas.

A new door opens and Neku braced himself as he knows the fight isn’t over cause there’s still one last guy on top.

They find themselves in this room/hallway (is this supposed to be the Trail of the Judged?) filled with CAT murals. This somewhat confirms the “CAT = Composer” theory and Neku has now accepted it, calling out Mr. Hanekoma to show himself.

And yeah, the last episode’s title is the show’s title as well “It’s a Wonderful World”.

Someone else showed up instead. Joshua finally makes his reappearance!

Boy, have I been waiting for you! I wish you were with them in the final battle earlier so you guys could be a team (and you could be one of Neku’s partners) one last time.

Neku is surprised but happy to see Joshua again. He thanks Joshua for saving him before and is glad that he’s okay.

In the game, this never happened cause Josh appears in the middle of a fight. Things were too hectic and when the battle with Kitaniji finally ended, he and Josh talked about their own game and so after Kitaniji disappears, what’s left is questioning what was happening. Since Josh didn’t show up earlier, they were able to reunite in a more peaceful way and Neku had no suspicion until Joshua himself brought it up.

And I guess that’s why I was so nervous when I watched this. It’s a bit too peaceful. I know what’s gonna happen next but not exactly how they’d adapt it.

Joshua finally explains the truth to Neku and his friends.

This felt more... awful to watch. Like we had both Joshua and Kitaniji giving bits and pieces of the truth in the game via their conversation so there’s two people to focus on. Here it’s just Joshua. But in a way, I guess this works cause there’s no one else there to soften the blow and Joshua could make the revelation hurt more if he wishes so. It also kinda feels worse cause you see Neku happy to see Joshua earlier before the reveal happens. Kinda heartbreaking.

“I’m the Composer of Shibuya.”

He finally says it clearly to a confused and surprised Neku.

We get a flashback of Joshua and Kitaniji talking about Shibuya’s impending destruction, why it must happen, and Kitaniji making a deal to try and save it. He has a month to change things for the better and if it works out, he wins. If not, Joshua continues the destruction plan.

Joshua’s Composer form is more vague here. It’s human shaped but you don’t see his face and the outline glows like this so you don’t properly see the shape. I think this is better cause there’s no way you can tell who the Composer is like this and he looks less human.

Beat gets angry at the revelation and tries to attack Joshua which he couldn’t do because of Joshua’s powers. I wasn’t able to get a screenshot of this but Josh is twirling his hair after this while Beat struggles to try and punch him. He’s cute and I know this is kind of inappropriate to say in this situation given he legitimately made someone mad and he deserves that punch to his pretty face.

Joshua uses his powers to freeze the others (and later renders them unconscious to keep them quiet). Neku is worried about his friends and is mad.

Joshua tells him he won’t hurt Neku’s friends. He then explains about how he found his proxy. Which is Neku much to his horror at what this meant.

I just had to get this with the subtitles on. I replayed the scene several times to hear if there was no error. Joshua says “Daiji na Neku-kun no tomodachi...” and I google translated it. It says “daiji” means “important”. So yeah, he definitely called Neku “important” to him. It’s surprising although this wouldn’t be out of place in the original game since they had more moments to just talk on there.

Yeah, I know I focused on this a little but I’m a nekujosh/joshneku shipper so forgive me for latching onto this.

Neku slowly sees the bigger picture as Joshua continues to explain himself. As a reward for getting this far, Joshua returns Neku’s memories.

He really had to get that close while saying Neku’s name, didn’t he?

Neku’s death flashback. The scene plays almost similar to the game right down to the censored guns (is this a creative decision to make it faithful to the game or are they really just not allowed to draw actual guns?). I was gonna make a joke about how Joshua stopped Minamimoto’s bullets using an AT field but the shot was different and the bullets just looked like they froze midair and not stopped by some kinda force field like in the game.

Neku ends up getting shot by Joshua complete with bleeding unlike in the game. I just have to wonder if I was the one who got it wrong cause in the game, Joshua looks like he’s aiming for Neku’s head and here, Neku gets shot on the chest. Did they change it cause a headshot would be too much or has it always been a shot to the chest?

Neku angrily walks over to Josh and grabs him by the collar. Joshua stops Neku with his powers as he continues to explain about what happened regarding the death scene and Minamimoto. Joshua then materializes two guns out of thin air and places one on Neku’s hand as he tells him the rules of their final duel: just shoot and if Neku wins, he could save his friends and he becomes Composer and do what he wants. What stood out with how he said it is that he didn’t exactly go “If you don’t beat me, Shibuya is destroyed.” and instead went “If you win, these are what you get to be Composer and whatever else you’d like! Sounds good, right?”. As if saying killing him has a lot of perks.

It feels weird seeing Josh physically placing the gun on Neku’s hand cause in the game, the gun was by Neku’s feet and Neku had to pick it up on his own accord. Anyways, I like the effect they used to materialize the gun cause it’s the same effect for the names of the routes when they show them on screen. Like graffiti or something.

At this point Neku’s crying. The shot didn’t feel as dramatic as in the game in my personal opinion. Neku is tearing up here but he looks tired and was about to sob in the game. Joshua meanwhile, counts down from ten.

Before Joshua’s count hits three, Neku hears a somewhat distorted voice (which we know is just Mr. H) saying “Trust your Partner”. This reminded Neku how he got to where he is: by trusting his partners. (I have something to say about this later)

In a very shocking turn of events, instead of just lowering the gun and letting himself be shot like in the game, Neku drops his gun and with a hand outstretched tells Joshua “I’ll trust you”. Oh my god... they really did it. I love this change not gonna lie. I think they might have added this cause they didn’t adapt Neku’s ending monologue where he does say he trusts Joshua. It’s less dramatic than the game though since Neku doesn’t say anything while Joshua is counting down. In the game, he was crying and saying how he thought Joshua was his friend and how all of this really hurt him. Guess we take what we can get and they gave us this.

Joshua smiles as he shoots but as Neku falls, the smile on Joshua’s face disappears.

Mr. H didn’t show up at the end here either so Neku didn’t get to see him.

Neku wakes up in the middle of Scramble Crossing like usual but he bumps into people and so he realizes that he’s alive now. He doesn’t scream after the very stressful crap he went to like in the game. Might not be entirely the same but Joshua still left him lying down in the middle of the street. Nice.

We then see a short timelapse from above Shibuya which is probably supposed to show a week has passed. Neku’s monologue wasn’t added in and no ending music as well. I’m disappointed “A Lullaby for You” wasn’t used. Here I was hoping for a miracle.

By the way, Shooter, Yammer, and I think Makoto all passed him by the scramble. They really didn’t get much screentime but at least they made cameos.

Neku finally meets up with the Bito siblings like at the game’s epilogue! The shot they did was almost the same as with the game, too. They have dialogue here instead of just stills with Neku showing how happy he was to see his friends alive again, too. I’m happy the anime version showed him smiling more at the end cause he needed that after everything. It’s nice to see him smile.

RG! Shiki is here! With the same shot as in the game! They really aren’t gonna show us her face, huh? Also, all of the shots with Shiki on them has her back towards us. Like there are scenes where Neku and the rest are looking forward and she’s in front of them with her back turned on us. Why? They could’ve used the lighting on her glasses to obscure her eyes, too. So her bangs are a secret as well then?

They show Eri later, too enjoying a concert, by the way. I was hoping to see a reunion between her and Shiki as well and them finally talking after the stuff from before. Oh well.

Neku takes off his headphones and he and Shiki do a proper introduction with each other with Shiki being herself this time. (Is Shiki the same height as Neku? It looks like that from this angle.)

Anyways, this was a nice way to adapt Neku taking off his headphones since they can’t do it like in the game.

They adapted the secret ending but expanded it to add stuff from the secret reports to explain other lore stuff which would’ve been missed by the anime-only watchers since those are part of bonus game contents. Mr. Hanekoma and Joshua talk about the events of the long game and Joshua says he knew it was Mr. H whose responsible for Minamimoto.

They also talk about the Red Skull Pins and how Mr. H made it for Kitaniji. Mr. H says the pins imprints Kitaniji’s will on people and that he himself (Mr. H) doesn’t need that cause he could do so with all the graffiti he left all over town.

Which brings me to earlier in the duel: Neku hears a voice, clearly (to us) is Mr. Hanekoma’s and it’s in a place filled to the brim with CAT graffiti. Did he imprint the words “Trust your partner” to Neku?

Meanwhile, Beat wonders how they were able to pull off the final attack. Neku says it was probably the pin Hanekoma gave them (the keypin looking thing). I guess they needed an explanation for the last attack but they didn’t have the fusion pin so they used this keypin instead. It’s why the attack looked different in the beginning when the attack was powering up.

There’s apparently a new CAT graffiti at Udagawa and of course, CAT-fanboy Neku has to see it. On the way, they meet Sota and Nao who are now alive! I’m so happy!! Joshua brought them back, too! I always felt bad about what happened to them in the game. I’m glad they got a happy ending in the anime.

Def March, 777′s band, are back as well and look... they got their winged mic back! It makes me wonder if they found it later on or if Joshua gave that to them back the same time when he brought them back lol. I’m just really happy for all of them.

Joshua’s wings!! This is, unfortunately, the best shot I could get since they never really zoom in on this. In the game he is in his Composer form in the secret ending and turns into a ball of light when he leaves. Here, we see his wings. It’s smaller than the one he has in KH:DDD. At least we canonically see it here.

I can now use the term “Joshua Maji Tenshi” and be accurate!

Mr. H points out that Joshua looks lonely and is in denial and Josh just leaves. Mr. H also shows his wings and leaves afterwards, too. I didn’t take a pic of it since we see it in the game’s secret ending anyways. His wings also seem smaller than in the game.

Final shot of the new CAT graffiti. I was so close to crying the entire ending and this nearly tipped me over but it didn’t. If “A Lullaby for You” was playing, I’d have probably bawled my eyes out. This graffiti is beautiful. I want a sticker of it.

Also, I just noticed but CAT’s old graffiti at Udagawa had mostly darker colors. This new one is brighter and is more colorful.

First of all, I wanted to thank tumblr for not giving me an error for posting more than 15 images like I usually did. I was bracing myself for the error pop up and was gonna make a part 2 instead but there was some kind of miracle and I got more than 20 pictures on here.

I have a lot of melodramatic things to say about the anime but I’ll save it all for later. For now, I’ll say something else. I’m sad they didn’t adapt Neku’s monologue. Those words from Neku still hits me in the feels to this day. Him saying that the entire ordeal really affected him in more ways than one and it wasn’t all good even though he’s happy about changing and what he learned from the experience. His line about how he can’t forgive Joshua but trusts him was cut along with it and it would’ve been nice to have to know what he thought of Joshua.

The thing I missed the most was the “I have friends now. We’re meeting each other for the first time in a week. See you there?” lines. It shows how happy Neku is that he now has people to call his friends which is super heartwarming and the line implies that he counts Joshua as one of those friends, too (which is properly confirmed in KH: DDD which I’d probably make a post about later if I get the motivation to do so). That would’ve also made the last scene with Josh hit harder. In the game, knowing Josh wanted to be with them and is sad he couldn’t already makes me sad but also knowing Neku is waiting for him makes it much worse (and I still feel pain thinking about it even after all these years).

Maybe we’d see them get reunited in NTWEWY. Hopefully. I really do hope so.

The anime isn’t perfect but it did what it could with the limited amount of time it had. The show would’ve been better if they had more episodes but we don’t know why it ended up with just 12 so we can’t really say anything else. They did it and it wasn’t as bad as I was fearing in a way. Would I recommend it? I’d probably rec the game first, to be honest. I was only okay with watching cause I have played the game and could fill in the missing stuff but the anime-only fans couldn’t and the thought that they won’t be able to fully appreciate the entire story of twewy is kinda sad. It was a nice watch though and I’d miss waiting for it every week.

I wonder if they’d make “A New Day” OVA since the anime is supposed to help the ones who haven’t/couldn’t play the first game but would go play NTWEWY and that scenario has story stuff that’s connected to the sequel.

Anyways, thanks for reading this far if you did! I’ll be watching gameplays of NTWEWY when it comes out in full (since I don’t have the money nor the console for it).

#Subarashiki Kono Sekai #the world ends with you #twewy #subaseka #sana_post #joshneku #nekujosh

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earisu1 · 3 years

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“Once Upon a Time” in Jennifer’s Own Words

Original date of the post: 12 of October, 2007.

Disclaimer: this ideas and theories do not belong to me but to PokerNemesis, if the owner wants me to take them down I will.

“This is the complete collection what Jennifer herself says (excluding what is written in documents) in the “Once Upon a Time” (January) chapter of Rule of Rose.

This collection includes five of Jennifer’s memories/comments that were omitted in the GameFAQs game-script faq written by TheSinnerChrono. I marked these with “####” to make them easier to find (for readers only interested in these).

This post does not contain commentaries by me (unless some of my descriptive comments count as being commentary).

If anyone finds anything I missed, or any mistakes I’ve made, please let me know in the comments. Thanks!

Filth Room:

–At the shelf:

“This letter looks familiar… Yes. it’s one of the secret letters that Wendy and I traded.” (reads letters) “Wendy… You were always so lonely. Poor, lonely Wendy… I wonder if my letters ever reached her.”

