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redisaid · 2 months

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Strangers - Part 2 of ???

The Spider in Her Web

Oops, new hyperfixation unlocked lads. Post-Shadowlands Sylvaina slowburn, here we go.

5326 Words

Read it on Ao3!

The first thing Jaina notices upon her return visit to the Maw is that Sylvanas’ camp is unoccupied. The second thing she notices is that another stool has appeared, chipped out of the same twisting black rock that surrounds this place, this cloistered safe haven that almost feels as though it belongs under a canopy of trees and a sky of blue, rather than shades of black and grey.

The first thing Jaina does is test out the second stool, and finding it comfortable, she sits and waits. She sets down the heavy rucksack Vereesa eagerly supplied her with. She listens. She watches. She wonders where Sylvanas might have gone, but realizes that most of her time within the Maw is likely spent on the move, working at her redemption, little by little.

She gives it a few minutes. A quarter of an hour. Surely, Sylvanas will somehow know she’s here. She will sense the disturbance Jaina causes in her routine, the rippling of the calm waters of a lonely pond.

And while Jaina is patient, and the odd silence of this place gives her time to think she’s not normally afforded in her busy life in Boralus.

She thinks about leaving the rucksack and its corresponding letter. She has no obligation to do anything else. In fact, all that she’s done here thus far might be too much to explain to the likes of many of her Alliance comrades. She thinks that if Dori’thur truly could report what she sees to Tyrande, then the looming visage of the High Priestess would have already darkened Jaina’s doorstep, asking her what she was thinking, offering small comforts to her prisoner.

But then, she remembers how Sylvanas reached for her. How she stammered out excuses to keep her there, just a little longer. She does not know her. Sylvanas similarly knows little of her. But Jaina is all she’s seen, all the contact she has had with her world in some time.

So Jaina waits, but thinks to use her magic to shoot a bright flare into the swirling grey of the sky above the Maw, so that Sylvanas might be alerted to her presence.

Only another quarter of an hour passes until Jaina hears the beat of wings. More than that, and she might have given up her small mercy. It's likely only been a few minutes on Azeroth she's wasted, but still, she has other duties today, far less optional than this. She vows to attempt to keep time as well as she can, knowing that she left Azeroth mid-morning. If the rate of dissonance between the two timelines is steady, then she can calculate the difference. She can decide whether she cares to wait.

Dori’thur proceeds her charge by a few moments, perhaps being asked to scout ahead, perhaps just doing as she pleases. Jaina wonders if the owl offers any aid in Sylvanas’ work, but has no time to ask. Once again, she meets Sylvanas Windrunner with a drawn bow and an arrow between them, though it is lowered much faster this time, upon those burning blue eyes recognizing her.

“Sorry if the flare spooked you, I didn’t know how else to get your attention,” Jaina tells her, and this time it’s her hands that fly up in surrender.

If things were to turn, if Vereesa’s good intentions and well-packed supplies are for naught, then she doesn’t need to worry about where her hands are. She can defend herself. Jaina thinks that she should have when she was taken by the Mawsworn, but there were three of them, and they knew to chain her and gag her in such a way she could not have cast anything against them. She still feels shame in being caught, a year and some time later. She shouldn’t have had her guard down enough to be taken.

And yet here she is, bringing camp supplies, or whatever all of this is, to the woman who saw her captured.

Sylvanas says nothing at first. She lowers her bow, stashes the arrow back in her quiver. She wears her armor today, worn but more intact than the leathers beneath it, and the hood of her long cloak covers her hair, neatly tucked and likely tied up beneath it. Jaina wonders at why she bothers with the bow and the armor and all of it, if there are no more enemies here to fight, but realizes that this is probably what Sylvanas is used to. It is good practice, after all, for a Ranger to be prepared for anything.

She does not seem to be prepared to find Jaina here again. “Back so soon?” she finally asks, though there is a dry sarcasm in the words.

For Jaina, it has been two days. She delivered the letter to Vereesa the morning after she came back, and she arrived the following morning with the rucksack. Jaina had breakfast with her mother, then had decided to take the day to deliver it, making the excuse she had an errand to run elsewhere in the world. Funny, how no one questioned a mage who could transport herself anywhere she liked on where exactly she might be going. Perhaps they guessed each time? Maybe her honor guard had a betting pool over it.

No one would have guessed this destination, or won any money on it.

Truth be told, though it has only been two days, the image of Sylvanas in her tattered leathers, eyes wide and wild, reaching out for someone, anyone, even if they wear the face of her former enemy, captor and captive all in the same, has not left Jaina’s mind. She did not tell Vereesa about that, when she relayed her version of the visit to her. No, that moment was hers alone to ponder, though why she fixated on it so much, she still struggled to understand.

Maybe there was a cruelty in this she had not considered, they had not considered, or perhaps Tyrande had deliberately considered. After all, Sylvanas Windrunner had been sentenced to what might be eons of solitary confinement.

“How long has it been for you?” Jaina asks, still curious, still wondering if perhaps this grim sentence is hurting the effort for peace and justice more than it is helping it.

“As I told you before, it is difficult to tell. Perhaps something near to ten days,” Sylvanas answers, a bit more straightforward this time.

Five times as long. Well, that was easy math at least, though Jaina would be more exact about it upon her next visit. If she were to keep up with this chore, then at least she could endeavor to learn more about the Maw and the Shadowlands from it.

If such time dilation is constant, then that means Sylvanas has been here alone for five years, not even knowing the name of the owl who watches her. And still, Jaina thinks this difference might be somewhat variable in nature.

This feels correct and true to her own experiences, when the Mawwalkers found her in the last of her many escape attempts, and later freed her from Torghast to abscond to the safety of Oribos. There, she’d been informed she’d only been missing from Azeroth for just two weeks. It had felt like months to her, but she had blamed it on the menacing nature of this place, on being held captive and kept busy navigating the twisting tower of Torghast, and on the lack of night and day by which to tell the time.

A part of her feels justified in the confirmation, but another part feels remorse at the loss of that time, stretched and strange and terrifying as it was.

Perhaps then, for subjecting her and Anduin and Thrall and Baine and who knows how many others to this, Sylvanas deserves to linger in the same. But the length of it is still worrying. How can anyone expect a person to come out better, changed, and repentant, after so long alone?

“Vereesa was very eager to get this back to you,” Jaina rouses herself from her thoughts to explain, and lifts up the rucksack a little.

It is heavy, and something within it rattles. Jaina thinks she should have maybe been nosy enough to inspect its contents before agreeing to transport it, but again, she trusts Vereesa. She still does not trust Sylvanas, or know her, really.

The letter she carried back for her in return was much shorter than the younger Windrunner sister’s, written on some blank parchment Vereesa had included with her own correspondence. She’d only left one page, but Sylvanas had only needed three-quarters of it. Her handwriting was neat, and militant, the Thalassian runes each shaped perfectly and correctly to a tee, crammed together and narrow.

Jaina had provided a conjured quill for her, as well as some ink. Vereesa hadn’t thought that part through, it seemed. For her extended services, Jaina felt slightly entitled to read what she carried back to Azeroth, but had only glanced at the first few sentences. They seemed civil. Beyond that, it had felt as though her eyes had better things to see.

Now, today—two days later for her, ten for Sylvanas—those eyes stare across a chasm of their own making at another pair of blue ones.

Sylvanas approaches, finally. Dori’thur circles the sky above them, coming to rest on the top of the lean-to, near where Jaina sits, a reminder that both of their actions here are subject to judgment. Only Jaina has never enjoyed being judged.

A gauntleted hand reaches out to her, reminding Jaina of how it had been, bare and unarmored, desperate in so many ways, reaching for her before. Sylvanas has no such tension in her now. She is a woman seeking what she is owed and has asked for, and Jaina hands her the rucksack dutifully. There is nothing more in this today. An exchange of part and parcel, but nevermind the extra stool upon which Jaina sits.

She is a stark contrast to Sylvanas in her armor, not having bothered to make a show of herself this morning, or whatever passes for such in the Maw. She wears only the white blouse, navy trousers, and sensible boots she went to breakfast in. She considered bringing a jacket, at least, but what for? The Maw is neither hot nor cold, at least not here in the shelter of Sylvanas’ grove of rock. As a mage, her armor is as unnecessary for her as any of the rest of her battle regalia. It is all for show, and something about how she caught Sylvanas last time didn’t sit right with her.

If she were dressed down, so Jaina should be, but now they have swapped places again, and Jaina isn’t sure which is right, only that it feels wrong.

“Thank you,” forms on Sylvanas’ lips, stiffly and formally.

She takes two steps back, sets her bow on her bedroll, and the rucksack on the ground before she kneels to dig within it, leaving no space for further ceremony or to add to her graciousness.

“There is another letter within,” Jaina explains instead. “Should you want to reply.”

Again, she had not checked and does not know where it is, only taking this information with a grain of salt, as it were, from a delighted Vereesa. If nothing else, she reminds herself that she endures the unnatural stretching of her hours, the dismal neutrality of this place, and the awkwardness of serving as a messenger girl to her once-enemy, because it seems to be bringing a great deal of happiness to her friend.

There are few people on Azeroth who have stuck by her as Vereesa has. Through all of her decisions, questionable and rage-tinted as they might have been for a while. Through nights where they held one another, crying over losses they could not otherwise express. Through days of war and strife new to neither of them, but quickly growing old. Jaina would watch the twins and tell them of their father, sometimes, because she knew they were curious and she knew it was too painful for Vereesa to speak of Rhonin much anymore. Vereesa would all but force her to come out with her and do normal things, lunches, shopping, festivals, and would sometimes point out a thing that Pained or Kinndy might have enjoyed, to remind Jaina that living was a thing she could do to honor them too, just as much as anything else.

So for that, Jaina could endure an awkward pause or two here in the Maw.

Sylvanas, knelt beside the rucksack, takes inventory of its contents in a militant way, saying nothing. One of the first items she does lay out is another sealed envelope, so there’s that. Next to it she lines up an odd assortment of things she must have requested. A length of rope concerns Jaina slightly, but as for how, she’s not sure. Sylvanas certainly can’t climb out of the Maw on thirty feet of rope, but it’s still odd to see. After that is a large bundle of dark material that Jaina can only assume are new leathers, and she breathes a private sigh of relief at that.

Again, it is an odd thing to focus on—clothes of all things. Still, if it were her, down here, alone, left only with her regrets and the glowing judgment of Dori’thur’s eyes, she would not want to be wearing tattered clothes.

A smaller odd assortment follows, laid out in an organized fashion. Jaina catches glimpses of new flint and tinder, bow strings, a small knife, a crisp white hand towel, an odd brass instrument that’s something like a sextant or viewfinder—distinctly elven in nature but close enough to both that Jaina guesses it is meant for finding the value of distances, quills and ink and a stack of parchment, a large piece of thick, fine velum lined with a grid, perhaps meant to be made into a map.

So little of it is sentimental. Sylvanas could have asked for anything, but what lies before her is a military requisition. It seems she is a General through and through, and has put all of her concern into the practicality of her mission. She is here to seek souls and guide them, and if a map and rope and measuring of things will help in that, then Jaina supposes there is no harm in such tools.

Still, none of it is what she expects to come out of that pack, save the leathers.

Only when Sylvanas makes a face of sorts, long eyebrows twitching, does she pull out something unexpected, and the expression that comes to rest on her sharp features tells Jaina it is not something she asked for, and perhaps not something she wants.

She presses the button on a small circular case in her palm to reveal it is a compact, not a compass or some other practical instrument. The face she makes is at the mirror within it, and Sylvanas swiftly closes the lid, setting the offending object aside, away from the rest.

The last thing she retrieves comes out with a rattle. A copper kettle, out of place in the wash of monotone greys and whites and blacks, chimes as two matching mugs attached to its handle slam against it. While it is well-made and elven in nature, it is simple enough that it too seems to serve a military purpose.

“I told Vereesa, about the tea,” Jaina confesses before the curiosity alighting in Sylvanas’ eyes can seek satisfaction.

It’s only then that she looks up from her hoard at her, one long eyebrow slightly lifted. Sylvanas, once again, says nothing.

“She thought it was a good idea,” Jaina goes on. “And that I could use a break while I wait for you to write your replies, as it were.”

Sylvanas says nothing still, pulling aside the lid of the kettle to find that what rattles inside is a strainer and small tin of tea. She sets these aside separately, lining them up with the rest of her expanded inventory.

She looks over the items, not back at Jaina, as she finally nods, just slightly, and says, “Running a nation is a daunting task.”

Jaina knows. She’s run three of them, should one count Dalaran as a nation, which she certainly does. Sylvanas has run one and the military of another, and led an entire faction of united nations and races, for a time. On this, they can both agree.

Jaina watches, fascinated, as Sylvanas packs some things back into the rucksack in a very focused and practiced way. She leaves aside the leathers and the kettle and its accessories and the mirror compact. Everything else is stored away with purpose and precision.

Her fixation is interrupted when Sylvanas stands, walking over to her to hand her the kettle.

“I have no water,” is her explanation.

There is water in the Maw, or at least in Korthia, still chained to it even now. Jaina had looked there first, assuming that Sylvanas would be among the trees of a more familiar landscape, closer in Azeroth to its nature. But no, she had camped here, nearer to Torghast, in what Jaina now thinks is probably a more practical home base.

Dare she even think it, but Sylvanas Windrunner seems to be very boringly pragmatic, when left alone to her own devices.

Jaina takes the kettle, recognizing her usefulness in this situation. Perhaps that’s why the arcane arts were always appealing to her. She thrives on being useful.

Conjuring water and fire for her own tea, at least, will give her something to do besides joining Dori’thur in her silent watching of Sylvanas.

The odd domesticity of the scene isn’t lost on Jaina as she kneels by the firepit, measuring out tea leaves from the tin in pinches. Sylvanas is seated on the stool she had not occupied, reading her letter in silence.

A tension fills the stale air of the Maw, but it’s different than any they’ve simmered in before. Jaina is used to being in the same room with Sylvanas Windrunner only in states of distress—during Garrosh’s trial, or when she stopped Varian from attacking her by teleporting his entire army away. Jaina’s life is made up of moments she rethinks years after, and that is one of them. Had she not interfered, would Teldrassil have burned?

Then again, would Varian have died sooner? Would Sylvanas not have been justified in killing him then, had Jaina let that fight play out? She had asked for help to win back her city, and had far more claim to the ashes of Lordaeron than anyone in the Alliance—even Jaina, who, if not for many other lost moments, might have been its queen. Would they then have come to their own blows, ending it all in the bowels of the Undercity, a clash of ice and shadow?

This is why Jaina can’t think on these things. She’ll get lost. Time slips away like sands in an hourglass, and she wonders how the bronze dragons can manage to know the outcomes of such scenarios and not go mad. No, it is better to be present where and when she is now, tending to the kettle over Sylvanas’ fire pit, waiting, as strange a scenario as that might be.

Stranger still is the question that breaks the silence, “It seems you know my nephews. How do they fare these days?”

Do you know them is the question Jaina wants to ask back, but she knows the answer. No, well, maybe not. Maybe she knew Arator, as a baby. He’s a man grown now, and last Jaina saw him, he was excited to hear all about her interactions with Uther in the Shadowlands, and wanted to know all about her stories of the legendary paladin of old.

Of old…that was not all that long ago. Fifteen years back, she stood with him at Stratholme, in another moment in which her mind frequently stalls, questioning everything, able to change nothing.

“They’re well,” is Jaina’s answer. “Arator is busy with the Silver Hand. Giramar and Galadin continue to grow like weeds.”

Again, the conversation strikes an odd chord of domesticity. Jaina has really never considered that Sylvanas is the aunt of those boys, but she is. Having seen it up close on her now, Giramar has the same lopsided smirk when thinks he’s said something particularly funny. Galadin has the same look of burning seriousness and focus. Jaina wonders if Sylvanas once laughed, lifetimes ago, as easily as Arator does?

It’s a question she can never ask.

Sylvanas huffs a response, “I’ve never seen Vereesa’s children.”

Jaina thinks this is some egregious sin for a moment, but then realizes, of course she hasn’t. The boys were born when she was already dead. They know their aunt only as the fearsome Banshee Queen. Jaina wonders if they know that, until quite recently, their own mother was still so desperate for her sister, but so afraid of her.

The Windrunners are and remain a complex web of a family to weave in and out of, and while Jaina never intended to be as such, she feels she’s become the spider that maintains it. Yes, she knows Sylvanas’ nephews likely better than she ever will. She helped the twins study for a test last week. She knows Arator’s favorite snack is caramel popcorn, and she buys a big tin for him every Winterveil. She tries to diffuse conversations between Alleria and Vereesa, where the elder sister’s brash and self-assured nature rubs wrong against the youngest’s sensitive one.

And now she makes tea for herself, waiting for the middle sister to write what amounts to a prison letter back to them. Or, well, the only one who has made an effort to contact her.

“I can ask her for a photograph?” Jaina offers, looking over her shoulder for a response, unsure if that was a problem for her to solve or just a statement.

Either way, she likes solving problems. She likes being useful. While she did not intend to be the spider, spinning this web, she still spins it.

Sylvanas says nothing, yet again, but Jaina sees her ears twitch upward. She’s been around enough elves for enough years to understand the language their ridiculously long ears speak. This, while Sylvanas doesn’t give voice to it, tells Jaina she’s interested.

She takes that for her answering, demanding nothing else, and pretends to be distracted by the hiss of the kettle. The earthy smell of Kul Tiran black tea tells her it’s ready as much as the hiss. The Maw smells of nothing, but now, it smells like tea and a fire, and to some, that’s home.

“Do you want any?” Jaina asks over her shoulder again.

When she looks back at Sylvanas for a reply, she just waves her disinterest, offering no explanation for it. The undead do not need to eat or drink, but Jaina knows Derek still likes his tea. It is the polite thing to do, the useful thing. Jaina, spider that she is, is an industrious creature. She cannot stop weaving.

She knows she’s right when she catches another lift of Sylvanas’ ears at the question, and the barest hint of her sharp cheek poking out from behind the paper that covers the rest of her face, a hint of the smirk she shares with her nephew, whom she’s never seen nor met.

---

Such a problem is what brings Jaina now to Vereesa’s doorstep, that same evening.

The smell of a sweet elven curry fills Jaina’s nose as the door is cracked open. She can just barely see the red heads and stubby, pointed ears of Giramar and Galadin, bent over plates at the kitchen table.

Vereesa stands, dressed as causally in peacetime as Jaina is, smelling of spice and vegetables, smiling.

“Jaina! I just put dinner on the table!” she announces. “There’s extra, if you’d like to join us. Say hello to Jaina, boys.”

“Hi Aunty Jaina,” comes in a twin chorus of deepening voices she’s still getting used to. The boys are entering their gangling teenage phase now, as half-elves tend to grow as quickly as their human parent. Apparently, they are eating Vereesa out of house and home, and prove this statement correct as they don’t bother to get up from their dinner to greet her. A hello is the best she can hope for.

They call her aunty, though she isn’t their aunt, because Anduin does it too. Because Arator did it once, to make fun of him.

“I’m good on dinner, thank you though,” Jaina tells their mother.

She does not feel the need to impose or intrude, and is not hungry, but the position suits her. She is not a Windrunner. She is the spider spinning her web on the top corner of their door frame.

“I didn’t expect to see you again today,” Vereesa confesses, leaning her weight on the doorknob she still holds.

She is smaller than Sylvanas, quick both to smile and to cry, though she has had more reason to do the latter. She is not prone to smirking, and does so only when she thinks no one is watching.

Jaina produces a letter as her answer. This time, Sylvanas wrote two pages. That should hopefully mean something to her.

Vereesa’s blue eyes go wide. They’re softer in color, a tone closer to purple, while Alleria’s are a muted aqua. They are normal and natural for a high elf, or as natural as an arcane-infused near immortal being can be. Sylvanas’ bright, burning blue, is as unnatural as the sinister red it replaced. Before, Vereesa had once told her, Sylvanas had grey eyes like their mother, a trait considered highly rare and desirable among the quel’dorei. Vereesa had been jealous of them.

Now Sylvanas dwells in eternal grey, and Vereesa’s home is smothered with Alliance blue.

She snatches the parchment with delight. A little noise escapes her lips, whether she wants it to or not is anyone’s guess.

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” she tells Jaina, eyes already pouring over the words. “And for not making a stink about it or refusing on Tyrande’s behalf.”

Jaina had thought about that, certainly. The morality of her acceptance had weighed heavy on her before her first meeting with Sylvanas. Surely, Tyrande would not want this. Surely, there was a breach of hard-won justice. Surely, she should feel strongly against it herself, having been a recent victim of Sylvanas’ actions, fully in her control or not. Jaina had once questioned that deeply, wondering if some of this was posturing and blame, and if Sylvanas had very much willed her and her friends dead and tortured and forgotten as the souls she was now tasked with ushering to better places.

But in reality, free now of any influence besides Dori’thur’s watchful eyes and a sentence one could debate if she’d earned, Sylvanas had been polite to her. Curt, but courteous.

Eager, even, to have what little she was allowed, though not eager to show that. Words and gifts from her sister. The presence of another person from Jaina.

