☆ lost in orbit
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings violence [ implied ], unhealthy relationship
{☆} word count 0.6k
She had resigned herself to apathy – to burying her love beneath the cold, hard soil and letting it rot amongst the graves of a long dead civilization, burned to ash in only a day. Yet how quickly it all fell apart in her hands, slipping through her fingers like sand, no matter how desperately she tried to cling to it.
Was she not diligent enough? Was she so weak that she faltered at the first person who showed her genuine trust and affection? Had all her work been for naught?
A part of her revolts – the same woman who watched the sky burn and the ground beneath her feet crumble into ash. It would be so easy to wrap her hands around your delicate throat, to squeeze until you finally saw her as the monster she knew she has always been.
Yet she doesn't think she could. The look of betrayal, of fear..oh, it would ruin her, she knows.
Perhaps that makes her weak. Perhaps you have made her weak.
Perhaps she does not mind as much as she should.
You trust her, after all – enough to sleep in her bed like she couldn't just kill you before you ever knew what was happening to you. Your body was so..fragile, in this mortal shell you descended in. How easy it would be to snuff out your life, here and now.
Yet she doesn't.
Instead, she looks at you like an old lover – with all the love of a woman who had died in the ashes of a dying civilization, of a woman who thought she could love no longer. Emotions she fought so hard to suppress well up in her chest and fill the empty space where she knows her heart should beat. Try as she might – and oh, how she tries – she can never quite stem the affection that consumes her every waking moment when she sees you.
It is like an addiction that she cannot rid herself of, no matter how she tries. She always finds herself back at square one – back to you.
Her hand lingers against your cheek, undue affection filling the empty spaces in her chest until she feels like cannot breathe. She traces her hand along your jaw, her vision narrowed on the softness of your lips.
Yet that same thought rises unbidden to the forefront of her thoughts. Love was a dangerous thing – you both knew that. To let it fester and rot her from within..she would be throwing her plans out the window, and for what?
Because she was too weak? Because the affection and trust in your eyes whenever your looked at her made her feel whole, like she was more then just an Archon playing God with the fate of the world?
You do not even stir as her thoughts toil like a brewing storm. She swallows the lump in her throat, removing her hand like she'd just touched a piece of hot metal. A part of her still screams that it's for the best, that you've corrupted her enough, torn apart her plans in the span of a week, a mere blink in time..
But it goes silent as she leans in, pressing her lips to your cheek. She will not let the thought fester, tonight – she will let herself be weak, if only for another day. If only to covet the affection that she finds herself drowning in for just another day.
And when you stir, she pretends that she had never thought of it at all, that she has only ever known love with you. Even if her heart that does not beat leaves a stabbing pain in her chest in the agony of knowing that even this is futile..
She lets you wake, let's the recognition and the affection fill your vision until she is all you see – two stars locked in orbit, unable to break away.
And when the day comes that you collide, she will be holding the blade that drives into your chest, and she will know nothing but love when she does.
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you say the whole world's ending (honey, it already did) (Trobed)
"It has to be okay for it to get on a boat with Lavar Burton and never come back."
This wasn't supposed to be a tragedy. This wasn't supposed to end like this.
He was supposed to end up with Britta. Or Annie. Anyone, really, it didn't matter, as long as he stayed. As long as the Dreamatorium still functioned.
(As long as you got to love him through movie nights and pillow fights and butter noodles and Armageddon.)
You don't know when you began to lose Him. It wasn't to the Air Conditioner Repair School. It wasn't to the Great Pillows-And-Blankets war.
It wasn't Pierce. Not truly. Pierce was never important enough to sever that tie.
He needed to be his own man. He needed to go on his own adventure.
And you?
You are floating. Drifting. You cannot find your plot. You cannot thread together the character arcs that once guided you. You are pulled and pushed and the world falls apart. He turns and hugs you and the one person who you counted on to always understand you, all of the tangled film reels making up your brain, gets on a boat with Lavar Burton and never comes back.
The color seeps from the world. The color grading fades to a grayish, sickly shade. The wide shots disappear in favor of mid-range shots centered around one location, the study table, but it's not a bottle episode in the fun way. It's not. The apocalypse has arrived, not in fire and nuclear war, but instead The Road style, all depressing grays and cold blues.