–At the central pillar:

“Tied to this pillar, unable to move, I was all alone. It took a while, but I finally freed myself. I was always the slow poke… But, that won’t happen again. I’ll never let myself be tied up again.”

–At the suitcase:

“When I came here, this suitcase was the only luggage I had… I lost everything in the accident. My mother, my father, all my possessions, and even my memories.”

–At the sunny window:

“I spent so much time in this room… Who knows how many times I woke up here? The nights were lonely and cold, but you’d always greet me in the morning… Only you greeted me warmly. Thank you so.

–At the rubbish bin:

“It’s the detested rubbish bin. No one ever suspected that something precious was hidden inside it. Nor did they know that it was the only place where I could keep my things safe.”

–At the empty corner (where Bucket Knight had been):

“It feels as if something very dear to me was here. Someone or something that always looked after me… helped me.”

Hallway:

–At the laundry shelves:

“Everyone would put their dirty laundry here, and it was my job to wash it. How ironic… The one they called “filthy” washing their filthy clothes. It all seems so silly now.”

2nd Floor Lavatory:

–At the toilet that has an eye drawn on the toilet lid:

“‘We’re watching you.’ That’s what the picture meant. But it was still scary.”

–At Bucket Knight (by the sinks and mirrors):

“Bucket Knight… A makeshift knight that Nicholas and Xavier used for sword practice. Though they may have forgotten about it, I’ve always remembered. For, I yearned for a loyal knight to come to my rescue.

Hallway (Front Stairway balcony):

–At the empty picture frame:

“There used to be a picture here, of everyone at the orphanage. It was a picture filled with hope, taken the day I was brought here. I was afraid someone would try to steal this precious memory from me…so I took the picture down and kept it safe.”

Sick Bay:

–At the drawers (these look like the same drawers as had the forbidden drawer in the “Unlucky Clover Field” chapter):

“Clara was a quiet person. To me, she looked like just another student at the orphanage…except when she spoke to Mr. Hoffman or Martha. Then, she looked scary. I wonder if I’ll be like Clara when I’m older… Will I enjoy those days?”

Sickroom:

–At the rabbit cage:

“Peter the rabbit… He was the pet that Wendy suddenly decided to take care of. It was the same time I started looking after Brown… I wonder if Wendy really loved Peter… Was she sad when she had to give him up?”

–At the lamp:

“This letter looks familiar. Yes it’s one of the secret letters that Wendy and I traded. ” (reads letters)

Balcony:

–At the birdcage:

“The red bird in the cage… The doll Eleanor treasured. ‘If only we could fly like birds and go wherever we wished,’ she whispered softly. Yet, no matter how much Eleanor wished, she’ll never be able to just fly away from this orphanage. Poor Eleanor… She was burdened by her own frozen heart.”

Play Area:

–By the chair and train-track circle:

“Thomas was always playing with his trains…They were his only friends. There were no final stops on his railroad, for that would be devastating to him. It’s rumored that this obsession had something to do with his birth, but Thomas never spoke about it with anyone.”

####By the blocks:

“No one really played with the toys here because they were all old. Only Thomas was the master of this room. ‘A new girl, a new girl!’ he exclaimed when we first met. He seemed to enjoy teasing me.

Library:

–By the white goat doll:

“It’s a stuffed goat… The white goat Mary. The black goat Sally. When Meg found her letter to Diana torn apart, she was deeply wounded and cried in Diana’s arms, even though she was the one that ripped it up… And, when Meg’s notebook was found all scattered about, Diana made fun of her, saying, ‘Mary and Sally must’ve ate it.’ Poor Meg… She was bound by the shackles of foolish devotion.”

–By the painting of the airship:

“The future that people dreamt of never came and was soon forgotten. From the blue skies of hope, it sank into the depths of oblivion. The new life born from it was an existence devoid of hope. It slowly wriggles its large body and stares at the sky with a remorseful look… That’s its only purpose.”

Sewing Room:

–At the sewing machine:

“Amanda was fond of using the sewing machine. When she got absorbed in something, she’d think of nothing else, especially sewing, which was always on her mind. If we ran out of cloth or thread, she’d just sew rags with an empty needle over and over again… And then she’d smile at the tattered rag with satisfaction.”

Hallway (2nd floor):

–At the graffiti on the floor near the Sewing Room door:

“There are doodles everywhere. No matter how many we cleaned, more would show up the next day.”

Dormitory:

–At one of the two central tables:

“The night was quiet dark and scary. Yet it was a mysterious time that aroused excitement. Some nights, we’d stay awake in secret, hiding from the teacher, and draw pictures by lamplight. It made us feel very much like adults–something not possible during the day.”

–At the other central table:

“A mermaid doll… What a proud and pure creature. Diana yearned to become a beautiful lady, like a mermaid, but as she grew older, she realized that she was straying further and further from her ideal self. Poor Diana… She was trapped by her own ideals.”

Front Stairway:

####At the ladder:

“That day when Thomas couldn’t get down from the tree, the ladder, which had been collecting dust, sure came in handy. Back then, Mr. Hoffman was a kind and admirable teacher.”

Main Hall (first floor):

–At the vase of flowers:

“There used to be beautiful roses here, picked by Wendy from the rose garden. …But, as with all things, they wilted away with the passage of time.”

–At the potted fern:

“Miss Martha used to scold Nicholas for forgetting to water the plants, and then she’d turn her wrath on me, snapping, ‘What are you laughing at, young lady!?’”

Hallway near Classroom door:

–At a bucket-headed construct:

“A silent scarecrow… It stands there quietly, not meddling in the affairs of others. It sways in the breeze, like me…a cowardly girl who was unable to assert her true feelings.”

Men’s Lavatory:

####At the blocked-off toilet stall:

“Once, Susan started a rumor about voices coming from this room at night… It turned out it was only the door creaking in the wind, but one night, sounds came from the room even with the windows shut. Susan jumped out of her bed and screamed. It was really just a prank by Nicholas and Xavier. From then on, the room was believed to be haunted and was considered off limits.”

Classroom:

–At the blackboard (which has written on it: “Hitlerism is a form of government controlled by one man’s will / Democracy is a form of government controlled / Hitlerism is a form of government controlled by one man’s will”):

“I learned many things at this orphanage…The alphabet… words… how to clean and do laundry… But the most important thing I learned… was the lesson I received in exchange for my dear friend’s life… I finally came to understand myself. My beliefs and the will to stand up for them… I don’t want to lose those ever again.”

–At the drawings on the wall (a map of Great Britain):

“The map of this country… That day we flew from England… Those memories were buried deep inside of me… The airship…and the accident… Thereafter, the story of my life became a tale of misfortune. Even when the others played ‘airship’ I couldn’t bear to join them, so I was left out.”

–At the schedule of classes on the wall:

“A brat, a know-it-all, an introvert, a crybaby, and an elitist… I know misfortune, because I tolerated them all. I thought I was the only grown up, but we were all just kids, myself included. But what does it really mean to be a grown-up? Will I ever become one?”

–At the furnace:

“On cold winter days, we all used to gather here and talk… I, of course, couldn’t join in, so I sat off to the side. Even so, it felt so warm.”

Bathroom:

–At the mirror (looking at her own reflection):

“Jennifer, are you happy now, considering how bad it was for you, back then? …That tragedy you wanted to forget. Now that you remember everything, how do you feel? Is the answer inside you? Think carefully Jennifer.”

Wash house:

–At the sinks:

“I came to this room every day to do laundry… The water was so cold, and the soap would sting my eyes, but I didn’t hate it, because clean laundry is so refreshing.”

Kitchen:

–At the table:

“If Miss Martha had disappeared, there would’ve been no one to cook… If Clara had disappeared, there would’ve been no one to tend our wounds… If Mr. Hoffman had disappeared, there would’ve been no one to teach us. You can’t live life eating snacks all day, with no exercise or studying. If you look at it that way, even the Aristocrat club needed adults around… Our world was so small.”

Martha’s room:

–On the bed:

“There are a couple of letters here. It’s a letter from the police… “(reads letter) “It’s a letter from Martha…”(reads letter) “The letter ends there… Perhaps if the matter had been addressed publicly, things wouldn’t have turned out as they did. Adults are so selfish.”

Cafeteria:

–At a fork on the table:

“Olivia, the one who cried all the time, stopped crying completely when all the adults were gone. With no teacher to give her attention and no cleaning lady to scold her, there was no point in crying anymore. …Poor Olivia.”

Inner Court:

–Site of Brown’s burial:

“It all started here, when I dug up the mound… I sensed that something precious to me was buried here… and I couldn’t stop myself… The old me… the one who didn’t understand herself… I lost my friend because of her. If… If I could go back… I’d try to save him… but what has happened can never be undone. I’ll never break a promise again.”

Cell of Remorse:

(nothing)

Cell of Pleasure:

(nothing) film projector

Cell of Repentance:

(nothing)

Cell of Solitude:

–At the central chair:

“One time, Diana was absorbed in deep thought here. She was the prettiest, the most mature of the Aristocrats. She wanted so much to be an adult… and yet she was also afraid of growing up too fast.”

Cell of Bliss:

–At the table:

“The spooky things… The scary creatures that everyone talked about… They’ll come and clean if you don’t, sweeping bad children away like dust… Well, they actually came and attacked me… I knew what they really were… but that wasn’t the problem. The real problem was my weak heart. My weakness was what drew them here.”

Closet Room:

–At the clothes hangers:

“On Halloween, we all dressed up in costumes… Everyone else wore bags over their heads, and stared at me through tiny holes… Their blank faces and muffled voices… It scared me like you wouldn’t believe… ‘Is it really you under there?’ I asked, fearing it was something else. But, no one would answer me.”

–At the mirror:

“Amanda was always more sensitive about her looks than anyone else. One day she was given a severe scolding by Miss Martha. That’s because Miss Martha’s lipstick had gone missing. The lipstick was never found, but I know Amanda took it. I’ve seen her applying it late at night.”

Hallway (ground floor, connecting Headmaster’s Room and Closet Room):

####At drawing on the floor of a big donut-shaped one-eyed person (near cabinet):

“This sloppy drawing must be Thomas’s. See what happens when you give him chalk? The walls, the floors… To him, it’s one big canvas.”

####At drawing on floor of spooky things (nearest the Headmaster’s Room):

“The spooky things… They swept away everything that’s dirty, including disobedient children. It was a scary story that started as a rumor and spread like wildfire.”

####At drawing of spooky things (nearest the Closet Room):

“The spooky things love to clean. That’s why they always carry mops and brooms. They’ll kidnap you if you don’t clean. At least, that’s what everyone says.”

Headmaster’s Room:

–At the PA system:

“Mr. Hoffman loved to broadcast over the PA system… while we were cleaning, while we were eating, and even after we were in bed. He always announced our names in the order of his favorites. We’d try our best to win his approval and be the first one to be called. But he never called my name, not once. I thought it was all rather silly, anyway.”

–At the desk:

“The book is open… ” (reads Hoffman’s diary entries). “At the time it seemed so frightening… Were those scary things that attacked me just figments of my imagination…?” (another entry) “..The diary continues, but the last page is particularly interesting… It’s Mr. Hoffman’s last entry before he disappeared.” (another entry) “…That’s the end of the diary. We never saw Mr. Hoffman again.”

–At the fish tank (a fish swims inside):

“I know you’re in a very stinky place, because that rag Diana put to my face smelled just awful. But, no matter how clever or fast you are, there’s no escaping. You’re like a mermaid in captivity… adapting to a new reality. Leaving your home behind…did you find happiness?”

Headmaster’s Closet:

–At the shelf that has shoes:

“That day, Mr. Hoffman disappeared, like he was running away from something. He had tried too hard to be someone he wasn’t. The expectations were too much for him… and he wanted to escape those restrictions. However, children and adults live in the same world, and we must both play by society’s rules.”

Reception Room:

–At the record player:

“The record player is brand new. Playing a record would fill the room with sweet music.”

–At the fireplace:

“It was a cold, winter night… I had been scolded as usual, and called into the headmaster’s room. I didn’t like being scolded, but I didn’t mind so much when it was in front of the fireplace, which was warm and cozy.”

–At the vase on the central table:

“All of us loved red roses. Even the name of the orphanage was befitting of an Aristocrat… It wasn’t until I swore the oath of the rose that I learned roses have thorns.”

–At the dish cupboard:

“This is Mr. Hoffman’s prized collection of fine dishes. We would sometimes sneak them out and play house with them in the attic, but that’s our little secret.”

–At the graffiti covered portrait:

“This is a picture of Mr. Hoffman when he was a young man. He was so proud when he showed it to us… He never caught the one who doodled on it though. But, I know who did it. I saw Thomas trying to move the ladder on the day it happened.”

Women’s Lavatory:

–Toilet stall with bird drawing:

“Red bird drawings. A red crayon and… a red broach… A red rose and… red blood… Red is the most beautiful color, yet it comes at a price. It is my most favorite color and my most hated color.”

Entrance-way:

–At the lockers:

“It’s a small locker, but it was just for me. My name was even on it. They made me feel welcome. I was so happy… I’d move my shoes in and out, over and over again.”

