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theclaravoyant · 7 months

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AN ~ For @fictober-event’s Fictober 2023 prompt: “Give me that, before anything happens.” Set during S2, written after airing of ep.3. SPOILERS FOR EPS 1-3. Masterpost of my Fictober OFMD fics

Also tangentially inspired by @adickaboutspoons beard meta. Lucius shaves his beard. Angst, Hurt/Comfort.

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death Characters/Relationships: Lucius Spriggs, Lucius x Black Pete Tags/Content Warnings: Suicidal Ideation Mention

Help

If there’s one thing he’s grateful for, Lucius thinks, about Stede fucking Bonnet and his stupid fucking ship right now, it’s that the self-important asshole had thought to give the crew a bathroom with a lockable door. It has a sink and a mirror. A sink he grasps onto as tight as he can, until his knuckles clench white around the handle of the razor, and he forces himself to look his own eyes in the mirror.

He hates the way he looks now. The way struggle and starvation like he’d never known have withered and aged him. He’s too… hard. He almost looks like a pirate. Perhaps he was always going to - perhaps this life was going to beat him down and sharpen his edges eventually. He’s not naive enough to think otherwise. He just thought maybe it would happen more gradually. Or that he would die young. Most of them did after all.

Most of all he hates the beard.

It reminds him of the dog. Did you know they’re clipped that way so the rats will bite the hair instead of their faces when they- when they-

Bile rises in his throat and finally his eyes fall away from his accursed reflection to squeeze shut as he throws up in the sink. It’s been months now, but he can still taste it.

There’s a knock at the door.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yeah.” He curses himself. It’s so strangled and wavy it’s easily got to be the least convincing thing he’s ever said.

“D’you want some help?”

Fuck no, he doesn’t want help. Not from Pete who can’t - who shouldn’t - see him like this. He couldn’t do that to him. God, he’s such a mess.

And he still hasn’t answered.

“Babe?”

The knock comes again, though it’s less light-knuckle-rapping and more full-handed-slap. He can sense the bristling worry, mirroring the anxiety in himself, and he tries to say something but no or even yes allude him. Before he knows it, Pete’s smashed his shoulder against the door and is staggering into the room, his big eyes looking all worried and zeroing in on Lucius immediately and suddenly he’s feeling all sorts of something and it gives him the - surprise? strength? - to unclench his white knuckles from the porcelain and turn toward him with trembling hands.

“Babe?” he squeaks, pathetic and panicking. Pete rushes in to embrace him, holding him steady until the world starts to feel more solid around him. He needs it as much as Lucius does, if his hammering heartbeat is anything to go by, but after a minute he gathers himself and pries them apart enough that he can look Lucius in his definitely-not-weeping eyes. (Oh, who’s he kidding).

“Give me that, before anything happens,” he insists gently, prying the razor from Lucius’ hands. He frowns down at it, a dark thought occurring to him belatedly. “What were you doing with it, anyway?”

“Oh, no- babe, I was just going to shave. I swear.”

He’s still wary. There’s been a lot of the other thing going around recently. “I thought you liked the beard?”

“Fuck no.” He swallows down the taste of bile. “It’s just… not me.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

The things they’ve still left unspoken pass between them in a long look. Finally, Pete decides to offer the razor back. It rests between them on his open hand. Lucius tries to convince himself to take it, but his own hand shakes violently and he shoves it down by his side and tries to smother it in -

“I mean it’s something new. I could get used to it. You said you like it, right?”

This time, Pete doesn’t take his word for it.

“Only if you like it, babe. If you want it gone then so do I.”

Oh, fuck yes he wants it gone. He wants to rip it off and burn it. Unfortunately that’s not how facial hair works.

He takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore how strangled and snot-filled it sounds. He feels so weak. He feels so loved.

“Okay then.” Pete takes a deep breath for both of them. He moves away, but only for a second, and only just enough to take the brush dipped in shaving cream from where it rests on the basin. He laves it gently down the side of Lucius’ face, and gets to work.

#fictober23 #lucius spriggs #lucius x black pete #lucius x pete #ofmd #our flag means death #my beloveddddddd #this fictional character is having a hard time #ofmd s2 #ofmd spoilers #clara's fic tag

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thefiresofpompeii · 12 days

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the ninth doctor trusted rose enough to believe she would stay with him after his face changed. and twelve took some convincing but towards the end of deep breath accepted that clara would stay by his side no matter how old he looked. but thirteen was so used to losing people. her previous self had loved clara and lost her, he had looked after bill and failed to save her, he had tried to redeem missy and (to his knowledge) lost that cause too. no wonder she wouldn’t trust yaz to stay for her fourteenth face. no wonder she believed she ‘had to do this next part alone’. she had grown quietly distant with the new knowledge that she was no longer even an ordinary gallifreyan, not something of this universe, but outside of it, alien even to the aliens. isolated and inaccessible, standing on an invisible pedestal her ancestors placed her on — a pedestal that more resembled a cage. glass walls on all sides like the forced regeneration chamber. thin glass wall between her and yaz now, transparent but too solid to break through. harder than azbantium when there’s no solid footing to stand on.

of course yaz would run when she saw her new self. of course she would leave. companions would never stay now, they would never fully understand. when thirteen said that she would need to do ‘this next part’ alone, by ‘next part’ she meant ‘the rest of her (potentially eternal) life’. it’s the classic gambit: push the one you love away before they get the chance to reject you. because they always will, now. either that or they die in horrible circumstances. better to flee like you’ve always done.

this is why the bigeneration was a narrative necessity, why the giggle was the perfect vision of a positive finale. the original version of the doctor gets to settle down with people that he won’t lose. people that he won’t turn away from. people whose hearts he won’t inevitably break. he’s sitting there in the back yard and he’s not going anywhere…