“As I told you before, I suspect that if Tyrande wanted to know and had a problem with it, she would have already come to me,” Jaina says to this, and she still believes it.

Something about the way Dori’thur watches even sets her ill at ease. She feels Tyrande’s eyes on her, feels her judgment, a tinge of betrayal, but not enough to stir her to action. If she has truly watched Sylvanas all this time, then she must understand that she’s suffering enough. Letters and map-making supplies aren’t going to change that.

Her expression must have changed at the thought, because now Vereesa is staring at her, confused, the letter and its contents forgotten. “You’re angry about the knife?”

“I don’t care if you gave her a knife,” Jaina quickly says, raising her hands defensively. “It was small. I assumed it was for cutting quills or fletching. She certainly didn’t turn it on me, so why should I be concerned?”

“Quills,” Vereesa answers, settling back into a grin. “An important part of a proper Quel’thalan pen set, but I debated about that knife for a good hour, packing that bag.”

Jaina knows that, as dull as the contents of the bag seemed, Vereesa carefully selected all of them and made a day of it. She is the type to agonize over gifts, and to ensure she always gives something unique, thoughtful, and unexpected.

For her last birthday, Jaina did not do much in the way of celebrating. She was busy, of course, making herself busy, and settled for a nice dinner with her mother and brothers. They’d given her no gifts and she expected nothing from them. In Kul Tiras, birthday gifts are a thing reserved for children, not for thirty-eight-year-old women.

But to her surprise, that evening she found a little box wrapped in simple blue paper upon her desk, waiting for her. Within it was a bottle of silver polish, a note that explained Vereesa had noticed that her anchor pendant was getting a little tarnished from these years of constant wear, and a fine bottle of port, aged exactly thirty-eight years, with a remark on the note that said waiting such time to be drunk had only made it all the sweeter.

“She asked about the boys,” Jaina reports, attempting to change the subject before she too becomes sentimental over silly little things.

“Oh?”

The odd combination of raised eyebrows and drooped ears tells Jaina she feels odd about this, maybe guilty. Glowing eyes wander her face, searching for more details.

“She’s never met yours, I suppose I hadn’t thought about that,” Jaina goes on.

“I hadn’t either.”

Behind her, said boys shovel curry and rice into their mouths like their stomachs have no bottom. They’re nearly taller than Vereesa now, and have grown up so fast, sheltered by her expertly from this world of war and terror. Both reach for the earthenware pitcher of water between them at the same time to refill their glasses, and laugh as their hands smack into one another.

Vereesa turns her head to them, smiling and shaking it.

“Do you have a photograph of them? Arator too, maybe you and Alleria?” Jaina asks.

Vereesa doesn’t turn back to her, but her ears droop enough to tell Jaina she’s frowning about it. The answer is no, there’s no photo of them all together. The remaining Windrunners in Azeroth are busy people, hard to pin down and gather in one place.

Vereesa turns to her, a rare public smirk on her face. It makes her look as much like Sylvanas as Jaina has ever seen, no doubting they are sisters there.

“No, but I believe a trip to Stormwind is in order to correct that. And I’ll have an extra copy made—for you, if anyone’s asking,” Vereesa tells her.

“Of course, for me,” Jaina tells her, echoing the mischief on her face, glad to see it sparkling through the soft blue of her eyes.

Glad, really, to see anything in them but tears.

#sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #sylvaina #fanfic #help i am being consumed by this #now with fixed time dilation shit because i am fuckin dumb as hell

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callsign-bunnie · 1 year

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Idk if it’s the same for anyone else but I personally haven’t sent asks for stalker because I thought you would be getting loads of them! I’d love to see more if anything comes to mind, the first idea that came to me is that maybe someone else starts stalking Soap?

Haha, no not really! I got quite a few today, but for the most part, I don't really get asks for it as much! If I'm slow to posting something, it's usually because I haven't gotten a ton of requests for it!

Ghost wasn't sure why he'd let Soap drag him to this. He wanted to make Johnny happy and part of that was meeting his friends, fully, he knew that. But... fuck, Ghost hated meeting new people.

Technically, the only new people he'd be meeting was Gaz and Alex, but... two was more than he'd like to be meeting that day. One was more than he'd like to be meeting.

Whatever, it was important to Soap and... so Ghost went. It was at Alex's house, which was decent considering his age, but it was apparently a family house, so not surprising. He'd inherited it after the death of both of his parents, according to Soap.

Ghost had decided to opt for a half facemask that Soap had gifted him, which also had a skull print on it. Soap seemed to have picked up on that little hyperfixation of his, because almost everything Soap had ever gotten him had something to do with skulls. Not that Ghost was complaining, since he loved skull stuff.

Ghost ran a hand down his face as they arrived. Soap had dragged them to a grocery store and had them pick up a bottle of wine to bring as a gift for Alex and Gaz. "They've only been together for two months," Soap mumbled as he knocked. "But we don't bring it up."

"Okay?" Ghost didn't care. He was not judging someone for going for it. "Who proposed?"

"Alex." Soap nodded a bit before smiling as the door was answered by Gaz, who smiled brightly in return. "Gaz!"

Gaz hugged him and nodded a little to Ghost, though Ghost definitely picked up on the glance Gaz gave him. Ghost didn't like it. It was a "I know what you are" glance. Ghost felt picked open, but Rodolfo and Soap had both reassured Ghost that Gaz was not a threat. Gaz was easily influenced, apparently, and Rodolfo had managed to tell him that Ghost was a good guy.

Ghost wasn't sure he believed that Gaz accepted that, but he was sure Rudy would keep Gaz from trying to tell Soap to leave. Rodolfo would have to or Ghost would just simply call the police and inform them that he knew where Alejandro Vargas was.

"It's nice to meet you." Gaz nodded to Ghost when he and Soap finally broke apart and offered a hand.

Ghost tensed but accepted the handshake and nodded. "You too." He mumbled.

Soap relaxed a little beside him and Ghost couldn't help but feel bad. He knew Soap wanted this to go well so desperately. "What did Alex cook? It smells good."

"He roasted a chicken." Gaz smiled and let them in. "How are both of you?"

Ghost let Soap answer, just kind of trailing behind him to the table, where a man, he assumed Alex, was setting the table. Ghost kind of cringed at still being the tallest in the room, though it did allow him to intimidate. Being huge was a double edged blade. On the one hand, he could use it to intimidate and scare people. On the other hand, he stuck out like a sore thumb when he was trying to blend in.

Ghost pulled out Soap's chair like a proper gentleman and then sat down himself, unsure if he should offer help to Alex. Though, from the looks of it, Alex didn't have much else to do.

Gaz thanked Soap for the bottle of wine and left to get glasses. "So, have you made any progress in planning the wedding? That's next month, right?"

"Alex changed his mind and he wants like a ceremony and stuff, so... no, it's going to be the end of this year." Gaz shrugged, setting down the glasses when he came back.

Alex moved over and kissed his temple. "I was stupid for insisting on an elopement to begin with."

Gaz laughed, smiling. "Thank you. Anyway, we're looking at venues this week. Well, I am. I thought maybe you, Rudy, and I could make a day of it?"

Soap glanced at Ghost, who shrugged. Rodolfo would be there and Ghost knew better than to limit Soap's contact with friends. That always led to the downfall. He'd limit his friends and then Soap would feel controlled and start to buck and try to get away and slowly hate Ghost. No, Ghost knew better.

Soap smiled and turned back to Gaz. "I'd love to! When?"

"Friday." Gaz had definitely picked up the little interaction between them and he was frowning deeply, though Alex seemed to distract him with some plates. Gaz quickly set to putting them around the table, shortly before the doorbell was ringing.

"I got it." Alex murmured, kissing Gaz's temple again. Ghost had to admit, they were kind of a sweet couple. You'd never guess they'd only been together two months before getting engaged.

Gaz smiled and nodded, sitting down, as Alex let to go answer the door. Ghost frowned deeply when he heard Alex say hello, only to be answered with a "hey, man" from a voice he recognized immediately as Alejandro's.

Rodolfo had let him out? Why? Ghost hadn't even tried to convince him to let him out, yet. Honestly, he wasn't even planning on it. He doubted Rodolfo would even be convinced but... here he was. Ghost looked behind him to see that Rodolfo was in fact with Alejandro, holding onto his arm. He'd never seen so much emotion on Rodolfo's face. It looked almost natural.

"We were all worried about you." Alex told Alejandro, who just shrugged.

"I was... making some very stupid decisions but I'm back now." Alejandro smiled and came in when Alex let them in, guiding Rodolfo with him.

Rodolfo was practically beaming as he followed Alejandro in, looking up at him with adoration in his eyes. Ghost decided that was almost more uncomfortable than the lack of emotion that was usually there. It was almost uncanny. Funny. Rodolfo looked off when he was most natural.

Alex shrugged. "Well, we're glad you're back." He smiled and pat Alejandro's shoulder.

"We are." Rodolfo confirmed and Ghost realized, when his smile widened and his blush deepened as Alejandro kissed his cheek, that Rodolfo wasn't faking it.

What. the. fuck.

Alejandro tugged him to the table and Rodolfo seemed to gladly follow, smiling in greeting to everyone else. "Hey." He nodded to Soap, who had been watching them enter. He frowned when he saw Alejandro.

"Hello." Soap nodded. "Alejandro... where the fuck have you been??"

Alejandro winced. "I'd rather not talk about it. It's... uncomfortable."

Rodolfo nodded in agreement, avoiding Ghost's eyes. Ghost frowned a little but nudged Soap. "Let's not push, okay?" He murmured.

Soap frowned and looked at Ghost before nodding a little. "Alright."

Rodolfo relaxed and mouthed "thank you" to Ghost, who just shrugged. Favor for favors. He wanted to stay on Rodolfo's good side.

Finally, Alex sat down and they started to eat. Ghost didn't like having to pull his mask down for it, but no one commented or even really acknowledged it, so eventually he forgot about it.

He listened to the conversation everyone else was having but mostly drowned it out, not really caring if he was honest. Weddings weren't his thing, though he had no doubt Soap would get him dressed up and drag him out to Alex and Gaz's. He would gladly go, to support Soap, though.

Eventually, Soap started to ask Alejandro and Rodolfo questions. They were slightly prodding, just asking why Rodolfo hadn't told them the moment he found Alejandro, if Alejandro was okay, stuff like that.

Eventually, Alejandro just gave in. "I went on a bender." He admitted.

Ghost almost laughed. Even Rodolfo looked at him, shocked. That was clearly not the story they agreed on. But... Ghost had to hand it to him. It was just uncomfortable enough that no one would question the legitimacy of it. Why would you lie about something like that?

Soap immediately blushed bright red, taking Ghost's hand and squeezing it kind of hard. Not enough to hurt but Ghost knew he was deeply embarrassed. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. It was a short bender but... I landed myself in the hospital and didn't have any of my money or cards or anything to get myself home. Rodolfo found me around last week and he wanted to tell you guys immediately but... I was too embarrassed. I didn't want anyone to know what had happened." Alejandro cringed and rubbed the back of his neck.

Alex winced. "Yeah, I get that feeling. High school was fucked up." He and Alejandro fist bumped. Ghost decided to keep his comments about that to himself.

Honestly if Ghost had his way, he'd never think of high school again.

Alejandro then nodded and continued. "So that's why I was gone and why I've been so secretive about it."

Rodolfo to his credit played his part very well and only looked at Alejandro with silent sympathy. Ghost turned and looked at Soap with amusement but didn't say anything about it.

After a moment of brief awkward silence, they decided to find a different topic of conversation and Alejandro looked relieved.

Ghost would have to ask Alejandro later how he managed to come up with such a story as he wasn't even entirely sure Alejandro drank alcohol. Though from the way everyone accepted it, there must be some history there. But that was honestly none of Ghost's business.

Alejandro would tell him if he felt like it.

Soap seemed to go quiet for the rest of the conversation. Which Ghost found equally amusing if he was honest. He loved Johnny and one of the things that drew him to Johnny was his impulsiveness and his inability to think before he opened his mouth, but that was bound to get them in trouble and look where they were.

So Ghost just squeezed Soap's hand under the table and chuckled softly, knowing that no one but Soap could hear.

After a brief moment of awkward silence, Soap spoke up to compliment Alex on the chicken and asked him where he got the recipe. Alex seemed flattered and responded that it was a family recipe. To which Gaz seemed to get quiet and paid a lot more attention to his plate. From the looks Soap and Rudy shared, Ghost inferred that this was probably a sore subject for Gaz.

Alex could be seen moving his arm under the table, assumingly to take Gaz's hand and leaned over to murmur something in his ear that no one else could hear.

Gaz smiled weakly before turning to the rest of the group. "Technically I'm not even supposed to be eating it."

Alex winced slightly and at everyone's questioning glances. "My mom hasn't come around to the idea of us being married. It's tradition that when the son's in my family get engaged that my mom will tell the fiancé all their favorite family recipes. But my mother refuses..."

Gaz laughed and shook his head. "Apparently that only applies to daughter in laws." Under his breath, he continued. "White daughter-in laws."

Alex winced pretty hard at that, but his lack of denial spoke more than his words ever could.

Ghost decided to make probably an ill timed joke, but what could he say he was awkward anyway and proceeded to say. "Well Johnny never has to worry about that, both of my parents are dead." To which Rodolfo and Gaz laughed a little too loud. Alejandro and Alex looked at them both with concern.

Gaz decided to explain first. "My parents gave me up when I was a baby so I never met them and my foster parents when they got me were already tired of fostering so when I turned 18, I went to college and never looked back."

Rodolfo nodded in agreement and mumbled. "I went into that creep's basement with an alive family and came out with two dead parents and siblings who refuse to speak to me."

Gaz seemed to turn bright red at that before weakly mumbling. "Dead parents gang." Ghost laughed a little to hard at. He had to admit, he kinda liked Gaz.

Soap awkwardly spoke up. "Well my parents are also dead but... I'm a little concerned for you three now."

Alejandro shrugged. "My parents are both alive. I have a pretty good relationship with them."

Alex said. "Do you though? They didn't notice you were gone for three weeks."

Gaz lightly wacked him across the arm. "Alex!"

But Alejandro only laughed and just shrugged. "Yeah, I guess." Clearly, he wasn't too bothered by the statement.

Ghost had had a lot of experience watching people. Hell, that's how he got in his current relationship by watching Soap. Through this experience, he picked up natureal reactions people had to things.

For instance, when someone said something insensitive the usual reaction is to laugh it off, maybe apologize, or maybe just go haha and move on. However, Alex did none of those things. Instead, Alex just smiled, nodded at Alejandro and turned back to the table.

This wasn't empirical evidence that something was wrong with Alex. But when Alex caught Ghost's eyes, Ghost puffed up a little. He broadened himself, tried to make himself look bigger.

And Alex just looked at Ghost and smiled.

Soap frowned when he got a text message on his phone. It wasn't from a number he recognized, though Soap had to admit he wouldn't have recognized it regardless. He had had the same cell phone number since he was 16 years old and if someone tried to read it out loud to him, he'd probably stare at them blankly and just go "what's that?"

Hi! You don't know me, but we share a math class and I think you're cute. -Bug

Soap flushed dark, frowning. Oh. I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend.

That's alright. -Bug

Soap raised an eyebrow. Was he accepting rejection? Or was he going "I don't care that you have a boyfriend"? We can be friends, though. Why did Soap send that?? Ghost was going to kill him.

Really? Awesome! -Bug

Soap smiled a little. Just friends, though.

That's alright. -Bug

Do you like movies? -Bug

I do, why?

Trying to make small talk -Bug

Soap smiled. He was already picking up awkward vibes from him. Probably learned how to pick that stuff up from Ghost. Where do you sit in math?

Oh, in the back. I don't like being seen -Bug

You sound like my boyfriend

Simon Riley, right? -Bug

Funnily enough, Soap didn't actually know Ghost's full name. Yeah, I think so.

You think so? -Bug

I know so. Soap's face flamed bright red. Fuck, it was text. He had the opportunity to read over them before he sent them, yet his dumbass just types and hits go. Fucking idiot.

Right. -Bug

I do! Soap was going to die. He was a moron! Anyway, do you like movies?

Sometimes. Not too many of them. -Bug

Do you like movie theatres?

Oh, no. Definitely not. -Bug

Soap frowned a little. Why?

Too loud. But, I like watching them at home. -Bug

Soap shrugged. Makes sense. Rodolfo was the exact same way. Honestly, he'd stayed away from move theatres for nearly three years due to one of his friends not liking them. He didn't miss them, too much. He'd rather spend the 20 dollars on the actual movie.

Hey can I ask a question? -Bug

Sure what is it?

When are you going to break up with that boyfriend? -Bug

108 notes · View notes

rosiesramblings · 2 years

Text

Understimulated

WC: 2.4k

Fandom: Criminal Minds

A/N: So, I needed a distraction from the absolute rage I feel at SCOTUS' decision. Here's an autistic!reader fic. Every autistic person, including myself, is different, so if this doesn't capture your experience I'm sorry. This is just something I churned out so that I could combat the feelings of helplessness/hopelessness that I think a lot of Americans are experiencing today. Please take care of yourselves the best way you know how. Love you all.

The best way I could think to describe what it felt like to be understimulated was like there were thousands of bees buzzing just underneath my skin. Intensely uncomfortable. Making it next to impossible to sit still. Stimming - singing, moving, dancing, flapping, tapping, etc. - usually helped immensely when I was like this. Stimming was one of the only things that could get the “bees” to leave me the hell alone. The problem was, often I needed a specific type of stim, and my brain often had no desire to clue me in on the type of stimulation I needed to self-regulate. So I was left to cycle through every possible option until I found the one that felt right.

To complicate things further, we were on a case when this particular bout of under stimulation hit. The BAU had been called out to the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, Nebraska, where a serial kidnapper was abducting kids from the only public school within a 50 mile radius. You’d think that the limited pool of potential victims would make our jobs easier, but the locals and the police were being assholes. It took seven times as long to pry the relevant information out of the witnesses, and the whole team was feeling run down.

“It’s like pulling teeth,” Morgan complained as he made his way back into our dinky “conference room” the police had given us for a home base. Hotch looked up from where he was pouring over the cold cases that we believed were connected, a crease between his brows that only made itself known when he was frustrated but trying not to bring down morale. Morgan threw himself down into a chair next to Reid, who was diligently working out a geographic profile, absently rubbing at his temple like he had a headache.

“I would rather pull out my own teeth than go back inside that interview room,” Emily whined.

My eyes widened, but Reid muttered, “That’s sarcasm,” to me without stopping his scribbling.

Oh. That made a lot more sense. Still, now I had the lovely image of Emily pulling out her teeth in my brain. I drew my shoulders up to my ears and rubbed at my eyes, trying to bleach my imagination of the visual.

“I’ll swap jobs with you,” I offered, humming after I finished to keep the sensation of sound in my throat. A few of the bees flew away.

“You will not,” Hotch said tonelessly. “Not upset,” he added more quietly, when he realized I was trying to parse out his level of irritability.

Sometimes it was nice to be known so completely by my team. Other times it was a fucking drag. I decided this time was nice, the straightforwardness of his communication outweighing the fact that it kind of made me feel like a baby. I knew that was my own ableism that I had internalized throughout a lifetime of being autistic.

“Sorry, Em,” I muttered, mustering an expression that I hoped conveyed a sufficient degree of apologetic-ness, glancing back down at the files in front of me. My heart seemed like it was beating faster than it really should have been given that I was sitting down. My legs bounced, a vain attempt to try and gain control over this feeling that I knew too well. I could power through. I could make it through this afternoon and then find a place to reorient myself. Somewhere private. Not surrounded by the people I respected probably more than anyone else on the planet.

I started tapping the pads of my fingers on my thighs, reaching toward some invisible piano keys for the beginning of “Green Green Dress,” my latest hyperfixation song. Focus, focus, focus, I chanted in my head, enjoying the repetition. Until I realized I was focused on the word focus, and not on the files in front of me. I hissed out a frustrated breath between my teeth, giving my head a quick shake.

“Ok?” Spencer asked, glancing sidelong at me.

“Mhm,” I hummed, humming again immediately after, chasing the comforting sensation.

“You’re humming,” Morgan pointed out, drawing the rest of the team’s attention towards me and my vocal stim.

I gritted my teeth. “I know that,” I snapped, before closing my eyes. I could still feel everyone’s eyes on me, which wasn’t helping with the bee situation. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.”

“You’re allowed to stim here, L/N,” Hotch said, flipping to a new file.

“Yes sir,” I said, my face warming. It was still strange to me when people talked directly about my autism, instead of the elaborate “dancing around what we’re actually talking about” thing that most neurotypicals did. I turned back to my files, hoping that the rest of the team would take that as a signal that the conversation was over.

No such luck.

“When was the last time you took a break?” Spencer spun towards me in his swivel chair.

I bit my tongue. Then stopped, grabbing a piece of gum and shoving it into my mouth to redirect the harmful stim. The gum felt Wrong. I wished it was my tongue. “When was the last time any of us took a break?” I evaded the question, running a hand through my hair. Then I had to shake out my hand, since that felt even more Wrong than the gum in my mouth.