–At the umbrella stand:

“We never used umbrellas. On snowy days, we’d go out for snowball fights. On rainy days, we’d go out and play in the rain, and get soaking wet. Every time, Xavier would trip and get himself all muddy and we’d laugh. It was so much fun.”

–At the portrait of Hoffman:

“One day, Mr. Hoffman suddenly disappeared. Clara and Miss Martha soon followed, leaving me and the other orphans alone.”

Front gate:

–At the orphanage sign to the left of the gate:

“The Rose Garden Orphanage… That day, I was escorted from the scene by Officer Doolittle. At first, it was reported that there were no survivors… Then, word got out that, miraculously, I had escaped the tragedy… When rumor spread that I was also the sole survivor of a horrific airship accident in which the passengers were all presumed to be dead, the media went into a frenzy. and so, the tragic murder of the residents of a rural orphanage was instantly bumped from the front cover of the daily newspaper to an obscure corner… I’m sorry everyone. You don’t deserve to be forgotten… But I’ll remember you. Thank you all for the precious memories.”

Fork In The Path:

####At the sign:

“The sign has been broken ever since I came here. I guess it doesn’t matter: no one comes to visit anyway.”

Bus Stop:

–At the bus stop sign:

“That bus that brought me here… Should I try to take it the other way? …No, that’s not right. There are still things I have to do here. Wait for me, Brown.”

Outside the rickety shed:

–At the door:

“Please wait for me. I’ll be there.”

Inside the rickety shed:

(Spoken to Brown) “My dear friend… I never want to lose you again. I’ll protect you… forever and ever until I die.” (Writes on chalkboard: “everlasting/true love/ I am yours”) “I’ll protect you… forever until I die.”

Notes: some of this reposts are not showing in the tags sadly. Classic Tumblr.

#rule of rose #rule of rose mysteries #loooong post #cheers to the people that transcribed all this #it's a lot of work

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silver-wield · 4 years

Note

I’m sorry in advance. This is a long rant. I think the main reason I can't accept this "SOLDIER!Cloud loves A” thing is because I've always felt that the whole love triangle nonsense was introduced solely to make the players invested in A. Let's face it, the biggest reason people were devastated when she died is because they were invested in her potential romance with Cloud. It was the easiest and cheapest way to make sure the devs achieved their goal. (1/5)

But in their desperation to reach that goal at any cost, the devs ended up damaging other things along the way. Having Tifa in the background until A was out of the picture was such a dumb move. It’s obvious they didn’t want any other character to outshine her. Creating this illusion of Cloud loving A served no purpose in the story. And Aerith herself didn’t bond with anyone save for Cloud. These among many other things. To me, all that wavering thing was so unnecessary to the narrative. (2/5)

Things felt rushed, and A was put on a pedestal and shoved in the players’ faces along with the potential romance with her. It was clear to me that the devs just wanted people to like her so that they’d be devastated when she died. But I guess you can’t ask for too much of games/stories back in 1997. I’m sorry, but I just can’t accept people saying that SOLDIER!Cloud loved A. They hadn’t known each other that long, and 95% of the time, they had other things on their plate than romance. (3/5)

It’s not like they were dating or getting to know each other during the brief time they spent together. Also, I don’t mean to offend anyone, but saying the LTD is now ending because A is stepping out and pushing Cloud onto Tifa sounds so insulting. Like Tifa can’t win unless her competition steps out and hands her the man on a silver platter. This time around, I feel that the devs are trying to do things properly. A is finally taking the time to bond with other characters, especially Tifa. (4/5)

Her world doesn’t revolve around Cloud only anymore. Tifa is not in the background anymore, so now people can get to know her and get attached to her even early on. The romance with Tifa isn’t something that feels like it’s come out of the left field about 2/3 of the way in. There might’ve been hints but they were too subtle. Among many other improvements. Whatever the devs do, I just hope they give us the best version possible of the story this time around. Thanks for listening to my rant.(5/5)

Death to the LTD 1

Death to the LTD 2 (dialogue evolution)

Death to the LTD 3 (soldier Cloud’s acceptance)

Cloud’s hyper vigilance

That would be because the concept absolutely was introduced to make the players more invested in Aerith, so her death had a harder hit when it happened. It was a new thing back in 97 to have a love triangle and pretty much everybody was starting to do it. There’s tons of movies, tv series and books out during that time that showcase the trope.

And having 2 heroines, Aerith and Tifa, and having the hero waver between them, at the time that was something new. ~Kitase, FFVII 10th Anniversary Ultimania pg. 11

I think everyone forgets the difference in technology between FF6 and FF7, not just graphically, but narratively, too. Back then, everything was new and everyone was still trying to find their feet and figure out evolving technology. I mean, it’s still evolving now, but those building blocks that form the base are still the same. Just because there’s now millions of polygons involved doesn’t take away the fact they’re still polygons.

FF7 was Square’s first foray into using more sophisticated methods of game development and that impacted how the story came across. In previous games, the optional content or hidden story arcs that had to be found to be appreciated made the game more fun. The player had to wander around more and talk to everyone to get the full picture and since it worked before, they thought it’d work again. That people would replay and swap party members around to trigger the other scenes and gather the rest of the puzzle pieces for the fuller picture.

But, they forgot they were trying to make everyone love one specific character, which meant the best way to do that was to keep her in the party over everyone else. Which meant people cared less about the others until the point she leaves the party for good. And by that point, when these people replay they just want to spend even more time with her, so they still miss the other dialogues and scenes with other characters that build their storyline alongside this other character they’ve pressed everyone to care about.

And that’s how the LTD got started because they chose not to play the game fully and only focus on one character, they didn’t see the entire picture. And the guides out at the time didn’t help much on that side of things because they didn’t give narrative canon party suggestions so that players got the most out of the story in each location.

Soldier Cloud loved Aerith?

Really? When they’ve been saying for years that soldier Cloud didn’t even exist or that we said he was really Zack and that’s why he’s into Aerith? It’s funny how the moment the devs confirm that real Cloud emerged to embrace Tifa they decided they could claim the dominant persona for their own, even though they also said that it was soldier Cloud who complimented Tifa, despite real Cloud not being the dominant persona. We even see visible evidence of the two aspects at war with each other in the honeybee inn scene before Cloud dances. That eye movement back and forth and expression of “fine, for Tifa” is an internal argument with the two aspects that soldier Cloud isn’t aware enough of to realise that’s what it is. If we take Soldier Cloud as the only personality then there’s no way he’d do that because it’s not cool, and soldier Cloud is always cool. He’s being made to dance because of real Cloud’s desire to rescue Tifa.

Aerith steps out...

Yeah, I wouldn’t phrase it like that, but the overall sentiment is that Aerith is refusing to do what happened in OG.

More importantly, though, and the thing I focused on in my death to the LTD, is Cloud’s behaviour and reaction and feelings. Because he’s soldier Cloud. Real Cloud isn’t part of the LTD because he already chose Tifa. Soldier Cloud is the focus of the LTD because he’s the one who misinterpreted real Cloud’s feelings and focused them on the wrong girl. This time, we see clear evidence throughout all of his interactions that he is also choosing Tifa.

In the train tunnel, while it’s real Cloud’s motivation to protect Tifa, Soldier Cloud is the one who carries out the roll. Then, it’s Soldier Cloud who kisses her cheek, the same as it’s Soldier Cloud who calls her beautiful. Because he’s the one flirting. Real Cloud’s desire is the motivator for him to do it, but it’s Soldier Cloud doing the thing. Same with every single flirty interaction. Real Cloud’s emergence is only confirmed by the devs twice in the game and both times relate to Tifa. Real Cloud’s hand twitches with the urge to comfort her and then real Cloud hugs her.

Everything else is only motivated by his love and desire for her, which means everything else is Soldier Cloud acting on those feelings.

The single moment of wavering from him is literally within the LTD nod scene in the train graveyard when Aerith grabs his arm. He doesn’t react when she does it, stays silent, leans away. He’s not showing her a preference. Then, he looks at and agrees with Tifa, which is showing a clear bias towards her.

Then right before Tifa grabs Cloud’s arm, his eyes start to shift towards Aerith. This is the reference to OG Cloud wavering, but then before he can even look at Aerith, he spots Tifa’s hands in his peripheral vision, gasps, then looks at and smiles at her.

That’s the result of Cloud’s wavering. He chose Tifa. After that, there’s zero LTD scenes and in fact, there’s a humorous shot of Tifa looking towards the camera after Cloud leaps on her to save her from the falling train carriage and Aerith thanks him for saving both of them. He didn’t save both of them. Didn’t even try.

I don’t think there’s gonna be anything to worry about going forward because one thing Nojima learned from letting things be “open for interpretation” is that his work gets butchered.

Since FF7, other FF titles he’s worked on -

FF8: Squall and Rinoa kiss.

FF10: Yuna and Tidus kiss.

FFCC: Aerith and Zack hug

FF13: Snow and Serah kiss and get engaged.

FF15 (when it was originally vs): Noctis and Luna kiss.

If anyone learned their lesson from this LTD mess, it’s Nojima, but he’s been restricted when it comes to 7 by the suits - which is one of the hidden graffiti meta messages in the train tunnel that refers to why Cloti was never made more explicit.

“They tell you to go with the flow so they can keep the status quo.”

Since this is the last of the FF7 compilation the suits have relaxed the reins on the LTD, so that Nojima can write the story as he sees fit, which I would guess is down to the fact they did sales projections and figured out that FF7 would be massively successful and has in fact also boosted sales of PS4 consoles because people specifically bought the console to play FF7R. With the new mysteries and twists to keep fans talking about the game until the next installment is out, they don’t need to hold onto this outdated LTD concept that everyone hates and isn’t anything the company wants to associate with because of how toxic and nasty it is. They’re a Japanese company having to hear these so called fans talking about how Tifa is a “typical Asian girl” or whatever tf they call her. It’s disgusting. Square yeeted the guys behind Genesis because of the controversy around them, so to have fans like this associated with one of their most popular and iconic titles? Yeah, that ain’t happening.

#Death to the LTD #for the fandom

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

Text

baby, you’re like lightning in a bottle (chapter one)

Peter Nureyev has a new name, a fake identity, a fake life to step into to complete his very first off planet solo mission. Unfortunately, it involves going undercover as a high school student at Oldtown High. And the people he meets there mean his mission will go anything but smoothly.

This high school AU was the idea of my amazing girlfriend @spiky-lesbian

Please leave a comment over on ao3 or reblog if you like this!

---

If he repeated his mission over and over again in his head, he couldn’t fail.

That’s what Peter Nureyev told himself as he sat on the hard plastic chair, gripping it’s edge with knuckles tighter than they needed to be, his jaw set hard like he was trying to chew something that wouldn’t go down. He would fix his face, smooth his posture, shift his face into the look of unshakable confidence he’d spent so long perfecting but he needed to look nervous right now. He needed to look like a cornered animal.

Which was convenient, at least. Less work for him.

Repeat the instructions. Remember the rules. Follow the plan. Don’t fuck up. It sounded so simple and, if Peter believed hard enough, it would be. First rule of thieving, belief in your own skills is half the battle.

There was a secretary at a desk across from him, taking up most of what little room there was in the anteroom to the office. She was mostly focused on her computer screen, typing or tiredly slapping the flat of her hand against it when it glitched out, but every so often she’d give him a sympathetic glance. The kind of glance you’d naturally give a clearly underfed, scrawny teenager, starting a brand new school in the dead centre of the roughest part of Oldtown, with his too big, second hand clothes, scuffing his worn trainers against the carpet. The kind of glance that said oh you poor thing, you have no idea what you’re in for.

If only she knew, Peter thought with a dry amusement. If only she knew just how far he’d travelled, how out of his element he was right now, how he’d simultaneously faced things so much worse than a high school and was so deeply terrified by it. If she saw everything in his cheap rucksack that weren’t school supplies; the long range signal device, the pen drive stuffed full of the galaxy’s most insidious malware, the plasma knife, all carefully concealed amongst the notebooks and pens and pencils. Peter wondered how her face would change then.

It was as if remembering it was there had reminded him what he was here to do and the nerves welled up fresh, like a wound had been prodded. His heart began to thud in his thin chest, his palms began to prickle with heat, the old tic he’d been trying so hard to suppress made his knee bounce. Peter tried to tell himself it would be fine, talking himself through the plan, repeating the mission again and again as if to prove to himself that he knew it by heart. As if simply remembering the words Mag had left him with would be the same as pulling off his very first solo, off planet job.

First rule of thieving, don’t go into a gig you aren’t ready for. Mag was a pragmatist, he’d always been the one sensibly pouring water on Peter’s fervour, after all, making their risks calculated and manageable. And so much was riding on this, the work Peter did here would open up whole new streams of income for them back on Brahma, so much more fuel for the fight. With everything invested in it, the ticket to Mars, the accomodation for a month, the effort to build Peter a fake life solid enough to get him enrolled in a government funded high school, there was no room to play it fast and loose. If Mag said his apprentice was ready for this, then it had to be true. When had he ever steered him wrong?

Peter allowed himself a sigh, one that the secretary wouldn’t hear or, if she did, she’d chalk it up to the understandable anxiousness of the new kid. He’d come a long way from the first time he’d stolen an apple from a stall under Mag’s careful eye.