…yet somewhere out there in sheffield lives a police officer named yazmin khan. she’s not all sunshine and rainbows — all cops are bastards, after all. sometimes she takes her nameless rage out on a shoplifting suspect. sometimes she hands a parking ticket to a kid that didn’t deserve it. and sometimes she does genuine good for the community, sometimes she goes to the club and dances with strangers, sometimes she sits on the sofa and watches a documentary about space exploration and laughs at the painful inaccuracies. and many miles south, the doctor spends time with his family, but he’ll never get the courage to visit her. because she’d want to run away with him again. and he could never give her that, not anymore. anything but running.

yazmin khan loved the universe in the eyes of her doctor. oh, that doctor in the garden? the stay-at-home-doctor? he’s brilliant, but he would never be enough for her. his presence would never replace the cosmic vistas and myriads of stars thirteen gave her. and she’s never coming back

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milflewis · 10 months

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sewis & 9 <3

[9: in public]

They had a plan. A very well thought out and researched and detailed plan. It was one of their best moments of communication, Lewis likes to think. They had talked it over and over and over, across the kitchen table, in between pillows, through countless of text messages and voice memos and emails. Sebastian had wrote it on the back of a receipt at one point. Their families had already known and Lewis’s team had been briefed.

They had a plan.

It goes out of the window when Lewis steps off the podium after winning his ninth championship, one more race to go before he retires, and there’s that feeling of winning in his fingers, shakey with relief and exhaustion, shot clean through with adrenaline.

The champagne that Fernando tried to spray into his eyes is running sticky down his neck and back, fireproofs thin with sweat. Sebastian is waiting for him at the entrance to the Mercedes garage, t-shirt loose around all of him, trousers cuffed at the ends. His shoes are terrible. His hair is tucked back behind his ears and Lewis is about 96% sure he still isn’t using the conditioner he gave him.

“Sebastian,” Lewis says, stopping still. It normally doesn’t take this much of him to quieten but he is so full with it all that he feels it might wreck him.

Sebastian smiles, wide, and only says, “Go on then. I suppose you did win.”

The crowds around them muffle when Lewis kisses him, holding him close by the hips, the other hand on his chin, thumb hooked under his jaw. Sebastian laughs into his mouth, fingers gentle in his hair.

#manifesting 🙏🙏🙏#sewis #kiss fic prompt ask game #clara tag #niamh.asks

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boxofthings · 5 months

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Originally was gonna write 09 soaproach angst but decided to fulfill this request that was sent months ago (anon I'm so sorry but if you're still around I hope you enjoy!)

This was heavily inspired by THIS art post by @miilkybnn (it hurts me deeply)

09 ghostsoaproach for all you masochists :)

Read on AO3

-- -- --

He can feel the painful snap of his fingernails underneath gloves that claw desperately into rust. The roof tile comes away from the sudden pressure of his weight.

There's heavy smoke in his lungs, and if the universe had given him an extra ounce of precious time, maybe he'd let the smell funnel down into his stomach, imagining for just a moment that it tasted like Villa Clara's.

His heart races as the hand that shoots out for him falls short by mere inches, and his body drops to the ground in a blackened hush.

It doesn't help that their worried voices screech into his shock-delirious brain as he comes to. If he were a less determined man, he'd stay right where he was, admit defeat and fall right back into that blissful, unconscious nothing.

"Roach!"

But he's not. Because despite his wounds, his defeats, his lack of a weapon, and the sheer absurdity of his chances of survival—he wants to live.

And if not that, then at least he wishes hopelessly to have a sendoff with blue and brown eyes to watch over him like guardian angels.

He pulls himself to his feet, limbs screaming at him for mercy, and he runs like it'll be the last time he ever will, and it just might well be.

Bullets and their casings fly through the air like deadly confetti, and Roach can only push forward as the captain's poignant concern rings deep in his ears.

He's probably been shot—multiple times likely, but there's a red over his mind that pumps wild adrenaline through his body. He wonders if, from the safety of the carrier, he must look like a madman.

"Thirty seconds! We're runnin' on fumes here!"

If he makes it out of this, if he lives to tell the tale, this'll be one hell of a conversation starter—one for the history books, that's for sure.

His chest is beginning to burn, and he can feel the familiar, dreadful indication that his legs are starting to drag like stones.

Not yet.

The only thing that keeps his blood boiling with stubborn life is what awaits for him on that carrier, no doubt with bated breaths and mirrored anxieties.

Fifteen seconds.

Blades slice the air of the sky in pulsating waves; each gust feels like it hits Roach harder as he hangs onto his last drop of fuel like a fraying rope.

So close.

Sliding down the debris of the favelas, each bump another bruise to his body, he can only think of how hard he'll collapse after and if he makes that final leap.

"Jump for it!"

With his tank nearly empty, he musters the remaining energy he has and jumps with his whole heart in his throat. The murky waters below will not be as merciful as the ground of militia-ridden streets.

His fingers make jarred contact with the ladder of the carrier, and he clings to it with heaving breaths that rattle his entire body. In his ear, he hears the sharp intake of a gasp as Nikolai flies them further away from the chaos of gunfire.

He's alive. And he's damn well feeling it if his aching bones and bleeding flesh have anything to say for it.

As soon as he's dragged into the opening of the Pave Low, a deadly grip yanks him into a shuttering embrace.

The lieutenant says nothing at first, only holding him with a restlessness typically reserved for dying men.

"Fuckin' hell."

Fucking hell's right. He falls into Ghost's solid weight with laboured limbs and a pounding heart. If, from now on, the captain decides to bench him for his deficiency in acrobatics, he's not so sure he'll protest.

Behind him, he can feel how Soap's eyes pierce scrutinizing daggers into his back, and he fears the tongue-lashing he'll receive as soon as he turns around.

But when he finally releases from Ghost's arms and meets icy blues, there's a pause in the air from the silence that meets him.