The shenanigans continue, sure. Of course they do. The show is barreling towards something- or, perhaps, it's limping. So many parts of it have been chewed away, stolen by other networks. First Pierce, a wound to the arm you could sustain and sew up with a few stitches and then move on.
But then Him. Then the other half of yourself, the part you clung to throughout so many potential apocalypses before, gets on a boat, stepping into freedom and his own spin-off, and you are handcuffed to a filing cabinet for the crime of being strange. Of your senses being too sensitive. Of you being finally understood and- not loved, not appreciated, but shown kindness.
It's wrong for others to show you kindness. It's wrong for others to accommodate you.
You are not made to be accommodated. You are made to mocked and shoved and forced into the cookie-cutter hole that society has forced upon you.
You stop getting up to adventures. You stop searching out whimsy. Your delight got on a boat and abandoned you.
You retreat behind your camera. You enter your corner and you never leave. You lock away the corner of your mind that contains the Dreamatorium.
You are still handcuffed to the wall of that locker, aren't you? He found you at Inspecticon, but he lost you in the lava. A clone emerged, a perfected copy, who is bound by metal and lava and zombie bites and the knowledge that you were a whole person before Him but a jagged wound after Him.
You stop reaching out. You leave him at an unanswered "I love you." You cannot bear to seek and not find, to be rebuffed in person once again by the one person you once gave your bleeding heart to.
He doesn't come back. He is never coming back.
Pierce is gone. Shirley is gone. He is gone. Frankie and Elroy are here, and they're nice, but it's not the same.
You wish the lava had cauterized the wound in your heart. You wish that the world had allowed you to move on without a constant pain tearing itself into your chest.
There is only one answer you can give yourself now. There is only one way your story can end.
You leave the study room for the final time and you look back and the table has so many empty seats. So many holes that need to be filled.
You close your eyes, tears burning the backs but refusing to fall, and you lay his name behind you. You will not take it with you. You cannot bear to take it with you. You cannot carry this weight alone. You must leave this hurt behind, even if it means abandoning your heart in Greendale just like He once abandoned you.
The door falls shut. The curtain falls. The credits play.
The show is over. The tragedy has run its course, you at the center, you the fool, you the crushed body, you the director who packs everything up and ends the story.
No one is interested in seeing your heart anymore, if they ever were in the first place.
***
(Years later, a man will step foot off of a boat. He is late. Far too late. He should have returned ages ago. He has a beard and a few new scars and he is wiser and more worn but his eyes shine like they always did.
He stops in Greendale and is told that you left years ago. That he has missed his chance. That he is better off returning to Air Conditioner Repair and not wondering where you went.
You have drifted. You have left. You have turned your back on a world that turned its back on you.
But He is far more stubborn than you give him credit for. He turned the world over for himself, but also for you. For the spin-off you always begged for.
He picks up your heart from beneath the study table, cradles it close, and resolves to return it to you. He will bring you the keys to the handcuffs. He will bring you understanding. He will bring you butter noodles and a smile that never wavers. Not for you.
It will take time to reestablish trust, to unravel trauma and an ache as deep and old as the life you have survived, but he will do it. He would follow you anywhere, you know? He was delayed, detoured, but you were always the end goal.
He will eventually return his hands to repair. He likes helping people, and likes fidgeting with his hands, so why not?
But right now, he turns on his heel and heads straight for the airport. He has a plane to L.A. to catch.)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/48569731
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The Dowager Queen Alicent of House Hightower, second wife of King Viserys I and mother to his sons, Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron, and his daughter Helaena, died on the same night as Lord Westerling, after confessing her sins to her septa. She had outlived all of her children and spent the last year of her life confined to her apartments, with no company but her septa, the serving girls who brought her food, and the guards outside her door. Books were given her, and needles and thread, but her guards said Alicent spent more time weeping than reading or sewing. One day she ripped all her clothing into pieces. By the end of the year she had taken to talking to herself, and had come to have a deep aversion to the color green.
In her last days the Queen Dowager seemed to become more lucid. “I want to see my sons again,” she told her septa, “and Helaena, my sweet girl, oh…and King Jaehaerys. I will read to him, as I did when I was little. He used to say I had a lovely voice.” (Strangely, in her final hours Queen Alicent spoke often of the Old King, but never of her husband, King Viserys.) The Stranger came for her on a rainy night, at the hour of the wolf.
Fire and Blood (George R. R. Martin)
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