To keep himself focused, he played a game. Peter did that a lot, he found himself uncomfortable with any time not consumed by some useful distraction. It was why he always listened to the radio as he fell asleep, no matter how many times Mag threatened to take the power brick out of it. He just couldn’t stand idle silence. So he pushed his glasses up his nose and took a quick study of the secretary’s desk to see what information he could glean about her.

His brain worked fast, plucking the bits of information out greedily. Family picture, wife, three children. Notes on her desk, the numbers of different homes for the elderly in Hyperion. Infirm parents and an upcoming heavy drain on her finances, then. Her nails were long but the polish was chipping, like she drummed them on her desk frequently. A short temper or just stressed? More likely the latter, she’d been kind to him so far. Or at least as kind as someone who worked in a place where she must see a hundred neglected, underweight kids with clear signs of poverty could afford to be without going insane. Her desk had no signs of organisation whatsoever, not so much as a sticky note to pin a flag in that riot of loose papers. So she was distracted, under pressure and clearly prone to losing track of information.

Peter thought he could drain the full contents of her bank account within a month.

Obviously, thinking that didn’t make him feel good and he’d never actually do it. But he could feel how proud Mag would be, if he brought him all of that from just a minute of observation, her whole life mapped out in a blueprint. How he’d smile at him and squeeze his shoulder and remind him of the first rule of thieving, know how to read your marks in a single glance, a glance might be all you get. Peter had mastered that one at age seven.

The secretary’s intercom buzzed suddenly and Peter didn’t need to fake his nervous jolt at the harsh, staticy sound. The voice on the other end was too muddy to make out but the secretary lifted her eyes and said, “You can go on through now. Mr Spoor is ready for you.”

Nureyev nodded, scrambling to his feet, patting himself down in a way that would look like he was trying to neaten himself up when in fact, he was deliberately ruffling his hair, yanking down his t-shirt so the frays on the hem would be visible, missing the smudge under his ear. First rule of thieving, you’re never in such a position of power as when the mark underestimates you.

The principal’s office was pretty meagre but at least had a slight edge on the rest of his run down, underfunded school. The chair Peter sat in was worn through so the stuffing poked out, the desk between them had deep gouges in it that hadn’t been sanded down, the computer to the side of them was an ancient model that Peter could have cracked with his eyes closed. That boded well for the rest of his mission.

“It’s customary to have these orientation meetings with your guardian present,” the principal's voice was cool and had no trace of a warm welcome in it, not even a greeting. It matched the expression on his craggy face, “I was expecting to meet them.”

“Um…” Peter swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably, shrinking himself down, “They, uh...my dad...he...he was sick this morning so he couldn’t come.”

There was a lot that could be read into that, half a hundred hidden explanations that, given the catchment area of Oldtown High, Mr Spoor would have seen again and again. So he didn’t press, just giving Peter an unimpressed glance like it was his fault that his non existent father was absent, turning to the screen.

“Very well then...Peter Ransom, correct?”

“That’s right…” Peter nodded.

“That’s right, sir.”

Peter gave a little start, cheeks reddening to come off as merely intimidated and unsure rather than outwardly defiant. As fun as that would be, it wouldn’t make his task any easier, “Sir. Sorry. Sir.”

Mr Spoor likely would have narrowed his lips if they weren’t already worn down to a permanent grimace of disapproval, turning back to the screen and whatever information was on there. Most of it counterfeit, of course.

“So you were born on the outer rim...passable scores in your previous assessments…”

Peter kept his face impassive, though something roiled inside him. The grades Mag had put together for him were fantastic, he knew that for a certainty, and he could match them with his ability. But he didn’t rise, he didn’t bite. He just looked suitably shy and intimidated, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor, fidgeting with the large, second hand glasses Mag had given him to replace his usual sleek, cat eye ones.

“You’ll be starting with us as a senior, given your age and...supposed ability. I expect you to maintain an acceptable standard of work, given that you’re joining so late in the year. We cannot afford for you to fall behind,” Mr Spoor continued, looking more at the screen than the child in front of him, “What is it exactly that brings someone from a place like Brahma to a Martian high school?”

Peter swallowed, “My dad got a job on Mars, sir. He said things would be better for us here...that I’d be able to go to a good school and make friends…”

The principal didn’t even try to hide his snort of disdain, deepening Peter’s instantly formed dislike of the man. He must have thought this new student of his was blind, that he hadn’t seen the graffiti covering the front of the building, how the chairs didn’t match in the classrooms he’d passed, how the books were dog eared and the floors permanently scuffed. Did he enjoy seeing these children clearly born just after the war, with their tattered families and nightmares of a time they could only half remember, crossing the galaxy for something close to a life worth living, coming through his school and being ground down just like the rest of them? Did he find it amusing, seeing a boy who’d grown up scared of the sky itself daring to hope that things might be better here?

Again, Peter repeated his mission in his head.

“We might as well take you on,” Mr Spoor said, as if he didn’t particularly care one way or the other, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in with our other students.” The way he said it made it sound neither reassuring or like a positive.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter feigned a mix of relief, excitement and fear, “I promise I’ll work really hard and do really well.”

The look Mr Spoors gave him made him wonder how he’d like a plasma knife at his throat but, thankfully, it was brief, soon replaced by dismissal, “You’ll begin classes after lunch. Go wait outside again and my secretary will give you your timetable.”

With more breathless, slightly panicked enthusiasm, Peter retreated, looking forward to rewarding himself with a momentary, bitter scowl in between the door closing and approaching the secretary.

But, as it happened, he never got the chance. Because there was now another student was occupying the same chair he’d been sitting on. And Peter’s heart stopped dead for a moment, for a number of reasons.

One, their face was covered in blood. Splatters of it radiated out from a nose that was now swollen and tender, from a lip that was messily split, and Peter knew enough of basic field medicine to know their left eye would be black and purple and swollen nearly shut the next day. The fists angrily clenched in their lap had split knuckles too, just to complete the image.

Two, the face beneath the gore was beautiful.

Peter steadied himself, swallowing hard and taking the seat next to his new schoolmate. Almost immediately, the uninjured eye fixed a glare on him so sharp and vicious that Peter promptly shifted to the next chair along.

He knew the over eager, overcompensating new student he was supposed to be playing would immediately try to make friends, stick his hand out in the gap between them and introduce himself in a too loud, too sunny voice as Peter Ransom. Probably to be met with another glare and possibly a punch to the face, given how much they were twitching with what was clearly post-fight adrenaline. But for some reason, he couldn’t quite manage it so they sat in a frosty silence, punctuated only by the secretary's nails tapping on her computer keys and the steady drip of blood from their nose to the floor.

Still, Peter had a thief’s curiosity. He stole enough glances at the other kid to glean a little bit about them. They were his age, though shorter and stockier by nature, with an anger naturally set into their face that poor newbie Peter Ransom would never feel. Their hair was a mess of black curls, piled on top of their head and shaved underneath, their ear held numerous piercings they were clearly too young to have acquired legally or hygienically. That surely wouldn’t be permitted by the dress code Peter had studied avidly along with the schematics of the school, the faculty list and every other piece of information he’d been able to get about Oldtown High, determined to do a good and thorough job. The code would probably have had something to say about their combat boots that were a size too big, their fishnet tights and short skirt, their sleeveless shirt with, incongruously, a picture of a cartoon man on it and the bright, bubbly text reading ‘Turbo!’. There had probably been bigger misdemeanours to think about at the time than a dress code violation.

“What the hell are you staring at?”

Peter jumped at the rough, angry voice, realising the kid was scowling right at him. Their face was clearly made for that expression; Peter had faced down armed guards, lasers from the clouds, jobs that would have landed him in jail for ten times the years he’d been alive but he’d seldom felt so intimidated.

And people didn’t normally notice him looking. After all, first rule of thieving, your eyes are your greatest weapon, don’t be obvious when you use them.

“I...nothing, I’m not…” he searched for a response, glad it was in Ransom’s nature to be easily put off.

“Do I look like the kind of guy you want to mess with right now?” the scowl deepened, sending a fresh line of blood running down their chin from their broken lip.

“Um...no,” Peter decided it was better to give simple answers.

“Yeah,” they gave a dry snort with no humour in it, “So keep your eyes to yourself or lose them, pal.”

Blood, angry tones and threats didn’t scare Peter Nureyev but they weren’t the reason he looked away hastily and was glad of it. It had more to do with dark eyes, holding depths he knew he’d never open up with just a glance, a faded white scar across a flat nose that he thought he’d like to trace with the very tip of his finger, full lips that looked soft somehow even as they were curled in anger.

Peter gave himself a mental slap, repeating his mission again, louder and firmer. He could practically hear Mag laughing at him all the way from Brahma.

First rule of thieving, stop mooning after every pretty boy who so much as glances at you, Pete! How many times do I have to tell you?

He had to admit, he’d been hoping for a smoother start on his first off planet solo mission.

Fortunately, the secretary spoke up not long after, “Peter? Peter Ransom?”

He jumped to his feet, receiving a few papers from her. A class schedule, a map and an outline of expected behaviour. Peter had seen all of this and far, far more in his research but he made sure Ransom looked at it with apprehension, as if it was written in another language.

“And for you, Mr Steel, another detention slip,” her voice took on a kind of fond, bemused exhaustion, “Add it to the collection.”

The other student jumped up and swiped the pink piece of paper from her hands, stuffing it carelessly in the pocket of his skirt, “Thanks, Brenda.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to Peter, “It’s lunchtime at the moment, I’m sure Mr Steel here would be happy to show you to the cafeteria.”

Instantly, Mr Steel stiffened and shot her an exasperated look which she soundly ignored, turning back to her computer screen in a manner that suggested he could stand and look at her like that all day, for all she cared. Eventually, he gave a growl and stomped out of the office, down the corridor. Peter followed, pausing in the doorway to give him a chance to storm off and leave him behind.

There was no hiding his surprise when, after a few seconds, he snapped, “Are you coming or what?”

Peter did.

Nureyev knew every inch of the hallways but of course Ransom didn’t, so he fixed an expression of wary awe on his face. There were some things that didn’t take a lot of effort, like the swear word carved into one locker that he’d never even heard of or when the sound of a muffled explosion shook the floor above them where the science rooms were. They passed other students, who shot unsurprised looks at the state of Steel and appraised him like a piece of fresh meat in a butcher’s. Peter would have loved the chance to try his knife or his wits against one of them, he’d long ago learned to make up for the scrawny appearance that made them look at him so hungrily.

Stick to the mission. Follow the instructions. Do your job.

Abruptly, Steel stopped, without turning around, “Cafeteria’s down that way. See you.”

Peter blinked, glancing at the double doors he was indicating with a thumb, which were practically shaking out of their frames with the sound of what had to be a riot behind them, “Aren’t you eating too?”

“What’s it to you, pal?” Juno did turn then, just enough to fix him with an incredulous look.

Before Peter had to come up with an answer, they were interrupted by a loud shout of, “Juno!”

Peter thought his eyes were playing tricks on him for a moment, an exact copy of Steel was bounding down some stairs to their left. Except this one was smiling, a hundred kilowatt grin, and wearing leggings, an oversize sweatshirt and sneakers that flashed when they hit the floor.

“Oh god, Juno, your face is a mess,” he grimaced at the sight of his twin’s face, “Jones did a number on you, huh?”

“‘Bout half the number I did on them, they got carted off to the emergency room,” Steel, now Juno, grunted, still stiff and awkward, throwing glances in Peter’s direction.

“I’m sure they deserved it,” the other Steel shrugged, turning their grin on Peter, “Hey! I’m Benzaiten, you can call me Ben or Benten. You new?”

“Um, yes! I just started today actually, I...I’m from off planet and…”

“That’s cool! You can tell us more over lunch,” Ben’s tidal wave of positivity bowled over him, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.

Both Juno and Peter froze.

“Over what now?”

“Uh, that’s kind of you but...um, I don’t know if I…”

“He’s new, Juno, of course he’s coming to sit with us!” Ben shrugged, like the matter was obvious.

Juno was staring daggers at his twin, looking ready to throttle him, “The guy says he’s fine, so he’s fine.”

“Come on, Juno, don’t be a bitch,” Ben laughed fondly, like he didn’t see that his twin was gritting his teeth hard enough to shatter, “We’d better get moving, Mick and Sasha will already be waiting…”

He turned on his neon flashing heel and bounced down the hall in the complete opposite direction to the cafeteria, not waiting for them. Juno groaned and pressed his fingertips to his temples like he was trying to ward off a migraine. After what was clearly him counting backwards from ten, he frowned and set off after his brother.

“Come or don’t come,” he growled over his shoulder at Peter, “I couldn’t care less.”

For a moment, neither Nureyev nor Ransom really knew what to do. He repeated his mission again in his head.

Blend in. Sneak in after dark. Find the evidence. Upload the malware. Send it to Mag. Run.

Nowhere in that list did it say follow a beautiful, angry stranger and his bubblegum brother god only knew where. In fact, Peter was pretty sure they fell squarely under the definition of a distraction, something he knew to avoid. He knew what the sensible choice was, the decision someone who could be trusted with missions like this, who would work tirelessly to be the best thief he could be, would make.

But...wouldn’t this count as blending in?

Armed with that flimsy excuse, Peter followed Juno Steel.