Mouth set in a grim line, fists clenched at his sides, the captain is the epitome of tension. As he watches Roach longer with that look of grievance, his head hangs, shaking it frustratingly and turning away to speak to Nikolai.

Roach can't help how his heart drops down to his stomach, shame pooling hotly down his throat.

The post-adrenaline rush makes his head float, and he's not too certain he didn't earn a concussion from that fall. A shaky exhale takes with it the muscles that keep him standing, and all of a sudden, he feels the brittleness of his bones.

"Bug," Ghost says, hand intertwining with his, pulling him down gently to sit next to him.

Roach acquiesces easily, slumping down like a sack of flour.

His lieutenant holds his hand tighter, and Roach leans his head on the older's shoulder.

Despite this victory, he can't help but feel the looming fear of what will come next. His injuries hurt terribly, but he's content to sit like this for just a little bit, pretending for just a moment that everything will be okay.

– – –

The safe house they hunker down in becomes blanketed in a constricted silence as they wait for US forces to transfer them to their next location.

The captain ushers him to the kitchen, first aid kit supplies already splayed out on the table.

Roach feels the beginnings of a timer go off in the space between them.

His commanding officers bracket him, dabbing saline into his wounds and applying gauze over the reds that spread across his skin.

It's only when Soap begins to wrap bandages around his middle does the air around them suddenly freeze into a tangible outrage.

"You bloody fool," he hisses, fingers ripped away from the bandages and digging urgently into the flesh of his arms.

Beside him, Ghost goes still.

"Just how many jumps are you going to miss until it kills you?"

There it is, the bated agony that masks itself as scorn—the dam Roach had been anticipating to burst any minute since he'd made contact with that ladder.

There's anger in the air that feels sharp and critical, but Roach can't fight against it because the underlayer of that deadly heat swirls a deep, visceral anguish. Fear that threatens to rip them apart right through the heart.

"I-" his wretched throat scratches out. There are words he wants to say out loud, words that his captain and lieutenant deserve to hear, but that burn on his tongue trickles deep into his larynx, and it renders him quiet, like a pathetic coward in the face of blame.

"I'm sorry," his hands finish for him, fingers never heavier. And he watches as the captain's face falls so awfully, how the lieutenant turns away like he can't bear to watch him any longer.

Is this what they are doomed to be? Three lovers trapped in a perpetual cycle of fear and loathing, trapped in an echo chamber of a cacophonous "who will be next?"

There are no words to ease their ailing minds because, at the end of the day, who knows if and when they'll become lies?

A sigh. The hands gripped so tightly around his arms drop defeatedly.

Soap wordlessly exits the room, leaving Roach with a heavy tongue of unspoken atonements. The unfinished wrap of bandages feels like it scalds his skin.

Ghost looks back at him, eyes crushing but quietly soft, something only reserved for Roach and the captain.

He takes up the space Soap had emptied and continues where the other had left off, holding the bandages with sure hands.

"He's just worried," Ghost says as soon as the wrap is secured, helping him slowly put on his shirt.

Roach can't muster the will to look Ghost in the eye, which is a first for them.

The other takes both his hands into his, urging Roach's gaze to land on him.

"Just–be more careful, yeah?"

The fingers that smooth over his battered hands shake like there's an all-consuming dread that threatens to spill right out of every pore.

In a second, they retreat, replaced instead by the warmth of a full body wrapped around him in a desperate embrace.

"You have no idea how it felt, watching it all from the Pave Low."

It's so rare to hear his lieutenant speak so weakly. Such a voice did not suit Ghost, or perhaps it did, as how else were battered and spent soldiers meant to sound? But Roach did not like knowing he was the cause for it.

"You're one hell of a fighter, bug."

So are you, he wants to say, but he knows Ghost won't care for it.

It's not just the sheer, dumb luck that keeps him alive. It's the two men he found at the wrong and right time, in the midst of a war that offers them no comforting promises for the future, but also bringing a lightness at a time where his life had never felt so dark.

He doesn't want to lose this.

He sees a small grin begin to imprint on the lieutenant's balaclava.

At the arch of Roach's brow, he chuckles minutely.

"It's just funny, 'innit? How the roles 'ave swapped." Ghost's eyes crinkle in soft reminiscence. "Years ago, it would've been me stormin' out that door."

Roach mirrors his smile. He remembers the start of it all, how the captain had so readily accepted Roach's affections, open and carefree, before the stakes of war had tipped so precariously to where it was now.

"Probably be needin' me to swoop in and save yer arse wherever we go," the captain had said after Roach had bashfully pressed cold lips to warm ones in an impulsive confession of love.

It was so easy to talk to Soap, as he was everything Roach had strived to be and more. A stable force in his life that made him feel nearly invincible.

And Ghost...well, he was much the opposite, almost averse to that same tenderheartedness that had won over the captain.

He remembers how he got shot, pushing the lieutenant out of harm's way, how the lieutenant had screamed at him once they arrived back on base, how Soap had held him back, and how distraught Roach had felt once he'd stormed out the room, a sizzling anger that took Roach weeks to understand was, in reality, fear.

It's so strange to look back on now, to envision a Ghost who was so pent up with wrath it followed him wherever he went.

It makes him realize how much has changed—is still changing.

Ghost takes off his sunglasses, and like this, Roach can stare into pretty browns that gaze at him lovingly.

"Back then, I just never knew how to express my damn emotions."

Roach brings the lieutenant's face closer to him, kissing slowly regardless of the fabric that separates them.

"You do now, though," Roach signs when they break apart.

Ghost eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Only for you two."

– – –

Ghost had shooed him away when he tried to help clean up the mess of bloodied cotton balls and scattered gauze pads.

He'd taken this as his sign to seek out the captain. Pushing the door to the only bedroom slowly, like a child in worry of waking their parents.

Soap sits on the edge of the bed, hands clamped together with his head hung low—lost in turbulent thought. It shoots right up at the creak of the door hinge.