“You’ve cycled through six different stims since the start of this conversation,” Spencer pointed out.

“And I’m sure I’ll cycle through even more once this conversation is over,” I said, barely keeping the irritation out of my voice. “Which I would prefer to be right now.”

That wasn’t fair. The bees weren’t Spencer’s fault. I hummed, louder than before.

“Well, I feel like I’m just about at my limit,” Morgan said, getting up from the table. “Reid, Y/N, want to take a lap with me?”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Spencer said, shooting a pointed look in my direction before jumping out of his chair.

Like I said. I can’t decide whether being known so well was something I loved or hated. Still, I looked toward Hotch, waiting to make sure I had permission.

“Go ahead,” Hotch said, standing up himself. I’m pretty sure he was only making a show of taking a break so that I would take one, but honestly I was too preoccupied by the bees to really care.

I stood up on legs that felt more like a Barbie doll’s than actual human flesh. I tried to hit the feeling back into them but stopped at Spencer’s pointed look. Instead I stumbled to where Morgan held open the door, spit my gum into the trash can, and walked out into the main office.

Which was worse. Like, a lot worse. I froze, glancing at the boys, praying they knew what I was trying to say before I had to try and form the words. Luckily, they’re profilers, so Spencer stepped in front of me and walked forward, clearing a path in the crowded precinct as Morgan firmly grabbed my shoulders and steered me out of the building behind Reid.

Outside was better. I took a deep inhale of the cool fall air and tried to concentrate on the feeling of warm sun on my face.

Still wasn’t enough. I stiffened, my body needed to stim but my brain was too overwhelmed to know which one to try next. The bees reached a horrible, bone-rattling crescendo.

“Ok, what do you need?” Morgan asked calmly as the doors shut behind us, removing his hands from my shoulders. A distressed hum flew out from the back of my throat at the loss of pressure, and I started bouncing on my toes.

“Is this a meltdown?” Spencer asked, knowing I liked yes or no questions during a meltdown.

I hummed, shaking my head. Then I clicked my tongue three times. “Understimulated,” I answered.

Morgan tilted his head at Reid, asking a silent question.

“Understimulation happens in an autistic person when there isn’t enough sensory input to satisfy their needs,” Reid explained.

“Bees,” I nodded, knowing that it wouldn’t make sense to them but enjoying the long “e” sound anyway. I whispered the word twice more, still bouncing, clenching my fists, but it wasn’t Right.

“Y/N, what do you need?” Morgan asked again.

“Don’t know,” I half-sobbed, “Everything feels wrong.”

“Okay, okay,” Reid said soothingly. “We’re going to help, Y/N. Were Morgan’s hands on your shoulders better or worse?”

“Better,” I gasped.

Immediately, Morgan’s hands were back on my shoulders, squeezing. I stopped bouncing and hissed out a sigh.

“More? Please, more pressure?” I asked, my head a little clearer with Morgan’s grounding hands on my shoulders. “I’m not going to break,” I added.

“Whatever you need,” Morgan promised, wrapping his arms around me from behind, placing his chin on my left shoulder, and squeezing harder. Reid grabbed both of my hands in his and squeezed too. Immediately, it felt a thousand times easier to breathe. More of the bees dispersed. Still though, I needed something else. If only I could fucking figure out what that was.

Then Morgan rubbed his arms up and down my sides, and I jumped, a ticklish smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Sorry,” Morgan apologized, interpreting my jump as displeasure. He stopped his hands.

“No,” I said immediately. The brief zap of ticklish electricity through my body felt good. I wanted to chase the feeling.

Derek went to let go, thinking I was saying no to the pressure, so I let go of Spencer’s hands to grab Derek’s arms, keeping them around me.

Too underwhelmed to feel embarrassed, I guided his hands back to my sides. Spencer tilted his head to the left, processing. I said nothing, relying on the resident genius to figure out what I needed.

“Y/N, do you want us to tickle you?” He asked, a half smile creeping onto his features.

I took a minute to think. Did I want them to tickle me? Slowly, I nodded.

“Really? You sure?” Spencer prodded.

“I’ll try anything,” I reassured them both.

“Tell us to stop and we will,” Morgan promised after a pause, hesitantly flexing his fingers against my sides.

I hummed out a giggle. Relaxing the slightest bit.

Spencer observed the two of us for a second, making sure I really was ok with the objectively strange turn of events. Apparently he saw what he needed on my face, because a second later he was pinching up my ribs, his fingers surprisingly dexterous and very tickly.

“Ohohoho gohohohod,” I snickered.

“Still ok?” Morgan asked. Such a gentleman.

“Yehehehes,” I answered, closing my eyes against Spencer’s grin before opening them back up and ducking my head. “You cahahan dohoho mohohore.”

“This might be easier if you told us where you were most ticklish, Y/N,” Spencer said, the teasy implications not masked even a little by his matter-of-fact tone.

“Dohohon’t reheheMEMBER,” I squealed out as Spencer moved down to my hips. It was true. I couldn’t remember the last time someone tickled me.

“That’s ok,” Morgan said mischievously. “Makes it more fun for us, at least.”

“Fuhuhuhuhck OHOHOHOHFF MORGAN,” I descended into laughter as he spidered one hand over my belly.

“That’s not very nice,” he teased. “We’re doing you a favor.”

“Really, though, this makes a lot of sense,” Reid said. “Tickling is a quick and easy way to stimulate the nervous system. It’s quite logical that it would combat understimulation,” He spoke casually, as if he wasn’t absolutely wrecking my shit. He suddenly stopped, and I looked up in confusion.

I was met with the most wicked grin I’d ever seen him wear. “I wonder if there’s been any research done on the subject.” He dug into my hips with a gusto that was, quite frankly, very rude.

I yelped, my face burning. Apparently I was now able to feel all of the embarrassment I should have felt earlier.

Sensing the change in my demeanor, Morgan spoke up. “Really, Y/N, this is too cute. You’re much too serious anyway. None of us laugh enough on this job.”

“Yohohhohou voluntehehering to be thehehe next vihihihictim?” I sassed back, warmth blooming in my chest at his jesting reassurance. Feeling brave, I reached behind me and blindly prodded at Morgan’s torso.

I was rewarded with a yelp that he tried to disguise as a cough. “Hell no. I have two sisters, I’ve been tickle tortured enough in my life.”

“Benefits of being an only child,” Reid grinned.

There was a brief lapse in conversation, my laughter keeping us from complete silence. Reid kept traveling his fingers up and down my ribs. The higher he went, the more I involuntarily pressed my arms to my sides.

Reid looked thoughtful for a moment. “Morgan, I have a theory. Keep her still. I’m 89% sure she’s going to drop if you don’t hold her up.” And with no more fanfare, he wormed his fingers into my underarms.

Listen, I’m a realist. I know that the sound I made would best be described as a shriek. But that didn’t mean I had to like it (I did).

“REHEHEHEHEID,” I cackled as my legs annoyingly buckled under me, proving him right. “PLEHEHEHEASE.”

“That’s not a ‘stop’,” Morgan noted. I could hear the smile in his voice. He had stopped tickling me, probably for the best. Reid alone was awful.

Absolutely insufferable, these two. I loved them.

“How’re you doing, Y/N? Still understimulated?” Reid asked, not teasing this time, letting up a bit so that I could answer.

I paused and took stock of my body. The bees were almost entirely gone. “Ohohone more minute,” I said. “Thehehehen I’ll be goohohohod.”

“You wish is my command,” Spencer said dramatically before vibrating his hands in that devastating space at the tops of my ribs.

“SHIHIHIHIHIHIHIT,” I screamed. It was overwhelming in the best way. I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe. It was exactly what I needed.

Reid could see when I’d had enough. He stopped and rubbed his hands over my sides, firm enough not to tickle. He and Morgan both waited patiently while I came down from my giggle-high.

Like I said. Absolutely insufferable.

“Yohohou’re my favorite people,” I mumbled, turning in Morgan’s arms to hide my face against his chest.

He ruffled my hair, and I barely even cared. “You’re our favorite too, kid,” Morgan said, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of my head. Spencer hummed in agreement, rubbing his hand up and down my back.

I took a deep breath and stepped back from the embrace. The bees were gone. I smiled, finally finally I could attack this case with a clear head. I flapped my hands happily.

“Ready to go back?” Reid asked.

“Hell yeah,” I said. “Let’s go solve this fucking case.”

#tickle fic #criminal minds fic #derek morgan #spencer reid #autistic!reader #writing this was theraputic #made me feel a little bit less like society is crumbling around me #tickling #tfb community

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melis-hellis · 1 year

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Onward's 3rd Anniversary - A (Long) Self-Reflection Post

three years. three gosh darn years old. you're not allowed to be three years old, onward.

the world has obviously changed a lot since this humble pixar film came into my life. when it released, i was an 18-year-old in senior year of high school, and now i'm a 21-year-old junior in college. animation has changed a whole lot, and has been challenged by the perpetrators of the stigma more than ever. and for me...well, there have been a ton of developments in just these past several months.

for two and a half years, this film was my entire life. it was the only thing i thought about. i created tons of art and stories to expand upon this universe that deserved more love. i adored and connected with the characters...i hadn't quite related to a pixar film this much. i connected with the depiction of loving siblings, the emotions, the fantasy world...i've adored animated films before, but not to this extent.

and despite the film's unfortunate reputation - viruses, lawsuits, lesbian cops and all - i wasn't alone in my love. there was a small group of people on this very website who shared my love for this underrated gem, and we came together to create amazing things. we lifted each other up during dark times, and while things weren't always perfect, we powered through.

what's so unique about this particular anniversary is that this is the first one where i'm not active in the fandom. in fact, i'm not the only one who's inactive - most of my friends have also moved on to other things. but our love never went away. if my love went away, i wouldn't be writing out this post. but i'll be honest - i tried to draw a fanart last night, and i couldn't put anything on that procreate canvas. and it breaks my heart because i wish i could put out something like fanart today. but given my business with other fandoms, this post will suffice.

my one major goal i had in this fandom was to complete at least one season of my fanmade series. and that i did - my series was loved throughout this small fandom and seeing the reactions every time i posted an episode warmed my heart. on onward's 2nd anniversary - one year ago today - i completed the first season and started preparing for the second one. by the end of may i began scripting, and i was really getting in the groove...until late june.

something started feeling off by the end of june. i didn't want to admit the possibility of my onward hyperfixation waning, but that's what it felt like. it felt like the magic was being sucked from me. i blame lightyear partially for this; the film was so underwhelming that it soured pixar a little bit for me, and between that and dreamworks coming back with banger movies again, it made me stop paying attention to disney for a bit. i began looking back at older fandoms again.

july and august came and went, and while i still had a bit of onward motivation in me, it wasn't enough to continue writing. i did all i could - but nothing would bring it back up.

then i started junior year of college on august 22nd, 2022. a few days before, the whole warner discovery HBO max fiasco went down, and put the future of TAWOG - one of my old special interests - in jeopardy. while that special interest was a in a dark place...the youtube channel of the special interest i had directly before disney/pixar/onward hit one million subscribers.

in the 2010's caddicarus fandom, the prospect of him hitting one million subs felt like a legend. something that wouldn't really happen. back when i came along in 2014, he was projected to hit one million in 2017, as this was his peak in popularity. but as time went on, that 1 million goal moved further and further away as jim kept steering the channel into its demise. he had no self-awareness and felt he had to grind and pop out videos like rabbits to keep his numbers up...which, if you were a fan at the time, you probably knew was not true. the videos lost their quality and magic...and, funnily enough...i lost my patience on march 7th, 2019.

i unsubbed that day, but i'd been irritated with the channel's output for a while before that.

of course, if you know me, you know the story - exactly one year later, i saw onward in theaters with my sister and my life was changed. after a year of changing between many different fandoms - jontron, game grumps, seeing TAWOG for the last time before its finale, vinesauce, ducktales - pixar was now my new special interest home. the subsequent lockdown was a time where i produced tons of edits, fanarts, and fanfiction experiments.

on the caddicarus side of things, jim almost shut down the channel in late 2019 as his numbers were at their absolute worst. after having an epiphany at a convention in january 2020, he completely shook up his content style, and his channel was suddenly rejuvenated, bringing him the largest figures in the channel's history. before 2020, every caddicarus video gaining a minimum of 1 million views was completely unheard of, let alone none of the videos being under 30 minutes.

what's so ironic is that caddy began making banger videos again around the same time i got with onward. and yet i completely refused to watch them. i knew what was going on, i knew people were saying the newer videos were better. but i couldn't make myself watch them.

i had actually tried to come back for my 7th anniversary in august of 2021 - fun fact, my caddica-versary is august 21st, one day before august 22nd, aka what's now 1 million sub day - but i had just committed to my onward series, and i couldn't have another interest interrupting me.

so another year passes, and we're back at august 2022. i watch caddy cross over to 1 million subs, and it doesn't feel real at first.

i didn't immediately return to the fandom, but i knew in my mind that i needed to go somewhere as my onward hyperfix was thinning.

so what's the last thing i create in the onward fandom? do i draw an elaborate fanart? do i put out at least one episode of the second season i'd been hyping and pushing back for months? do i tease even more OCs and episode ideas? do i put out another chapter of that other fanfic i was writing? or a one-shot?

...on august 28th, 2022, the last things i ever created in the onward fandom were these two fortnite dancing gifs.

this reminds me a lot of alex lasarenko and his disney channel jingle. he's created a lot of breathtaking orchestral pieces - and yet the thing he's most known for are those four notes that have been used on the disney channel for over 20 years. for me and onward, the thing i go out on are these two silly gifs...and honestly? i don't mind that.

the following friday, i finally began watching the 2020-present caddicarus videos...and it was like falling in love with the channel all over again. i love both the original and current runs of the caddicarus show for completely different reasons - but the current run is the one i rewatch, quote, and remember the most of. because it's actually amazing.

needless to say, i resubbed that night, and i could comfortably call myself a caddicarus fan again.

something very funny about this is whole thing is that caddy says the word "onward" a whole lot. like, a whole lot. on interviews and streams, he usually brings up how new fans should only watch his videos from 2020 onwards. in his video talking about his merch box, he says the jokes and references within the box are from his videos from 2020 onwards.

it's like pixar had been sending me a subliminal message this whole time - onward (2020) came out just as caddy's videos became the best they've ever been. pixar was basically telling me "hey, caddy's moving onward too, so you should give his newer stuff a try and stop thinking he's living in the past".

here we are at onward's 3rd anniversary, and i'm still waiting for my caddicarus blu-ray to arrive. it'll be the first caddicarus merchandise i'll be able to hold in my hands and cherish - back when i was a teen, i couldn't just ask for caddicarus T-shirts as my parents couldn't find out that a swearing youtuber was my big special interest. and now, when that box arrives, i will have merchandise of all the major special interests i've had. i'd finally added the missing piece to the puzzle - or maybe for this case, a missing brick in the wall, or... the last check on the bucket list...

...and i've never felt more complete.

thank you pixar. thank you onward. thank you dan scanlon, kori rae, tom holland, chris pratt, literally everyone who made this movie a reality. no matter how much it's overlooked, memed on, dogged on, etc., there are people who adore this film for what it is and the emotions it has brought. it has helped me with many of my personal struggles, and to this day it stands as a glowing reminder that we should all strive to keep moving onward.

so, with all that said, keep putting it in O my friends. because you'll never be ready if you don't try.

#onward #pixar #pixar onward #onward pixar #disney #disney onward #onward disney

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toribookworm22 · 1 year

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Hello hello, awhile back you offered up an ask for me to ramble on about anything I could. I want to extend the same to you now! Tell us about anything on your mind, any new progress in a WIP, a new hyperfixation, maybe you made something really tasty recently and want to share the experience. Let this be the canvas to word vomit!

Haha!

I finally have thoughts occurring in my mind!

No, but seriously. Thank you so much for this ask, darling. I really really appreciate it, even if it took me way to long to answer. 🙃

Onto the ramble!

I am currently in three writing classes for school, so most of my writing time is dedicated to assignments for those classes. I have been writing a bit of poetry-- mostly angry, if I'm being honest-- which has been nice as well. I'm about to start working on a TV drama pilot for a class and I'm SURE you'll get to hear all about my woes on that one. Should be fun though.

And continuing on, let me discuss the thing today that drove me to finally answer this ask. (Accidentally got long so...)

I recently got an idea for a polyam story and accidentally wrote a really cute section of the story that I subsequently decided to turn in as a short story for one of my classes.

Well, today I got in-class critiques. And I was starkly reminded how little people know about aromanticism and all it entails. The critiques went really well. Even the people who didn't quite understand really liked my writing and several people had well-deserved concerns that I will be taking into consideration when I decide to write more.

But my professor (probably 60 year old man) admitted aromantic was a term he had to look up. Then he proceeded to steer the class into a discussion of how I handled the characters' identities in the story.

That felt a little insensitive to me, but-- I wasn’t allowed to speak for one-- I wasn't going to jump to negative conclusions. People brought up that the story should incorporate clearer discussions sooner (correct) and that this was a new subject matter to them (also correct) and then the professor interjected that he didn't think it was good to label the characters. One step worse, he then added the word "diagnosis."

Even if I had been allowed to speak, I was speechless. I haven't discussed aromanticism with an adult since I came out to my parents. And I go to a very inclusive school, so most of the students are careful with their language on matters like these.

Several students in my class did argue his point. Turns out there's at least two other aro-spec people in my class and several other allies. But it was too late for my professor not to have lost a little bit of my respect.

I knew submitting this story was a risk. I knew there would be people who didn't understand.

Had I omitted their labels, suddenly my sweet and loving story is about a toxic relationship with no love and bad people. Right? Cause I guess that is what we look like to the outside world. That's not even bringing up the QPR or the polyam aspects.

A few years ago, I finally reached the point where I can take critique on my writing because I finally started believing in my own writing. I'm a good writer. I write good stories.

This piece is nothing different.

But I wasn't quite prepared for the reminder that not everyone is going to understand what I'm writing about. And it'll have nothing to do with whether they like it or not. They just won't understand.

Sorry, that ended up taking a very long and kinda dark turn. 🤣

Thank you again for the ask and giving me a platform to rant on (like I need another 🙃).

All my love,

~ toribookworm ❤️

#sweet asks #rant #soapbox #ish #theres my soapbox #writeblr #writers of tumblr #aro #aromanticism #queer #love being aro #arophobia #amanormativity #random polyam idea #that i still have to figure out what i wanna do with in the long term #think thats enough tags for now 🙃#oh wait #thank you lovely!

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screechthemighty · 1 year

Text

Hello, People Who Read My Resident Evil Fanfics, I'm back!!!! (May be back even more over the next few months, tbh. I don't want to make any promises, but Dracula Daily is hyperfixation-adjacent and getting back into RE4 Remake is up next on my content roster, so who knows?) AO3 link will be in a reblog, but here's the next chapter of catch me floating circles in my fish bowl!

catch me floating circles in my fish bowl - part three:

May 2, 2021:

“Zoe’s fine. She’s shopping at the grocery store like normal, at least.” Carlos showed him a picture on his phone. It took Ethan a second to recognize her. Her hair was all white, and she looked less desperately thin than he remembered. She was buying chips and standing next to a brick wall of a man with a serious case of resting bitch face. He looked familiar, but not quite familiar.

“Joe Baker?” Ethan guessed. “Glad to see she’s still got some family left.” Especially family like Joe Baker. If Chris was right, the guy had punched his way through the site to get to Zoe. He’s probably the only person in this mess more unhinged than I am. And he meant that as a compliment. “Thank you again for this. I know it’s probably paranoid, but with everything going on…”

How was he to know that the BSAA hadn’t gone after her? She could be just as valuable a resource as Ethan.

Speaking of…

“Still nothing from the BSAA?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I feel like that’s not gonna change until you leave. They don’t have a cause to investigate Blue openly and I don’t think they’d suspect Chris of bringing you here, so…” Carlos shrugged. “They’re probably keeping a closer eye on Terra Save. You have physical therapy today?”

Ethan’s mood soured instantly. “No,” he admitted. “I mean, I was supposed to, but I fell last time and they’re worried I fucked up my ankle, so we didn’t do much.” He hoped he didn’t look too petulant. “I know, if I hurt myself it could slow my healing down, I need to be careful…”

“Don’t forget it’s a miracle you’re walking at all,” Carlos pointed out. “You should still be bedridden.”

“Technically, I should be dead, but I get your point. Still, it’s just…”

Frustrating. It was all so damn frustrating. His self-appointed deadline was this month. He didn’t need to run a marathon or anything. He just wanted to walk on his own. Any patience he might’ve had for his body and its shortcomings had gone out the window now that the novelty of being alive had worn off.

“...to be clear, I’m asked this as a concerned friend, not as the guy responsible for you, but…they’ve got you seeing a therapist, right?” Carlos said. “Like…for your brain.”

“Yeah, they have,” Ethan said. “We’re still working on Dulvey. Turns out, almost being murdered under extreme bullshit circumstances is even more traumatic than just almost being murdered. Who would’ve thought?”

Carlos wince-laughed in a way that said he knew exactly what Ethan meant. “At least your guy has probably heard it all by now,” he said. “We didn’t have that when I was going.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think the chainsaw scissors threw him off.”

