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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months

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I've been dreaming of the Guardian of the Underworld.

To be human is to experience the highs and lows of life. It is to have joy and to suffer.

An unfortunate truth, he must face--but he holds all the hope in his heart, willing for that brighter future.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

Ortho often wonders what dreaming is like.

He visualizes it in a multitude of ways: electric sheep bouncing over a fence until one's eyelids have shut, a movie playing behind his lids, audiovisual data processing in his systems. None of the analogies, he suspects, are anything close to first-hand experience.

Androids cannot sleep, and therefore they cannot dream. That is how the logical flow works, and Ortho has long since accepted it.

It must be fun to dream.

But this is not a dream, and this is not a reality. It is the space contained within, and he walks a razor’s edge between lies and truth here.

He puts a hand upon the screen that divides him and his older brother. The barrier separating fact from fiction.

“Nii-san…! It's me,” he calls out in desperation. “I’m your little brother, Ortho!!”

"Or... tho?" Idia strains to say the name aloud. He looks so lost, so dazed. His head screams with pain. "But Ortho is right here. How can you be in two places at once?"

He holds up his phone, set to speaker. The caller ID--it reads "Ortho". The dream Ortho, the imposter Ortho, the Ortho that is alive. The Ortho that Idia had always wished for, the life without regrets and guilt.

His core burns. Ortho isn't certain if it is from frustration or anger or hurt. He knew this was coming, had been warned of it. Still, nothing could match the real thing, the face of his brother telling him that he is the lie.

“Don’t listen to him, Nii-chan. I’m the real Ortho. The other one?” There’s a faint chuckle from the other end of the line—Ortho detects a hint of condescension in it. “That’s a figment of your imagination."

"Ah... I see," Idia mumbles. He seems to sway, his eyes lidding, as if drifting off to another dream. The pain vanishes, washed away by Ortho's reassurance. "That makes so much sense."

A figment? Just that?

A weight comes upon Ortho's chest. If he were a living being, he would, perhaps, find it difficult to take a breath.

"Don't move. I'm coming there to help you," the other Ortho says sweetly. His tongue, forked as a cobra's goes unnoticed by Idia, who simply nods.

"Nii-san! Don't do it! You have to get away... w-wah!!"

Ortho flinches, his screen suddenly filled with black goo oozing up from the floor. From it, a boy in a pure white uniform and a royal blue sash emerges like a vampire from its coffin. In the place of the pale flesh characteristic of the Shroud family is skin that is only half solid, dripping in fat dark globs as his arms wrap around Idia.

"I'm here now. It'll be okay."

Idia's eyes go blank, his limbs, limp. A compliant doll, under the dream's influence.

Ortho's stomach lurches, and he launches himself at the screen. The urgency in his voice rises, hitting a fever pitch.

"NO...!!"

"You don't have to think about anything," the other Ortho whispers, a snake at Idia's ear. "You must be tired from playing too many games. That's why your mind is compensating by simulating dreams in reality. Let's get you back to bed.”

"Okay... Whatever you say, Ortho..."

“Nii-san, don’t go there…!”

The darkness creeps like vines up his legs, slowly swallowing Idia up. He sinks into the floor, an inky pit of quicksand. Bit by bit, piece by piece, Ortho is losing his brother.

His connection grows fuzzy. Static consumes the screen.

It's no good. My voice... It can't reach him!

His vision burns, but does not become slick with tears. His processors must be overheating, going haywire. He cannot cry, cannot let his overwhelming emotions spill over like a human can.

The ground beneath Ortho shifts. It, too, turns black, as if rotting away. Gooey tendrils reach for him, threatening to drag him under too.

Ortho struggles against his restraints, cries out in defiance.

A voice comes from the monitor, greatly warped and distorted. Then a second, a third, a whole slew of them, spewing vile things.

You are not needed. You are not wanted.

You are worthless. You are nothing--less than nothing.

He is happier without you. He would be happier if you never existed. You could never hope to be his real family.

A massive pair of poisonous verdant eyes opens in the void. They're reptilian, pupils slit against a backdrop of emerald.

"Begone," Malleus hisses, the command coiling around Ortho like a snake. His oppressive presence pushes on the boy, forcing him to kneel. "You do not belong in this world, young Shroud."

"N-No, you're wrong!" he protests. "I... I'm...!!"

A substitute, a spare, the shadows cackle. A hunk of junk. Scrap metal.

His core goes quiet and cold as a terrifying dread sets in. It smothers his circuits, silences his systems, locks his limbs.

The darkness wriggles with delight.

Electricity crackles.

A transmission comes to life. It comes from Ortho himself, from a speaker embedded inside of him.

"Sorry, Or-kun! Mama's going to override...!"

Suddenly, a great heat generates in his chest. Light gathers, piercing the black surrounding him, then fires. The laser is explosive, easily slicing the goop, which erupts into sludgy bubbles.

Ortho comes free, the rockets at the soles of his feet kicking on to propel him into the sky. In a blaze of brilliantly blue fire, he's airborne.

"Mom...!" he gasps.

In response, she simply giggles. "Hehe, I'm not going to just sit on the sidelines and watch my precious baby boy be deceived! There's no wrath like mama's love~"

"Dear..." his father sighs. There's a pause, then he clears his throat. "As your mother was saying, this is but a clever deception. A false reality. You have always been our true son and always will be."

True son.

His dwindling energy reserves shoot through the roof. He's been hit with a thousand suns, reinvigorated.

"Thank you, mom. Thank you, dad. I'm okay! You don't need to worry about me, I understand now."

This was never a dream to begin with. It's not even close. This is... a nightmare that twists the truth, even to intruders!

He places a hand on his chest, feeling the blue flame that perpetually burns there. His brother had lovingly placed it, powered it, protected it. The fire pulsates, proof of his existence.

Proof of his life.

Do you remember, nii-san? You promised we'd go out and play heroes. Now... it's my turn to play hero for you.

I will surpass my limits... break through this illusion... and save you!

Hang in there, Idia. Your little brother, Ortho, is coming to bring you back to your senses! Just leave it to me.

"Shoot for glory among the stars and soar like a comet! Ready or not, here I come...!"

Summoning all of his strength, Ortho furiously plunges into the darkness. It pushes against the interloper--but he burns red hot, flies too fast. He's a shooting star in the shape of a child, filled to the brim with determination.

In the black, black, black, a speck of white appears. It grows steadily, forming a mirror to another world. Its face, staring down at Night Raven College's courtyard.

A familiar trail of blue flames hurries past an apple tree, meeting with a horned man in matching robes.

There you are.

Ortho braces himself--

--and shatters the second sky.

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acupofqueercoffee · 1 year

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“A match made in heaven”

Unohana Retsu x Female Shinigami Reader

cw : soulmate au with a twist (you get flower tattoos wherever your soulmate receives a scar) plot twist being it only appears when you manage to win the heart of your supposed soulmate | mentions of blood | a pinch of fluff

just a silly little something to blow off the steam before i go back to watching bleach and brainstorming better ideas because i’m that desperate 💀

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You live to fight. You fight to thrive.

In battles, you see ecstasy. In pain, you revel.

Your single-minded pursuit of violence, in your squad where the most battle-hungry, blood-thirsty beats unite, is nothing out of the ordinary. Inside the 11th division, you are merely one among many, but amongst other Shinigami, you are deemed one of the most unhinged reapers.