#jupeter #juno steel #peter nureyev #high school au #benzaiten steel #mick mercury #ben/mick #sasha wire #slow burn #enemies to friends to lovers #please reblog!#or comment!#or both!#make my whole damn day!

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retvenkos · 3 years

Note

hi!! congrats on 2.5k!! i was wondering if i could get a ship for atla, lok and into the spider verse (if that’s okay ofc!!) ?

i’m a 5”3 bisexual girl. i’m pretty sure i’m an enfj and i’m a leo (with an aqua moon and leo rising if that helps in any way!)

i tend to love/crave attention but i tend to be very insecure once in it (and just in general). i love meeting new people, i have a slight tendency of selfishness but i will do absolutely anything for my friends. i’m not a fan of taking a backseat in many things, including life. i like to poke fun at people but am always terrified of hurting their feelings. i also value peoples perception of me a lot.

i like to read, write, hang out with friends, learn new things, sleep, spend time with friends, photography, and going to concerts. i play basketball and work out on my own time.

hopefully that’s not too much/too little. thank you in advance and i hope you have a wonderful day/night!!

ATLA:

I ship you with Katara!

alright, so i think that katara would be a great match for you because you are both fiercely loyal and independent in life, but you also carry a softness with you that makes you feel vulnerable and insecure.

there is a bit of turbulence in both of you that would be disastrous when paired with someone incredibly turbulent (like zuko) or someone incredibly steadfast (like toph), so you both need someone who recognizes the struggles you face and gives them merit, but is also actively working for stability and peace.

you and katara would be good together because you will both do what it takes to save each other, no matter the cost. it’s good that you both have this attitude because when the other does something terrible in the name of saving everyone, you understand and don’t judge them for it.

you’re both natural leaders with a fair amount of altruism, so you both strive to do what is best for everyone, taking charge in many situations. you are the parents of the group - making sure everyone is alright and doing what needs to be done.

if you have trouble making decisions, katara is wonderful to lean on because she always has an idea, and she’s acted like a mother for so long she has what it takes to make the decision. oftentimes you can be caught between two decisions, but by taking to katara, you can figure out what path would be best.

both of you are extroverted and love to be in the thick of things, so i imagine the two of you are a bit of thrill seekers - i have no doubt that katara would go to concerts with you and would play basketball with you (although she’s not very good and would much rather cheer you on from the stands).

i have this idea that in a modern! au the two of you met at a party or something similar - maybe you’re a friend of zuko’s and you force him to go to a party he was invited to, and you meet katara and the two of you immediately hit it off and hang out for the rest of the night.

or, both of you are photographers and in a high school! au you’re in a photography club together, and the two of you are tasked with getting pictures of some school event or another, and she drives you there, and afterwards you stop to get fast food and end up talking late into the night.

either way, the two of you are a force to be reckoned with, when you team up. you’re both supportive of each other and determined and reliable.

you are a little more tolerant than katara, so you are definitely one to talk her down, esp. when she’s holding a grudge against someone, and she trusts your judgement. you may not always get her to back down completely, but you do get her to back down just a little.

LOK:

I ship you with Asami Sato!

alright, so here is a power couple if i have ever seen one

you and asami are wicked smart with the outward confidence to change the world (while still being vulnerable to your own insecurities) and hearts big enough to want to save everyone.

both of you love learning and coming up with new ideas, so when you are together, your creativity just flows and you come up with cool, new ideas together.

you guys also have a tough side to you - neither of you will turn down a challenge, and your dedication to your friends is unparalleled.

i see you guys as being the cool aunts - you are the voice of reason in your friend group, sure, but you also let them run wild with weird plans and interfere after the worst of the damage has been done. and it’s always like,,, you just go along with this ridiculous plan? “yep. because if we don’t, they’ll do it without us and that would be disastrous.”

okay, but i also just love the quiet moments between you two. you play pai sho together, and even though asami wins every time, you insist that at some point, you are going to win and continue to play anyway.

i also think that asami gets pretty competitive? she loves winning, and even though she always asks you if you’re sure, she’s secretly very glad when you insist on playing (and losing).

and she’s also so supportive? she would love to read your writing or hang up your photography. she’s a proud girlfriend™ and will not hesitate to tell you how great you are.

you, in turn, are constantly talking about how cool your girlfriend is - because have you met asami? she’s talented. she’s kind. she’s tough. she will kick you in the face, and then you’ll thank her for it.

oh, and 100%, asami will make sure that both of you find the time to sleep. both of you love having lazy weekend mornings where you stay in bed until noon, waking up when the sun filters through the windows but staying in bed, talking tiredly and laughing at each others jokes, intertwining your hands and playing footsie under the covers. you drift back off to sleep in asami’s arms, and when you finally wake up and decide to start the day, the two of you go to get brunch and then go for a drive.

and going for a d r i v e with asami is peak sweetness. you drive slowly through the city, hand in hand, and when you make it to the more deserted roads, asami goes fast. and spirits, you swear that she is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen when her hair is blowing in the wind and she has that determined but thrilled smile on her face.

Into The Spider-Verse:

I ship you with Miles Morales!

first of all, both of you have big hearts and believe that you can make a difference. you also carry that same bit of doubt and insecurity, so whenever you hype the other you’re not out of touch - you just truly believe the world of each other, so you are sincere in your belief that the other is capable of anything

you guys are also artistic, and that’s a source of bonding for sure. you both find things visually beautiful and you both have a way with words, so you two often hang out and just create together. you write while he draws, and then, on the weekends, you take photos while he puts sticker around town, or when he’s doing graffiti.

you’re also wicked smart - both of you. i imagine that the two of you love to team up on projects together because you work really well together, while still having fun. miles plays music for you while you’re working on the project, and the two of you debate over what artists are better.

miles probably introduces you to a lot of music, and the two of you plan to go to concerts together, if you ever save up enough money.

but if you are a superhero too, you definitely just put on your masks and sneak into venues and listen from the shadows. 100%, someone has caught the two of you, and so now concerts will save a spot for their friendly neighborhood heroes - they mark it off with tape and everything.

i feel like you and miles will spend a lot of time just.... chilling. hanging out, talking about whatever comes to mind. you’re lives are often going so fast - with him being spider-man and everything, so it’s good when the two of you can just hang out, sprawled out on the floor while playing video games. you bring the snacks and miles provides the entertainment, and the two of you can just be kids.

you can both be idealistic and selfless when it comes to the people you love, and while that can sometimes be a dangerous combo to have, you are both constantly saving the other after they do something recklessly noble, so you keep each other in check.

you also lean on each other a great deal. you both trust each other’s judgement more than anything, and so you often have open dialogue about the choices you have to make, and what the best course of action would be.

also, something i think is cute is that both of you like to tease, but you worry about taking it too far. so both of you will say something and be like, “but i didn’t mean it— are you alright? because it was just a joke— a pretty stupid joke, actually, i don’t know why i thought it would be funny—” and the other is like. “i promise it’s alright. yes, you’re fine i swear. i’m all good, i guarantee.”

#2.5k celebration!#celebration #lxncelotships #i love asami a whole lot you deserve her tbh

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bijvoorbeeldja · 4 years

Text

when we were young

a fic in which Robbe and Sander were childhood best friends

(including friends-helping-friends dye their hair scene)

....then, Robbe realized he liked Sander as more than a friend

////

Most of Robbe’s earliest memories, even the ones faded and worn by time, have Sander in them.

He doesn’t even know when they first met; he just knows that his mom started babysitting Sander while his parents worked late. Robbe was probably two years old. Sander was older and Robbe was always fascinated by him. He’d show Robbe how to draw pictures and build with blocks and play pretend. He was always kind and gentle, never bossy or too cool to include him.

They’d gone to school together for years, eating their lunch together and sharing earbuds, spending their afternoons playing video games and working together on homework. They’d always had different interests, but couldn’t seem to be without each other. They’d ride their bikes and go for swims, make grilled cheeses together and explore Antwerp.

Robbe can remember vividly the times when they’d be in his room, Robbe listening to music and Sander sitting on his bed drawing. Robbe would stare at him, watch his face intense in concentration as he drew. He’d watch Sander’s few pencil lines become something amazing. He’d even watch him draw pictures of Robbe. He’d kept those ones, tucking them safely in his drawer where he could look at them anytime he wanted.

He’d even helped Sander dye his hair, hiding out from their parents in the bathroom with two boxes of hair dye, the window propped to ventilate the fumes. He’d sat on the sink with plastic gloves on while Sander sat on a stool, shirtless, with a towel around his neck. Robbe had gently worked the dye through Sander’s hair, careful to avoid his exposed skin. Of course, they’d had sleepovers and seen each other without clothes, but something about this proximity and strange intimacy made Robbe feel warm. And as different as it was, he liked Sander’s bleached hair.

He was there with Sander when he’d had his first episode, and been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He’d sat by his bed, telling him stories to keep himself out of his dark thoughts, and bringing him meals when he couldn’t get out of bed. He’d wanted to be there for Sander.

It wasn’t until Robbe was 13 or 14 when he started realizing he was different. His other school friends all of the sudden, were starting to talk about girls....all the time. It was a new, exciting phase of their life, but Robbe never felt the draw to join in. He didn’t see girls the way they did. He was fine to be around them and talk to them, but he never felt any physical desire for them. When all was said and done, he’d just wanted to be around Sander. Sander was exciting and smart and funny and suddenly getting tall...and handsome.

One day, while Robbe was skating and Sander was taking photos of graffiti nearby, he saw a boy stop and approach Sander. Robbe watched Sander laugh with the boy, the two clearly close. He’d thought about that moment for weeks, feeling unsettled. He couldn’t figure out why.

Then, on a family trip to the beach one summer, Robbe’d brought Sander along. They snuck out to take swims at midnight and built massive castles out of sand. When Robbe had playfully insulted Sander’s wonky tower, Sander had retaliated by tackling him into the sand. Hovering over him, Robbe almost stopped breathing. Sander’s face was so close, and he could feel his breath. They stayed like that for seconds, maybe even minutes. Sander had smiled at him and Robbe felt something click into place between them. Something that felt more....serious...but something that made so much sense, too. He couldn’t explain it.

When he was trying to fall asleep at night, he’d think about Sander on top of him, his hands holding his wrists, gently, but with strength. It was all he could think about. And that scared him.

So he pulled away. As much as he hated it, he stopped hanging out with Sander. He started to ignore his messages. Sander would come by his house and he’d tell his mom to tell him he wasn’t home. He knew Sander was probably confused and hurt, but he couldn’t be near him. It was too hard, and too confusing.

After a while, Sander stopped trying. The two drifted apart. Years went by, and Robbe eventually heard from his mom that Sander had graduated and gone to the art academy. Robbe bet he had a bunch of new friends now. And probably a girlfriend.

From the influence of his friends, Robbe had tried to date, too. Even with little enthusiasm, he’d pursued girls, and kissed them. But it always felt off. He could never make it work. And just like that, all at once, but also slowly, he knew. He was gay. It was a realization that felt liberating and terrifying at the same time.

When he’d approached his mom about it, she was supportive. He knew she would be. She’d hugged him for a long time, saying that she loved him and always would. But he had also watched realization dawn on her as she made sense of the close relationship he’d had with Sander.

"I knew you two were close. I figured that something had happened when you stopped hanging out with him....” she asked carefully, invited Robbe to talk.

He had been scared to admit this to himself, much less someone else.

“It dawned on me all in one moment that I had feelings for him,” Robbe admitted, feeling sad and embarrassed and cruel at the same time as he shared this sheepishly. “I felt so much for him, and it was scary. I couldn’t bear the thought that he wouldn’t feel the same way, which of course, he wouldn’t. Or that I’d ruin our friendship. Which, I guess, I already did.” He sat next to his mom, who was stroking his back with a tender touch.

“I wouldn’t write Sander off so quickly, Robbe,” she said quietly. “Sure, you don’t know if he’s interested in you in a romantic way, but he does care about you. He has ever since you two were little. Anyone could see that. Plus, I know Sander needs you more than ever. Especially since he admitted himself to the hospital.”

Robbe’s heart dropped.

“The hospital?” He asked, his voice cracking, turning sharply to look at his mom. “What happened? Is he okay?”

Robbe’s mom grabbed his hands, holding them in hers.

“He’s had a really bad episode and decided to go in for treatment.”

Robbe eye’s started to well up with tears. How could he have abandoned Sander? He’d probably thought Robbe had left him because of his illness. Robbe’s heart was aching, sinking lower and lower. He would never forgive himself.

.....

Robbe couldn’t will himself to knock. After their conversation, he’d hugged his mom and immediately left, biking to the hospital as fast as he could. But now, he stood outside the door the nurse had directed him to, wringing his hands.

At that moment, the door opened. Sander stood there, immediately stepping back in shock as he saw Robbe, tripping over his shoes.

Robbe’s mouth was dry and his heart was fluttering at the sight of the boy, his (former?) friend now even taller, his white-blond hair a strong contrast to his tan skin. His eyes were vibrant, but framed by dark, purple shadows. He clearly hadn’t slept. It made Robbe weak.

“Robbe?” Sander finally spoke, quietly and with disbelief. Then, quickly, his jaw tightened, creating sharp lines that framed his face. He was angry. But before Robbe could react, Sander stepped back and proceeded to slam the door in his face.