For a moment, neither man knows what to say, Roach shuffling closer till the older has to look up at him.

When he opens his mouth, the captain's arms shoot up to drag the sergeant down onto his lap in the tightest hug he's ever received from the other.

"God, you're so stupid," he whispers, head burying deep into Roach's chest as if he wanted to be merged with it. "Why'd I get assigned such a dafty for a sergeant?"

A melancholic lilt seeps to his lips as he rests his cheek on Soap's head.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, as sincere as his love is true.

Soap's head lifts, hands flying to Roach's face, and he can see the desperate ache in those eyes.

"Don't be sorry, you oaf. You nearly died." The crack in the captain’s voice strikes a chord so deep in Roach’s chest that it almost makes him cry.

There's a weight that sits like a thousand marble statues on the captain's shoulders, and with each passing day, Roach sees as that load drags heavier behind him.

"Funny how history repeats itself. First mission with my captain, nearly falling to my death. First mission as captain with my sergeant doing the exact same."

He'd said it right after their first stint in Kazakhstan.

It was meant as a jest to lighten the post-haze of a near-death experience, but Roach had seen the slight cynicism in the captain's eyes that he had yet to pick apart.

Weeks later, he'd sit outside the base during the quiet of the night, with MacTavish's cigar flicking soft light into the darkness, and understand, for the first time, that the captain was just a man, just like him. A soldier with burdens like everyone else.

"With every man that I lose on a mission is another ghost that haunts me when I go to sleep."

"It's not your fault," the sergeant had said then, and meant it earnestly, because how could Captain John MacTavish—the man who'd jump after you if you fell into a pool of molten lava if it meant even the slightest chance of saving you—ever be to blame for the death of a soldier?

But it was more than just that. It was the spectre of a past mentor, one that left daunting footsteps to fill that Soap had fought with every breath to satiate with justice.

It had made the beast of a man before him appear so painfully human, and Roach had only yearned for him more because of it.

Now, as they hold each other, Roach can see how that weight must feel like the most crippling force. And he knows how deeply every failure hits the other like real bullets.

When he'd nearly drifted off in the Pave Low, he'd caught the tail-end of a hushed exchange between Ghost and Soap. Voices tense, waiting to snap any minute.

"I couldn't catch him," the captain had muttered, broken off and deprecating.

Soap picks at the hem of Roach's shirt, inhaling sharply when he sees the bandage peek out.

"One day," he starts, and it's melancholic yet intimate like Soap had thought of it a million times. "There'll be a mission where I won't be there to catch you."

Roach frowns, seeing that familiar burden of responsibility that the captain readily throws onto his shoulders.

"It's not your job to."

Fists clench around his shirt.

"Yes, it is," he says fiercely. "If not as your captain, then-"

His mouth hangs open, words caught in the emptiness of the air around them, and Roach can't bear to look at that awful anguish in Soap's eyes.

Then as someone who loves you.

It makes his chest hurt how easy it all was before—or maybe not easy, but how much less consequential their actions meant back then—when their love had only been labelled as one-off jokes, when the task force wasn't stretched so thin and smaller than when it had started. When Roach could say he cared for someone and not have to worry whether they'd disappear to ash the next day.

"I'm sorry," Roach offers instead, "for making you worry." It feels like it's all he can say.

The smile he receives is bittersweet, but it's such a rarity nowadays to see anything happier. Even so, he wishes he could fix it—to smooth out those worry lines that make the other look so haggard.

The captain tilts his head, surging tentatively to capture Roach's lips in his own, and the kiss makes him think of everything that defines their relationship.

When rough lips touch his own, it's so familiar, like the nostalgia of a home that exists only in his mind. The tang of cigars and the bitterness of Earl Grey tea. How does he even begin to describe how intrinsically this love has changed him?

Such small things that he previously couldn't have cared less about now mean everything to him. And it makes him notice all the things that only he is meant to notice.

Like how Ghost prepares coffee in the mornings, despite preferring tea, all because the captain and himself once mentioned they only slightly prefer it to the latter.

Like how Soap begrudgingly supplies the base with that shitty off-brand version of Earl Grey that Ghost, for some reason, likes so much.

Like how when the lieutenant or sergeant go to bed aching, there's an unsuspecting bottle of painkillers and water glasses on their nightstands that they don't remember leaving there.

Like how little aspects of himself change to become a little bit more like the ones he loves.

Despite preferring coffee, he thinks he'd choose tea over it now.

And every time the captain offers out a cig, Roach easily declines because there's a much better way for him to enjoy the taste.

Every kiss they share is one that could be their last. So Roach savours every minute of it, commits to memory the feel of Soap's hands on his waist, the way the other breathes heavily as their lips intertwine in a longing embrace, the heat that emanates between them because the other is a living space heater, the way how every time, without fail, the touch of Soap's lips makes his heart soar like a teenage girl's on prom night.

I love you, he mouths against the other, and even though his soundless words disappear into the air, at least he knows the universe will bear witness to this truth.

"My sergeant," the captain purrs adoringly, and it makes the blood rush faster in his veins. "Just don't know when to die, do you?"

Their foreheads touch, an unspoken moment of peace between them that they pretend will keep them safe.

They know that today, they are alive, but tomorrow may not bring such luck.

The arms around his middle move to his thighs as Soap stands up abruptly, hoisting Roach up with him and moving towards the side of the bed.

Roach grins, wrapping strong arms around the captain's neck, even as he's laid down on soft sheets.

Soap pulls him till they're flush together, with Roach's back to his chest, and the older snakes an arm around his front, resting a hand atop Roach's heart.

"Just to make sure you're still alive by mornin'," Soap had joked the first time he did it. But it was after Roach had taken a nasty stab to the lung, and the captain's fixation with feeling for his heartbeat had not been lost on the sergeant at all.

"In pain?" he asks softly into the crook of the Roach's neck.

The younger shakes his head, exhaling soft exasperation.