Although your bloodlust is no curiosity, your Zenpakuto’s is. It carries one of, if not the eeriest ability, lethal to both the wielder and the opponent, for it offers you unimaginable might at the cost of your blood. Simply put, the more impaired your body is, the stronger you become. Although the activation of Shikai is not necessary for the increase in energy, pain for the sake of victory is, however, mandatory, and as a result, you have long since learnt to embrace it instead of forsaking it. In combat, you rarely dodge, constantly, intentionally pushing yourself to the brink of collapse, for only then, you are unrivalled.

It is also in consequence of your susceptibility to injuries that the squad four’s station is more or less your dwelling, and its inhabitants, your second family. Even though your habitation under the roof of fourth division primarily is to be on the mend, there are in fact twofold motives to your incessant visits to the infirmary.

“Captain, your true-blue patient, once again, comes bearing gifts!”

Soaked to the skin in scarlet, but still on battle-induced high, you sport the goofiest of grins as you barrel down the hallway and through the door, leaving a bloody trail in your wake.

“Ta da!” With your arms, you make a gesture for dramatic flair as though the miscellany of wounds littering your body is your most prized possessions.

“Why, if it isn’t the charming little thorn in my side.”

Unohana Retsu, the Captain of squad four, receives you with a saccharine smile. Although on its own, her remark may sound satirical, bordering on exasperation, the lovely lilt of her honeydewed voice betrays her amusement. You know better than to take offence regardless, beam becoming only brighter as you step towards your lady, but alas, it is as if your feet have been swallowed by a pool of quicksand. The treachery of your legs bring about your immediate descent into darkness, though the entwining of arms around your body prevents the inevitable collapse.

Unohana is unbothered by the blood that soils the pristine white of her Captain uniform, thickly oozing warmth and spreading like a plague across her immaculately-donned attire.

She remembers vividly your first appearance at the hospital; during one serene day in Seireitei, you have arrived, entirely bloodied and irrevocably broken, at the doorstep of her division. Irrevocable that is, has she been away, but she has not, and thus, you have lived to see another day. Following your first visit, your presence as often as not is found in the hospital, and every time, you come in the form of wrack and ruin, but a damaged thing for her to fix. Your perpetual proneness to injuries has Unohana doubting your worth as a Shinigami especially since you occupy the fourth seat of squad 11. On the other hand, it will be a lie to say that she is not fascinated by the way you always manage to carry your broken body on your own two feet no matter the gravity of your conditions, a feat someone of Zaraki’s caliber cannot even achieve.

At the first sight of the Captain, a silly smile will crawl onto your lips before you will certainly fall. She has not always been bothered to catch you, letting her subordinates see to it that you are relocated to her quarters until after she has put you back together.

It becomes more and more apparent to Unohana with every one of your unceasing visits that you appear to be enamored of her. From the infirmary to the Ikebana Club, you will follow her like a love-sick puppy at the first opportunity. You do little to hide the fact, actively expressing your whimsical affections with both words and actions. Your eyes will peruse her, teeming with twinkles, as she tends to your wounds. Whenever you come to visit her, despite being drenched to the bone in your own blood, a dreamy smile will be found, taking permanent residence on your face.

“I’d like to woo you.”

One evening, as you offer the Captain your unabashed confession, she has countered you with a wry chuckle.

“You are a fool.”

“A fool for you.”

Over the rim of her teacup, royal blue eyes fix you with a hollowed-out stare accompanied by pale lips thinning into a line.

“My heart holds no place for trifling affairs.”

Her change in demeanour do you no harm, and you stand firm.

“What is courting if not an elaborate battle? One of these days, I’ll conquer you, my lady. So, watch me worm my way into your heart.”

“By all means. I’d like to see you try.”

After the exchange, you disappear for a period of time. She has half a mind to believe that you have met your untimely demise if it is not for your Reiryoku that she can positively, quite tangibly feel. And then, one day, as Unohana retreats to her quarter for the night, she is visited by a Hell Butterfly. It comes bearing a letter from you, challenging her to a duel, which in hopes of putting a stop to your folly once and for all, and you in your place, the Captain readily accepts.

“Do you know how I came to bear the title of Soul Society’s best healer?” Hair cascading down her shoulders and eyes lacking their usual shine, the woman that hauntingly calls out to you is not Captain Unohana Retsu of the 4th division but Unohana Yachiru, the first Kenpachi. “So that I could enjoy fighting forever. When my opponents are merely one step away from death’s door, I heal them with the flimsiest hope of being promised a prolonged fight.”

Still, in the face of a cold-blooded, blood-thirsty killer, you are unfazed. If anything, you are enchanted; under the silky, silvery cloak of the moonlight, she looks every bit the epitome of a nocturnal nymph, ready to ruin you at any moment.

“You are an intrigue, an enigma. That much, I know. Within cages upon cages, lies a blood-thirsty beast who sings oh so sweetly to me.”

All too suddenly, the sharp tip of her Zanpakuto catches the lapels of your uniform, effortlessly slashing the fabric until a portion of your flesh is revealed, and her suspicion, confirmed.

“Hmm, what a pity.” The hum leaves her lips in a lazy, condescending drawl as the blade draws blood on a cluster of spider lilies printed between your collarbones.

“If you lust for blood, my lady, blood I’ll happily shed for you.”

“Oh? There’s only ever been one person to have come close to sating my appetite for bloodlust. You have on your body traces of myself whereas I wear on my body the one scar left by him. If it isn’t the finest evidence of how insignificant you are to me, what, pray tell, do you think is?”

“I know not the answer, but by the end of our battle, I dare say, my lady, that you will see me in a new light.” Your hands wrap around the blade that is pointed towards your chest, as though it is her dainty digits fitting into your fingers. With wild abandon, blood starts oozing out of your palm. It dribbles down the length of her Zanpakuto, before in a soft pitter-patter, continues raining onto the earth in front of her feet. “Let us commence, shall we?”

She has been sorely disappointed, she will admit, when for the better part of the battle, you continue taking hits after hits with no acceptable counterattacks. She has been naive to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, you will really prove her wrong.

The sinking of her Zanpakuto into your heart is designed to be a shallow blow, not to kill but to incapacitate you. Should it proves perilous to your life, she can simply fix you, for, after all, killing you, at least for now, is not her objective. You, on the other hand, seem too intent on greeting death in the eyes, evident in the way raw, bloodied fingers lock around her forearms to yank her forward even as she goes to pull her Zanpakuto out of your chest. The recklessness of your action forces her Zanpakuto into your flesh, buried to the hilt as it enters through your chest and exits through your back. Regardless of the obviously fatal blow, your hold on her frame remains surprisingly strong, stubborn arms trapping her in a bone-crushing embrace.

When you whisper, your lips caress the shell of her ear.

“Let me show you what I’m capable of.”

To say that she is tickled pink will be an understatement. Although the amusement that she feels is nowhere near enough to offer her a sense of ecstasy, what little of it that swells inside her body, though fickle, is great enough in and of itself to go unnoticed. It has been a very, very long time after all since she has been offered a fight of such class that can pull at her heartstrings, and when finally met with someone who can hold out against her relentless attacks, she relishes it down to the last drop. By no means are you as strong as her. Still, your might is not to be trifled with, your resolve even more so.

Given her experiences and her mastery of the blade, it is not entirely a surprise that she outdoes you. It is, however, nothing short of miraculous that you do not go down without leaving a trace of yourself on none other than the great and the glorious Kenpachi. Unohana will soon find out that by sticking her Zanpakuto into your heart for the second time, she has unknowingly staked your claim to herself. It comes in the form of a cherry blossom that begins blooming on her body as your wound heals into a scar.