.....

Robbe wouldn’t leave his room. For the next few days, he switched between staying buried underneath his blankets, fighting off sobs, and staring at his phone, willing himself to call Sander. But he never did. He couldn’t. What would he have said? Sorry I abandoned you. It wasn’t your illness. I was just in love with you. Yeah, that’d be great.

He turned that encounter over and over again in his mind, willing the scene to change, for things to have gone differently. For things to have seamlessly slipped back into hair bleaching and sharing headphones. But it never would.

Just when Robbe had nearly cried himself to sleep one night, his phone chirped on his bedside table, jolting him out of drowsiness.

A text. From Sander.

Robbe, I’m sorry for how I reacted the other day. I was...surprised to see you. And

Another chirp.

....I’m having a hard time.

Another chirp.

Will you come see me again?

Before Robbe could think he sat up in bed, immediately typing back a text.

Yes. When? I’ll come anytime.

Three dots. Sander was typing, and Robbe was breathless, waiting for his response.

Tomorrow. Visiting hours are noon-four. Can you come then?

Robbe’s stomach was already twisting at the thought of seeing Sander again.

Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.

Take care, Sander. He added. He couldn’t help himself.

.......

It was so stupid, really. He didn’t know why he was still in the bathroom getting ready, trying to tame his hair into submission with his fingers. It was curling this way and that, clearly unbothered by Robbe’s attempts to make it presentable. He groaned. Why did he even care about looking nice for Sander? Like Sander would even notice, or care.

But still, he was up early, choosing his clothes carefully and looking at himself in the mirror again and again. Finally, as noon approached, he took a deep breath, and headed out.

......

“I promise, I won’t slam the door in your face this time,” Sander said, when Robbe knocked and Sander opened it seconds later. He was smiling, but weakly, like it was still somewhat hard for him to do. Robbe did notice, however, that he looked more well-rested, a little lighter even.

“I am sorry about the other day, Robbe,” Sander had said. “I guess I just...didn’t expect to see you. I think with me, there’s still a lot of...unresolved feelings about you and what went down between us. That, with my episodes lately...it’s...just....alot,” he finished, turning and sitting down on the small bed in his room.

Robbe took a few steps toward him, taking in the words Sander had left hanging behind him. Unresolved feelings. He kept turning that phrase over in his head. He didn’t know what to say. Or what to think.

Sander was looking down at his hands, which were marred by charcoal chalk. He’d been drawing again. Drawing what? Robbe wondered. Sander tried to rub the colored dust away, but his hands still remained dark with taint.

Looking at him, Robbe finally spoke.

“I’m sorry for all you’ve been going through, Sander. Really, it sucks.”

Sander nodded slightly.

“And I guess,” Robbe continued, “I need to apologize for a lot of that.”

Sander looked up at him now.

Robbe took a deep breath. “It was really messed up how I treated you last year.” He kept talking, as if by slowing the words he’d lose his momentum -- and his courage to speak.

“I know you don’t need me messing around in your life right now. I just want to say that I’m sorry that I stopped talking to you, that I ignored you and wasn’t there for you. I’ll never forgive myself for that. I always want to be there for you.”

Sander didn’t speak immediately, first searching Robbe’s face intently. Not with malice or bitterness, but what Robbe assumed a desire for understanding.

“I really didn’t get it, Robbe,” he said. “What did I do to upset you? What could I have possibly done to make you not want to be around me? I was so devastated for so long. You were my best friend. And I...”

“I know, Sander,” Robbe interjected. “I know. But I swear, it wasn’t anything you did. You were--” he settled on that word for a moment, the in-the-pastness of it making his chest ache. “You were my best friend. You didn’t do anything wrong.” And before he could stop himself, he was continuing.

“I want to say that I don’t know why I did that, why I treated you that way, but...I do. I do know why.”

Sander’s face searched his desperately waiting for more.

“Why, Robbe? Please, tell me.” Sander implored gently, taking a step toward Robbe.

Robbe couldn’t. He couldn’t tell Sander how he’d felt. How he currently felt. He couldn’t tell Sander that for months, all he thought about was his skin. Or that sometimes he’d see flashes of white hair in his dreams. He couldn’t tell him he’d wanted to know what his lips felt like or what’d it be like to be more than friends with him. It was too much. His feelings were too much, and if he wasn’t careful, they would consume him.

“It’s...it’s...I can’t talk about it.” Robbe said, stuttering. “And it’s not important. What’s important is that I’m sorry and I want you to get better. So I won’t bother you anymore.” Robbe stuffed his hands in his jacket and turned to leave.

“Was it about that day at the beach?” Sander asked quietly to Robbe’s back.

Robbe’s stomach flipped. He turned around slowly, feeling like his world was about to come crashing down on him in a suffocatingly-epic avalanche.

“That summer we spent at the beach...” Sander continued carefully, almost as if he were scared to speak, too. “There was that one day we were building sandcastles, and...” he stopped, trying to communicate with Robbe without words. Did you feel that, too? Robbe looked at him, watching his breath get shallow.

“Nevermind.” Sander said finally, his eyes flicking down to the floor. Robbe felt a surge of adrenaline at the sight of Sander, hoping his next inhale was laced with the strength he needed to force out his next word. The silence built between them for a few more moments.

“Yes.”

Sander looked up sharply, meeting Robbe’s gaze with now-vibrant eyes.

“Yes, it was about that day at the beach. I’m sorry, Sander. I didn’t know then, but I know now...who I am. When we touched, I felt something...strong and soon realized I had feelings for you. I know, you think that’s weird and gross, and I’m sorry. I pulled back because I was embarrassed and I didn’t want you to feel weird or think I was using our friendship to pursue something. You were always my best friend. I didn’t want to do anything to ruin that.” He exhaled. “But I guess I did anyway.”

Sander was staring at Robbe, letting him empty himself of words before he took a small step forward towards him. Robbe watched him swallow hard before speaking.

“I wish you had told me, Robbe,” he spoke quietly. “...Because that would have made what I was feeling make a lot more sense.”

Robbe couldn’t mask his confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Sander cleared his throat. “Do you want to know when I realized I had feelings for you? I promise, it was long before you had feelings for me.”

Robbe felt like he was hallucinating, this whole encounter a fever dream from the insomniatic nights he had endured the past few days. Before he could muddle together a coherent thought, Sander spoke again.

“There was this one day when we were in your bedroom,” Sander began. “I was drawing. A picture of you, I’m sure. You had your headphones on and your eyes were closed. You were lost in some song and biting your lip and I just...knew that I loved you. It felt like...I wanted to -- no, I had to be right next to you for the rest of my life. That my body would physically collapse if I couldn’t have you. It felt like I wanted to hold you, to know every deep desire of your heart, to protect you fiercely. To touch every part of you.” He smirked a little. “But I was selfish, I guess. I didn’t tell you. I wanted to get closer and closer to you until something had to happen between us. I thought it would, that maybe you’d be crazy enough to let me try something...until you pulled away. Then I questioned everything. Especially myself. I was broken. My whole head and soul has felt tangled since then.”

Robbe was sure his brain was short-circuiting, but inside, his blood, his veins, his nerves, were filling with warm energy.

“You loved me?” That’s all he managed to get out. “How? How could you have loved me?” It didn’t make sense. None of what he was hearing made sense to him.

“Of course I love you, Robbe. I’ve spent my whole life knowing you, learning you, caring for you. How could I not be in love with you?”

Present tense. Robbe heard it and he didn’t let another second pass before closing the distance between them and collapsing into Sander’s arms.

......

It was something like 100 hours. 100 hours that Robbe spent visiting Sander during his hospital stay. Seven days a week, he’d arrive at 12:00 on the dot, and wouldn’t leave until 4:30 when the nurses finally kicked him out. Sometimes, they’d do rounds and pretend they didn’t see him curled up in Sander’s bed, letting the two have another hour together before circling around again to evict him.

They’d spent a sizable portion of those hours tangled up under the stiff hospital sheets, kissing until their lips were chapped and talking about every detail of the last year of their lives -- school assignments, family dinners, TV shows -- everything about each other they’d missed, including the mundane.

When he wasn’t visiting, Robbe tried to give Sander some space, hoping he’d be able to focus on getting well. And he had been. After a few weeks, Sander had stabilized, renewed with new light. On a bright spring day Robbe helped him carry a bag of his things back to his house, (except a t-shirt of Sander’s that he “borrowed” and wore to bed every night.) Often, Sander was there, sharing his bed, and calling him out on it, threatening with a devilish smirk to force him out of it.

Other times, they slept in their own beds, but fell asleep together on Facetime, making endless plans for what they’d do the next day, when Robbe’s mom would conveniently leave the house for a few hours to give them time alone (or as she assured them, “she had to run errands.”) Usually, their plans dissolved into long showers they’d spend kissing under the stream until the hot water ran out, or feeding each other bits of whatever Robbe’s mom had made the night before. But neither of them cared, obviously. They were together. At long last.

Recently, Robbe had finally unearthed the drawings Sander had done of him out of his drawer, tacking them up in full visibility near his desk, allowing himself to stare at them freely. To him, they were a constant reminder of the thing he’d lost that had come back to him -- miraculously, beautifully, eternally.

////////

Hope you enjoyed this angsty drabble. <3 What prompt should I do next?

#wtfock #wtfock fic #wtfic #wtfock fanfic #i know this is cheesy AF

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magioftheseas · 4 years

Text

Reserved

Written for @komahinaisle

Day 1: School AU, Childhood, Firsts

Summary: They were close as kids until Nagito moved. When they meet again in Hope's Peak, things are more fraught and complicated between them than Hinata ever could have imagined. And it's hard to deal with. They're friends. He likes Nagito, even when he's being difficult. It's just even more difficult not to hate him because of the situation, too.

Rating: T

Warnings: References to bullying. A lot of angst because it’s Hinata pre-despair.

Notes: I’m a sucker for Childhood Friends AUs and I like estranged relationships, so yep. This is the result. For this KomaHina Week, I tried to combine all the prompts provided for that particular day to varying degrees of success. Thankfully, I think I really like this first attempt. It could have been fluffier, but I just find the idea of them struggling with adoring and disdaining one another way too interesting. It’s pretty angsty. But have a nice day anyway.

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

It’s not that he’s a bitter person. It’s more that he just can’t believe this is happening.

“I can’t believe it either,” Nagito chirps with the same smile he wore as a kid. “Who would’ve thought we’d go to the same high school, Hinata-kun?”

“I... Yeah.” He tries to not let his smile twitch even as his eyes sweep Nagito’s uniform. Warm brown, green and red vest, while his was black, black, black—“It’s...lucky, huh?”

“Very lucky!” Nagito exclaims, taking his hands. “Even if you’re a reserve, I’m still so happy to see you! I missed you!”

“I missed you too.” It’s not a lie. It’s just not the full truth, either. But it’s all he can manage while choking back resentment. “It’s good to see you again, Nagito.”

Nagito hadn’t changed at all. Neither had he.

How infuriating. It’s the first time he’s ever wanted to hate someone.

It’s not like Komaeda Nagito was a bad person. A bit reserved, sometimes quite pompous, but once you gave him the time of day, he’d light up like the night sky. Eyes twinkling, face beaming—it was painfully obvious that Komaeda Nagito was incredibly lonely.

So, Hinata hung around him. Nagito was eager to please, desperate to not lose the sole friendship he had no matter how many times Hinata insisted that it was fine, he didn’t mind, he’s not going to leave him. And then, Nagito was the one that moved. Hinata had to pretend that didn’t stung.

“He was a freak anyway,” his other friends would mutter. “You were too nice, Hinata.”

He wasn’t that bad. He was just—weird. But he was as lonely as he was weird. If you just listened to him, you’d understand that. That he was insecure, that he really worried about others, that he had a light sense of humor, that he appreciated even the smallest gestures—

Stuff that’d be way too embarrassing to say out loud, so Hinata just kept his mouth shut. He kept it shut and thought about how Nagito thought way too fucking highly of him if he really couldn’t do something as simple as defend him to his other friends.

I’m not a good person, Nagito. It’s probably good you got away before realizing that.

Still.

It had stung.

“How’s class?”

“It’s fine,” he says through gritted teeth, trying not to tear too fiercely through his bread. “I’m sure it’s pretty dull compared to whatever time you’re having.”

“Probably,” Nagito chirps, because he’s always been so bad about reading the room. Even resting under shade, that smile on his face is disgustingly bright. “But, I still like hearing about how you’re doing. It’s been a while, Hinata-kun! Has nothing interesting happened to you since? Well, besides...”

He gestures at the black reserve uniform Hinata wore. That smile finally strained, and Hinata feels the opposite of satisfaction.

“No. Nothing I can think of.”

Nagito’s expression twists, brows pinching.

“Nothing at all? Hey, Hinata-kun. Why did you join the reserve course, anyway? I didn’t even think...” He trails off. “It must have sent your family back quite a bit. They’re not struggling, are they?”

“They’re probably relieved to have me out of their hair.” Despite himself, a wry grin does finally pull at his lips. “It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sure your parents worry,” Nagito insists. “You’re their child, after all.”

Their child. Named for the first day of the year when I was born. But that day’s just another holiday for everyone else.