"Sorry. Just can't help but worry."

Roach knows how that feels.

He lets his eyes droop to a close, letting his hand climb atop Soap's, intertwining them so that they lock together solidly on his steady pulse.

He breathes in the captain's grounding, pine scent and hopes with every fibre of his being that they'll be okay in the morning—that after this shitstorm passes, they'll make it out the other end only slightly dishevelled.

He always did have plans to introduce Soap and Ghost to his family one day.

– – –

Later, with his mind drowsy and battling the final drops of wakefulness, he'll feel the bed dip beside him along with Ghost's hushed "All good?" and the captain's answering kiss that calms the lieutenant's concern.

He'll lay in bed, held by two people he loves with all his heart, who love him just the same, and he'll thank the world for granting him this rare moment of tranquillity.

Tomorrow, they'll be extracted for their next operation. They'll break into the gulag and find whoever this prisoner is that Makarov hates so much, and who knows what will happen?

But until then, Roach will sleep, knowing that the two things important to him are safe next to him.

– – –

Brown eyes hidden behind a screen of shade, and Roach wishes he could rip them off.

His body aches, as does his heart.

Price's shouts carry over his earpiece, and he can't help but feel bitter.

He wishes to hear his captain's voice one last time, wishes for once in his life, Simon didn't wear those blasted sunglasses. He wishes, so pathetically, that it didn't end like this, with one piece of himself dead beside him and the other miles away.

His mind grasps at threads, trying to find comfort in the gaps where pain has not yet sullied.

Despite how lonely he feels, staring at the face of an already dead lover, he'll thank any God above that he'll join him soon, that at least two of them are adjoined, even in death.

In a way, all three of them are together, connected by a commlink that spans the entire distance of their longing, like a tether.

It's such a sad, desperate pull at a sliver of comfort, but it quiets Roach's aching chest just a little.

There's the tang of Earl Grey tea leaves on his tongue, and as he closes his eyes for the last time, he can imagine that the smoke that suffocates his lungs tastes like Villa Clara's.

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bearw-me · 4 hours

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This is kinda dark so if you don't wanna do it it's cool. Can I request Carmilla running into a son reader? [Years before she had her daughters she had a son but she was too strict/serious on her boy which led to him...taking his own life. The experience made Carmilla realize she mightve been too hard on him so when hid sisters come around she showers them with love] The reader thinks carmilla is going to scold him, scream at him or anything but she just hugs him hard and tells him she's sorry and that she loves him

i'd like to put my author's note up here before you guys read what i wrote/make a little disclaimer!

TW: mentions of harm

I wouldn't write the act, per-se, but i had absolutely no problem with your request because it doesn't really involve those details (fic wise) this one is mostly about comfort and a nice reunion!

just before you go, know your best-friend mal is always here for you <3 this and every other fic i write is my silent love-letter to you

𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐆𝐨 — 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

𐐒 includes : carmilla carmine x son!reader, odette, clara 𐐒 cw : angst, hugs, kisses, comfort 𐐒 summary : after a few decades in hell, you decide it's time to stop putting it aside and visit your mother for the first time since you've appeared in hell. as anxious as you are, she receives your visit with open arms. 𐐒 word count : 1.1 k

The metal body of the cab rattled against the broken highway, the sights of Pentagon city flashing past you in a pink florescent blur. You sighed, slumping into the leather seats.

Were you really doing this?

The thought made your stomach bubble with new found nerves. Rolling and wrenching the muscles in your stomach so hard you suddenly had to lean forward in your seat. Forced to stare at all the dust and garbage littered about the floor.

"Oh god I'm gonna be sick," you mumbled to yourself.

"Don't throw up in my car kid," the driver growled at you, suddenly adjusting his rearview mirror so that he could keep an eye on you.

You tried not to roll your eyes, taking a quick glance out of the window just in time to witness the change in districts.

"Might wanna keep your head down kid! We're in Carmine's district now," he laughed, a hoarse sound filled with cigarette smoke.

You had never actually been in this part of hell. After all these years you've been here, watching as the districts had shifted between hands in the great soul exchange. . .

All those years until you realized she had fallen here just like you.

And you didn't really know how to process that thought just yet.

The once chaotic district was now more silent.

Shadows skulking between buildings and alleyways, making deals to sell weapons and bartering for money.

You grimaced, opting to let those images blur in your mind and let your head fall against the rattling window.

What possessed you to see your mother after all these year? Who knows. . .

It just felt like it had to be done.

Soon, the tall white building had come into view, a place you heard the overlords of hell met up.

And today, Carmilla would be here, same with your-. . .

Odette and Clara.

You stepped out of the cab, soles hitting the pavement with a tap. You paid what you owed to the driver and waved a quick thanks as he sped off, the devil on his heels.

That left you alone, standing like David against Goliath with the empire she had built.

She's. . . kept herself busy.

It's all you could think about. Staring at the gleaming tiles of the building with hesitance.

What would she say to you? Should you have told her you were coming? That you were here?

The sickness that seemed to be plaguing you had come back in waves.

The last time you had remembered seeing her, you were both alive on Earth, screaming at each others faces.

"One day, mi hijo, you will have to do everything for yourself! You will have to take over the business! YOU have to carry all that burdens us and I NEED you to be ready for that! Why can't you just see that! I won't always be here for you! YOU NEED TO STEP UP TO THIS!"

But. . .

You just couldn't do everything she had wanted of you. The standards, the rules, the burden. . . it was all too heavy for one person to carry.

And now here you were, on the white-waiting room couch unannounced.

To sayy. . . what exactly?

You bit at your nails in thought, leg bouncing up and down as you waited for your name to be called.

It was pretty empty today.

No one was really sitting in here with you.

That was a great thought.

A deep, strung-out exhale shook its way out of your lungs.

Nerves, you figured.