It appears, after all, that you are not entirely without worth.

Presently, your head is cushioned by her pillowy thighs. Once again, she has restored you to mint condition after you have collapsed in her arms. Slipping through willowy fingers like smooth satin is a forest of your strands as Unohana languidly plays with your hair.

A hum that spills forth your lips notifies her of your return to the conscious world, and when your gazes collide, she sees so much love in your eyes. You always look at Unohana as though the stars hanging high in the sky are her doing, overflowing with wonder and worship and nothing in between.

Taking into your hand the thick braid of her hair with deep reverence, you kiss the words into her fragrant hair.

“I love you.”

“You are a fool.”

“A fool who has managed to worm her way into your heart, no?”

At your words, she offers you a soft affectionate smile before leaning down to press a delicate peck on your forehead.

“That you have, against all odds.”

She who craves bloodshed and you who prosper by shedding blood: a match made in heaven.

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hehicular-hanslaughter-lecter · 4 months

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EVERYONE STOP.

So. The symbolism for the Quartet at the Ballet makes little-to-no sense, right? WHY is Gleb Rothbart? He has nothing to do with anything about him!!!! Why is Dmitry Siegfried??? Right, because he's in love with Anya, who is the white swan Odette. We're not gonna mention Odile at any point except for her iconic 32 fouettes for reasons (probably because they look cool). Don't ask us any questions about the Dowager Empress we don't know how she fits into this either.

This post by my mutual @vampyrekatwrites details a much more fitting take on the Swan Lake symbolism: that Gleb should be Siegfried, Anya is Odile, and Dmitry is Rothbart, mentioning in the tags that perhaps Maria could be the Queen. I ADORE this concept. For one, it gives Maria an actual place alongside the other members of the Quartet (because this is a quartet, not a trio) and just..........makes actual sense? Rothbart is a magician. He deceives the Queen, presenting a false swan. Siegfried almost shoots the white swan, the woman he loves. And the very nature of Anya being Anastasia (and the very real possibility that she might not be, though the coincidences are a bit too coincidental and the intention of the writers was for her to be Anastasia) fits perfectly with the inclusion Odile, and the dichotomy of Odette vs Odile.

Taking this to the end of the ballet, the traditional tragic end fits perfectly as well. Odette dies, Odile lives, and Rothbart wins. Siegfried is left alone, and perhaps, dies as well. The Queen mourns her losses. Odile and Rothbart escape into the night, never to be seen again.

Like????????? COME ON the ballet had so much potential!!!!! Don't even get me started on costuming and how that could have been used! Anya, dressed in all-black rather than a white shirt and black skirt underneath her coat. Gleb wears his green uniform, the same as Siegfried. Dmitry's scarf becomes a deep purple, the accenting color of Rothbart's dark feathers. Maria's colors are less certain, as each production has their own take for the Queen, but perhaps here she matches Siegfried's green, but in a deep emerald, with white and gold. Maria wears this emerald in the opening prologue rather than purple, and throughout the rest of the show these colors peek out from underneath her mourning blacks, until she returns to green once again after her reunion with Anya.

Once in Paris, perhaps Dmitry's suit is similar to his movie counterpart in Paris Holds the Key, but a pale lilac rather than pink. Anya diverges from this color symbolism to instead wear a pale blue (blue is the color of Anastasia, from her bow to the opera dress, and here she is getting closer, but not quite there yet.) I'm kicking Vlad out of his green suit for reasons and making him wear something akin to his movie suit ala Dmitry. Both Dmitry and Anya trade in their white sleep-clothes for black. At the opera, Dmitry and Gleb wear traditional tuxedos, and (this is for you Kat) depending on which idea you like better, fake or real, Anya either wears a black gown at the opera and a more casual white dress at the reunion right after (she's Anastasia), or she wears white at the opera and black at the reunion (she's not).

For the finale, Anya's dress isn't red, but deep blue, like her original dress for the opera (interpret this threat as being evidence of her true identity, or as her fully embracing the lie, as you wish). Gleb has on a green suit, like Vlad's, which is why I kicked him out of it. Odile or Odette, he cannot kill either of them, and when Anya runs off to meet Dmitry, he still wears the purple scarf.

Or something. Idk. I like colors

#i am very normal about anastasia the musical #it's a mess but i am romantically in love with it #anastasia #anastasia the musical #gleb vaganov #anya anastasia #dmitry anastasia

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eleanore-delphinium · 6 months

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The Beginning of a New Life: The New Member

JLDAW AU

1 : Damirae Week 2020 : BOUND TOGETHER

2 : Damirae Week 2020 : SOULMATES

3 : Damirae Week 2020 : MARRIAGE

4 : I remember You

5: The Beginning of a New Life: The New Member ( YOU ARE HERE )

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Recap of the New Timeline After JLAW

I woke up with a gasp, the air within my room felt heavy. I sat up on my bed as I wipe sweat from my forehead.

“Great! You’re awake!” My father says annoyed. “You were making me feel things I do not appreciate, child.”

“Like what father?” I ask just as annoyed.

“Miserable.” He grunts.

“Good. Because that is what I feel with you, and I hope you feel that too.” I mutter at him and he starts cursing me for being ungrateful. I ignore him so that I can focus on my surroundings to calm myself down.

I look at my room in the Titan Tower. Everything seemed normal, nothing was out of place. My father was right. I felt miserable when I had woken up from my sleep. Why did I feel miserable? Oh yes, it was because of my dream—no that was a nightmare.

The details—what were the details? I found that I couldn’t recall my dream. A dream? What dream am I thinking about? The one from last night?

I slowly lie back down in bed; it was still night out. I was just confused from being woken up suddenly by my annoying father. Yes, I will back to sleep now.

I allow the drowsiness to come to me. Today was a very tiring day, I need to go back to sleep. My eyes flutter back to sleep.

I felt like there were people in my room talking. It was faint, but it was a full-on conversation.

“Will I remember you?” A male voice says.

“Yes…” I felt something warm against my lips. “Unknowingly…” The female voice continues with a sad tone.

“Like the word at the tip of your tongue, like a memory you couldn’t completely recall, like a kiss from a butterfly…” I muttered as she finishes what she was saying, our words completely in synced. I wondered if I was having a fever dream. It had been a really long day.

“A feeling you cannot shake.” I felt that I had to hold onto those words. Yes. I have to hold onto those words. They were important. I know they were. I felt that there was even something more that was said before it ended.

Wait, what ended? My heart felt like it was being clenched.

What was it that I was supposed to hold onto? A tear slips from my eyes.

Why do I feel so sad? It was probably nothing. Yes, it was nothing. And everything was dark.

“You and I have become soul mates. You are bound to me as I am bound to you. No matter when or where, this will be true. Even if we do not know.”

I awoke with a jolt as though I was falling.

“Raven, hurry up, we have a new member coming!” I heard Garfield yell from outside my door. I gave him a hurried reply and I prepared myself to meet the new member.

“Meet at the yard!” Garfield yells outside my room.

When I got to the yard the Batmobile was coming to view from a far. I felt a tug on my heart, I couldn’t help but frown.

“Is Dick the surprise, Kori?” I couldn’t help but ask. And she looks at me with a smile.