“...the fucking what?”

Ethan probably shouldn’t have found that funny, but honestly? It was a little hilarious that he could one-up Carlos in the weirdness department.

Just a little.

Mia had been avoiding her therapist.

She knew, objectively, that avoiding her therapist probably looked worse than anything she could have actually said in therapy. She knew that whatever she said would stay in that room, that even her criminal past was safe to talk about. She knew this could be helpful, that it might let her sort out her thought spirals and fears and her increasing discomfort with being around Ethan.

But she couldn’t bring herself to go. Going meant actually admitting to everything–to all these dark thoughts, to all the shit she’d done. The thought of saying it out loud and having another person hear made her physically sick.

But she couldn’t stay away forever, so she finally went, with the intention of appearing as put-together and fine as possible.

She failed within five minutes.

“So, you’re concerned that Ethan is pushing himself too hard,” her therapist said. Doctor Reid was a no-nonsense sort of woman, the kind who cut right to the chase. It probably made her a great therapist, but these days, it mostly made Mia want to kill her.

“Ethan’s…” Mia tried to think of how best to phrase it. “...selfless to a fault. I don’t want him thinking about me right now. He should be focused on himself.”

Dr. Reid nodded and wrote something down. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve had this argument before?”

Mia tried to stay calm. It was difficult when visions of every argument they had since Mia learned she was pregnant started dancing through her mind.

We matter, Ethan! You matter! He’d been so caught up in protecting Rose, even before she was born. She’d known the lengths Ethan had gone to protect her. Known that he would go just as far for Rose, if not further. It was part of the reason she’d been so afraid to tell him what the mold had done to them. If he’d come to the same conclusions they had–that the BSAA had been deliberately negligent to unknown ends–who knew what he might have done?

The sound of pen against paper drew her out of her racing thoughts. Dr. Reid must have taken her silence as an answer. “Have you discussed this with him at all?”

Mia forced her voice to stay flat. “I’ve told him it’s okay to recover at his own pace,” she said. “He knows that we’re safe.”

“Maybe, but there’s more to the conversation than that, I think.” Dr. Reid put her pen down. “Are you frightened of what your husband might do?”

Damn this woman. “Why would I be? He protects us.”

“And he nearly died doing so, twice. That’s difficult to discuss. Objectively, he’s not wrong. Protecting those you care about is noble. But the survivor’s guilt you would’ve felt…” She picked back up her pen. “...and the guilt I’m sure you feel now are still very real. It could be easy for him to forget that.”

Mia felt her jaw go tense. “It’s not about that.”

“What is it about?’

“It’s my fault…”

Damn it. Damn it. Doctor Reid knew about the Connections, of course she did, but that didn’t mean Mia had to bring it up.

Doctor Reid glanced up. “You blame yourself,” she said finally, “because you think your time with the Connections is the reason Ethan ended up the way he did?”

The plan was not to reply, but Doctor Reid just sat there, waiting for an answer. Screw it. If this woman wanted an answer, she’d get her damn answer.

“I don’t think. I know. If I hadn’t been working for the Connections, I never would’ve ended up in Dulvey and he wouldn’t have had to save me. That’s where he got infected. That’s where the Rose got infected.”

“And if the BSAA had been honest, Ethan would’ve been cured, or his condition would have been managed,” Doctor Reid pointed out. “Maybe if they’d been honest, you two would have chosen not to have children. If Mirand had left you alone, or never learned about you, Ethan wouldn’t have had to save you a second time. Yes, your actions were one of the dominoes, but they were also just that. One of the dominoes. Why do you think you should shoulder all the blame?” Doctor Reid paused. “Why do you think Ethan thinks you should shoulder all the blame?”

“I don’t think that. I…”

She didn’t know. And that was really the worst part. So much of her was convinced that he wouldn’t blame her, which was bad in its own way. But the anxiety, the guilt, had her convinced that he would. There was no version of the story where this ended well.

“If I may,” Doctor Reid said. “You worry about Ethan pushing himself too hard and you worry about him getting into danger again. I assume this worry is compounded by the fact that you blame yourself for everything that’s happened, which in turn makes you feel that you’re not worthy of that protection. These are very strong emotions that are going to impact your interactions with Ethan, especially since you’ve had these disagreements before. Do you think I’m wrong?”

“...no.” It was a miracle it hadn’t impacted things already–or, at least, that it hadn’t in such a strong way that Ethan had noticed and started asking questions.

“Have you tried communicating with him about what’s been bothering you? You said Ethan had been keen to talk in the past. Perhaps if you had some mediation…”

“You offer couple’s counseling, too?”

“Actually, I’d find a third party, but we do have those.”

Of course they did. Nothing like a viral outbreak to put a strain on a marriage, right? Mia nearly burst out laughing at the thought, but managed to keep it together. Barely.

“I’ll think about it,” Mia said.

And she would. She just had a feeling she already knew what her answer was going to be.

May 5, 2021:

“You’ve got to be absolutely shitting me.”

Credit to everyone in the room: they were really doing their best not to laugh, or were treating it just as seriously as Ethan felt. Because he was taking this seriously. Because it was bullshit.

“Everything I’ve been through,” he said, staring down the cold compress on his arm, “all of that bullshit. And I’m still…” The only thing that kept him from swearing was Rose being in the room, staring him down with a slightly concerned look. “...I’m still allergic to bees?!”

“It would seem so, yes,” Doctor Marshall said calmly. “Do you want to hear something reassuring?”

“There’s something reassuring about this situation?”

“Your body is having a normal reaction to the sting. Not an exaggerated one, and it hasn’t triggered anything else in your healing. That’s a good sign.”

Damn it, he had a point. “I guess,” Ethan grumbled. Then, “Bees?!”

Jill finally broke the no-laughing rule with a barely muffled snort. “Sorry…” Her pale blue eyes were lit up with amusement as she tried not to make eye contact. “...no, it sucks, it really does…”

That probably should’ve pissed him off more, but…okay, yeah, it was funny-not-funny now that someone was laughing. Ethan deflated a bit, a bemused sigh escaping past his lips. “Just please don’t tell my wife,” he said. “She worries about me enough as it is. You’re telling her I’m fine, right?”

“I’m giving Mia medically accurate information,” Doctor Marshall said. “Unless you want to withdraw her as your-”

“No, no, it’s…” Great, that just means that either she’s misreading the information Marshall’s giving her or the results are worse than I realized. He wasn’t sure he liked either option. “It’s fine,” Ethan said. He peeked under the cold compress again. “Does the medically accurate information include that this bee sting isn’t gonna kill me?”

Ethan thought he felt a shift in Jill’s mood after that comment. That feeling was confirmed as she wheeled him out. “Everything okay with you two?” she asked. “I don’t want to be nosy, I just know this kind of thing puts a strain on…everything.”

“It’s…” Ethan sighed. “Complicated. Conflicting support needs, I think.” That was what his therapist had said when Ethan tried to describe the disconnect between how they’d handled Dulvey. Ethan wanted to talk. Mia wanted to forget. Neither was wrong, necessarily, but it did contribute to why they’d been butting heads on and off before the village. They hadn’t started couples therapy yet. Ethan wondered sometimes if they should move that up the list.

I basically died on her. That can’t be good for her mental health.

“That’s always tough,” Jill said. She had that tone, the one that said she and Carlos had been through the same thing. That was so weird to think about. They seemed rock solid, the two of them. Then again, they’d been together for a while, and lived through a lot during that time. Nothing like practice to improve your communication skills. “The give and take of it all. You’ve got to be supportive without giving up your own needs.”

“And hers,” Ethan added, tilting his head towards Rose as she grabbed at his coat collar. That was definitely a complicating factor. “I keep trying to tell myself that all couples have these problems, but…they don’t. You can say it’s the same thing, but it’s not.” Maybe that wasn’t fair, maybe he was playing the trauma Olympics, but he’d kill for regular problems. He’d kill for so many of their problems to not be tied up in dumbass crime syndicates and undead werewolves and potentially world-ending bullshit. If he could swap places with the Ethan who’d lost an arm to a car accident, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Zero hesitation.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Jill said. “I think that’s why I was never able to make normal friends. Almost everything feels minor compared to…” She gestured vaguely. “...everything.”

Everything was a pretty good summary of things. And that really summed up how shitty things were for the both of them. “How did you two make it through things?” Ethan asked. “I mean, if you’re okay with sharing.”

“Couples’ therapy,” Jill said without hesitation. “It helped with everything. Even the mundane stuff. And we talk to each other, as much as we can. It used to be a monthly thing when we were active duty. There was a lot happening and we wanted to make sure we had the time.”

That made sense, but it didn’t make Ethan feel any better. How were they supposed to do this when Mia still didn’t want to talk? He couldn’t force her. He’d tried, if he was being honest. It had only made things worse.

How much longer could they just let things stew again?

May 15, 2021:

Apparently, at least another week and a half.

Maybe the mounting anxiety had been a warning.

She’d known from the second she opened her eyes that today was going to test her. Mia hated to blame Ethan, because it wasn’t entirely him. She’d been slipping towards a shitty day for a long time.

But opening her eyes to see Ethan standing upright didn’t help.

“What are you doing?” Mia yelped.

Ethan nearly fell over. Fortunately, he’d been clinging to a chair to support him; it was the only thing that kept him falling down. “Shit!” he yelped back. Then, quietly, “Shh!”

Mia’s gaze darted guiltily to Rose. Fortunately, she was still fast asleep. “What are you doing?!” Mia hissed once she was sure her baby hadn’t woken up.

“I was cold,” Ethan replied. “I wanted a sweater.”

“I could have gotten one for you.”

“You were finally sleeping, I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“What do you -” Mia took a deep breath. “Please sit down. I will get you a sweater.”

Ethan nearly protested. She could see it in the way that his shoulders went tense and his eyes met hers directly. But just as suddenly, he looked away, his shoulders slumping, as he sat down. Crisis averted, she allowed herself to think as she got up to get him a sweater.

That was stupid of her to think. She knew Ethan better than that. She should’ve known. Ethan only stayed quiet for as long as it took to get him the sweater. But once he was holding it…

“I don’t want to do this again,” he said.

Oh, no. “Do…what…?”

“It’s just…” Ethan sighed and rubbed his eyes. His fingers seemed to linger over the scar tissue across his nose. “Back in Europe, it felt like every little thing was an argument. But we never really got at why we were fighting. I don’t want to keep doing that.” He met her eyes again. “It doesn’t feel like you’ve been sleeping well. I haven’t always, either, and sometimes when I wake up in the night or when Rose wakes up, I can hear you…moving around, talking in your sleep. Like how you did after Dulvey. I can walk short distances and you looked peaceful, so I didn’t want to disturb you. You’re dealing with enough without adding sleep deprivation on top of that. I’m worried about you.”

She’d heard those four words so many times. She was starting to get sick of them. “I get that, I do, but you have…” Mia took a deep breath. “You have to start worrying about yourself. Ethan, you died a few months ago. If you get hurt again, if you’d fallen and hit your head…I have enough to worry about without worrying about you doing something stupid, okay?”

She knew, immediately, how harsh she’d sounded. It was starting to remind her too much of the argument they’d had that day in Europe…the one that had nearly been their last argument. Mia rubbed her eyes, hoping that she wasn’t about to start crying. “Please.”

“Okay, okay. No more walking without someone watching me,” Ethan said soothingly. His one hand reached out to rest on her knee. Even with the sweater sleeve covering it, she could vividly see the scar on his forearm. “Stressed about what, honey?”

About the fact that I almost got you killed. That they have to run tests on our daughter and it’s my fault. That you’ll find out the truth and nothing will be the same ever again. That nothing is the same already.

“Don’t do that,” Mia said out loud instead. “Please. You can’t fix everything, Ethan.”

“I’m not…you can talk to me, Mia. I’ll listen. No problem-solving, promise.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him. And even if she did, she couldn’t make herself say the words. “It’s…this whole situation,” she said finally. Not a lie, but nowhere near the truth. “It’s this whole situation.”

She was dodging. From the way Ethan looked at her, he knew she was dodging. She expected him to call her out on it. He always had before. Instead, he just looked sad. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

He hugged her carefully. Mia was able to embrace him back, but she hesitated at first, the surge of guilt getting the better of her.

She knew Ethan had felt that, too, but he still didn’t say anything.

If his problems had a face, Ethan would have shot them by now.

He guessed Ethan could say his problems had some physical form: his bones, his muscles, the injuries and scar tissue that had hobbled him, the mold that had merged with his cells and turned him into something not quite human. But he couldn’t exactly punch himself in the face. Multiple BOWs had already done that for him, and look where that had gotten him.

He could still be mad at himself, though. Either his body had betrayed him forever and this was just his life now, or he wasn’t trying hard enough. One of those answers was easier to accept than the other one.

Unfortunately, accepting the latter only made the moment that he ended up face-down on the floor in the middle of PT all the more painful.

“FUCK!” Ethan shouted as he flopped onto his back. He wasn’t bleeding, but he’d hit his face pretty hard. “Son of a bitch!”

“Easy…” His therapist helped him carefully sit upright. Tom was usually a pretty chill guy, and usually had the decency to not visibly worry so much when things went wrong. This time he looked worried. “Did you hit the bar on the way down?”

“I didn’t hit the fucking bar. Shit.” Ethan looked around instinctively. He knew Rose wasn’t there, but he couldn’t help double checking. He tried really hard not to swear in front of her. He was just so…

Ethan carefully touched under his nose, checking for blood. There wasn’t anything that he noticed, but he knew what was coming next. “Let me guess, this is the part where we take a break for the day? We’re done?”

The words came out in a snap. Tom didn’t take it personally; the worst part was, Ethan was so pissed, he only felt a little guilty for being a dick about it. He felt even less guilty when he was informed that this was, in fact, it for the day.

At least he could wheel himself around the facility now. It meant he didn’t have an audience for his frustration.

Ethan probably should’ve gone back to his room and lay down. The session had been draining as it was, and he was kind of sore from that landing. But he went down to the ground level and right out the front door. No one tried to stop him, thank God. They probably figured he couldn’t go very far.

He went further than he had before, right out the front door and out into the parking lot, all the way to the far edge. There was just a field out there, and a barbed-wire topped fence. Somewhere on the other side of that was the rest of the world.

A world that he might never get to be a part of again.

Ethan took a deep breath and screamed. It was wordless at first, but quickly devolved into a rapid-fire barrage of every swear word he knew. They could probably hear him inside, but he didn’t care. What were they gonna do? Force him back inside? Revoke his wheelchair privileges? It wasn’t like his day could get any worse.

Eventually his voice gave out. He sat in silence, just him, the midday sun, and the random cars. The sound of approaching boots broke that silence eventually. Ethan didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to guess who it was. There were only three people he knew who wore boots regularly, and one of them was out of the country again. “I can’t go back in there,” he said dully.

“Wasn’t going to make you,” said Jill. “So, how’s a parking lot for a mental breakdown space? I haven’t tried that one yet.”

Points to her, the comment did get a laugh out of him. It wasn’t the sanest sounding laugh, but it was something. “It’s, uhm…” Ethan tried to wipe some of the tears off his face. “...better than a bathroom, I guess. Air quality’s nicer.”

“Yeah, bathrooms are like a bottom three pick.” She sat down in the grass, in his line of sight but off to the left. Her white-blond hair caught the sunlight, contrasting it more sharply against the black hoodie she was wearing. It looked a few sizes too big–one of Carlos’s, maybe. “You want to talk about it?”

He did. Keeping it bottled up was killing him, and maybe Jill would actually understand what was going on here. But for a long time, the words didn’t come. He just stared down at his one remaining hand. It had been working fine lately–grip strength almost back to normal, no more freezing up at random, sensation much better. Why couldn’t everything go that smoothly? Why did this have to be so hard?

Hadn’t they all been through enough?

“...Mia and I’s anniversary is this month,” he said. “Ten years.”

“Ten years? With two disasters in the middle of that? Shit, that’s not bad.” Jill sounded genuinely impressed. “I’m guessing you wanted to get out of here before that?”

“No, not even that. I can handle being here if we really have to.” They were safe here, at least, and safe was all he could really hope for. “I just…I was just hoping I’d be walking more by then. I wanted her to see that I’m okay. And don’t give me the whole oh, you should be dead, who cares if you’re not walking yet speech. I care. I can’t…” He rubbed at his eyes desperately. “It’s not enough. I thought even a few steps would do it, but I can just feel her pulling away and she’s so focused on being worried about me that she’s not thinking about anything else and I can’t…I can’t see her like that. I can’t live through that again.”

He was bracing himself for more questions; what he got instead was a slightly bitter, huffing laugh. A sound of recognition. “Fuck, yeah. Been there.”

Ethan lifted his head. “Seriously?”

“Chris didn’t tell you? I was MIA presumed dead for three years.”

Chris had definitely not mentioned that. “Chris doesn’t really talk much about his BSAA days. Was this before you left?”

“Yeah. One of my last missions with the old crew, actually. It’s a long story, but Carlos was…” She sighed. “...he kept it together for me. And I appreciated that, I really did, but I knew it wasn’t going to last forever. It was just a matter of when.” She started rubbing her sternum as she spoke. Ethan saw her do that sometimes. “Worst part was, I knew that. I just had no way of knowing what would finally do it. It was just the one time, thank God. We were able to talk about it after that.”

“So what you’re saying is that she might have to break more before we can fix it?”

“No.” Jill hesitated. “I mean, that’s not wrong, but that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is that what you’re going through isn’t abnormal. I don’t know if I can fix what’s going on with Mia, and I don’t think you can, either. She has to figure that out for herself, like Carlos did. But you know what kept me sane when everything went to shit?” She made direct eye contact with him then. She had such an intense gaze, her pale blue eyes seeming to stare right through Ethan’s skull. “You’ve gotta lower your expectations, man. I know that you want everything back to normal, trust me, I get that, but that went out the window three years ago. I’ve lived it twice. It sucks, every time, but if you try to force it, you’re just going to hurt yourself worse. Physically and mentally.”

Ethan forced his gaze away from her. It was stupid, all things considered, but he didn’t want her to see the tears starting to form in his eyes. “This sucks,” he said finally.

“Yeah, I know. It’s not fair. I wish it were. But you can make it work. It’s possible. And believe me when I say…she’s just happy you’re still here.”

Ethan didn’t doubt that. He just wasn’t always sure it was enough.

Maybe he was wrong about that.

“Mrs. Winters?”

Mia’s head snapped back up. Doctor Marshal was staring at her with a worried look. “Sorry,” she said. She rubbed her eyes. “I just missed that last part…were we talking about skin samples?”

“Yes, but they’re optional, and more for Ethan’s benefit. How is he, by the way?”

Mia wasn’t sure how to answer that. The conversation from that morning was still dancing through her head. The wounded look on Ethan’s face was burned into her eyelids. “He’s…still a little stir-crazy,” she admitted. “Nothing we can’t handle, I don’t think.”

“That’s understandable. How about you? How are you doing?”

Mia wasn’t sure how to answer that. She wasn’t sure she could lie, not when she had zoned out in the middle of the conversation. There was so much going on, so many things she didn’t have a handle on. “...can I ask you something personal?” Mia said finally.

“Go ahead.”

“How did you get past your old job? How do you…ever make up for something like that? After everything that happened…” Doctor Marshal’s face changed quickly, growing more closed-off than she’d ever seen the doctor. Damn it. “...I mean, I don’t know how much you were involved…”

“Bioweapons development and research,” Marshal said. “So, yes, I was involved. Not directly in Racoon City, I was never assigned there, but…only a few degrees of separation between my department and theirs. I’m sure members of the Nemesis team used my research.”

Oh. They had more in common than she’d realized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Don’t be. It’s a valid question.” Marshal sighed heavily. “Honestly, it took a lot of time. Joining Blue Umbrella helped. Actions feel more like atonement than words. But I had to accept at some point that I could be as sorry as I wanted, but I couldn’t change the past. Even trying to act like the past didn’t happen kept me stuck there. I wasted so much time trying to figure out how to dance around it that I may as well have been stuck in my room, blaming myself. I had to face it, admit it, figure out what I could do instead now, and move on. I still feel guilty now, but I’m not drowning in it anymore. It’s just a feeling. Usually a productive one.”

The difference between guilt and shame. Her therapist had brought it up. Mia was really starting to hate how much the woman was right about things.

“Not everyone is going to forgive us,” Marshall added. “That’s within their rights. That shouldn’t stop us from trying.”

“...yeah.”

They dropped the subject after that, but it stayed with her. It took up so much of her mental space that she almost forgot…

“You’re doing really good,” Carlos said suddenly.

…she’d had an extra set of ears in the hallway the whole time, looking after Rose.

“What?”

“At…all of this. Considering.” Carlos cleared his throat awkwardly. “Just in case no one’s told you that.”

Carlos was an easy man to read. He reminded her of Ethan that way. She could tell he meant it. That didn’t do enough to ease the sudden dread in her chest. “How much did you…?”

“Nothing I won’t have forgotten by the end of the day,” Carlos said. “I’m great at keeping secrets. I can’t retain shit.”