You didn't even know what to do with your hands, running them through your hair and rocking back and forth in your seat, wondering if it was too late to just stand up and leave-

"Um. . ." You stopped completely, turning your head towards the sound of your voice.

Just before the office doors, two small sinners stood side by side, holding a clipboard up to their faces as they eyed you with surprise.

Odette and Clara.

There was no mistaking them.

"That's. . . me?" You rose from your seat like a ghost, not really feeling anything but utter surprise.

It was the first time you've ever seen them. The same cream colored hair, the same eyes, they even stood en pointe like her.

Odette and Clara.

"Come with us," Clara beckoned, her curly hair and grey skin. . . did she look like that too? Now that she was a sinner?

Thank goodness the girls turned away from you quickly, giving you just enough time to wipe a stray tear from your eye. Estranged siblings that you've never even met. . . and you were so full of emotion at just the sight of them.

Did they know who you were?

You watched them wearily, the two exchanging quick glances at each other and occasionally, at you.

"She's right in here," Clara trailed off.

Odette glanced at you through her round glasses, a hint of worry lifting her eyebrows up "She wasn't expecting you today."

"Alright," you shrugged. I mean, it was a fact you already knew, but to hear the two of them say it to you was the final slap of reality you weren't sure you entirely needed.

The two of them opened the doors for you, watching intently as you shuffled into the room, and back at each other incredulously.

"Ay dios mio, I said I didn't have time for meetings. . ." you heard her mumble, face covered by a laptop screen, hunched over and lost in her work.

It was how you remembered her.

"Mamá," you called out, finally taking a seat in front of her desk, unsure of who or what you'd find on the other side of that screen.

With that one word, she froze still, a pair of demonic red eyes peering over the top of that silver screen.

"Mamá," you said again, a choked sound now that you realized it was her.

It was actually her.

A sinner, your mother, an overlord, who was finally before you.

It was like all the things you had planned on telling her had thrown themselves together and crumbled beneath the sight of her.

"Mi hijo."

"Mamá, I know you're mad at me," the tears came without warning, and you shuffled uncomfortably in your seat, unable to keep looking at her as the sobs wracked through your body, pleading for her forgiveness "I tried my best! I tried! I-"

"Mi hijo, I'm so sorry," your mother flew into your arms, the familiarity of her love so striking that you became undone in her arms.

She cried into your neck, a sound you've never heard before "Oh mi hijo, no heavens could ever keep me away from you, never, and I and never letting you go again,"

"I love you mi hijo."

#hazbin hotel #imagines #fic #oneshot #carmilla carmine x son!reader #male reader #hazbin carmilla #hazbin carmilla carmine #tw: dark themes #angst #comfort #hazbin odette #hazbin clara #tw: mentions of harm #hugs #sending hugs anon #accidentally posted this too soon lol #tags

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teecupangel · 11 months

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What do you think would happen if Desmond was sent into the show Maria Clara and Ibarra? Just curious

Is… is Maria Clara at Ibarra even available in other countries? I know it isn't available in Netflix Canada :( so it might just be Netflix Philippines exclusive. The episodes are available in youtube though but without English subtitles.

Here’s a trailer with unofficial English subs:

youtube

The main plot is Klay (full name Maria Clara), a nursing (working) student with an abusive stepfather, a kind but doormat mother and an uncaring ‘money solves everything’ biological father, gets into an argument about how important Jose Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere would be to her course and her future. Her professor decided that consent is over-rated and Truck-kun’ed her to be isekai’ed into the novel using some kind of magic book version of Noli Me Tangere where she only knows the first three chapters of the book so she’s not a typical OP isekai protagonist.

The Noli storyline gets screwed up by her…… sorta for the better? Sorta… it’s… um… not fully a happy ending but it’s a more bittersweet ending than what the original novels (Noli and El Fili) got, that’s for sure.

It’s quite entertaining and does show the past and current struggles of the Filipinos and the Philippines as well as be entertaining to those who like isekai storylines and… those who sorta kinda remember the required readings of Noli (and El Fili). Also, the set design is sooooo good. They really went out of their way to make every scene feel like they're around 18th-19th Spanish ruled Philippines.

NGL, the Spanish sprinkled here and there reminded me of Assassin's Creed and I can just feel myself going 'where's the subtitles, fucking give me subtitles, Animus! My Spanish is worse than my Pilipino!'

Annnyyywwaaayy.

So for this crossover, Desmond wakes up in some unknown place after using the device to save the world. In this scenario, I think Desmond won’t realize he’s in a novel. Why would he? The only way for him to have read Noli was if he was into like foreign books and such or maybe someone from the Farm was of Filipino descent or maybe even his mother? His mother is a blank slate at this point so she can be whatever we want her to be.

But I think it would be fun if Desmond doesn’t know the novel at all.

So when he meets up with Klay after he got his own ‘backstory’ dealt with (Italian noble vacationing in the Philippines and let us all thank Ezio for knowing Spanish), he only realized Klay is stuck in the ‘past’ as well when she starts saying words that he recognized but know shouldn’t be available at the moment.

For their meeting, it would be fun if he becomes buddy-buddy with Ibarra’s aristocrat friends and be in the same table as Fidel when Ibarra was treating Klay to food. Desmond would be curious about Klay’s lack of ‘manners’ (while he’s doing well because Ezio’s Bleed is saving his ass) but he tries not to say anything because he’s playing a role but he’d been slowly making his own information gathering ‘guild’ on the side because he’s trying to find a way to find Ratonhnhaké:ton’s descendants in the US, that’s his main objective right now, so he had heard of the ‘meztiza de sangle’ that one of the most prominent convents had been looking for so he can put two and two together. It’s only when Klay starts speaking English and telling Ibarra and Fidel off that Desmond realized that there’s something more to Klay than some ‘meztiza de sangle’ as people call her.

So, in this scenario, Klay gets interrupted from her Ibarra stalking because Desmond talked to her in English and asked what university she’s from.