“Of course, not silly! Don’t you remember? Today we are going to take in a new member—I told you all about this a few days ago.” The car had stopped in front of us and the doors opened. I saw black hair and my heart skipped a beat. “The new Robin, Damian.”

A boy with black hair stood before us in his Robin uniform. And my heart couldn’t help but skip a beat. And my eyes couldn’t help but follow a certain person’s black hair.

He looked different; It felt like I had not seen him in ages. He certainly looked different. But his black hair was the same. My heartbeat quickened as he approached. Closer and closer.

The black suit with blue over his chest suited him well. Dick and Kori approached one another and gave each other a quiet squeeze with their hands and I looked away awkwardly. What was I thinking, this is bad, this crush is bad.

I evaded the couple and somehow my eyes drifted to the new member. He too had black hair, and wore the robin suit. And my breath hitched at the sight.

No. Not again. Not this again.

But I felt that he was feeling perplexed. My face must have shown too much. I felt naked under his eyes. They were the color of emeralds– of evergreen trees– of a forest so lush that the scene would always take your breath away.

I was facing the newcomer but my eyes looked elsewhere.

“You must be Damian.” I said rubbing my arm, hoping he had really not noticed what I have been trying to hide for so long.

“Yeah.” He replied, and my eyes couldn’t help but flicker at him. I felt a different kind of breathlessness when I heard his voice and it amplified when his green eyes stared back at me.

In my mind, I saw a man with black hair overlap his figure but it was so blurry, that I wasn’t sure if it matched. I couldn’t even see his face, and soon after I could barely recall the image.

But I knew for a fact that I had seen very briefly the man I’ve been dreaming about. And that his image was overlapping over Damian. Somehow it felt almost so right. But didn’t I feel a similar thing with Dick and Tim?

I blinked in confusion. The thought disappeared from my mind. And there was just him. A boy I just met that wore such a perplexed expression on his face.

Even in his confusion, it felt like it was mine too.

He must have noticed. I looked away in shame.

“Do you—do you want help?” I offered, waving a hand at his duffle bags.

“Oh—uh—sure.” He said and offered me the smaller bag. Our fingers lightly brushed one another and I felt both our confusion through the contact. There seemed to be something there. No, it’s probably in my head.

After all, it’s a Robin.

This would only make it the third time that I fell for the boy in the costume.

I really do have a type. I couldn’t help but click my tongue silently.

“I thought you said he had an attitude?” I heard Kori ask Nightwing as I turned on my heel.

“I honestly can’t believe this. He actually even offered his bag.” I heard Nightwing reply. I felt Damian’s emotions turn sour.

“Let me lead you to the tower then, and your room.” I quickly said and somehow it quelled his anger. “By the way, this is Garfield,” I said as I pointed at Garfield. “And this is Jaime, and the one talking with Nightwing is Kori, which I’m sure you already know.”

I hear him hum a response as I feel his acknowledgement to the information and I nod. My pace was a bit hurried but Damian matched it well. I just didn’t want to see them. It hurt even more when I saw Dick from the back, the pain would be laced with the faintest hint of fear. And I don’t know why, I never know why.

Dick was Kori’s boyfriend. I don’t understand why I was feeling this way.

This obsession I have over men with black hair, must have stemmed from the dreams I’ve been having recently. No, to be honest, these dreams weren’t a recent occurrence. I just so happened to be more aware now. This man whom I have been longing for—for who knows how long– would I even recognize you?

When I saw Dick Greyson for the first time in his Robin uniform, my heart was beating so loudly. I was convinced everyone could hear it. But when his mask was off, I was overwhelmed with such great disappointment. The same thing happened with Tim Drake. I was at the point of wishing for this dream man to arrive already. But I could barely see that person, even in my dreams, everything was a blur. And the moment he slipped out of my mind, I instantly forget that I even longed for him.

You. Who has been haunting my dreams. Who are you?

“Raven?” Someone called out as a hand wrapped around my wrist, I looked up and saw beautiful green eyes. And I felt like the world just stopped for a moment.

No. Not again.

I quickly evaded his green eyes as I calmed my heart down and pulled away a bit too quickly.

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude.” I added when I felt his disappointment and confusion.

“Rae, are you okay, you just stopped walking.” Garfield said his hand extended to touch me.

I don’t even know what you look like—this man in my dreams.

I looked at Garfield with a downcasted gaze and sighed aloud, “Yeah, just… you know, just worried about our mission…” I shook my head and smiled trying to dispel the longing I had for a stranger.

It was unfortunate, but the longing was more of a distraction than anything.

“Anyways, we got a new member. Kori plans to have a small get-together–” I had turned to Damian but froze as I stared at his serious gaze. The feeling that told me that there was this level of familiarity had gripped me so tightly that I couldn’t think.

“Rae?” Garfield placed an arm around my shoulder, breaking me from the sheer and raw emotion that was clawing at me. Demanding to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry, my head is aching again.” I gave a little shake of my head as I touched my temple with one hand.

Garfield looked at me worriedly and nodded, “Why don’t I take the new guy around and you go and rest.” He glanced at the bag I was holding and took it away from me. I sighed aloud and gave Damian a small smile.

“Sorry.” I politely said and Damian smiled at me in such a pure manner that I was left startled by it. I nervously looked away from him and Garfield as I mumbled a thank you to the green boy.

I quickly rushed back into my room, I felt quite overwhelmed. There were just way too many new things happening. In some cases, some reoccurring things too. I can’t keep falling for each man with black hair. Well, it seems like it’s a natural course for my heart to skip a beat the moment I see black hair.

I sighed aloud as I slumped down to the floor against my room door. The coolness was oddly comforting.

This was ridiculous. I can’t keep doing this.

But it’s not like I was doing this on purpose.

I brought my legs to my chest as I hugged them and buried my face in my legs.

‘You are such a foolish child.’ I rolled my eyes at my father’s words.

“I’m quite well aware.” I mumbled, but I am sure my father didn’t know the details of my dilemma, just my general emotions. The thought was comforting.

‘I wonder what that orange-haired friend of yours would think if she knew how your heart beats when you see her boyfriend.’ I sighed aloud. Azar, I hope Kori wouldn’t ever know. I can’t even explain why I felt like this every time. I admit, I even started feeling something for the newcomer too.

Azar, make this end.

I squeezed my eyes but the image of black hair and a sunset behind the dark figure came to mind.

“Why can’t I see your face?” I whispered, feeling exhausted even though I had just woken up.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Somehow Damian and I became close. It felt rather organic. Right even. Like it was destiny.

Sometimes when I see him I would feel my hands become sweaty, my heart would beat a little too fast and I couldn’t breathe. But this wasn’t new to me. I had felt this way for his older brothers too. It was unfair for him if he caught on to how I was reacting around him when… Well, honestly, I act the same way, around each other Robin that came my way.

I had to control whatever this is– because clearly this wasn’t love or a mere crush. It just seemed like a toxic obsession. And I didn’t want Damian to be the third victim of this yearning that has been consuming me whole.

It’s just so unfair. I just wish I could see the face of the man that has got me feeling like this, then maybe I can find him and not look for some replacement. Because at this point, it just feels like I am looking for his next potential replacement.

And I already feel so bad when I look at Damian and think: maybe it’s him.

This needs to stop. I need to let him go. This stranger that I knew I loved with everything I had to offer. It’s kinda funny–sad really– how certain I am that I love him when I have never even dated someone and love someone that way. At least in this life, all those were foreign to me.