That sounded sincere, too, and just self-mocking enough to get her guard back down. “That’s…”

Goot to know was what she wanted to say. It got stuck in her throat. She was barely able to hold back the alternative response.

I’m scared.

But Carlos seemed to understand anyway. He reached out carefully, only resting his hand on her shoulder when she didn’t move away. He had a reassuring grip, what she’d imagine a touch from a cool older brother or a non-shitty father would feel like. “Is there anything I can help with?” he asked.

“...no,” Mia whispered. The dread was back, joined by a heavier sense of resignation. “No. I have to do this myself.”

Deep down, she’d known it was inevitable. In fact, it was long past overdue. No matter what the outcome…

She owed Ethan the truth.

She wouldn’t be able to fix this until she’d told him.

#resident evil #resident evil village #fic: catch me floating circles in my fish bowl

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upbeatpianist · 1 year

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Kaede will suddenly hear soft knocks at her door, followed by: “Akamatsu-san, it’s me, Shuichi: are you there... ?” When she opens the door, he’ll greet her with a smile. “Good afternoon, and Happy Birthday! I hope you’ve been having a great day so far. Is it okay if I come in? I have some gifts for you... !”

And if she lets him, Shuichi will mutter a ‘thank you’ as he enters the room. In one hand, he was carrying a gift bag, and in the other: a cake container. “That, and I thought it would be nice if we could spend together... a private little birthday party celebration, you could say. I even brought cake, too! Hehe.. “ He giggles, as he places the things on whatever table was okay to use. She’ll be able to get a much better look at the cake, which is a fancily made pink velvet cake with buttercream frosting, turned purple with food coloring. It also had a design of a music bar that curls around the cake, with different types of music notes.

And then in the gift bag, were hairclips shaped like teddy bears, along with a brown notebook. If she opens it, it will comprise of many different music sheets, most notably of songs Shuichi had noted to himself overtime that are especially favorites of hers. Some even included different versions of said songs she might be curious to play, along with newer songs that she might not have played before, either. “I hope you love your cake and gifts... ! As for this, I made this music notebook, myself. I thought you’d love to have so many of your favorite songs in one place, along with some I included, that I thought you might like to try playing sometime. And if you do.... I’d love to be there and listen! Because like with every song you play, I know I will be moved... but for now, I promise to help make today nothing but wonderful and fun, for my most precious friend.” He smiles warmly at her. He hopes he was already able to make today very special for her. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY KAEDE... 🍰🧸🎼)

{ ♫ } ❝ aw, thanks, saihara-kun! honestly, i'm still surprised anyone even remembers my birthday. i don't really make a big deal of it, after all! ❞

of course, kaede doesn't hesitate to let her friend in, and she's admittedly caught off-guard by all the stuff he's carrying. a gift is one thing, but bringing a whole cake too? she was starting to feel spoiled, and the day had just started!

❝ wow, you really went all out, huh? i'll have to remember this when your birthday comes around next! ❞

she playfully pokes her elbow into his side, letting him set down the cake and the gift bag before continuing on.

she doesn't want to eat the cake just yet, mostly because it's so beautiful she wants to take a moment to simply let it be before she cuts into it. so, she decides to open up the gift bag first.

the hairclips were a very sweet gift, of course, but as shuichi likely expected, kaede immediately begins to hyperfixate on the notebook as soon as she realizes there's sheet music inside.

❝ wow... look at all the songs in here! you really went to all the trouble of putting all this sheet music into a notebook just for me? i'll never run out of things to play now! ❞

not that that was ever a concern for her before, considering how often she played her favorite songs already.

she continues to flip through the book for a few more minutes, before suddenly getting up and giving shuichi a big hug. she was so grateful to have a friend like him, who knew her so well and always got her only the best presents.

after she broke off the hug, she knew exactly what she had to do.

❝ all right then, mister. you wanna hear me play these songs? then you're gonna get to hear them, right here, right now! this private birthday party just turned into a private piano recital! ❞

#ahogedetective #♪ ( ; ic post ) — i play the piano because i want to see people smile.#HAPPY BIRTHDAY KAEDE.........

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spookymovie · 1 year

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thoughts on lotms????

i knew like nothing going into it but i’m neck deep in this mcr hyperfixation so obviously i loved it

i love love love mcr lore so it was really cool to see that and like who they were and how they presented themselves pre-tbp, as well as the origin of so many fandom inside jokes. the 2006 editing style was really what put it over the top for me and i think we as a society need to bring back the jump cut. i was kinda shocked about how personal they got at times for a band documentary? but seeing all that really puts into perspective how incredible it is to see them performing today being happy and healthy and making it into middle age. anyway 10/10 a+ experience would watch again

#i still can’t believe it took me this long to watch it but here are my thoughts #i’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense i’m incredibly sick right now #mcr #my chemical romance #lotms #ev.txt #ask

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an-agender-disaster · 2 years

Text

My Past, Present, And (Probably) Future Feelings on the Sanders Sides Series

Anybody active in the Sanders Sides tag likely will not know me. I was a little-known fanfiction writer and fan artist for the fandom from 2018-2020, reaching my peak before Remus ever even was introduced two years ago. My peak was not high, I think being an ~2000 note fanfic posted here. This never bothered me. I was writing for myself, at the end of the day. But this is not what I am here to discuss.

I want to talk about how I fell in love with this show. I want to talk about my genuine hyperfixation on the series. I want to talk about my earliest concerns over the actions of Thomas and his team. I want to talk about my current feelings about the series. I want to talk about how this fandom is dying, and how that is nobody’s fault but those producing the content.

A friend introduced me to Sanders Sides just as season one finished. I had plenty of content to binge and loved watching it. I was young but had been in fandom spaces before this (namely Undertale) and understood that I was falling and falling hard. At this point of me being in fandom, I knew what fanfiction sites I liked the most, the type of content I enjoyed reading, and the length that worked best for me. I was an avid reader. I tore through the tag quickly, my favorite character, of course, being Virgil. He was the character with the most development in season one. I like deeper characters. It was bound to be that way.

I remained in the fandom. I grew to appreciate the fanart, something I hadn’t done for my previous fandoms. It was not the first time I drew fanart, but the first time I seriously looked at it. Appreciated it. I grew to pace myself with the writing, learning to love the deeper plots that people put into their stories rather than just the characterization. It was not the first time I wrote fanfiction, but the first time I analyzed it. Appreciated it.

Had it not been for this fandom, this wonderful fandom that the series encouraged to flourish, I would not be the creator of art, stories, content, that I am today. This fandom made me want to grow, and encouraged a young, preteen me to do so. And for that I will forever be thankful. But this is not a goodbye letter, and I doubt I will say goodbye even after this, as this is something that can only be left to slowly drain, a friend from middle school that I pass on the street. I look at them, pray they do not see me, and keep walking, remembering the old days, good and bad.

In the years between this and what I am about to bring up my favorite character shifted only once, to Logan, who it is still stuck on today. I go to a school filled with gifted kids. Exclusively for gifted kids. This is not a good thing, obviously, and I do not say it to brag. I say it to explain this shift, and that is all.

I grew in my craft, writing and drawing for the fandom, not gaining too much popularity, but not caring enough to want it. I made friends. I got incest shippers mad (I hope they stay mad). I saw the fandom expand and mature.

But things took a turn, even before I felt it.

Episode length expanded. Production value went up. Time between episodes stretched. I entered the fandom after season one ended. I never saw those days where a month was a long wait for a new episode, and I never cared to dig past mutuals joking about it offhandedly. I stayed happy with what I received. I was still in love, to the point that I can remember exactly what I was doing as Selfishness vs. Selflessness came out (I woke up and was getting ready for school. It was too long for me to finish before I got there. I was buzzing all day, wanting to turn off the world and watch.) and, for all intents and purposes, I would say I was satisfied with the fandom.

As I am writing this, I have Thomas Sander’s Youtube channel pulled up in a different tab. I want to know my timeline properly. Accuracy is something I have always had a fondness for in my writing. Continuity is important to me. The video I am about to talk about is not on that channel, something I feel silly for not realizing before now.

“You All Ruined A Bunch of Fairy Tales - Storytime Madlibs”

This, to me, is not the beginning of Icarus’s fall, but when Daedalus first took notice.

Many fan-artist, about half renowned in the fandom for their content outside of this video, took to the call of Thomas and his team. They needed animators. They needed animators willing to work, but they could not pay them much. Amateurs in their field, they accepted ludicrously low prices, mere cents, for seconds of smooth animation. They all finished in a timely manner. They all should have been paid.

They were not.

These people were all in contact with Quill, one of the members of Thomas’s team, which had been rapidly expanding over the past few years. A team expanding to streamline the creative process and get out content faster. We will discuss this later. For now, we will remind ourselves on how most of these artists never got paid in full or at all. These artists never got an apology. These artists, in droves, spoke out against Thomas and his team and how they were mistreated.

I fear that the fandom, as a whole, did not listen to this, myself included. Sure, we can all scroll back on my dash. We can find me speaking about how I, too, was upset on their behalf. I did nothing to truly speak out for them, though, but I saw a curtain of stan culture, blocking so many eyes from what Thomas and his team had done.

I felt upset, looking over to the other side. The people that had some notoriety were upset too, far more then me.

(Writing, I feel like I come across as a false narrator. Maybe I was not, am still not, happy over my lack of attention in the fandom. Maybe I craved, still crave attention. Maybe that is why I am at my computer, writing this at 2:13 AM. I am open to this. I understand this, if I always wanted to have that attention. It’s selfish, but humanly so. As a note to myself, I will address this at a later time, at a later date, in a later post, perhaps.)

I do not think of falling out of hyperfixations as a quick thing. Sure, it sneaks up on you, but it is not swift. It is deliberate. I only first took notice to it when Selfishness vs. Selflessness Redux was released. I did not respond by buzzing through the day, waiting to watch it as I did for Selfishness vs. Selflessness. I did not stay up at night, watching and rewatching four times until 5:00 AM as I did for Embarrassing Phases. I saw the notification on my phone. I paused, and clicked onto a different video, before thinking to myself “That’s not how you should respond. You should be happy. It’s here, finally.” And so I watched it while doing dishes, not even watching the screen. I went back and rewatched it once to see it with visuals. I have not watched it again to this day.

I have now closed my tab to his Youtube channel. I do not need it. There is only one video left. But first, Thomas’s Patreon.

Before it, he had a Youtube membership, giving his fans monthly livestreams and scripts after each video. I think it was for five dollars, but I am not sure. He currently has a Patreon. The max donation is one hundred twenty-five dollars per month. With this, you receive access the “Writers Room.” Fans, now, could contribute to the scripts of these episodes. To streamline the process. To make the content come out faster.

The Sanders Asides episode that came out seven months ago, “Working Through Intrusive Thoughts,” was written almost entirely by this group of Patrons.

I can say nothing of this episode other then I was done. Sadly, most of my love was gone. I watched this episode. It had my favorite character interacting with the center on my first ever Sanders Sides fanfiction main character. These are characters I had been looking at the personalities of not from a fandom perspective, but from what the show had given us.

And I saw how they had changed.

Even Remus, which I though was strange. This was his third episode being involved at all. But he still felt wrong.

One thing I did not mention prior to now is how Thomas Sanders and his team do not interact with the fanfiction side of the fandom almost at all. They have said they do not want it to tamper with or influence their own writing. Then why, please, please, tell me, did they open the fandom to write the script, any part of the script?

Thomas, as a character of course, felt like nothing but the straight man in this episode, somebody who contributed nothing even when he is everyone and he needs to contribute the most, needs to be the uniter of the sides and the one who does the resolution in the end, drives them toward the solutions as we have seen before. Remus felt like nothing but a horny man. Nothing more to be said. Logan, a character who my heart knows, who is inseparable, still, from my own mind, felt like nothing. I watched this episode, waiting to see what we know of him, his unwillingness to participate in silly solutions, his knowledge that can only expand as far as Thomas’s, and his care that he hides behind stoicism, and I saw nothing there. Nothing.

Maybe I’m being cynical. Maybe I care too much because I like his character. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s too convoluted. I don’t know. I can’t know. It;s the past now.

Presently, I have seen a lot of people share my thoughts. I like knowing that I am not alone. It feels, again, like the few weeks, just over a year ago, when that Madlibs video released. This time, I want to stand with those creators, I need to. I need to talk about my own thoughts. And I have been. That is what I am doing now, too, obviously.

But what of the future?

I learned a fun fact today. The season two finale, something that has been in the wings, waiting, for the five years that this season has stretched on, will be split into four parts. Grab a cup of tea, coffee, soda, water, anything, and sip it slowly. Reread that sentence. A five-year season ending in four parts. The last Sanders Sides episode, of course not counting the Asides, was two years ago. We have had no updates of their progress.

We are on a raft in the sea.

This raft has the basics of survival, canned food, purified water, a few dry blankets. We are, for now safe. We have ways for sustaining ourselves for a limited time.

Above us, beside us now, I suppose, Icarus has crashed into the waves. Much of our food, water, and blankets have fallen with the churn of the sea, sinking out of reach. We have far, far less now. We can try to stay afloat or, like those from a year past, abandon this. We do not know their fates, what came after they entered the waves. That is for them. It could be for us. And hope is dwindling. This community is hungry. Is thirsty. Is cold.

Is so, so tired.

I am so tired.

#thomas sanders #tss #sanders sides #tssides #ts sides #ts criticism

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dem-obscure-imagines · 3 years

Text

Try

Warren Worthington III x Reader

Fandom: Marvel/X-Men

Summary: Warren has been through hell and then some, but will meeting his soulmate turn that around?

Note: That’s right, it’s ya girl, back on my BS. I watched Apocalypse again and BIG SURPRISE, I’m in love with Warren and Kurt all over again. Still hyperfixating on Pietro also, so…expect more fics for him as well. Anyway, I’m a ho for soulmate aus and I haven’t written one for birb boi in literal years, so here ya go.

Reader is: Gender Neutral

Warnings: swears, mentions of alcohol

Word Count: 2.8k

Warren knew one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt: he didn’t deserve a soulmate. He didn’t. There was no question in his mind. Anyone who was destined to end up with his winged, alcoholic ass had been fucked over by the universe. No one deserved to be stuck with him for the rest of their lives. And yet, these thoughts didn’t seem to erase the words written on his forearm:

Hey, um, you’re Warren, right? The Professor wanted me to talk to you.

Professor. He scoffed. He was never going to college. If his parents had gotten their way, their son “cured” of his wings, he would have ended up at Harvard or Yale or somewhere similar. But it was far too late for that. Sitting in a cage in the back room of an illegal underground mutant fighting club in Berlin…it was far too late for that. He’d probably die before he met his soulmate anyway, rendering the prophecy on his wrist—and theirs, for that matter—useless. A waste of space.

That was all he was anyway.

He spiraled. His dependence on vodka got worse. The fights got harder. He wasn’t making it out unscathed anymore, winding up with burns and scrapes and cuts, depending on what kind of mutant he was up against. One night, one of his cuts had gotten dangerously close to the writing on his wrist. He stared at it for a long time, tears burning his eyeballs until they escaped and dripped down his cheeks, angry and hot.

He hated it, but even after everything, he still had hope. He still had hope that things would get better; that he could be better, even if it seemed impossible.

And then it got…worse.

Apocalypse had come, turned his wings to metal, tuned into his anger, his rage at the world, turned him into a monster, complete with knives for feathers and winding tattoos framing his face. He wished he could blame it on mind control or something, but Apocalypse hadn’t brainwashed him, only used his anger against him. Turned him into a weapon.

And then everything went black.

When he woke up after the battle, he was in an unfamiliar room, large and white and sterile; it smelled like hand sanitizer. He heard the steady beeping of a heart monitor and when he sat up, he noticed how sore he was. His whole body hurt. His head spun. But he was alive. And when he looked down at his tattoo, the words were still there. Wherever his soulmate was, they were fine. His stupidity in joining Apocalypse hadn’t caused anything to happen to them.

For the first time in what felt like years, he breathed.

“You’re awake.” A voice said as a tall man with brown hair entered his room. “I’ll let the Professor know.”

“Where…” his deep voice rasped and the man pointed to a glass of water sitting on the table adjacent to the cot he was situated in. He picked it up and took a few long, greedy sips, not realizing just how thirsty he was until the cool drink hit his tongue. “Where am I? What is this place?”

“This is the infirmary at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.” The man told him, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “You’re safe here.”

Warren nodded hesitantly, but didn’t say anything else. Safe. The word was almost a myth to him at this point. But at least he felt like he could rest for a little while.

***

It had been a few weeks since Apocalypse and his horsemen had almost ended the world. Erik had decided to stick around, and two of the younger horsemen, Storm and “the Angel of Death,” respectively, had been absorbed into the school’s student body. You didn’t know the Angel’s name. No one really talked to him, not even Ororo, Storm, who had been quickly adopted by your friend group.

Supposedly, Peter had tried to talk to the Angel guy, but he didn’t say anything to him. Ororo theorized he probably felt guilty about the whole thing. She did. But you all knew she didn’t know what Apocalypse was really trying to do. He probably hadn’t either, but that didn’t seem to keep the grim expression off of his face.

It was on a nice, sunny day that Xavier called you into his office, and you went down without complaint, knocking on the door a few times before he called you inside. You sat in the chair across from his desk.

“Hi, Professor. What’s going on?” You asked.

“Ah, yes. Just the empath and healer I wanted to see.” He smiled brightly. “(Y/N), if you don’t mind it too terribly, I have a small job for you.”

“Of course! What do you need?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen our newest pupil, Warren, around.”

You thought for a moment. “The, uh, guy with the wings? The big metal ones?”

“Precisely.” He nodded. “Warren…he’s been having quite a hard time adjusting.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“He came to me yesterday discussing…well, quite simply, he was wondering if any of our mutants here would be capable of…reverting him to his previous state. His wings, before Apocalypse, were made of feathers. They’ve been serving as quite a reminder to him and it’s been weighing pretty heavily on him, both literally and emotionally.”

“Yeah, I’ve, uh, caught his vibes from across campus.” You nodded. “It’s like there’s always a rain cloud hanging over his head.”

“Yes,” Xavier agreed. “It doesn’t have to be right away, but at your nearest convenience, if you see him around, would you talk to him? Tell him I sent you?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll see what I can do.” You promised him.

As an empath and a healer, your first priority was helping others. And even if he was known to be a bit intimidating, you wanted to help him if you could.

So, you walked out of Xavier’s office, attended your final class of the day, and when it was over, you wandered out into the courtyard where, because of the nice weather, students were everywhere. And luckily for you, just as you suspected he might be, Warren was sitting under a tree, still sporting his leather jacket despite the warm weather.

You shielded your eyes from the sun and walked over towards him, your heart racing as you built up the courage to talk to him. So, you took a breath and said, “Hey, um, you’re Warren, right? The Professor wanted me to talk to you.”

He stared up at you for a long moment, his green eyes wide in shock. He took a breath, blinked a few times, glanced down at his wrist, and then back up at you. You could have sworn you saw tears beginning to form along his waterline, and you didn’t realize why until he said, “You’re my…No…Oh my God…I’m…I’m so sorry.”

You froze, your knees going weak. You glanced down at your bare forearm and read over the words he’d just said, exactly the way he’d just said them.

You’re my…No…Oh my God…I’m…I’m so sorry.

“Why are you sorry?” You whispered, lowering yourself onto the grass beside him, not trusting your legs to support your weight for much longer. Now you were the one with tears in your eyes. “Don’t be sorry.”

“You deserve so much more than me.” He insisted, his eyes locked on his boots, unwilling and unable to meet your gaze. “I can’t drag you into…this. Me.”

His emotions were heavy, a bleak blue and gray haze and you felt it radiate off of him in waves. His pain, his everything. And you felt it, deep within his chest. He thought you wouldn’t want him anyway.

“Warren…” You shook your head. “Why…Why would you think I don’t want you?”

He was shocked into silence for a few seconds, thinking over his words carefully, his jaw tense and hands shaking. “You’re a telepath?”

“Empath.” You corrected quietly. “And…a healer. Which is why Xavier sent me.”

“Oh. Right.” He swallowed thickly, nodding. “Did he…tell you why?”

“He did.” You smiled softly. “And I’m willing to try if you are.”

Finally, his eyes met yours and he could tell that you meant more than just the healing when you said it. The weak little voice in the back of his head was screaming for him to push you away like he pushed away everyone else, but looking into your eyes, a genuine and warm smile on your face, he just…couldn’t lose you.

He couldn’t lose anyone else.

***

Today was the day. Warren was sitting on a stool in the infirmary. Hank had run his vitals and the two of them were in the room waiting for you to come down after your class was over.

“(Y/N) is the one who saved you, you know.” Hank told Warren while he jotted down some notes.

“What?” Warren asked, snapping out of whatever daydream he had been caught up in. “What do you mean?”

“(Y/N) found you in the rubble. We didn’t think you would make it, but…they healed you. They insisted we bring you back here. Give you a chance.”

Warren was quiet for a long time, thinking about what that meant. Part of him wondered if (Y/N) had known back then that he was their soulmate, but he decided that would have been impossible with just their tattoos alone. Especially without context. They hadn’t known and yet, they’d still wanted the best for him.