The fact that she’s a woman that’s studying in a university is a big red flag and Desmond says enough words for Klay to realize that he’s not from this time as well.

With English being their main form of communication, Desmond found out that he’s not in the past, he’s stuck in a novel. Klay doesn’t know any Desmond Miles or any Solar Flare but if we consider the following information we do know of Klay: she’s about to graduate in the year 2022 and nursing degrees usually take four years or so she’ll be 21~22 when she graduates. This means she was born in 1999~2000 and would have been 11~12 years old during that time. This would probably make Klay think that she didn’t hear about it because she wasn’t interested in news at that time yet.

So they decide to join forces to try and get out the novel:

This does lead to Klay pushing Desmond to becoming Ibarra’s friend instead and Ibarra is a bit wary of Desmond Sartor (it wasn’t like he could use Auditore as his last name, that would be pointing a huge red arrow at his back for any Templars… did this novel even have Templars???) but Ibarra warms up to him because he can see Desmond is kind to Klay (and maybe let’s her get away with a lot of things but what a master does or does not do to their servant (which is their backstory) is none of his concern)

Desmond doesn’t talk about Abstergo because he doesn’t really liked talking about his past. If he had… he would have learned how Klay has no idea what Abstergo is.

Fidel and Klay still have their own thing. Desmond isn’t touching whatever is happening there with a ten foot pool. Nope. His Eagle Senses are telling him that it would just give him a headache if his appearance causes any misunderstanding.

Let’s be honest, Desmond would take one look of Elias and his people and be like “I can train them” and the whole Elias and revolution subplot would take a very different Assassin Brotherhood-esque turn, that’s for sure.

Desmond’s inclusion to the story does change more than Klay did because of his skills as an Assassin, the knowledge he gained from his Bleeds and his questionable status as an Italian noble.

Sisa gets a happy ending. Fuck it. Give Sisa a happy ending!

Sooooo… you know how Padre Damaso and Padre Salvi got ‘better’ endings in the series? Well, Desmond would make sure they have the best ending in this one. XD

Once Klay returns to the real world after the end of the Noli part, she tries to look for Desmond, thinking he’s returned with her but got transferred to the US or somewhere. When she google-search Desmond’s name, she learns of Desmond Miles from the videogame Assassin’s Creed.

Klay researches about Assassin’s Creed because, what the fuck, and she realized that Desmond is a videogame character that got isekai’ed to the book. So when it was time for her to fuck up El Fili’s plot, she hoped Desmond was also there so she can… uuuhhh… talk to him about his actual real situation? Klay didn’t really think that far ahead, okay, she’s trying to save everyone at this point, damn it.

The Brotherhood in the Philippines is now under Elias and they’re planning something big and Klay meets Desmond a few weeks (months?) later since she first came to the El Fili book because he had been in America looking for Ratonhnhaké:ton’s descendants.

Desmond learns of his ‘real identity’ after Klay tells him plot points Desmond and his team should only know about. But then things… get even weirder.

Because there is a Brotherhood in America. He's met with Ratonhnhaké:ton’s freaking descendants, for fuck's sake. Hell, there’s a Brotherhood in Spain and they're helping out Elias and the others so Desmond is pretty sure that this is his world and not a novel which doesn’t make sense.

For now, they try to focus on helping the ‘characters’ of El Fili get their happy ending.

Then Sir Torres finally appears towards the end and Desmond recognized him immediately. It’s Tinia of the Capitoline Triad.

To be more exact, Sir Torres is Tinia who managed to successful evade the Solar Flare of Desmond’s world by being transported into another world: Klay’s world. Sir Torres’ Noli and El Fili books are actually his experiments in recreating Isu tech in a world where the Isu never existed in the first place. It is based on Jose Rizal’s books but, to recreate it, Sir Torres accidentally created a pocket world of some kind and Desmond was transferred to it for some unknown reason (Tinia’s guess is that Minerva had done it as a last ditch effort to save him and it had randomly plopped him into Tinia’s experimental pocket world).

Desmond’s inclusion to the world where he starts to ask questions about things that were never included in the books destabilized the world so much that it latched into a singularity point that held information that would stabilize it: Desmond himself.

So America? The Brotherhood? The sudden Templar presence in El Fili that had been absent in Noli? That’s the world latching onto Desmond’s genetic memories, developing the world and the characters in it.

In other words, Desmond’s inclusion to the world of Noli and El Fili?

It caused what is called a ‘Crossover Event’ (and Klay would be on the side thinking ‘like a fanfiction???’) and Desmond is the singularity point where everything is centered around (Klay going ‘like he’s the main character???’)

Annnnddd… I have no idea how to end this.

Choices for the Ending:

El Fili ends on a happy-ish note with Klay and Fidel going to Klay’s original world with Desmond going with them. This would have the ‘hopeful’ ending of Desmond and Sir Torres joining forces to find a way back to their actual real world using Desmond’s ‘favored child of the Calculations’ title.

El Fili ends on a happy-ish note with Klay and Fidel going to Klay’s original world and Desmond stays behind because, as Sir Torres explains it, the novel world of Noli/El Fili had become an almost exact replica of Desmond’s world which means that Desmond could make a difference this time, prepare for the inevitable Solar Flare of 2012 and take care of Juno. As Klay stressed, the people of this world are real to them even if they were born from the pages of a book so… Desmond wants to save them if he could. Also, this pocket world would have POEs if it’s a replica of his world and that might help him contact his old world… Sir Torres is doubtful on that part.