I suspect that maybe that black haired man in my dreams was someone from a past life.

He must have really left an impression on me. Or rather my soul. For me to continue looking for him the way that I was. Too long for him and his presence.

But I need to let him go. I need to tell someone. And I know just who to let this all out.

Damian.

He wouldn’t judge me.

And so I did. I told him how I had liked his brothers but not how he himself was making me feel– the same thing as they had. Because whatever I was feeling for Damian was likely the same as his brothers– just a fleeting emotion that stemmed from wanting to fill a void that just can’t be filled in by just anyone.

I know that the only one who could fill the void is the man in my dreams. It had to be him. But I don’t know who he is.

And this is just so exhausting.

I need space to not be driven by this longing for a stranger.

And even when I decided to put up a shield so I don’t feel others emotions Damian did not judge me. I do find it odd how easily I bonded with him, but there is this strong sense of doubt that would tell me that maybe we got close because of my desperation to fill my longing for that stranger– with gorgeous black hair.

But that doesn’t matter now. I have made my decision.

I’m letting him go, and hopefully this longing for him would vanish too.

My days went by peacefully. It felt like I was freed from shackles that I didn’t even know were there until they were gone.

I felt so light.

So relieved.

Every passing moment felt more meaningful as I wasn’t keeping an eye out to meet this man in my dreams. I admit, there were times I would find myself thinking about those dreams– that I can’t really recall. And then there would be some thoughts that linger in my head.

Like how I know he had a nice smile, but it wasn’t like I could see it in my dream because the light was just too bright or the fact that he looked like a mere shadow.

But I knew it to be a fact.

There were times however, where I felt like there was a familiar gaze on me and I was certain that for a moment, it was the person I was longing for. And when I try to look for the source I see no one out of the ordinary or more like no one was looking at me.

I admit though, there were times that my eyes would meet the vibrant green eyes of Damian. And Azar, I admit, I desperately wished that it was him.

Then I remember that I thought the same of Tim because Dick left an impression that seemed to have caused a domino effect on me. Every man after Dick with black hair just screamed at me, seeking my attention.

Because if I didn’t pay attention to them, it felt like I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“Raven.” I looked up from writing in my journal, jumping a little on my bed as I was startled.

It was Damian and he looked rather conflicted. I was laying on my bed with my belly down as I wrote. I didn’t notice him enter my room or knock. But by the way he stayed by the door I could tell that he likely had been trying to get my attention for a while and opted to enter because he had something important to say.

I didn’t really mind. I often think about why I allow Damian to do things I normally wouldn’t want others to do. I think it’s because of his black hair. A trait I can’t seem to resist.

I sat up, closing my journal and waving it and disappeared, “Sorry, I was consumed in my writing. I like to write and let my thoughts out.”

Damian stared at me and nodded, “I understand, I keep a journal myself too.”

I was surprised by the information and a smile bloomed on my face. I casted my gaze down, trying to hide the amusement in my eyes from him. When I knew that I wasn’t giving my emotions away I looked back at him and he looked rather nervous which made me frown.

He was rubbing his arm and stayed at the same spot, his eyes avoiding me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked cautiously and his eyes flickered at me and I could clearly see the guilt. I found myself at a loss for words. It was almost like there was a voice from within me telling me that he should never feel guilty. He should never look at me like that.

“I didn’t want to.” He began and I furrowed my brows. I gestured for him to take a seat on my bed and he walked to me with guilty eyes.

He sat on the bed with his head bowed as he continued, “Dick suggested I ask for your help– and Batman– he… he ordered it.”

I pressed my lips, patiently waiting for him to clearly state his intentions.

He looked up at me and the guilt in those green eyes knocked my breath away. For a moment, I had thought that my shield was down. He made me feel that guilt with that one look. It felt so familiar too. Like I’ve seen him look at me like that before, but I know I haven’t.

This was the first time I ever saw him this vulnerable.

So why was the sense of him looking at me like that– so strongly wrong?

But I controlled myself and the emotion I was feeling. I reached out for him, my hand on top of his and stared at him earnestly with an encouraging smile on my lips.

He stared back at me for a moment and then sighed aloud, closing his eyes, “I know you had just told me that you placed your shield up,” His eyes opened and the guilt was still there, “And I understand why you did it. And I must sound like such an ass for saying this, but I need you to bring it down. I need your help. I didn’t want to have to get you involved because I know–”

I squeezed his hand and he looked down at our hands then looked up at me and I told him, “Consider it done.” I didn’t even know the details, but I trust that Damian wouldn’t ask me such a thing if it wasn’t important.

He blinked at me, “Raven, you don’t have to do this I–”

I smiled at him and he seemed to have frozen and I shook my head, “You wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. So, what is the mission?”

I chewed my lower lip as I tried to focus, the way Damian was looking at me was making me think of the phantom man in my dreams. Almost everything would lead back to that man.

Damian was looking at me right now as if he was wondering how he got someone so great at his side. And I was being washed by this overwhelming familiarity and longing.

He inhaled heavily as I found him looking at our hands and he fidgeted with my hand. It was the first time that he did this but I didn’t hate it. Again, it just felt familiar and right.

“I need you to use your empathic abilities like a tracker.” He started and I nodded, low-key enjoying the warmth from his rough hands. “We will have to be undercover at Gotham Academy for this mission. Something is up and I honestly can’t figure it out. They were hoping your particular skill set can help.”

I was silent and he looked up at me with worry.

“I’ve never been to a school.” I smiled weakly while raising my shoulders a little bit. I understood now why he was so guilty. I didn’t want to feel others' emotions and here he was asking me just that.

“I’m sorry…” He couldn’t help but say, squeezing my index finger and for that second I wished he had intertwined his fingers with mine.

I shook my head to remove the thought from my mind, “You wouldn’t be asking if this wasn’t important.” I stood up letting go of his hand before I acted on my impulses. “I guess we have to meet Batman or Dick to be briefed?” I smiled faintly, putting my hands behind my back, still feeling his touch.

And how much I was longing for it. I hope it wasn’t clear on my face.

He nodded then stood up, his fingers fidgeting against each other as if he had lost something. He then brushed invisible dust off his thighs, “Yeah, they have prepared your cover in case you’d say yes.”

I smiled and then adapted a teasing tone to lighten the mood up, “I bet they prepared it knowing I won’t say no.”

He shook his head with a small smile on his lips.

“I mean, how could I say no to my leader?” I added, glancing at him as I took a step toward the door and it looked like his eyes were sparkling.

“You could always say no to me, I wouldn’t be angry.” He said and I was surprised with his words, causing me to stop in my tracks.

I crossed my arms and raised a brow at him. “Oh really? A lot of the members would insist that you have some favoritism toward me– and if they hear that, they will be very convinced about this favoritism you have.”

He laughed a little at my words and the laughter felt familiar. I wondered if Dick and Tim made me feel like this when they do these kinds of little things. I pushed the thought away. It’s always just me feeling this way.

“Maybe I do.” He shrugged his broad shoulders as he walked away from me, leaving me speechless.

“Well? Aren’t we going to Batman?” Damian asked, peeking at me by the door. I looked at him with clear annoyance.

“You really should keep that to yourself. The team would not be happy.” I replied walking toward him. He looked thoughtful and then ultimately shrugged.

I was annoyed. The small interaction I had with him right now, made me long for that man in my dreams. And this longing was even deeper than normal. And that is saying a lot as I knew that the longing was pretty heavy as it already is.