“I have you here to keep an eye on me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

He reaches out then, and he lets his fingers card through the wild white curls of his childhood friend’s hair. Nagito blushes just as intensely as he did way back when. Perhaps more so—has he gotten paler?

I wouldn’t know. It’s not like I looked at pictures of him.

There’s no real need for it now when the real thing’s in front of me.

Nagito was such a vibrant shade of red, too. Precious. He’s still adorable. Goddamn.

“H-Hinata-kun,” Nagito whines under his breath as he’s continuously petted. “H-Hey, um, we’re not, kids, anymore.”

“We’ve known each other long enough that it should be fine, but, yeah.” Hinata does pull back. “I guess it is kind of weird. People might even get the wrong idea.”

“Oh, no!” Nagito exclaimed. “I wouldn’t want to compromise your reputation!”

My reputation?

“Oh.”

To his credit, Nagito seemed to realize it at the same time.

“Well... I guess that would be different for you, even if it’s me, huh.”

Even if it’s you.

What an infuriating phrase. And he thought Nagito’s self-deprecation when they were kids was aggravating. At least back then it had been harmless. It hadn’t really mattered if Nagito had that quirk. Just another thing to reassure him about like how the sky wouldn’t fall just because a yen bill flew into his hands.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

But that’s not Nagito’s fault, his conscience tells him. It’s a buzz in his ear, too annoying to ignore.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says, even though it very well could be. If he wasn’t suffocated by the dreary atmosphere—maybe it would instead be at the hands of his resentful peers. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“We’re friends,” Nagito pointed out, frowning. “I can’t help but worry about you.”

“Thanks.” But no thanks. Don’t fucking patronize me. “I really appreciate it.”

It’s not his fault. Don’t be a dick.

Especially when he sees his reflection in Nagito’s glimmering gaze—and he doesn’t want that image to distort.

There’s graffiti on his desk. People are whispering. They’re trying to pretend they aren’t looking at him.

It took months, but his class is finally behaving like a regular class.

Hinata keeps his head down as he scrubs his desk clean.

“Hinata-kun, can you help me?”

“With what, exactly?”

“Ahaha, it’s embarrassing but I don’t...I don’t understand this game at all.” Nagito waves around a small handheld gaming console with a sheepish grin. It’s such an innocuous sight. Hinata just wishes they could be inside. The sunlight is hurting his head. “I’m more for mysteries and puzzles, you see. That’s pretty lame, I know, but you like this kind of thing, right, Hinata-kun?”

When he hands Hinata over, Hinata does recognize the game on the screen. It’s popular. A lot of people have talked about and played it. He himself played a demo at the game store not too long ago. But, he couldn’t exactly ask his parents for it when he had his eyes on Hope’s Peak. And this console was the latest model, too.

“If you don’t like this kind of thing, why do you own it?” Hinata asked, brow furrowed. “You weren’t exactly the biggest gamer back then.”

“I mean, I like games,” Nagito said, shrugging rather helplessly. “Just—the more niche titles and genres, I suppose? But, our class rep—she’s a huge fan of games and has gotten the entire class into them. So, I just thought I might as well...”

Hinata clicks start.

“Seriously? You’re not even past the second level.”

“I-It’s frustrating!” Nagito exclaimed, flustered now. “It’s so—it’s way too easy to die! I just don’t have Nanami-san’s incredible resolve!”

It’s not really about having an Ultimate resolve to complete something so simple.

“Nagito.” Hinata thought about the nicest way to say it. “This game is made for children. It’s not that hard. You just have to be a little stubborn.”

When he glances at Nagito’s expression, he can see those pink cheeks puffing out, that smile turning into a deep pout.

“Well then,” Nagito huffed, shoving the console into his hands. “If you’re such an expert, why don’t you teach me by example?”

Hinata snorted, but he settled on the bench, trying not to chuckle at Nagito peering intently at the screen as he started the game.

“It is frustrating,” Hinata finds himself saying as he directs the character. “Because challenge is part of the game.”

He manages to get through the stage in a few attempts. Nagito’s face scrunches up as he perseveres, learning the level and figuring out the means to get through. It really wasn’t anything more significant than watching someone play through an arcade game. And yet, Nagito kept on watching, and Hinata felt more and more cognizant of the fact.

Nagito’s hair tickles his cheek, and his character dies. Flustered, he restarts.

“Is the teacher slipping?” Nagito asks, unimpressed. Hinata shoves him lightly with a grumble.

“It’s just a game, lighten up!” He exclaims that, but his heart is pounding. “You shouldn’t even have to force yourself to be good at something to get other people to like you! I already know that doesn’t work!”

Ah. What—did I just say? Seriously? Seriously?

Nagito blinks at him, and then he laughs.

“You’re right. That’s quite the useless endeavor. You can only be good at something if you’re talented.”

What?

Hinata feels his eyes burn, and he hits pause on the game. He hands it back over.

“Right, there’s no point.”

“I just don’t want to bring everyone down,” Nagito says, smile strained. “But someone like me would be better off excluded, huh, Hinata-kun?”

Why do you have to say that? How the hell do you think I feel? I just want to deserve being here.

“It’s not a problem if you’re not that good,” Hinata said. “As long as—they enjoy being around you. They’re not going to care.”

Instead I’m forced to say these asinine words of advice that I don’t even believe. It’s so annoying. Hey, Nagito...

“You’re so kind, Hinata-kun.” Nagito’s eyes grew misty. “What a good friend you are!”

Sometimes, I really hate you.

And yet, he is Nagito’s friend. If he said that to Nagito’s face—what good would it do but hurt both of them? He doesn’t even have anyone else.

Hah. So lame. I’m stuck sucking up to this guy because I’m that fucking desperate.

“Hinata-kun?”

He’s so pathetic that even Nagito, even Nagito seems to notice something’s off. Nagito does take the game from him, but his other hand also wavers near Hinata’s face. That hand hesitates before resting on his cheek.

Nagito’s touch is unsurprisingly pretty cold, but he also feels frail enough to snap between his fingers. Nagito searches his stare, and Hinata feels dead staring back, even as his eyes almost inevitably fall to Nagito’s mouth, parting and closing.

So pink. Up close, Nagito’s striking.

“Hinata-kun, um...” Open. Shut. Nagito chews on his lower lip. “Are you alright?”

Nagito had some pretty wide eyes, too. And they were such a weird color. Gray or green? He couldn’t tell and no matter how close he peered into those depths, it was—unclear. Nagito’s breath was warm despite how frozen he suddenly seemed. And a face like that—Hinata couldn’t help but lean in.

He’s kissed a couple of girls before. A couple of guys. Those were always hurried little pecks, too fearful and anxious to be daring. Here, Hinata presses and lingers, and Nagito remains frozen.

It’s soft. Surprisingly warm. It’s not—unpleasant to kiss his childhood friend like this. It’s not like Hinata hadn’t wanted to kiss him in the past.

And now?

Hinata pulls back, and Nagito’s cheeks are terribly flushed. Blinking, Hinata nearly choked, covering his mouth as he realized.

Now what the hell are we supposed to do?!

“N-Nagito, I... Sorry! Sorry, sorry! I just...!” Furiously ducking his head, Hinata groaned. “I don’t even know what I was thinking?”

“That...” Nagito rubs his lower lip. “That was my first kiss, you know.”

Shit.

“S-Sorry,” he helplessly repeated. “I won’t do it again.”

Nagito’s gaze flickers, strangely dazed.

“I don’t mind. Because—Hinata-kun is a dear friend of mine. Yeah. It’s only fair.” Nagito nodded firmly. “It’s only fair to repay that.”

Repay? I didn’t talk to you in the first place for a give and take. I talked to you because I felt sorry for you.

Hinata stood up and turned on his heel.

“Eh? Hinata-kun?”

“Just forget about it,” he snapped. “I’m not—if we were to get into a relationship, I don’t want it to be because you think it’s only fair. Fucking hell, Nagito, that’s now how relationships should be!” He whirled on him with a vicious scowl. “Just how fucking pitiable do you think I am?!”

Nagito went right back to gaping like a fish. Then, his lips were trembling as were his shoulders. Hinata felt the first stab of guilt, and it just made him all the more frustrated.

“I—I’m leaving. I’m sorry. I just. I need some time, Nagito.”

With that uninspired remark, he could only run away. Every pounding step, every pound of his heart, and Hinata realized his own tears had started flowing. Gritting his teeth, he cursed everything. The school, the main course, the reserve course, Nagito, and himself.

He was too ashamed to show his face to Komaeda Nagito the next day. So, he didn’t venture beyond the reserve course out of fear of running into him. He was a coward, through and through.

Nagito should’ve been the one to lose his temper. How shitty am I? I—I definitely do need to apologize more properly to him.

He thought that, and he sincerely felt that way. He just lacked the guts to pursue it. How lame.

How do you even make up something like that?

There wasn’t anyone to ask, even online. He really had fucked up. What was he going to do if Nagito decided he didn’t even want to look at him anymore?

Hey, what’s even the point of going on? What am I doing? Just what the hell am I doing?

There was—always that project—wasn’t there?

Isn’t that my only option?

The thought droned in his head, over and over. The oppressive figures of the Steering Committee, the gentle yet off-putting smile of the headmaster, the contract that would detail the end of his existence in no uncertain terms to begin anew—and then Nagito’s smiling face. His dearest, precious childhood friend. His Nagito, who won that godforsaken lottery and snatched up the last fucking chance Hinata had to become an Ultimate without resorting to something so serious as fucking brain surgery—

He was tempted to throw his own desk out the window to save the time of those who muttered and whispered maliciously behind his back. Although it’s not like it mattered. Who cared about what any of these fellow nobodies had to say? Who cared about them, who cared about the staff, who cared about the reserve course beyond as a fucking bank?

They were never destined for success. Why pretend otherwise.

Hinata slips out while the lesson is still ongoing. The teacher, broken and cynical as they are, doesn’t even pause to call him out. What a stupid waste of time all of this has been.

I want to scream. I really ought to scream.

He stepped outside, took in a deep breath, and he buried his face into his hands.

“...I’m so...tired of all of this. None of it matters, it’s not just exhausting—it’s tedious. It’s boring!”

It’s so exhausting and boring that he wants to laugh, as if that’ll summon even just the facsimile of glee. God, when was even the last time he was happy?

When did I get this fucking miserable?

Without thinking, Hinata passed the gates, ready to run and leave it all behind—except. There was someone waiting there. Someone who jumped at Hinata’s sudden appearance, and jerked to face him, gray-green eyes large and pale cheeks awash with color. Hinata stilled, except for his heart. His heart leapt.

“H... Hinata-kun.” Nagito’s lips pursed. “Did you leave class early?”

“When did you get here?” The question breaks through before Hinata can stop it. “Nagito, did you—were you—how long have you been here?”

“I came by a little early,” Nagito admitted. “Um, because I wanted to give myself time to formulate what to say to you when I...saw you. And so that I wouldn’t lose my nerve, I suppose. I-I wasn’t expecting for us to confront each other so soon.”

“Sorry,” Hinata said instinctively. Realizing, he swung his body down for a bow. “No, I’m really sorry! What I said the other day was awful! I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that—especially not after...after doing something...like that.”

“That?” Nagito parroted quietly, licking his lips. “I, aha, while it was a surprise, it wasn’t an unpleasant one. I’m sorry, too, Hinata-kun, for giving you the impression that I didn’t...like you. You’re a reserve, but you’re also my dearest friend. I wanted to make that clear, and I... I also wanted to warn you to be careful.”

Hinata stares at the floor.

“B-Be extra careful from now on!” Nagito stammered. “Try to be on the lookout for any falling vases, any crumbling bookshelves, any unsteady trees, any storms, any vehicles, any meteorites—! Just! Anything!”

Oh. Oh, Nagito.

“If something happened to you,” Nagito murmured. “It would truly be despairing, Hinata-kun. So, really I do think...it’d be better if we didn’t get too close.”

“Nagito,” he sighs, and his heart hurts. “You really couldn’t just reject me because I’m a reserve?”

“I can’t do that because you’re also Hinata-kun.” Nagito’s head ducked. “Even if you’re a reserve, you’re also Hinata-kun. And Hinata-kun is—important to me.”

He might be the only person who thinks that. He’s certainly the first person to say it. So, then, how the hell am I supposed to be okay with letting him go? If he leaves, I won’t have anything else. My only other option is—that. I might go for that anyway. And, when I do—

It’s not like even Nagito’s luck will matter anymore.

“You’re important to me, too,” Hinata said, because it’s true. He moves forward, hesitating but pushing on, wrapping his arms around the other. “So, even if it’s for a little while, can we stay together like this? I promise—it won’t be for long.”

“H-Hinata-kun...” Nagito stammers but he feebly returns the embrace, fragile in the circle of his arms. “Okay. Just because you’re Hinata-kun.”

It’s because I won’t be Hinata Hajime for much longer.

With that in mind and nothing to say because of it, Hinata squeezes his best friend tightly. For once, he can’t help but hope some part of him is left behind in the future.

For not just his sake—but for that of Komaeda Nagito as well.