El Fili ends in a happy-ish notes and Desmond follows Klay and Fidel to Klay’s world BUT ends up getting isekai’ed to a different world by himself because that's how we show our love XD

If you’re curious about Jose Rizal, here’s the puppet history episode XD

youtube

#god this got long #elias gets to be a mentor #because he fucking deserves it!#ibarra is still gonna go all count of montecristo on their asses though #ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #maria clara at ibarra #maria clara infantes #fic idea: assassin's creed #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: maria clara at ibarra #tags i never thought i'd use #noli me tangere #el filibusterismo #i don't know if i should tag the others so i won't XD

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shaykai · 2 years

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Was thinking about OTGW earlier

#how to draw. miss clara fhdndnnd #i will figure it out #doodle #sketch #traditional art #over the garden wall #the beast #enoch #lorna #beatrice #beastnoch #miss clara #i don't remember if she's real or if she's from FromAnonymousToZ's fics #but either way she gets a tag because i love her so much #otgw

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sakuraiito · 1 year

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—chapter 1 | 2.6k words

[ wherein klay returned to her world but she is still being haunted by the events of noli. ]

#filay #fanfic #maria clara at ibarra #fic prompt #ao3 tags

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violetsareblue-selfships · 4 months

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good morning!! :3

#i managed to work more on that fic so I'm happy :D #at this rate i'll definitely have it finished before the lantern rite event starts hehe :3 #and i'll keep doing companion quests in terms of gaming plans for today #like i'm almost done with all the belobog ones (think i have like two-three left?? idk how many clara's splits into)#but that's fun! :D #i'm also wanting to come up with more tags for some potential f/os #speaking of... i should probably screenshot my potentials list and share it here #i doubt many people go look at it that often (probably since i silently add to it and don't tell anyone)#lol i should also change that hehe #but anyways #i hope you have a good day/night!! <3 #morning rambles

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oplishin · 1 year

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/47122288

Two child leaders converse at the base of the shattered Polyhedron.

A fic about Clara and Khan just talking a whole lot. They talk so much that the fic is actually (almost) all dialogue.

the target demographic for this fic is so niche that it’s literally just me but yeah!! I have a lot of thoughts about these characters and now they are in fic form. enjoy

#pathologic #clara the changeling #caspar kain #tagging this fic was such a nightmare because #no one has ever written about these two #so i had to type out their full names in both original and classic translation #fuck you khan why is your full ao3 tag #kaspar khan kain | caspar khan kain #my guy's got 6 fucking names in his name #jumpscare mutuals!! you thought i was fully in jojo mode but i was actually microwaving a pathologic fic #i might. update the summary later this is the best i could come up with its 12:30 am rn

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theclaravoyant · 6 months

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AN ~ I had some emotions about domestic blackbonnet having healthy and positive emotional conversations. May turn into a collection of vignettes featuring their beautiful work inn progress! <3

Characters: Ed/Stede, Stede & Alma

Read on AO3

The Petrified Orange

Ed woke up to a little note left on Stede’s pillow. Izzy.

He frowned at it, and contemplated going down there himself. Then he thought the better of it. There was obviously a reason Stede had gone to see Izzy instead of waking him up, like maybe he needed some space. Or to talk about whatever was on his mind with someone who wasn’t Ed - apparently, having more than one freakishly codependent confidant could actually help one’s mental health and decision making abilities. Who would have thought. (He’s not sure where they stand on that if one of said confidants is dead, but it’s got to be better than nothing.)

Still. Ed was not, as a rule, a patient person, and an impatient person prone to panic could only handle so much mystery before the sun rose. So when he’d done up the bacon and eggs and put the tea on and Stede still had not reappeared over the threshold, he slung a robe over his shoulders, bundled breakfast onto a tray, and picked up a lantern to pick his way down there.

Stede was asleep in the sand by the grave marker. At least, he was until he heard footsteps and awoke with a start, dagger in hand.

“Oh. Ed.” He relaxed again and looked around, getting his bearings. Brushed the sand from his shirt and his mouth, distractedly. “I must have drifted off. The sound of the ocean is so nice out here.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? You’re sort of … staring wistfully.”

Ed gestured, and Stede caught himself doing it again. It was as if without even noticing, his eyes were drawn to the small, rhythmic motions of the distant waves. He had kind of been hoping it would help him think through something, but he’d mostly just thought himself around in circles. He sighed. There was so much in that sigh, Ed took himself a seat in the sand and poured them each a teacup.

“What’re you staring wistfully about, then?”

“It’s Alma’s birthday today. My daughter. She’s thirteen.”

“First one you’ve missed?”

Stede snorted. “God no. Probably closer to the sixth; I don’t actually know.”

“Oh.”

“As always, I admire your faith in me,” Stede assured him, “but I was a pretty rubbish dad. I didn’t really try that hard with her, and even when I did I wasn’t very good at it. Then I went and … blew up her life, didn’t I? Abandoned her and her brother, then came back, then left again. She should hate me. I shouldn’t even call her my daughter, to be honest. She’s Mary’s daughter, not mine.”

Ed nodded, understanding. “So it was a Chauncey Spiral Night, huh?”

“Every spiral night is Chauncey Spiral Night,” Stede reminded him. “He did play all the hits. Plus. I found this while we were unpacking.”

Stede reached into his pocket and pulled out a stone. Looking closer, Ed recognised it. The petrified orange. Well, half of it anyway.

“She gave me half,” Stede whispered. “And kept half with her. I think it was her way of telling me she forgives me.”

“That’s sweet. Kids can appreciate courage, I think,” Ed said. “She must have known it took some guts for you to go back after all that.”

“You know what, I think she did. I think she understood why I did what I did, too. And that it worked. We were all happier for it, in the end.”

“Mm. Poison into positivity, eh?”

“Yeah.” Stede turned the orange over in his hand, and smiled. “I guess so.”

He cast a glance back over his shoulder, up toward the house, and Ed followed his gaze. He had an idea, and if he had it right, Ed was having that same idea right now.

“Maybe that’s what we should call it,” Stede suggested. “The Petrified Orange.”

“The real treasure we found along the way?” Ed chuckled. “I love that. I’m in.”

#blackbonnet #gentlebeard #ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd s2 #ofmd spoilers #the petrified orange inn verse #clara's fic tag

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