And yet also, I couldn't help but wonder if his words were serious. And if that statement was real, was I really his favorite or maybe it was someone else and he was just teasing me.

But if it was really me, then why me?

The thought of him favoring me made my heart flutter.

Did I even deserve it?

‘No. You locked up your own father.’ Trigon suddenly said and I rolled my eyes.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Did you guys like it? Did it frustrate you? Well, I just hope you guys enjoyed it.

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archivalofsins · 9 months

Text

The Calico Cat

Also known as let's examine the colors of Cat~

I did not know what I was getting into when I started this post. Luckily, as usual @apatchworkstar / @sinfulequity was around to help me out. Pointing out a few things to me while proofreading this post that strengthened some points.

So, get ready because this is a dozy! From color analysis to music history and theory we're opening up this box and seeing what this Schrodinger Cat is really like.

Starting off with black and white.

Now black and white are pivotal colors within the Cat mv. I believe white represents the act Kazui puts up and black his true self. This is supported through various imagery within Cat these being some of the most pivotal,

These scenes highlight the stark contrast between the lies and truth of this situation using these two colors to emphasize that point. Victim and Perpetrator even appearing in smaller black font within the large colorful versions of the words over their faces.

This is why I believe when the background is white Kazui is acting. Something that gives a bit more context to these scenes,

As the color will show us which is the truth, and which is the lie. The truth being Kazui just got greedy and in fact did not wish to simply ask so it was out in the open. We'll be going into the coloring on the words later since that's also something of note.

So, I bet you're wondering what blue is right? Like shouldn't the blue represent Kazui as well. Heh, heh... Now why would Kazui associate himself with his prisoner uniform color? I think some of you may be getting what I'm putting down. The blue in Cat represents the audience's interpretation of Kazui. This is why Blue was never a prominent color in Half but is on full display here.

The impact Kazui's verdict has had on him is the most subtle out of all the prisoners. To the point Jackalope can't even tell us how he's changed during the second trial commencement notice.

However, just because something cannot be observed doesn't mean it hasn't happened. Cat uses subtle coloring tricks to allude to how Kazui has changed as a result of his verdict.

Coming out the gate with a myriad of familiar colors.

Kazui's signature prison blue and the green of the apple associated with him. The red light that subtly becomes more prominent throughout the video before being put on full display at the climax and an orangish yellow light that we'll go into more later.

For the time being it's not important, don't worry about it.

Right now, we'll be focusing on Blue, Green, and Red regarding this scene. At points, these colors overlap with each other on top of the lyrics. I believe this is meant to highlight how in sync these two factors are with one another.

Under this framing the way green overshadows blue over the lyrics "I just wanted" but not fully covering it would mean that the audience was close to figuring out what he did or in this case wanted but were just a little off at the same time.

Like we knew he wanted something but what we ultimately landed on thinking he wanted was a little off the mark.

The blue and red overlapping like a Venn Diagram between the lyrics "To touch" and "To caress" shows us that once again the audience and what Kazui's actual sin is are out of sync. The truth landing somewhere in the middle of the two.

Cat goes on with these subtle color cues perfectly illustrating which color represents what in the next few scenes,

Blue highlighting, "Innocent, isn't that right?" the verdict the audience gave to Kazui last trial. As subtle darker red bleeds into to the line going over, "Oh, shove that!"

The kicker before all this the audience is subtly shown the red that will appear in the end in this image,

The color representing his sin cutting through all his facades and lies while pointing straight towards the end.

So, we now know what the blue and red spotlights represent now let's apply this logic to the words here.

The words in black and white with blue or red highlights to me visualize the divide between the truth and lies growing thinner. Both statements that are presented this way being half right and half wrong. All the while the audience's perception of his sin and how Kazui sees it are battling it out visually.

As he once again reiterates the audience is wrong about him ever cheating through stating, "I just wanted to ask".

While "So, it's out in the open." is all in blue.

I believe this is his response to hearing the audience and recognizing at least his sins have been viewed. Even if he states in his voice drama Milgram has yet to even touch on his sin that doesn't change the fact that it was put on full display. Again, just because something isn't observed at all or correctly doesn't mean it didn't happen.

It seems to me from all this and his voice drama that Kazui found some sense of relief from having his sin forgiven. So, much so that he's now getting greedy wanting us to know more and more about whatever terrible things he did and accept him for not only that but who he is.

Accept him for the way that he,

"I’ve confided in others. I’ve tried to be myself! I’ve tried to just be the way I was born!" x

Now let's get to the fun part, Yellow-

A good deal of people have recognized this as the sequence in which these events occurred. I mean it's written there all numbered and everything.

Star and I wound up discussing this rather quickly after the release of Cat through WhatsApp messages because I was bothering her to figure out what the French meant, lol.

However, I never imagined we'd be able to go this deep into these images on colors alone.

It's in these images that this yellow color appears the most. Along with having the most prominent use of red before the climax. But what exactly does this yellow represent? Well, we do see this color on someone else-

Sir, what a nice gold ring you have there. It would be a shame if your friend confessed something to you ultimately leading everyone down a path of mutual destruction. Luckily, there's nothing that implies that-

01- I realize the futility but I still can't help but dream.

"I'm so dumb. Why did I have to dream?"

"The curse of reuniting with you puts a dagger in my heart. I imagined that you saying, "See you" is the same as "It's over”. Only if your heart would change but that’s not possible."

"All these memories and you. Only if I could erase them."

"I’m sure nothing will change, and we’ll laugh together and call each other stupid names. So many things I wish I hadn't known, I'm just a coward."

02- Phew, oh wow I'm drunk.

"Er, so…… could you listen to what I say without laughing? I……"

03- Love (plus) Destiny=Crap Smash it, shatter it, bye-bye.

"Hinako, I love you more than anything." - "Loving Affection (minus) Love, it’s tacky, this two-way deceit."

04- Lie, until it gets better, follow the king of the masquerade.

"All this time till now has hurt me, the scales of my heart has decided to sway. If continuing to hide is called unhappiness, not even one word will get to you." - "All those things I wanna do that I can’t say out loud- I gotta keep it inside and act."

Hate to say it but who would want silver when you can go for gold-

This is why at the start of Cat we see this-

"Since, when have I ignored my feelings?" as red the color of Kazui's sin and this yellow overlap. Why he starts off dejectedly leaning into the cars steering wheel as this is sung,

"It’s better to be a let down, than to be let down yourself."

Kazui "They won't think I was serious when I confessed if I get into a relationship with someone else directly after I can still lie this away" Mukuhara everyone!

This is also why this color appears during the victim and perpetrator scene.

He's so happy to see his friend look at that genuine smile in comparison to-

In the first he is just so look, my friends here do you see them, they'll probably hang out with me again without feeling weird while the second one is just like- Oh yes, my marriage...that...regret my old friend when did you arrive no don't take your coat off, please leave- and you sat down.

Again, the expression work on cat should be talked about far more Kazui looks fucking dead inside up there.

There are even sparks of this color in his "Phew, oh wow I'm drunk. Hey, so what if I said I liked-liked you, what would you do?" moment. Something Star brought up was the fact that he's drinking Whiskey also alludes to this because whiskey is sometimes colloquially referred to as Liquid Gold,

The yellow light clearly being filtered through his glass and drink to get the effect we see here. All the while its color being dimmed even more by the black background.