#KomaHinaWeek2020 #nagito komaeda #hajime hinata #KomaHina #HinaKoma #Magi fics #I would say this one's probably the best thing I wrote for the week but I actually can't remember the other ones #I didn't even remember writing most of this while reading #Maybe that's why I like it idk

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cameoamalthea · 4 years

Text

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a 12 year who discovers facts about anatomy, must proceed to find dicks hilarious (How Jester Started Drawing Dicks)

Jester didn’t draw dicks when she was really little and did not graffiti them on her own bedroom wall. She’d started drawing them when she was a little over twelve years old. Which she remembers because it right after certain ‘bodily changes’ prompted ‘the talk’ about sex and stuff.

Like by that age Jester already knew some things about sex. Before she old enough to be left alone with any tutors Mama made sure she’d learned the names of the sexual parts of the body and body functions, along with knowing that she can decide who touches her and that, and that’s not OK for an adult or older person to touch a private part of your body for no reason and ask you to keep it a secret. The safety things.

Then like a few years after that, there were books about your body with facts about changes that would happen. The books didn’t really prepare her for how much periods hurt or how much blood there would be, and she thought it was really unfair that this was going to happen every month for the rest of her life. She’d only had once so far and thought that was enough, but maybe it was something you got used to. But Mama made sure there were teas to help with pain and fine chocolates delivered at least.

But she didn’t know all t he things, but since she had gotten her period it was time for ‘the talk’. Like the detailed talk, and another book which talked about stuff for the future like how babies were made and stuff. There was also an anatomy book that included all of the anatomy stuff. Like pictures of penises.

Now, when she’d first learned about the names of sexual parts of the body she’d discovered that penis was both a very fun word to say and a word you weren’t supposed to say. The fact everyone looked uncomfortable when she said it made it funnier to say it. Since Mama not to just say it she’d made a game of seeing exactly how loudly she could get away with saying it without being overheard by which her tutors did not appreciate.

Still, the fact remained, ‘penis’ was a funny word. And when she got a book with pictures of a penis she decided they looked funny too.

The next time her best friend stopped by the play she grinned mischievously at him and said, “Hey, do you want to know how to draw a cat?” Then she handed him her sketchbook with instructions that were the steps to draw a penis, a picture of a penis labeled body, and then add details which resulted in a drawing that was still like a penis but with cat things on it like a face, ears, legs, tail. She drew several different views of a cat, always with a picture of a penis first. (Pictures on AO3)

His face went bright red and he turned away, not even looking at her. She started giggling uncontrollably.

“What?” she teased, “You must have seen a penis since you’re like a boy.”

“Ginny,” he hissed ( it was before she’d picked her name name) His voice was strained and somewhere between flustered and uncomfortable. “that’s not something you talk about though, not at this age anyway and boys shouldn’t talk with girls about and where did you even-”

“ What? I have an anatomy book. You know? Like with pictures and stuff. And I think this funny,” she said. Then she paused, her smile and defensiveness faded when she realized that she might have crossed a line. “I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make you look at the penis if you don’t want to. Even if it is really a picture of a cat.”

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her. “It’s actually pretty funny.”

“Yeah, and like if we draw cats like this no will even know they’re looking at penithes- penisesth.” She stumbles over the word, lisping. “Peen-is-is”

“You can just say dicks,” he said.

She looked at him confused for a second and then her eyes widened with understanding and she grinned deviously. He’d taught her a bad word. She liked learning words she wasn’t supposed to say, like fuck. She’d overheard that one once and then there was a lecture about words you shouldn’t say. She liked them though.

Words like ‘fuck’ seemed really honest, you know? The kind of thing you should use when you really mean it (she’d first overheard it when someone walking back from the bar while also watching her mama sing had tripped and spilled his drink everywhere). She couldn’t wait to teach it to the Traveler, but he said he knew lots of words you weren’t supposed to say and when she asked her what they were he said he might teach her when she’s older. She’d flicked his nose.

“Ok, then dicks!” she said and grinned at him mischievously. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell mama you told me.” Honestly, she’d stopped talking to mama about him so much since she was a bit old for imaginary friends and she wasn’t sure her mama would believe that she had a totally real but super magical best friend.

He returned her grin and snickered as she giggled. Dicks were hilarious.

#jester lavorre #The traveler #Artagan

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jimlingss · 5 years

Note

Request for one of my favorite writers~ An apocalypse au with any member of your choice that you think would fit the best! Maybe the mc needs to make a choice to either save the person they love or an important person they hate (up to you really!). A story about the end of the world is always a great medium for angst haha

↳ The Crumbling World of You and I

1.9k words || 99% Angst, 1% Fluff || Apocalypse!AU || Park Jimin

Warning: Mention of suicide

It’s better to pretend that you’re dead.

Even if you’re not, the game of imitation is the only means of survival. Try not to not be seen by others. Try not to breathe too loudly. Try to not eat too much. Try not to make too much noise. Sometimes you’d like to think that you’d be better off being actually dead. The contemplation of ending this misery is appealing on dark nights cowering in the shadows with your stomach gurgling from starvation. But your stubbornness won’t let you. You’ve made it this far — while there’s no end in sight, all your efforts and every sacrifice would be a waste if you took a bullet to your head. Not yet, at least. You can’t die just yet. You can’t die until you see him die. “There’s no food, but I found this.” He tosses you a box that you catch instinctively. It’s torn and muddy, but you find three bandages inside that your pocket with a hum. “We might starve again tonight.” Your boots are silent against the floor and you grasp your knife tightly as you round the corner, peeking over the counter. When you find nothing there, you release your held breath. “We could head to the forest. Kill a bird.” “They’ll see the smoke from the fire. It’s too risky to go back.” You turn on your heel. “So you think staying in the city is any better, Jimin? Who’s fucking fault is it anyways that they’re looking for us?! I told you that I didn’t trust them, but you didn’t listen.” “What’s done is done.” “We could’ve died.” “Well we didn’t,” he counters. “I’m sorry to say that. So what do you want to do?” There’s a drawn silence and your teeth grits. “There’s a preschool down the street I saw on our way here. There might be something there. If not, we can camp out there. It looked relatively untouched.” Jimin follows closely behind you. “Nothing’s untouched.” “Yeah, well it’s our fucking best bet, so shut your mouth.” The two of you leave through the backdoor of the pharmacy, quiet and slinking down behind fences and bushes. You’re not afraid of the dead as you are of the living. Those that pillage and steal, who serve their self-interest and would happily hold a gun to your skull and enjoy hearing your screams as they’d rip your limbs from your sockets and cook them for you to eat. There’s a lot of sick fucks left in this world. Those that were sane have turned crazy. That includes you. After so many years of chaos and destruction, your thoughts have turned to dark places. Especially when you have to look at Jimin. And those places have taken permanent residences in your mind. You’re huddled down, about to run over to the next car to shield yourself from the light, but Jimin extends his arm. He holds you back. “What the hell do you think—” “Shush.” He puts a finger to his mouth. Jimin grabs a pebble by his foot and chucks it in the opposite direction. A zombie you didn’t see cranes his neck around and begins to lurch towards the noise. The boy nods to you, and you swallow hard, continuing. It’s not difficult to get down the block, and you take a moment to look at the graffiti on the walls, the last messages of people begging for help. Cars have been abandoned, windows broken, ivy and moss beginning to grow all over the walls. The city is decaying, but it’s not a new sight to you. The pink walls of the preschool have turned into a muddy shade, playground abandoned and filled with the ghost of children. You don’t dwell, easily prying open the barricaded door. The hallway is dark, but with the little light coming in, you’re able to notice the school pictures framed in a row on the wall. They’re of kids gathered together in front of the school before the war, three to five year olds with pink, cherub cheeks and mischievous smiles, grinning and unaware. They’re probably all dead. Jimin notices that you’re staring at the photographs and hesitates. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” you answer sharply, turning away. He nods. “I’ll check the staff room then.” You enter a classroom nearby, making sure to throw another pebble that you have in your pocket to the center of the room. When nothing comes crawling out, you take a sigh of relief. The windows are covered with planks, desks fallen over, papers sprawled all over the ground. Contrastingly, the white board has scribbles of flowers and happy faces. The drawings are sloppy to show the inexperience of holding markers. You walk to the teacher’s desk as you slot your knife onto your belt, shifting to open the drawers. They’re empty, except for a small pair of scissors that you keep in your hands. But as you open the bottom drawer, you find a wooden frame. It’s another picture. This time of a woman and her child — a four year old that reminds you of someone. Someone with rounded eyes and lopsided lips, that held your hand with their small fingers. It’s been a year, but it still hurts like a bitch. You release a staggering exhale, feeling your eyes sting before you put the photo face down where it belongs and close the drawer as if noting happened. There’s the sound of footsteps that follow, but it doesn’t put you on alert. It’s familiar and constant. Jimin appears with a can in his hand. “It’s beans. Past the expiration, but still looks good.” It remains quiet and he reads the expression on your face. “What’s wrong?” “There’s a lot of fucking shit wrong.” You brush past him, but he grabs your wrist. “Well then tell me. We’re a team.” As if his touch burns, you shove his hands off of you. “Let me make this perfectly clear with you, we’re not a fucking team.” “Then what are we?” “I don’t fucking know. It doesn’t even fucking matter, alright? We just so happen to be together.” You step closer to him. “But believe me, the chance I get, I’ll leave you behind. Don’t think for a second that I have your back and that I’ll protect you, Jimin. You’re on your own.” “Is this because of your sister?” Your blood runs cold. “Don’t fucking talk about her.” “You know I didn’t mean to.” He moves to face you again. “I didn’t mean…” “I told you not to fucking talk about it! What don’t you understand?!” You grab the collar of his jacket, shaking him with your trembling fists. Jimin puts his hands over yours, searching your expression desperately and he whispers— “I’m sorry, Y/N.” “Well sorry doesn’t bring her back, does it?!” you scream until blood curdles at the back of your throat. You punch his chest hard with your fists, like beating a dead horse. “You let her die. You left my sister to die. A fucking four year old. I told you to watch her and you knew she couldn’t run with her fucked leg and you left her behind! You cold — hearted — bastard.” You’re hyperventilating, jaw clenched, knuckles turned white. The fucked world didn’t harden you. It taught you how to savour your anger and sadness, and use it to find the will to live. “You killed her.” There’s thumping. Growling. Broken feet sprinting. You let Jimin go, stumbling back. One of them comes through the door, maggots on its face, eyes bulging, thrashing at him. Jimin turns around and with his body weight, stabs his knife through its skull. But he’s unable to pull the dull blade back out. It’s stuck in the crevices and he’s shoved down as its arms try to maul his own face. Jimin kicks it back. “Y/N!” You cup your ears, close your eyes, curl up in the corner. Please. If there’s a god out there — you pray for the first time in a long time — let him die. Jimin grabs a ruler on the ground, right in fingertips’ reach and he slams it at the zombie’s skull, hard enough that it’s stick through. The creature shrieks horrifically, and he takes the chance to tackle it down, getting a grip on the handle of his knife again. He pulls out and stabs once more, blood splattering all over his clothes like it’s just paint. But another creature follows the noise and comes through the door — the size of a small child sprinting in bloodlust. Jimin’s still on the ground, vulnerable as he finishes off the other. And he’s brought the floor again by the child turned dead, his knife once again stuck in the other one’s brain. He scrambles, tries to push it off as it crawls up his body. But the zombie’s nails have sunk itself into his jacket. “Y/N!” Jimin screams. And then it’s silent. The zombie stops shrieking. Blood sprays across his cheeks. His eyes are blinded, catching the sunlight that bleeds through the wooden planks of the window and reflects against the scissor’s blades. With both hands, you stab through the back of the child’s skull, again and again. It rolls off of him and you continue to spear the small scissors at its head. Ramming it until your arms are aching. Until the blade feels dull. Piercing until the bones and brain tissue feels like minced meat. “Where’s mom and dad?” — “I want to go home.” — “Y/N, I’m scared. I don’t want to die.” It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. She was only four years old. She only had you. She was your own family left. And yet, you left her behind — you dared to entrust her to a stranger. She thought you were going to save her and she waited. She waited for you to come back, but you didn’t. You were the one to leave her behind. Jimin gets up, watching sobs break through your frame. You can hear the child’s shrieks, your sister’s, and you try to kill it. Try to get it to be quiet. Try to make it return to its grave. “Stop. Y/N.” You scream through gritted teeth, only shocked out of it when you feel arms wrap around your body. The bloodied scissors are taken from your grasp and you collapse next to the corpse. Jimin quickly embraces you, something he usually wouldn’t have the audacity to do, but he’s still a warm body that feels nice against your dirty skin. “Why can’t you just die?” The real question is why you can’t let Jimin die. “I’m sorry,” Jimin murmurs. The two of you are bloody and disgusting, but you’ve gotten used to the iron scent. It’s comforting. It means that you killed it, and that you’ve lived. “I hate you,” you tell him, having never felt hatred so deep in your stomach before. “So much.” “I know,” he tries to comfort you and it’s a futile attempt. “When the time comes, I’ll let you kill me.” But despite his promise, you know you wouldn’t feel better even after his death. Maybe Jimin knows that too. No amount of retribution can make you feel better, can make it easier to sleep at night. You can’t let him die. You only have each other now.

#Requests 2019 #bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin scenario #BTS Zombie AU #jimin angst #peachdragonrecs #the second of twelve requests!!#i've never tried my hands at a zombie apocalypse AU before #so this was fun

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