“Didn’t know that.” Warren said, his voice soft and deep. He stared at the words on his wrist for a little longer, a hint of warmth swirling around in his stomach. Was this happiness? Was that what happiness felt like? He barely remembered anymore. But he knew there must have been a reason that when you walked through the door, his heart started beating a little bit faster.

“Sorry I’m so late. Professor Leaf kept us a little later than she was supposed to. Are you ready?” You asked taking off your backpack and setting it against the wall. As soon as you looked up at Warren, you felt the way his heart rate was increased and you didn’t miss the warmth swirled with the anxiousness. The anxiousness, you had expected. Even you didn’t know if you could pull off what you were going to attempt to do, but the warmth…it was a pleasant surprise.

“Don’t worry about it.” He told you, shaking his head. Was he…was he smiling? It was a small smile, sure, but you didn’t think you had ever seen him smile before. It looked good on him. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Alright.” You nodded, walking over towards him. Underneath where he was situated on a stool, Hank had laid out some pads from the training room, you assumed, to catch his metal feathers if they fell out rather than transforming back to his normal…feather feathers. None of you really knew how this would unfold. “Again, I’m not sure this will work. I don’t want to get your hopes up in case it doesn’t.”

“I’m not expecting it to.” Warren assured you, but it wasn’t in a rude way. “If it does, I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Cross my heart.” What he didn’t say was: You could never disappoint me. Not even if you tried.

“Okay.” You nodded, taking a few steps closer until you were standing right in front of him. He looked up at you and for the first time, you didn’t feel any negative emotions from him. Only anticipation and that lingering warmth. “Here goes nothing.”

You focused on the warmth in your own chest, the tingling yellow healing power that constantly swirled around your heart, and you forced it into your palms. You reached forward for his hands and he took the hint, his larger hands wrapping around yours.

Immediately, he gasped at the sensation, warm tingles running up his arms, down his spine. It stopped in the center of his back, right where his wings intersected with his body. At first, he didn’t feel anything. And then, he felt everything. The pleasant warmth flooded his metal wings, and one by one, the knife-like feathers fell out, each one landing with a thud against the mat situated underneath him.

Hank’s pencil jotted against his notebook as he took notes. He knew you were powerful, but he’d had no idea you were capable of something like this.

Neither had you.

Once the metal wings were gone, Warren felt a new sensation: another pair of wings, this one soft and familiar, slowly emerging from him. Part of him expected the process to be painful, like the one Apocalypse had forced upon him was, but it wasn’t. Warren chuckled to himself. Of course you would never hurt him. Not even unintentionally.

After a few minutes, the feathery wings had fully emerged, stretched out to his full former wingspan and he stared up at you in awe. You stopped your flow of power to him, but he held onto your hands, squeezing them to keep them in his grasp.

He looked back at his new wings, flexed them and moved them. They felt familiar, like they had always belonged to him.

“Thank you.” He said, giving your hands another squeeze, the warmth in his chest brighter and bolder than it had been before. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course.” You told him, squeezing his hands right back in a way that caused his heart to lurch. “I’m glad I could help.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but do you mind if I keep some of these for research?” Hank asked.

“Keep all of them, if you want. I don’t want them.” Warren told him, standing up from his stool, his hands still in yours. “So, um…do you want to go grab dinner or something?”

“Sure.” You nodded, smiling up at him. “See you later, Hank.”

“Bye, guys, have a nice night.” Hank said as you and Warren walked out of his lab. He couldn’t help but notice the way one of your hands remained in one of his as the two of you left.

***

Later that night, after dinner and after you and Warren had split for the evening, you were walking back to your room from Jean and Jubilee’s and you found Warren, lingering in his doorway, his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. His eyes widened when he spotted you and he held up a finger, indicating you should wait for him, so you did while he went into his bathroom and rinsed out his mouth, returning a few moments later.

“Hey.” He said, the word casual as it fell from his pink lips.

“Hey yourself.” You chuckled, feeling ridiculously underdressed in your pajamas. But then again, he was wearing his pajamas, too, a large black Metallica shirt and a pair of plaid pants.

“How…how are you? Feeling?” He stumbled over his words, chuckling as he rubbed the back of his neck. You felt a wave of nervousness rush through him. “Hank said sometimes you get tired after, uh, bigger healing jobs?”

“I’m fine.” You nodded. “For whatever reason, I never get tired when I’m healing you.” You chuckled, your cheeks heating up the slightest bit. “Well…I think I know why…”

“Heh, yeah.” He nodded, mulling over his next words very carefully. “Did you, um…I don’t know how to ask this. Did you mean what you said about…trying? About us trying…this. Trying us.”

“Of course I did.” You nodded and took a few steps closer to him. “You’re my soulmate.” You reached for his hand and he gave it to you, letting you play with his fingers. You felt the way his heart fluttered when you did. “Of course I want to try.”

“I’m broken.” He told you. “I’ve never done this before. I’m…I’m a lot, and I know that.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m a healer, huh?” You tilted your head. “And if we’re being honest, I’ve never done this before either. So how about we teach each other? Learn together?”

He smiled softly, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

You let go of his hand and instead took the last few steps between the two of you, wrapping your arms around his torso. He froze for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. It had been…a long time since anyone had hugged him. But after a few moments, his arms got the hint and wrapped around you, pulling you to his chest. He rested his head atop yours and exhaled a long, long breath. And for the first time since you’d met him, you felt a wave of peace wash over him, encasing him entirely as his wings gently cocooned you in their warmth.

You felt his lips brush against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there. You looked up at him and his eyes met yours before fluttering shut as he leaned in to press his lips to yours.

#warren worthington iii #warren worthington x reader #warren worthington imagine #angel #xmen angel #angel x reader #angel imagine #archangel x reader #archangel imagine #xmen imagine #marvel imagine

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piratewithvigor · 3 years

Text

How I listen to each of my favourite bands (a bullet point piece)

Aerosmith: They're on the radio. It's the fifth time today. Somehow never the same song. Until tomorrow, anyway. One will make you homesick. One will make you sit in slack-jawed awe of Joe Perry. One will make you curse the day he was born. They all make you love him. In the back of your mind, your thumbs hurt.

The Beatles: You have all the studio albums on your iPod nano with the scroll wheel. It has 2GB of space, so there's nothing else. You sing along to the songs with your best friend in 7th grade during school. The teacher tells you to keep it French or to shut up. You switch to "Michelle" because you're 12 and a smartass.

Bon Jovi: You're on the bus home from a long day of fifth grade. When you get home, the same old, same old. You don't know it yet but this is the beginning of your depression. As you graduate from Crossroads to a 2-Disc Best Of, everything feels worse. You work on a puzzle in the basement and even though maybe no one will ever love you, Bon Jovi understands.

Buddy Holly: For the first time since high school started, you have a friend. She's wonderful and she understands you. Maybe there's 3 time zones between you, but it doesn't stop you from digging a hole deep into a fantasy world that you live in for months with her. Buddy's music is simple and the records are bright yellow. Maybe everything will be okay.

David Bowie: You didn't care when he died. You didn't know better. You got a CD of greatest hits for your birthday two months later. You still didn't understand the fuss all too well. A few tracks pop out at you and you get the album that features them. Dad insists you listen to the album in the dark on the floor (he doesn't say while smoking weed, but if it were the 70s, you would have). Finally you understand: David understands you.

Def Leppard: You're 13 and trying to find your place in the world. Trying to make a name, so you write. As the characters who make no sense are fleshed out in 1667 words every single day, the drum loop that finished Pyromania follows you around.

The Doors: You don't know how Jim Morrison came into your life. Maybe it was by an experiment gone wrong or a curiosity. Your classmates question why you're reading a book with a shirtless man posed as if being crucified. You don't know how to answer that you think you might be him. You hadn't believed in reincarnation, but he sparked something inside you. You can feel consciousness slip away when he plays his game called 'Go Insane'. You hold a Celebration Of The Lizard for a poetry slam and the adrenaline pushes you through your fear. You feel Jim's words in your actions for years. He watches you when you sleep.

GNR: You send your siblings out of the basement. They aren't old enough to hear swear words in music and you want to listen to Appetite in the dark. You want to jump on top of the couch and punch the floor. You can feel Axl's anger and it courses through you.

Journey: You've been told you look like Steve Perry. You aren't sure if it's a compliment or an insult. You think you sound like him. You know all the words to Don't Stop Believing at the school dance. Your first memory of your boyfriend was him singing it at the talent show. Your last memory of him is singing I'll Be Alright Without You, severing the final tie. Wheel In The Sky opens your next day. Things don't feel okay anymore.

KISS: You're 4 years old and your Dad is watching the scariest freaks you've ever seen on the TV. In the next scene, the scariest one is sitting and talking to people who look like your grandparents. You forget about them for 7 years. They show up again in your newest hyperfixation and you give them a chance. The freaks who once scared you strip away your fears and set you free.

Led Zeppelin: Your imagination was just opened to the possibilities of stories beyond the realms of reality. What you thought you never knew opened you to a new layer of your past that you didn't understand. The tendrils of influence wrap around every part of your future.

Motley Crue: The writings paint them as the villains. In many ways, they are. In just as many ways, they're the same scared kids you are. For better or for worse, they bring you into a community. There, you experiment hurting yourself in ways therapists don't look for. The greatest friend you could ever want.

Ninja Sex Party: They're a rock band for kids who don't understand rock bands. You have no physical media for them and it feels like you may never get the chance. Copies are limited. So your spotify is thick with every song they've ever recorded. They're fleeting and they're your rock.

Queen: You know just a little too much about them. They're bigger characters than the radio lets them be. You love Bohemian Rhapsody before you begin to hate it before you learn to love it once more.

Rammstein: As they bleed for their art, so you bleed for yours. Perhaps out of spite, perhaps out of desperation, but plague cuts your work short. It cuts you from the glory you could have had. The first album you've ever waited for the release of by a band.

Reckless Love: Never before has a band felt so attainable and yet so far away. Your family doesn't understand them, so you hide them away. The only recklessness was falling in love.

Rolling Stones: Angie helped you through more than you know. The lips are on your tapestry for a reason. You were blind for so much for so long. You never gave them a chance. They're using their chance now.

Rush: Once shrugged-off nobodies. You gave them a chance out of curiosity and desperation. Now you can't understand the possibility of never having liked them. They brought you your first great grief and your first proof of miracles. The red star of the solar federation burns bright. Assume control.

Styx: You're standing in the snow. The bus is an hour late. You can't contact your parents because they took your one method of contact as a punishment for not making your bed. You're listening to a Greatest Hits on your iPod. Crystal Ball. It's an hour. Blue Collar Man. You get home and no one noticed you were late. They're eating without you. Suite Madam Blue.

Tom Petty: The news hits you. Your throat is blocked and you don't say anything. You listen to I Won't Back Down before telling your Dad. He was the first you experienced while being a fan. He wasn't the last. You torture yourself artistically in his honour. You attend a tribute concert and scream yourself hoarse.

Tuff: You want to leave home and block out all the memories as best you can. Stevie makes it impossible. But he's also one of the only ones there as all your best friends who aren't online forget your birthday. He acknowledges you.

Van Halen: The grief is insurmountable. For weeks afterwards, Eruption makes your heart sink. 5150 makes you cry instead of imagine pleasant nonsense as it once did. There is no comfort. If he can go, what's stopping anyone else?

The Who: Maybe they got to your head a little. You were sitting in a room in school for hours each day, completely alone except for Tommy playing on your tiny laptop. No supervision. No classmates. Just your monstrosity of a project and Tommy.

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buckaroosboogara · 3 years

Text

911 week - Day 4:

“It’s always been you.” + love

(1700~ words, Buck and Eddie, blackout fic.)

@911week

"How long have we been here? Are you okay?" Buck asked, his throat begging for water.

"We have been here for," Eddie looked at his watch, the only source of light in the elevator. "3 hours."

"Are you okay?" He asked one more time.

Eddie's silence dragged for almost a minute before Buck spoke again.

"I need to know if you are hurt."

"I'm fine... physically." He finally said, taking air sharply. "The darkness and tight space... it reminds me of..."

"The well accident. Fuck."

The first thing Buck noticed when he woke up was that he was in a dark place.

It was hot, closed, and pitch-black. Tight.

He didn't like the implications of that.

He tried to move from his laying position only to be stopped by a stabbing pain in his skull.

Buck hissed as he laid on the floor again and a voice sounded in the dark, quiet but worried.

"Hey, hey, Buck, you are awake," The voice said out of breath. Buck felt a hand come to his shoulder clumsily and pat him. "Welcome back."

Buck grunted. His throat was dry and his mouth felt like sand, contrary to his skin which felt soaked in sweat. At least the pain was more bearable.

He turned on his back to sense the voice's owner, Eddie, sitting next to him on the floor. "What happened?"

"What happened was that we were helping a woman out of this elevator when the lights went off again and the elevator went down some stores before I pressed the emergency button." Eddie explained, with his breaths still shaky. "You hit your head pretty bad and I bandaged it with what I could. The radios don't work here, so I'm hoping Bobby will notice we are not out there with them."

Buck's hand climbed to his wet forehead where a piece of cloth was held to his skin with two pieces of tape. Rough but it would work.

"What happened with our coats' flashlights? And our helmets?"

"They ran out of battery, we used them for 8 hours straight Buck." Eddie yawned. "I took mine off as well as yours, this place feels like an oven. And the helmets... they are somewhere here."

"I kind of became desperate when I couldn't see or hear you. I haven't been able to look for them." Eddie huffed.

"And how long have we been here? Are you okay?" Buck asked, his throat begging for water.

"We have been here for," Eddie looked at his watch, the only source of light in the elevator. "3 hours."

"Are you okay?" He asked one more time.

Eddie's silence dragged for almost a minute before Buck spoke again.

"I need to know if you are hurt."

"I'm fine... physically." He finally said, taking air sharply. "The darkness and tight space... it reminds me of..."

"The well accident." Buck said with a huff. "Fuck, Eds I..."

"I am fine." Eddie forced out through his gritted teeth.

"Eddie-"

"No. I'm fine. End of conversation, we need to keep the oxygen."

Buck nodded although Eddie couldn't see him.

So he would of course avoid the topic.

He heard Eddie place his head against the metallic wall and breathe with difficulty.

Buck rolled his eyes, he knew how stubborn Eddie could be and he didn't need that in stressful moments like that one.

"Have any news about Chris?"

"Nope. My phone died like an hour ago," Eddie answered. "I couldn't find yours."

"Well, that's because mine is..." Buck muttered as he looked for the device on the back pocket of his pants. "Safe on my ass."

Eddie snorted a laugh and Buck smiled, mission accomplished.

The phone almost slipped from his hands and the air was taken from his lungs.

He turned it on and the light made him hiss. He could now see the elevator - it was indeed very small - and he could see Eddie, who was very much shirtless. His shirt was on his shoulders, missing the piece that was on his head.

"I-I guess I'll have to buy a new one. Great." He said, avoiding to look at the man by his side.

The device buzzed with a notification of very low battery, only 5%, and Buck noticed the screen had cracked in the fall.

"I could buy you one, after all, it's my fault that it's broken. Now give me." Eddie spoke and Buck did as told.

"So, what's the diagnosis doc?"

The former medic proceeded to turn the flashlight on and crouched in front of Buck to check his pupils.

"Pupils are matching, but you will need a CT scan once we get out of here."

Buck groaned again. He hated those.

Eddie passed Buck his phone but stayed still in front of him for some seconds.

Apart from being very much shirtless, Buck noticed he was very much pale and shaking. There was fear in his shiny eyes, which were scanning him in detail.

A hyperfixation.

Buck closed his eyes as he sighed, he should have known.

"Are you having a panic or anxiety attack?"

Eddie went back to his side feeling embarrassed and huffed a humorless laugh, "Honestly... I don't know. It just feels bad."

Buck shifted positions to look fully at Eddie. "It's okay. I'm here Eddie, I just need you to breathe. Will you do it with me?"

Eddie nodded, the world went black again.

His phone had died.

Eddie's breaths went faster.

"No, no, don't do that. You are going to hyperventilate and we don't want that." Buck grabbed Eddie's hand and squeezed it. "I'm here okay? I'm here with you. We are going to breathe together, how about that?"

"O-Okay."

"Inhale, one... two... three... four... yeah like that, and exhale, one... two... three... four..."

Some minutes later Eddie could calm down, the shudders went away with the cold sweat and they stayed in silence. Buck's hand was still tangled with Eddie's, on the other man's lap.

That encouraged Eddie to voice his thoughts.

"I... I hadn't remembered what it felt like until today. Not for years." He whispered into the air.

"I could have died. But I remembered a promise I made Chris once." Eddie turned his head to watch Buck. He found pitch-black that somehow made it easier to talk. "That I would always fight to come back to my family."

Eddie looked at the front again and simply said, "You are my family."

He felt Buck's body tensing by his side as he started stuttering. "I- I Eddie-"

"Why did you think I changed my will? I trust you more than I trust my own parents." He scoffed bitterly, squeezing his hand.

"I... I thought you only saw me as your best friend."

"If you knew..." he shut his mouth quickly. He had gone too far.

How could he have gone that far? Voicing his thoughts didn't mean telling Buck the truth about the things he felt for him. About the warm wave of happiness that washed over him every time they locked eyes. Every time Buck smiled. Every time Buck was with Chris.

The feeling of home never faded whenever he was with Buck, instead, it gained strength every time they saw each other.

"If I knew... what?" Buck asked and Eddie could feel his look on his side. His cheeks started to burn.

"Eddie-?" Buck was cut by hot lips on his cheek, giving him just a sweet short peck and going away. He gasped and Eddie tried to untangle their hands but Buck grabbed him tighter.

With his heart running wild on his chest, he reached a hand into the darkness and found a chest, he went up until he found Eddie's chin and clumsily made their lips meet halfway.

The kiss turned to be as good as a kiss in the darkness could be.

So unexpected, so romantic.

It was a mess. Both were a hot, sticky mess - in the good way, not the horny one - in a dark elevator at 5 am, sealing their mouths in their first kiss.

Buck loved it.

Eddie loved it too.

They separated to catch up with their breaths and smiled to the dark.

"If you knew," Eddie started, feeling Buck's head resting on his chest. "That it’s always been you, Buck.”

"I always saw you, Evan Buckley. For who you are, your good things and your bad things. I've seen your worst and your best, and I wanna be there for and with you in them for the rest of our lives."

"Ever since I saw you in the firehouse for the first time, since I saw you smiling in your car when we went to look for Christopher after the earthquake, since I saw you pinned under that truck... I have always known it's you. You who I want to experience life. You who I wanna watch Chris grow. You who I wanna marry someday. You who I wanna grow old with." Eddie answered with a smile.

"I love you too."

"Eddie... Oh god, all this time you... Fuck, I- I want that too." Buck chuckled, placing his hand carefully on his jawline and pulling him for another kiss.

"I love you."

The last thing they expected next was to hear the 118 outside the doors, having heard half of the conversation.

"As much as I love listening to you two getting your shit together-" Hen's voice cut through the elevator's doors. "And I really love it, we need to get you two outta there so, Albert! Bring the jaws!"

Then cheers were heard as both were freed from the elevator, coming out half hugging the other.

"You should have told me it would take you some hours in a sauna to get together! I would have gladly paid!" Chimney teased them.

"Amen, you said it, Chim." Hen agreed, making Buck seat on the gurney and transporting him down with the rest of the crew.

She checked both of them once they were in the parked ambulance and exclaimed to the street, "You all owe me 20 bucks each!"

The couple heard the whole 118 groan before they closed the ambulance doors and started making their way to the hospital, the light of the sunrise illuminating the city which was slowly recovering the electricity.

"You had a bet on us?" Buck whined from the gurney.

"Yup, and I just won. Took you three years and a month, but who's counting?" Hen smirked.

Eddie rolled his eyes fondly and took Buck's hand. "You can have all the bucks you want Hen. I already have the one I love."

(Tagging: @perfectlynervousbeard bc they asked me)

Chimney cried from the front, "Ugh, they are going to be that type of couple."

...

#911week2021 #:)#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buck and eddie #buck x eddie #911 the blackout #911 speculation #blackout fic #911 on fox #911 fox #soft #love #my fics

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captainkappa · 3 years

Text

Fanfic:: Hunter and Prey

To be a Mandalorian pirate is to be both hunter and prey. This, Din understood after being taken into their care as a child.

Now he is hunting a Mandalorian artifact to deliver his charge to the aquatic sorcerers in order to teach him how to handle his magic. His quest brings him to a sandy stretch of shore, Mos Pelgo.

Link to AO3

For Day 4 of @dincobbweek aka AU day!

The prophecy as foretold; I have a hyperfixation, therefore I must write a pirate AU. And oh my god, I loved writing this fic so so much.

Huge shout out to @staranon95 for betaing and @ayantiel for providing the needed inspiration to get this thing going!

-=-=-=-

Mayfeld took in a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs. There was a lot riding on today, his reputation, Ran’s reputation, but with the Empire’s finest knelt at his feet, all of their note-worthy possessions, he thought he was doing pretty well.