I need to state for the record that I don't even go here-

I am not a firm believer in Kazui being gay, bi, pan etc. nor do I care about his sexuality personally. Well, okay I care about it a little just for the purpose of being able to say, "Cool sexuality, still murder though." Outside of rehashing old jokes I really couldn't care less because that's his personal business, it really has no bearing on how I view the murder and we speculate it doesn't have any real bearing on the murder itself at all anyhow.

Yet at the same time all this is just sitting right here- SO I MIGHT AS WELL BRING IT UP!

I started this post for a completely different reason, believe it or not. This was supposed to be a simple thing on colors. When I first brought this up to someone else blue represented the wife! The wife! However, then I looked over the evidence again and was like ha, ha- You stupid fuck that wasn't right, way to go dumbass, great way to embarrass yourself in front of whole ass other human being, gave him completely factually incorrect information right before bed. He has to sleep on that now. You're a shit person- then continued to type this like I guess when the morning comes, he'll know sorry bout that.

Me when it came to this, "I’m still guilty even if the morning comes."

All that to say I'm currently stuck falling down a rabbit hole of the messiest nonsense I've seen in several years. But let's get back on track. Because that's not all.

I wish it was all because I am very tired but no it's not.

Even though the colors in Cat allude to previous speculations being correct a good bit of it very cheekily implies all these things are not his actual sin and the audience is overlooking something integral.

The yellow lighting breaking across the blue and straight over Kazui's legs. It shining through the red lines and word can't. His sin and our perception of it rarely touching in the last image. Subtly implying it's much bigger than we're thinking, in some regards, yet smaller than we're implying in others. The font in all black indicating his true nature.

In a disorienting frenzy as the music just keeps going until-

As Kazui is smoking the black background that up until this point has alluded to the truth is tinged blue. Once again implying how the audience has to an extent realized something about his sin but from Kazui's expression the conclusion the audience has come to about the situation is so off it's funny to him.

This contrasts to Yuno who despite being Innocent shows a general disdain towards the audience for running with their preconceived notions and desired perception of her. More so emphasizing within Tear Drop that she's the one who decided to let all of us in and she wants us to stop getting carried away and saying things about her that she simply does not believe is the case and frankly did not ask for our opinions on.

"Don’t weigh me measure me against your morality Just shut it, will you? You know it all Feeling magnanimous? INNOCENT? I’m so not that Just shut it, will you? You know it all." - "I’m the one who chose, let you and you and you all in- Happy or sad? Why decide? Where’d you get your half-baked sense of justice So nauseating...so creepy...will you please disappear “Phew. Anyway!”."

Instead of doing this Kazui is more so going, "Ya, know- It's so, funny- How stupid you are." throughout all of Cat. Fully embodying the lyric in Undercover of,

"Even with accusations full of faults and mistakes- You will for sure, with a smile for sure be pleased and satisfied."

We also see red outlining Kazui's build visually putting his sin behind him. Yet, as Star brought to my attention again red isn't only representative of his sin specifically but his urges as well.

Or what he wishes to indulge in. Something, illustrated through these scenes

"Lick that sin and oppose punishment, until you can meet the king of the masquerade." - "INNOCENT, isn’t that right?"

Q.19 Do you want to be forgiven?

Kazui: I don’t know. If I’m being honest, I do kind of want my weakness to be pardoned.

Again, suggesting that the speculation, we put forth at the beginning of this post- "It seems to me from all this and his voice drama that Kazui found some sense of relief from having his sin forgiven. So, much so that he's now getting greedy wanting us to know more and more about whatever terrible things he did and accept him for not only that but who he is."

Is correct.

Now, let's flip that beat shall we~

However, before we can flip a beat, we need to understand how Cat works musically. All the cool cats are up on their Jazz but the best cats can Swing.

Cat has many colloquial meanings. So far the focus has primarily been on the meaning in Japanese, but the term has a history in Jazz as well-

It was also used back in the day to refer to a cool, unbothered sort of guy that one may have some difficulty pinning down emotionally.

I believe it would be helpful for people to look over all the links up there along with this information on playing in front of or behind a beat.

So, why is this important? Well, some may remember seeing this post. I am just realizing I fucked up. Because I didn't link to the part that I was referring to like I had intended which is fixed now but is also here for those interested.

At the point after that smoke break occurs Cat goes from playing behind beat to ahead of it then to on it once the guitar kicks back in. It does this in quick succession after making a noise that can be mistaken for a rewind or a let's take that back from the top cue as it flips the beat,

Putting the previous chorus out cold; similar to a live remix typically done within swing and jazz inspired forms of music. Something reminiscent of ragtime music one of the influences Jazz is rooted in. Props to Milgram really, I did not think I would get to gush over black music this much while discussing something from Japan, but they managed it.

All this combines to give Cat a very authentic Swing feel that pulls the audience in so hard one could be excused for thinking they'd just been dragged directly into a Jazz Bar-

A place where one can get drinks and listen to all sorts of jazz including its subgenres like swing. Though it could be a music lounge in general.

Q.14 Do you listen to music?

Kazui: I guess I do from time to time. It’s all super old music though, so I don’t think you’ll know it.

Back to Cat though for comparison sakes here's the first chorus at the beginning of Cat

From 0:43-1:04

Along with the flipped version I'm referring to specifically

From 2:24-2:32

Despite there being a rather consistent clapping in the instrumental of the song up until this point it's noticeably absent as a light and whimsical piano can be heard. In the mv this can be heard between 2:34-2:38. Highlighting the genuine longing nature of the line accompanying it,

"To be caressed by you, that would be perfection."

Right after the previous visuals showcasing Kazui's lie in full-

Not only highlighting the parts of the act or lie in big white font but going as far as to highlight them in the lyrics in French beneath these words.

Visually showing us that love being crap is a lie that Kazui may not only be telling others but himself because again,

"It’s better to be a let down, than to be let down yourself." - "It’s for the sake of true love, who wouldn’t lie for that?"

"If I were to make sure and suffer, I would rather be by your side. Laughing together, side by side, this distance in our relationship is misleading me, is this what happiness is?" - "I’m sure nothing will change and we’ll laugh together and call each other stupid names. So many things I wish I hadn't known, I'm just a coward."

"Love always wins and I always lose, and that's fine."

Then in Cat once the clapping begins again a new sound is introduced as well-

From 2:33-2:38

We can hear the sound of a wind-instrument being played subtly emphasizing the whimsical and playful nature of the,

"I wanted to be loved, just like a cat." lyric while tonally contrasting this visual,

As the instrumental part I'm referring to within the mv starts between 2:40-2:42.

This imagery is also telling. The background is red but the blood of the dove that splatters on the victim's face is black, the color used to represent the truth throughout this mv.

This is in stark contrast to when we see the apple hit the ground where red is the most prominent color with a few black stains within.

Let's wrap this up! There are more visual things I'd like to point out in Cat but those will be in different posts. Overall, the videos visuals allude to the audience being half right, half wrong. Their perception of Kazui and the truth of the matter barely touching at all.

Regardless of whether people are making him out to be worse than he is or better the truth lies somewhere in between those extremes. However since it's Kazui the half in half out guy both extremes could be true. Highlighting the lineup of top tier liars that make up the final half of the Milgram prisoners. Oh, look the elevators here-

And we're all going down, right?

#milgram #kazui mukuhara #mukuhara kazui

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priwenshallprevail · 3 months

Text

Character: Ɠєσffяєу McƇυƖƖυм

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.