“No one makes any dumb decisions and you all will get to live,” he called out, voice carrying over the wind so even the poor bastards at the end would be able to hear. “We’re just here for what’s ours and then we’ll leave you be. You’ll never have seen us.”

Xi’an was getting her brother from the prisoners down below and Burg was raiding the captain’s office. Sure, the objective was to get Xi’an’s brother before he made it to the Empire’s colonies, but this was an Imperial vessel. The three of them would have to be stupid not to rob the Imps blind when they had the opportunity. Plus, their informant assured them that not only was this a prisoner’s vessel, it was a transport vessel, moving a map that led to a whole lot of Mandalorian gold.

It was the perfect plan; do a job for Ran, undermine Ran, get filthy rich, and live the rest of their days on an island in the Outer Isles.

And everything was going great, when Burg burst through the captain’s doors, startling everyone on board. Everyone jumped, bar Mayfeld. Burg cut an intimidating figure, a mountain of a man, horns poking through holes he made in his hat so he had to crouch to get into most places. His sudden presence didn’t startle Migs. What was a surprise was the concern on his face.

“Migs! The captain is dead!”

He rolled his eyes. “And? Do you want me to pay you back for the ammo it took to do that?”

“No, he was already dead! And the map’s gone too!”

His blood ran cold. He gave up the act and ran into the room, grabbing onto his hat so it wouldn’t fly away. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. He couldn’t tell if there had been a scuffle or it had been Burg who had torn up the room. Drawers were half open, hanging out, papers scattered, a blood-spatter, maybe, but there was so little Migs couldn’t tell if it was recent.

And in the center of it all, the captain, dead in his chair. His body was cool, so Burg wasn’t bluffing in saying someone had shot him before. There had been a lot of commotion when they had first boarded the ship, could the thief have entered then?

“You swear he was like this when you got in?”

Burg nodded.

“And he wasn’t holding a pistol?”

Burg nodded again and the evidence confirmed it. There was only one pistol in the room, halfway across the floor. That didn’t happen when someone tried to off themself for fear of the pirates coming on board.

Migs pushed the body to the floor, getting on his knees to root through the drawers, hoping to find the map, to be able to smack Burg upside the head, but there was nothing. He ripped them out of the desk, holding them upside down and shaking them, but still nothing. Just useless documentation with Imperial seals splayed everywhere.

He slammed the top of the desk as he stood up.

“Did you check everywhere?! Every possible drawer, false drawer, any of that bullshit?”

“Yeah! But it ain’t here!”

Migs pulled off his hat, balling up the rim in fist before throwing it back on.

Ran would tell him not to get greedy. There was an unknown element at play now, so focus on getting Qin out and run. With the group back to what it was before Mando sold them out, they could rob big ships again, but who the fuck cared about that. If Ran knew about the map, he would’ve said to hell with Qin, focus on the pay-out.

Migs stormed out of the quarters and back onto the deck. It was too sunny to see, but that didn’t stop his furious walk back to the line of Imperials on the ship. He grabbed the one in the fanciest looking clothing, who he could only assume was the quartermaster or second mate, and hauled him to his feet by his collar.

The man made a choking sound and face-to-face, looked at Migs with terror.

“Where the fuck is it?”

“Wh-Wh-Wh-?”

“The fucking map! Lost Mandalorian treasure? I need it, and if you don’t, Burg here will make sure you meet those fucking dead ass Mandalorians that hid it in the first place.”

Something must’ve gotten the man brave, because he said, “I thought Mandalorians were extinct, like you pirates are going to be.”

And as if signing his death wish, he spat on the floorboards near his feet.

Well, Migs wanted a nice clean run, but he had a reputation to uphold.

He threw the man back down to the floor and before he could get his arms out from under him, Migs pulled out his flintlock pistol and aimed it at him.

He was a second away from painting the floor with this asshole, when Xi’an ran out from under the deck, her brother trailing behind.

“Captain! It’s Mando!”

That made Migs whip his head up. “Mando? Here?”

She nodded. “We saw him climbing down. Port side, now!”

The four of them raced to the railing, watching as the small craft sped away, faster than any ship could hope to move. She flew familiar colors, the flag of someone who had sold Qin out in the first place.

Migs thought today couldn’t get any worse.

Then the flare went out, bright and brilliant even in the daytime sky. An Imperial flare, that would’ve had to have come from the captain’s quarters, that they wouldn’t have been able to spot in the chaos of the room, that was absolutely going to call every Imperial ship in a hundred miles radius.

Fuck.

Fucker didn’t even have the decency to flip them off as he sailed away.

-=-

Din keeps his eyes low to the ground, brim of his hat pulled low over his head, scarf pulled round his face as he weaves in the crowd. It’s Nevarro, so he knows he blends in with the rest of the criminals that inhabit the port town, but he finds himself more cautious these days.

Especially with the small cargo at his side.

It’s only when he takes a corner into a dark alley, down a set of stairs just off the tavern, into the gloom, does he look at the bag at his side.

As they passed a torch on the wall, the Child looked up at him and beamed, his pointy teeth just coming in, ears unfurling as he lifted the flap.

“You doing ok?”

The child babbled in reply.

“Good, we’ll be there soon.”

For what was basically an underground network for a bunch of criminals, it was surprisingly clean. There were puddles of brackish water that Din stepped around to avoid, along with passing others, but it wasn’t as piss-soaked as Nevarro was up top.

Hiding a whole community under a criminal network didn’t seem like the smartest idea at first, but the thing about criminals is they can either be paid off or disappeared with little problem. As he stepped around a pair of running children, he hoped there would be one day Mandalorians wouldn’t have to hide. He had no idea how that would happen, but no one had ever died on hope.

They finally arrived at their destination, a door on the far side of the hallway. He knocked on the door and opened it when he heard the familiar voice say, “Enter.”

She was already sitting at a table, a bottle of rum in front of her, a candle burning, doing its best to light up the space. Her hat was beside her, feathers drooping so they touched the brim. He made a mental note to pick up more on his next supply run.

He took off his hat as he shut the door behind him, keeping his bandana firmly in place.

“How was your trip?” the Quartermaster asked coolly, picking up the bottle to pour him a drink. It had been years since she had manned a ship, but the title still carries in their community.

He pulled out both the kid and treasure from the bag, setting the kid down on the ground to run around the space before sitting across from her.

“Successful.”

He spread out the map in front of the Quartermaster. He heard those fools talking about Mandalorian gold, and it wasn’t entirely true. It was a map to a compass that would reveal what the holder most desired, which for some might be Mandalorian pirate gold or power or love.

Or the location of the aquatic sorcerers the child needed.

The child wasn’t fully human. He needed to spend a lot of time in water in order to spend time on land, which meant a lot of time spent swimming alongside the Razor Crest. He could also shoot water up out of the ocean, a gift Din was well acquainted with, it being one of the child’s favorite games to play.

Since he had failed to fully deliver the child to the Empire, he had had privateers and other pirates on their tail for months. This map was their last hope to make sure the child got back with his people and then…

And then Din would go back to what he did best; providing for a people now scattered by his actions.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of the Quartermaster’s chair scraping back. She stood up, only to bow over again, her back parallel to the table. She moved her scarf to the side so her lips could ghost over the map as she spoke words of power into the paper.

She stood back up fully as the ink on the map shifted and moved. Waves rolled in place, sea serpents dipped in and out of the surface, all the while the path moved like an eel, slippery and changing, until everything at last was at rest and the ink seeped back into the page.

All three bowed their heads over the map. The starting point of the path was now the tiny cluster of islands of Nevarro and the end point was…

“Tatooine?” he asked out loud. “They’re basically land locked. What would a Mandalorian be doing there?”

Tatooine was a coastal stretch of land, surrounded by jagged rocks and ship-wrecks on one side and impassable mountains on the other, with desert in the valley.

She raised her head, scarf now back in place. “I suspect you’ll find out when you go there.”

He nodded and the child cooed. Din looked over at the child grabbing at the map, hands scratching at the lines like he could pick them back up.

“Come on, little one. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

-=-

Din sailed into Mos Pelgo, following the instructions Peli had given him.

“You have to arrive at low tide, that’s the only way you’ll see all the shit you have to get through. If you haven’t decided to turn tail and leave, you have to keep to the south. If you go north, you’re dead. Last I heard, there’s a pile of sticks they call a dock if you keep going south.”

The dock was a simple thing, as she’d said. Rotten wood, with just one post tall enough to hold the rope to the ship. Din was half tempted to jump straight into the water and swim to shore rather than test the strength of the wood, but resisted the urge with the Child in his bag.

He could see the town in the distance and set off on the beach, letting the Child out to stomp around on the beach.

The town was small, a couple of shacks on stilts for the stormy season. Few people were out, and those that were openly stared at the two of them. Din paid them no mind, one goal in his head.

He walked into the cantina, knowing if there ever was a way to learn about a town, it was going to their cantina first.

And not half a minute of talking with the Weequay bartender, the “Captain” walked in. The man wasn’t a Mandalorian, his face was bare, showing off white hair, sun-freckled pale skin, and a well-trimmed beard. His coat was sturdy, but patched to high heaven, with a bright red scarf around his neck. He wore the compass on his belt like he was flaunting it. It made Din’s blood boil. If Din were a younger man, he would’ve shot him right there for it.

But he tried talking. The compass should be in the hands of a Mandalorian. The Captain swore up and down he had gotten it fairly and therefore it should be his.

“I’ve given you an easy out already. Take it off,” Din said, “Or I will.”

“We gonna do this in front of the kid?”

“He’s seen worse.”

The Captain stood, fingers already itching for the flintlock on his hip, no doubt preloaded like Din’s were. They were interrupted by cries from outside. The Captain holds up a hand before smoothly exiting the cantina. Din follows, but stops in the doorframe to take it all in.

There were several broken fishing boats being led through the rocky shores, dragged onto the sands, people shouting, people carrying others. The Captain was in the middle of it all, shouting orders, trying to bring organization to the chaos.

In the distance, was the unmistakable view of a large tentacle slipping beneath the waves.

Din didn’t want to get in the way of this organized chaos, but then a twi’lek with scarred lekku was shoving bandages into his arms and gesturing over to a house across the way. Din wasn’t going to say no to that.

The house was quieter than outside, only pained whimpers and soft, hushed voices. A collection of wooden splinters already piled beside the bed as the doctor continued to take tweezers to one of the people who came in. Din placed the bandages by their side before stepping back, nearly colliding with the Captain.

He looked at the scene with a pensive expression. Immediately, Din could see that his care for his people went further than words. There was corded energy in those shoulders, anger that wanted to be released at the creature that did this to his people.

The Captain ushered him out of the room.

As they walked back to the cantina, the Captain said, “How about this; you help me with the kraken, I give you back your compass.”

“Deal.”

-=-

The Captain led him past the edge of town to the cliff’s edge. On the journey he told his name was Cobb Vanth; Din held off on his own introduction.

“None of us are much for traveling,” Cobb said, “but the kraken planted itself right where we normally fish. Even when I send people to fish in a different spot, the damn thing follows after. We’ll be starved out sooner rather than later.”

They crested over the hill and the expanse of ocean fell before them. The kraken was visible from the cliffs, a dark mark under the waters, swimming languidly around the coast.

Din did a mental inventory of what he had on the Razor Crest; a handful of spears, a harpoon, some rope. Cobb had shown him the town’s stores before they left. It wasn’t going to be enough.

He stepped back from the ledge, back where Cobb is. “Is there a Tusken encampment nearby?”

Cobb raised an eyebrow. “The Tuskens? But they’re-”

“They know the coast and water better than anyone. We can’t kill it with just the two of us.”

“If they know the area then won’t they want to… I don’t know, not kill it?”

“Then, we’ll just have to ask.”

“Ask? You don’t ask a Tusken anything.”

He could, in fact, ask a Tusken for things. Din was thankful for the cloth in front of his face, masking most of his pride as he watched Cobb’s jaw drop as he asked the Tuskens for their help. It turned out, they did want help in defeating the kraken. Its sudden appearance had also affected their fishing.

They had to travel further to where the kraken had made his home. Din stayed in the back with Cobb, where he seemed more comfortable.

Cobb also apparently liked to talk when he’s nervous.

“So, you spend your days on the ocean? All the time?”

“Mhm. Do you spend all your days on land?”

“Mostly. I used to be on a ship, but not like you. I was a galley slave on an Imperial ship, but before then I had dreams of being as free as you, traveling the waters on a boat with a crew of my own.” His face fell. “Haven’t thought about that dream… for a while.”

To have something that should have meant freedom be taken away from you, Din couldn’t imagine.

“But you escaped?”

“Kriff, yes. Raised a mutiny, sunk those fuckers to the bottom of the sea. I found the compass in the captain’s drawers and it pointed us here. Few more people joined, some left, but it’s as home as we can get.”

Din could only nod. He found himself surprised with the thought that he was glad that Cobb got the compass. He had no idea what the Empire was doing with a Mandalorian artifact, but it was definitely put to better use finding people a home.

They made camp up in the dunes. Din had to waste a bullet, firing into the air to disrupt the startings of a fight between Cobb and the Tuskens. Planning was slightly easier after that.

He took off his coat, bundling it up into a nest for the child to sit in. He rolled up his sleeves to free up his arms as he continued translating. He noticed Cobb looking at the tattoos that traveled up his arms. He doesn’t comment on it.

-=-

Small boats littered the coastline the next day. The plan was for people from both the Tusken band and Mos Pelgo would distract the kraken long enough for a boat of explosives to be set up and ignited close enough to kill it but not the people.

It doesn’t go great.

There were enough boats in the water to pick up people who capsized in the wake of the monster’s waves, the thing lashing out as folks took pot shots with pistols and arrows. They managed to set the boat laden with explosives off in its direction, but when the time came to ignite, the explosion happened, but it just managed to scratch the beast.

Din reached for the harpoons he brought as backup. He and Cobb try firing at the kraken, but they skim off its skin.

The Tuskens were still firing their weapons at the creature. Mos Pelgans took turns firing guns and reloading in turn. All it did was keep the creature at bay, which wouldn’t last long at all. He needed to think of something to kill the creature or everyone here would die.

He furtively scanned around the deck for something, anything. His gaze landed on the extra explosives they had kept on hand. The monster’s skin was too thick for the explosions to take but elsewhere…

Din doesn’t think, he just moves. He grabbed as many sticks of dynamite as he could, stuffing them in the pockets of his coat. There was a coil of rope tied off to the railing, which he took and wrapped around his waist. Even after years of living on ships, his hands shook as he tried to tie it. Suddenly, Cobb was in front of him, taking the rope from his hands and tying it tight around his midsection.

He pulled it hard, once, twice, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

“What are you gonna do?” Cobb asked.

“I’m not sure,” Din said, pulling the rope tighter around his waist.

“Then what should I do?”

Din looked at him, really looked at this man who was willing to do so much for his community in light of so much hardship in his own life. He looked back at the dark shape in the water racing for their boats

He took off his hat and tossed it at Cobb. “Take care of the Child.”

And before Cobb could do anything beyond catch the hat, Din leaped off the side of the ship. He couldn’t tell if Cobb shouted anything after him as the kraken burst from the water. He forced himself to keep his eyes open as he fell straight into the kraken’s maw.

-=-

It was nothing but darkness inside the beast. Even with the scarf over his nose, the scent of salt water and death was everywhere. He dug himself in the mouth of the beast, boots scraping against bony protuberances in the things throat. He emptied his pockets as fast as he could while holding on for dear life as the monster bucked and screamed.

He hoped the kraken was out of range of the boat.

When he was left with one explosive left, he fished around in his pockets for his matchbook. He struck the match and lit the explosive before chucking it down with all the others like it.

He turned and clawed at the kraken’s beak, heart pounding in his chest. If he doesn’t get out of here before the explosion goes off-

Suddenly, a roaring filled his ears and a mass of hot air flung him out of the monster. His scarf twists around his head and he can’t see anything as he flails. He landed hard in the water and then it was silent as the dark water pulled him down.

He wasn’t sure how long he drifted. The shock of cold water and the heaviness of his coat made movement impossible.

He didn’t regret asking Cobb to take care of the child, he’d be in good hands.

Something wrapped around his waist and pulled. Din tried to resist, not sure if he was being dragged toward air or to his death, but his arms were useless, heavy and leaden. He had no strength and so he let it happen.

And then they broke through the surface of the water, a cool wind icing his skin instantly. He took a shuddering breath and nearly choked on water and his sopping wet scarf. Hands came up and pulled the scarf off his face. He coughed, chest shuddering with each intake of breath. He realized he’s being held, arms around his waist, and it isn’t until he can take a full breath did he finally bother to wipe salt water from his eyes and look at who was holding him.

It was Cobb. His hat and coat were off, red shirt darkened to maroon with all the water. He was searching his face for… something.

Din took a breath, resisting the urge to cough again. “I thought I said- you need to take care of the kid!”

“I am!” Cobb said, holding his head up to avoid a passing wave. “By making sure his daddy lives!”

Cobb maneuvers his arms so he’s gripping a floating piece of rowboat. It’s thankfully big enough that when Din leans his whole weight on it, he doesn’t sink back into the ocean.

“Everyone okay?”

Cobb gave him a look that Din thinks means he’s stupid. “Yes, thanks to you, partner.”

They only have to tread water for a couple of minutes before a rowboat headed by the twi’lek Issa-Or arrives. Cobb makes sure Din is pulled aboard before climbing in himself.

-=-

They stayed the night. Din isn’t in any position to argue with Cobb’s hospitality. He didn’t think he’d be able to turn the wheel on the Razor Crest let alone sail it out of harbor.

Cobb opened his house to them. It was a small abode, raised off the ground like the others. Its small size made it even more obvious the telescope and sextant were on display on the only table in the main room.

Din wanted to pass out then and there, but Cobb firmly set him in one of the wooden chairs before disappearing behind the one door in the house. He returned with a roll of bandages and water. He thought it was to drink, until Cobb started peeling back the wet layers of Din’s clothes to reveal burns and scratches he hadn’t even felt. Cobb dips a rag into the freshwater, rinsing out the salt and detritus from the wounds.

He worked in silence, both too exhausted from the day to say much. They could hear the sounds of the party outside, Tusken and Mos Pelgan alike celebrating the death of the beast.

A drunken group walked past and the two of them can hear the butchered shanty they sing. They glanced to the window then to each other, sharing hidden smiles.

All patched up, Cobb gave him the bed and set something up for the child. Din knew he should be aware of his host, should know where his host himself is sleeping the night, but he couldn’t bring himself to care with exhaustion tugging him into the bed.

Voices from the other room kept him up, cracking one eye open to focus on the now familiar drawl.

“You know, in the past few days, whenever I looked at the compass for a sign of how to kill the kraken, it always pointed out to sea. I didn’t know what that meant, if I had to go sailing for a kraken expert or find a sunken treasure that would kill the kraken. I don’t know, I was getting desperate. But now… I’m thinking it might’ve been pointing to your dad.”

He heard the child’s burbles of delight and finally, finally, he slid into unconsciousness.

-=-

Din woke up to the sun shining in his eyes, light reflecting off the compass placed on the pillow that wasn’t there last night. Any lingering drowsiness left him when he realized what it is.

The Mandalorian compass.

He grabbed it and opened it up, thinking about Grogu and the teacher he needed. The arrow spun around, until stopping, hovering at a point out back toward the ocean.

A heading. He had a heading.

He fell back into the bed, just staring at the compass. It was embedded in a box made of dark wood, carvings all around the edges, Mando’a script, if he had to guess. It’s incomprehensible, chipped to the point of being illegible.

Something in the bed crinkled as he shifted. He turned and searched for the source and founda scrap of paper. It took a moment for him to parse, but it was just Cobb letting him know he had business to attend to and he would be back when Din left.

Right... they had to leave this town to continue their quest.

He reminded himself of that as he went out to find the child. The house sounded suspiciously quiet for all the mischief the child got into.

-=-

They got their affairs in order quicker than expected. Some people had spent the night alongside the Tuskens preparing the kraken meat to distribute to the rest of the town – and Din, apparently.

It seemed like the whole town had come out to see them off. They apparently had held off giving their thanks until they knew he was conscious. Din looked over the grateful townspeople’s heads to see Issa talking intently with Cobb. When Cobb glanced over his way, he ducked his head back down.

Normally he would sneak out of this kind of attention, but the kid was eating it up, beaming like he was the one who took down the beast, so Din went down the line, nodding respectfully at every given comment.

By the time he got to the end of the line, he was already ready to take a nap, but he raised a hand to bid them all good-bye and turned to walk out of town.

“Mando!”

Din turned around to see Cobb running after him, heel kicking up sand.

He stops in front of him. “Do you- do you need help on your quest?”

“Are you offering? Thought you had a town to look after.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Well, the kraken was our biggest threat, and with the peace brokered with the Tuskens, there’s not much for me here.”

Din tried to tamp down his excitement, not believing what he was hearing. “You still have your sea legs?”

“Long as you don’t lock me up below deck, I should get them just fine.”

“I’d never,” he said quickly.

Cobb smiled. “Well then, permission to come aboard?”

Din hoped Cobb could tell he was smiling behind the bandana. “Granted.”

-=-

As they sailed out of port, Din kept glancing at Cobb, who was fidgeting up a storm. He kept tapping his fingers against the railing, glancing out at the disappearing coastline.

Finally, after even the Child was tapping on his pant leg to point out Cobb’s unease for him, he hatched a plan. He affixed the wheel so it wouldn’t turn on its own. Then he went about setting the sails and ropes for the same task, keeping them on course while Din took care of Cobb.

“We can still head back if you want to,” he said as he approached the other man.

Cobb turned over his shoulder. “No, I’m not having second thoughts. I’ve… My friends know I’m not exactly made for land.”

“Oh?”

Cobb flipped his scarf up to wipe at his head. “Before we made landfall at Mos Pelgo, we took out a few Imperial ports. Small things that we only noticed because of the ships with galley slaves, but… I ain’t felt that alive in a while.”

Din fished the compass out from his pocket, flicking it open. The arrow spun lazily, pointing back to Cobb for a second before spinning around in the direction they were sailing, the same direction it had pointed when he thought about what Grogu needed.

He snapped it shut, coming up to stand beside Cobb.

“I’m sure we’ll run into something along the way. Here, I’ve got something to show you.”

Cobb raised an eyebrow. “Alright, I’ll bite. What is it?”

Din bit his lip, glad for the bandana. “Do you trust me?”

Cobb chuckled. “I would have to be an idiot to sail out to who knows where with a man I didn’t trust.”

Din nodded. “Then let it be a surprise.”

Cobb acquiesced, letting himself be led to the middle of the deck. When they were under the main mast, Din grabbed the main line in one hand, pulling Cobb close with the other. He ignored how his cheeks flushed with the sudden closeness.

“Hold on tight,” he said.

“Wha-?” That’s all Cobb got out before Din flicked the switch with his foot and the two of them went rocketing up toward the crow’s nest. Cobb’s arms circled around him like a vice, his shouts lost in the wind.

Din made sure Cobb got in the basket before he did, especially when he realized his eyes were shut.

“Cobb, open your eyes.”

Cobb cracked one eye open and then both flew open as he realized what he was seeing. Glittering blue ocean, as far as the eye could see. There were two dots in the far distance, ships of some sort.

There was no better way to experience the vastness of it all, than looking at it from above.

He glanced at Cobb and saw his eyes tearing up a bit.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, letting Cobb take it all in. This was what being on the ocean was supposed to mean, freedom and possibility, beauty and wonder. Din didn’t expect to do much in laying a balm over Cobb’s past, but he hoped he could communicate with this view that he wanted to help when he could.

Cobb turned to face him and Din knew he understood.

“Thank you, Mando.”

“Din, my name is Din Djarin.”

“Then thank you, Din.” And to his surprise, he leaned over and kissed him just above where the scarf covered his face.

Neither of them acknowledged it, except for an exchange of eye contact. Neither could contain the mirth in the crinkles of their eyes.

“We should start plotting a course, shouldn’t we, Captain?” Cobb asked.

“Yes, Captain.”

#dincobbweek2021 #dincobb #marshmando #cobbdin #dincobbweek #pirate aus my beloved #cant get enough of them #so many times i was like 'oh shit that translates so well into pirate au!!!'#it was just a joy to write #as you can probably tell by how fucking long it is #esp compared to the other fics of sensible lengths for this week #kappa talks #my fanfic

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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 4 years

Text

Day 5

Prompt: Any intense emotions your soulmate feels you will also experience.

Word Count: 1,730

Main Taglist: (Send an ask to be added or removed!) @starlocked01, @spoopy-turtle, @lizluvscupcakes, @more-fandon-than-friends, @i-cant-find-a-good-username, @vindicatedvirgil, @star-crossed-shipper, @justaqueercactus, @gayboopnoodle, @sanderssidesweirdo, @the-sympathetic-villain

Soulmate taglist:(Send an ask to be added or removed!) @elizabutgayer, @melodiread, @tsshipmonth2020, @mikalya12

CW: Panic attacks, anxiety, mentions of self depreciation, mentions of horror.

Logan felt another burst of anxiety deep in his gut and sighed. This was the tenth time in three days, he was starting to be worried for his soulmate. He focused on his breathing, feeling for the familiar tug of emotion. After years of doing this, he’d ��hacked the system’ so to speak by figuring out where the emotional connection was in his head. Once he’d figured that out, it was a simple matter of pushing emotions across it. So, he did that. He pushed a strong calm over to his soulmate, hoping their anxiety would lessen. He breathed out a sigh of relief when it did, when the pit of doubt left his stomach and his throat opened back up, when he didn’t have to struggle to keep his thoughts clear instead of giving in and drowning in the hate his brain spewed at him in that moment.

He hated the way the anxiety made him feel but also knew that his was tame compared to his soulmate’s. To combat it, he started happy stimming, flapping his hands near his face until he was grinning. He didn’t realize he was pushing his happiness through the connection until he felt the joy being radiated back. He stopped stimming, letting his hands falling back onto the library cart bring him out of his thoughts and remind him of his current task: to reshelf books.

Logan loved working at the library. He loved getting to read as much as he wanted, to have the ability to interact with a bunch of people or choose to stay by himself. The best thing about working in the library is that he got to see people’s faces light up when they found a book. Whether it’s the next book in a series they were reading, a book they’d almost forgotten about, one they had cherished memories of as a child, or a new one they were finding for the first time, he loved seeing the different expressions on peoples faces.

Today would be a good day for that as the library had invited a local author to come in and read his books aloud. Not many knew this, but he had two different pen names. One he used to write children’s books, the other was used to write horror stories with the main focus being human vs nature. Logan had researched the man extensively last night, not getting to sleep until a few hours before he had to get up for work.

The door jingled and a man in a hoodie walked in, making his way over to the children’s section. Logan watched him go, wondering what brought him here today, the reason for his visit to that particular section. When Logan saw him reach out a brush a spine, a soft smile lighting his face, he knew it was a nostalgic visit. He went back to his work, finishing in the adult section and moving to the children’s.

He saw that the tall man had sat down in a comically small chair compared to his height, his leg bouncing in some sort of anticipation. Logan felt the anxiety curling into his stomach again, making him want to curl up on the ground or scream in an emotion he was unable to put words to. Instead, he finished putting the books away and walked up to the man, ignoring the voice in his head that was telling him everyone was watching him at all times.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Logan sat on the ground beside the man, watching the way his head ducked further into his hood.

“Something like that.” The man muttered. His fingers were pulling on his sleeves even while his leg was vibrating. There was something unknown but familiar in the man that made Logan curious about him.

“You look like you could use a distraction.” He said, finally pinpointing the reason the man looked just the slightest bit off.

He chuckled but Logan knew there was little to no mirth in it. “Sure, that’d be nice.” Even so, his voice was genuine.

So, Logan started talking about bookbinding and the differences between modern and medieval Europe. He talked for a half hour or so. During that time, he felt the knot of anxiety untie and slip away, his thoughts clear, and an almost giddy sensation come from across the bond. He paused and realized that the giddiness was coming from him and being reflected back across the bond like a loop.

Logan smiled at the man sitting next to him, carefully watching him. He was no longer hunched into himself, no longer hiding from the world. He seemed to be relaxed, his shoulders were down and his head was up, hood thrown back. His leg was no longer bouncing and his hands were no longer tugging at his sleeves. He had a smile on his face and, in that instance, Logan was sure he could talk to this man for hours and never lose his attention.

Logan didn’t resume talking about his latest hyperfixation, glancing at his watch instead. “I need to get ready.”

The man reached out as Logan stood, helping him up but also glancing at his watch before a panicked look crossed his face. “Shoot, is it really that time already?”

Logan nodded. “My watch is always on time. Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Here. I just didn’t expect time to fly so fast.”

“Well, you know what they say about having fun.” Logan began tidying up the area, getting the small chairs and soft sitting surfaces to face the chair the man was sitting in as it seemed to be against the wall already. He found the copy of the book that was to be read and placed it on the table nearby before standing by the door.

The head librarian walked up to Logan. “What have you been doing with V. A. Strand this whole time?!”

Logan’s head would have spun around if he were in a cartoon. “What do you mean? Are you telling me that the random man I helped down from a near panic attack is the author who’s reading to the children today?!”

She looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course!”

Logan looked back to see the man, V. A., smiling and greeting all the children and parents who filed in. He politely refused autographs and pictures but did allow the children hugs, which Logan thought was sweet. He hadn’t realized he’d been talking to one of his favorite authors of all time about bookbinding of all things for half an hour. Logan shook his head, perfectly content with the way the conversation went, the way he was able to calm the man down, the smile he got at the end of it. None of that time was wasted, neither was it made more special simply because he now knew the man’s identity. It was simply a slightly shocking discovery.

He nodded at that thought and turned back, watching the way V. A didn’t have to look at the book, knowing exactly which words were on which pages, what the pictures looked like. Logan wondered how many late nights he spent, pouring his ideas into words. Logan knew the man illustrated his own books and wondered how long it must take.

The reading was over before Logan was aware. About halfway through, he’d been told to get back to work so he grabbed a new cart and was at it reshelving books. He tried to listen in to the reading, wanting to keep talking with and to V. A., someone he’d only exchanged a few words with but he was already desperate to know their opinion on anything and everything. He wanted to know what he had rattling around in that head. After all, no one can be that quiet without having something on their mind. True, they could simply be quiet, but that meant they were either allowing their mind to wander or they were having thoughts on the discussion. Either one deserved to have those thoughts heard and appreciated.

Logan hadn’t noticed the reading was over until a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned his head to look and found the object of his thoughts staring back at him, hand retreating back into his hoodie pocket. Logan smiled. “Can I help you with something?”

He nodded. “I think we might be soulmates?” The sentence came out as a question rather than the statement he surely must have meant.

Logan’s smile only faltered slightly in shock, the thought never having crossed his mind before then. “Why do you think that?”

He seemed to draw into himself, his shoulders rising and his head ducking down the slightest bit. Logan wanted to reach out and hold his hand, to tell him everything was going to be fine. He didn’t, instead, he waited for him to speak. “Earlier when you helped calm my anxiety, I could feel a calm and almost giddy feeling as you talked. I don’t find bookbinding particularly delightful so I knew it had to come from someone else. I don’t know, I guess you seemed to be the obvious choice.” He shook his head. “Sorry, it sounds stupid now.”

He turned to go but Logan reached out a hand and gently grabbed his elbow. His hoodie fabric was as soft as it looked. “Hey, no. It’s not stupid. I hadn’t thought of it until now, too caught up in enjoying talking with you, but it feels like it’s possible. You wanna test it?”

He turned back, leaving Logan’s hand on his elbow. “How?”

“How many times have you panicked or had excessive anxiety over the past three days?”

“Including both times today? Eleven.” The statement was accompanied with a wince of embarrassment, as if he were ashamed of having emotions.

Logan nodded, a smile splitting across his face. “That’s as many times as I’ve felt it from you.” His shrug was much more nonchalant than V. A.’s was just now. “So, do you wanna get a donut from the shop down the street and chat sometime soon?”

He laughed. “That sounds nice. Although, I guess we should exchange names and numbers as well.”

They did so and V. A., no Virgil, walked out the library door, waving to Logan on his way out.

#tsshipmonth2020 #analogical #adhd!logan #writer!virgil #virgil sanders #logan sanders #hidden identity #ace writes

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grabtherain · 2 years

Text

Zach Stone's Last Laugh Pt. 3

It had been a few days before either young adult found the courage to text the other, not that they were worried of texting too soon, but more worried about the awkwardness that was the two of them. While Genesis waited for either of them to grow some balls... she decided to watch a different showing of 'What'- you know what you do when you wanna relive the best moments. Thankfully, they released a version of 'What.' onto Netflix that she could watch five times a day for the rest of the week. She tended to hyperfixate sometimes.

"Popcorn. Blanket and-" Genesis jumped at the sound of her phone dinging from the couch, interrupting her listing off of 'essentials' she needed for her third viewing today. She grumbled incoherently under her breath as she made her way to her phone and grabbed it off the soft cushions of the love seat. Her phone automatically unlocked with the view of her face and she tapped into the message notification. "Hey Genesis, I'm in the city again today and was wondering if you wanted to meet up for that coffee." She read out loud in utter confusion- her face even scrunched as she continued to ignore the name of the messenger. "Who the-" Zach Stone idiot. "Holy shit!" She yelled as she almost dropped her phone from how stupid she felt. Gathering herself as quickly as she could since she knew her read receipts were on- she typed up a response she believed wasn't too eager but showed enough interest.

Genesis: 'Hey Zach! Yeah sure, my schedules all free today so I'm totally down to meet.'

As she reread the message she had sent, Genesis felt the need to facepalm herself, realizing she didn't bring up any location.

Genesis: 'There's a little coffee shop in the mid city know about. Want me to send the address?'

If Genesis was any younger, she would be worried about double texting- but even back then she didn't mind it. Hell that's how her brain worked most of the time. In short spirts, one after the other. Like these sentences.

Either way, she quickly tossed her phone down back on the couch so she could get back to what she was doing previously. Totally ignoring the fact that she might have to get ready to meet Zach, she didn't want to totally jinx the situation by putting too much thought into it- so with her text sent, she settled down into her maroon love seat and clicked play.

She was about 20 minutes into the show when it seemed that everyone in her contacts wanted to say hi. Harini was now texting her about how the meeting with Zach went, and it felt odd reading 'Bo Burnham' and knowing his real name was Zach. It wasn't unusual for her to meet people with stage names, though less common in Hollywood, she never got quite use to it when meeting music artist and now Zach. Peaking up around 10 minutes later, there was Zach on her flat screen TV, pretending to jerk off. DING. Quickly glancing down, it seemed that the same Zach decided to respond to her messages at the exact same time as well. She puffed air into her upper lip in total restraint, "You're a 24 year old professional actor Yiles- this isn't." She burst into laughter at her own self talk, covering her mouth as she doubled over. If anyone were to be watching her right now, somehow in her house, they would be thinking she was the crazy one. She was crying as she panted out, typing out the ironic situation to Harini- knowing the other would respond about how immature Genesis was. She could care less a this very moment. "Lord-" She giggled as she shakily wiped her tears, also tapping onto Zach's contact so she could tearfully read the message.

Zach: 'Sure. I can meet you before my next show tonight. See you at 2:30?'

Genesis: 'See you then!'

She was surprised she didn't have any spelling errors, since she at the same time was doing breathing exercises out of her nose. "Get a grip Gene." She groaned out loud as she stood up, playfully glaring at her TV like it was the reason she had terrible humor. "I'll get you back some day." She laughed softly again as she then strutted up the stairs and to her bedroom to get ready. As Genesis made her way up, she clicked her phone on to check the time- noting that she only had 4 hours to get ready, in her mind not enough time.

"Don't worry Genesis, you've got this."

Zach on the other hand, did not have this.

This had probably been the worst morning he had had, in a while. Besides the fact that he had another terrible panic attack after the show last night, he had found out that Amy- his girlfriend, wanted to breakup their long distance relationship. Amy was the only thing that kept him going these days, besides his dreams of fame coming true, she kept him from total insanity.

"What are you talking about Amy!? I think about you everyday, you can't just assume that I don't love you anymore..." Zach yelled into his cell phone that was held against his ear. He had locked himself into his hotel room when Amy's caller ID popped up onto his phone, considering the fact they haven't been able to call the last few nights. "Is this really about me or did you-" he paused, scared of his own words, "find someone else?" It was an old fear he had, that had kind of dissipated the longer they stayed together, but Zach would always be Zach.

"Oh shut up Zach! You've been saying that to me even before I left to work in Washington. When in reality, you have been looking at other girls since before I left for college." Amy said sternly back, since she never yelled, but it was even more deadly and scary. Confusion ran across Zach's face.

"What the hell are you-"

"You think I didn't watch the videos you made during the summer before college? Zach. Netflix made a whole documentary out of it!" Zach stayed silent, and it seemed that Amy took it as an opportunity to keep going. "Labeling me as the back up option for Christy... ignoring me when other girls were around, and now you're meeting famous actresses after your show-"

"Actresses?" Zach questioned the accusation, before slowly connecting the dots in his totally clouded brain. "Are you talking about Genesis Yiles? Amy, we met to talk strictly business." He explained simply, in the back of his mind thinking about how 'Amy simply didn't get how being famous worked'. Thoughts he had pushed down for years.

"That's the only thing you picked out of that entire thing Zach? Really? You have no excuse for anything else?" Amy was giving him the opportunity to explain the harsh words he used against her, words that simply objectified her in his own world, and made her seem like just another factor in him becoming famous. He didn't take the chance...he didn't know how. "This is why I'm breaking up with you." She whispered after a few moments of total silence from the other end of the line, "I wish you the best of luck Zach Stone." She finished choked sobs as she hung up. She sobbed into the heels of her palms, her roommate beside her gently rubbing her back in reassurance.

Zach on the other hand was alone, just like he was when he started this journey of fame. Though people always had surrounded him, seemingly with love and kindness, in Zach's mind he was lonely. Kind words meant nothing to him in the past if they hadn't been caught on camera, and now kind words meant nothing if you weren't a fan or agent. He was never able to fully change, only realize that fame wasn't what he thought. It was terrifying, made him shiver, and cry sometimes- but it still gave him the attention he believed he deserved all along. He had built his whole career off shock value, the people he met, and most importantly- his own self doubt, so he couldn't understand why Amy had to be so selfish. Yeah that's what she was, selfish. Not him. Her.

Zach now had to look through his closest for clothes that said, 'hey gorgeous actress, I am single.' At least that's what his brain told him to wear, in reality he didn't want to even go out anymore, but this was for economic gain. If Genesis could get him into a movie with her or even allow him to write jokes about her, then he could grow in popularity in seconds. "Snap out of it Zach." It was small trigger in his mind that slowly made his eyes open to the real situation. He was meeting another human to get coffee and talk work, he needed to remember who she was.

That night that they had met, Zach though not in the best mood, had a strong feeling that him and Genesis could be good friends. Not just business friends as she, he assumed, suggested without putting too much thought into- but more like actual friends. Something he needed. She could tell he was practically dying on stage, it would be safe to assume that the women could also tell that Zach at the time wasn't very enthusiastic about a random meet up- and he found that refreshing. Someone who could not only read his emotions but accommodate to them seemed perfect to befriend. "Think casual but you," He mumbled to himself as he pulled out black jeans and a plain maroon t-shirt. Sighing, he set the clothes on his hotel bed and gripped his unlocked phone tightly in his hand, looking down at it with curiosity. "Is it weird to google her-" he thought out loud and practically slapped himself at how bad that sounded. However, he would open safari and look up the young stars name anyway. He knew the basics of who she was and all the amazing films Genesis had acted in, what he didn't know was the things she was doing outside of film. Donating and advocating for women and different bodies specifically, he found it cool that she stuck within things she would most likely experience daily with her work- noticing how she didn't talk over voices but instead...amplify them. Scrolling through her twitter, it was pretty simple while her instagram contained the usual winter photo and aesthetic undertones. She was a mix of everything, he didn't know if he could technically write any good jokes about her- "stop!" He yelled inside his own head, realizing he was dipping back into that mindset he snapped out of a couple minutes ago.

"God, I need to stop being weird and just get dressed." He whispered as he placed his phone on the bedside dresser, he slipped his old clothes off and got the new ones on. Plain and simple like he was. A pop of color, which psychologist might point out to be Zach's true self- but Zach would say was to make sure he didn't look too unapproachable.

With that he sat around for another hour before being able to walk to the coffee shop Genesis had sent him, pushing away the nerves that bundled inside him as he closed his hotel room door. Of course after hearing the door click, Zach would rummage his pockets to make sure he had his key and his wallet- thanking God (or cheez-its) that they were in his back pocket. He guessed he had worked on auto-pilot, grabbing his wallet and stuffing it in his back pocket as he hurriedly had left the room. With such reassurance, he was able to calmly walk to his destination, the cold brisk air that filled New York City making his cheeks red and his nose even redder. Zach was sure at some point he would get wind burn, but he would never bring it up to anyone living here because being pestered about it would annoy him to death. The other person would think they are so funny when in reality they are suffering from state form of patriotism that made them ignorant to the world around them. His head would raise in resistance to the wind to glance at the store signs, his eyes squinting to focus in on them to make sure he wasn't passing by the small shop. "There it is." He thought as he quickly made his way to the door, one hand that was deeply tucked into his coat- coming out to grip the long handle and pull the door open easily. Hearing that sweet bell jingle instantly locked him in on the mom and pop style shop, grinning as he allowed the door close behind him.

"Welcome in! Sit anywhere you'd like young man." One of the baristas behind the counter called out, Zach could tell they had been working there for a long time- noting the worn down expression on their face. Zach simply nodded in acknowledgment and looked around the shop for the dark haired women he was meeting.

"Zach-" He heard a short, whisper call out from behind him- causing him to snap his head in that direction. It caught sight of Genesis, wearing a simple black turtle neck, long sleeve- paired with black jeans that fit nicer than Zach's own. He grinned in admiration as he stayed in his place, his body reacting to the call out in a small wave he would other wise be embarrassed of, but Genesis wave back and giggle after- made it seem worth it.

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