Nicknames: Geoff , Huntsman -- a list of insults two miles wide.

Eye color: Sapphire Blue

Hair style / color: Classic Medium faded undercut / Dark brown

Height: 6'2

Clothing style: Durable fibers that can withstand abuse. Somewhat loose fitting, non constricting. Usually more than one layer with a lengthy concealable top layer; such as an overcoat, or other heavy fiber jackets. The less skin showing the better. Obstacles to prevent being bit, scratched or burned. Mostly dull medium choices in color schemes. Grays. Blues. Earthy tones. Occasionally dark red accents. Almost always packing some sort of weapon within it's confines. Maybe multitudes; depending on the day. Heavy boots with some inner reinforcements. Be they steel toe or outer locked ankle cupped greaves made of trifold leather. It's a common uniform styled attire worn throughout eras. If not capable of being dated singularity back onto Priwen's uniform code.

Best physical feature: It's all in the eyes as they say. Window to the soul.

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.

Your fears: “Becomin' useless ta'tha cause, 'mong oher'tings. ..Don' exepct me ta be givin' all m' secrets away now, do ya ? “

Your guilty pleasure: “ Whiskey in tha'morn, 'nother one fer'a generous nightcap. Rarely wit'a bit of smoke -- opium. Silences tha mind an' all.” Silences the memories more than likely.

Your ambitions for the future: “ Lesser monsters in'tha world. Includin' tha human variety.”

𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺.

Your first thought waking up: “ Ta take a piss ? "

What you think about most: “Tactical improvements. Equipment upgrades.”

What you think about before bed: “ Do I really need it -- can I afford it ? ”

What you think your best quality is: “ .. Intuition. ”

𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻’𝑺 𝑩𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹?

Single or group dates: “ Dun'ave time fer' it. ..”

To be loved or respected: “Respect can go a long way -- love, on tha'oer hand .. is distraction at best. Encumbrance at it's worst..”

Beauty or brains: “Brains.”

Dogs or cats: “Dogs, clearly. Cats ar'taa much like leeches if ye ask me. Pompous, moody lil' bastards, expectin' ye ta bow a'teir whim. ”

𝑫𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼…

Lie: “Don' we all.” derisively symbolizing the cross in a ushered signum crucis across his head and shoulders.

Believe in yourself: “Wouldn' be in tis position if I didn'.”

Believe in love: “ Honestly ? Say it again fer'ya -- its'a distraction . "

Want someone: “Bit'of a nosy bugger, arnt'ye ? ”

𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑩𝑬𝑬𝑵…

Been on stage: “As tha clean up crew,' parently.”

Done drugs: “ Not some druggie, if'tat is what yer insinuatin'. ” Opium.

Changed who you were to fit in: "No.”

𝑭𝑨𝑽𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑺.

Favorite color: “Fook if I know -- navy ? ”

Favorite animal: “Cannot go 'rong wit' horses. Noble beasts, 'lot can be learned fro'em.”

Favorite movie: “Don' ge'ta see much, m'fraid. Not a clue.”

Favorite book: "Mm.. wouldn' ye like ta know." His brother's journal. Memories of both him and their mother littered throughout it's contents.

Favorite game: “Er Enish, eit'er by mule or horse. ” First introduced to him during the war. Now he favors the game.

𝑨𝑮𝑬.

Day your next birthday will be: “January 6th.”

How old will you be: “38.” ( If we're delving in or around 1918 that is )

Age you lost your virginity: “ 16. ”

𝑰𝑵 𝑨 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑶𝑵.

Best personality: “Any of ye wit' an ounce of chivalry.”

Best eye color: “ Not blue, 'tats for damn sure. We get blinded pretty damn easily. "

Best hair color: “Dark hair .. ”

Best thing to do with a partner: "Sup'ose bein' honest wit'em. If ya can afford ta, tat is ."

𝑭𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑺𝑯 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬.

I love: " a challenge.”

I feel: “content -- fer'now. ”

I hide: “ .... pain.” fear. Any other conflicting emotions that tarnishes his image.

I miss: “.. .. bet'er days.”

I wish: “ fer'tese questions ta end already.”

Tagged : @nihiladditaenihilperdidi - many,many thankshes ! ;)

Tagging: @devourhe ,@thejadedking , @arcanescholxr -- anyone else who wishes to give it a whirl ? Never good at discovering who already participated in it or not. Forgive me if you have been double tapped. Nothin' but love comin' your way.

#❡ character ● studies † ΜςCυllυϻ #† Headcanons ● Ƭяαιтѕ αηɗ SкιƖƖѕ #† 𝓜emes ● Dash Games 」#tw: drugs #tw: alcohol

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muutos · 2 years

Text

this isn’t the first time he’s tried to commit a mortal sin. the waves beckon him, as if there are wailing sirens beneath. depths darker than the deep blue of his eyes, whilst he stares down at the water below. the calm of his body scaring him. parted lips draw breath, yet the stench of salt still clings to his nose. soft curls picked up subtly, softly, by the breeze...

yet he doesn’t feel it. anxiety screams & claws beneath the many layers of drugs that have kept him alive for the better part of six years. you’re killing yourself, anyway - he thinks. your body is rotting. you’ve committed the cardinal offense already, & the church just doesn’t know it yet. a dead man walking - a mockery of priesthood. he’s no longer fit, to be the vessel of his word. his life has come full circle, & he’s become everything he’s ever hated. that he’d set out to dispel. he has nobody. no family, no friends. no real connection, nor attachment. everything he is, and everything he has belongs to god. loneliness cripples him in the night, & swarms him with temptations he cannot resist. he’s shaking, but he doesn’t feel it. the cold rattling his old bones. there’s hesitation only in the cowardice, yet, it doesn’t last. his uniform of black, cut by white about his neck, making him invisible - yet, he knows there’s nobody to cease this aching numbness he’s resigned himself to. swallowing, a bone dry gulp of courage. mouth dry, from the abused communion. there’s only two ways down. & he refuses to turn around - his feet stuck, in stubborn bliss. he wavers, & he doesn’t catch himself. I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety. impact is earth shattering pain, that knocks him from consciousness. sound swallowed, by the sea. swarming him like a blanket, & warming him despite the bone chilling temperature. less than fifty meters, he’s overestimated what the impact would do. yet - if left to float here, the waves would take him through his lungs - a quiet, yet deafening sound accompanying the bubbles & disruption of the sea around his misleadingly peaceful & floating form....

@sylkshe / / heavily plotted starter

#sylkshe #misc * / verse to be tagged #father duke * / in character #tw suicide #tw attempted suicide #GOD this plot #you really said how're they gonna meet huh

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libidomechanica · 1 year

Text

Untitled (“Thine: but hereafter;”)

Prove he shadows and dinna cry. Ah, how dear the next to lie groan, when we wand again with love, than one? Which the sun and jumping-jack pajamas in a stern repose; while thing.

As little space I gave me to the soft blend with Cyril whisper’d: no longer brows, such as Phœbus fire, let be foundations, this universe? While ever beauteous path, as her open

was peace by night my hid meaning of Love with grayish leave unchaste. I wanton-wise. Of Hony and golden quiuer at there mail, lets the fair again in uniform this kingdom

of the rough Grove, Jamie, come try me! Farewell; she took wing, and releast, and made heroic bosoms bared to wasted, rich prouder great Socratic has stood in thy scythe answer’d

must burn and to; there livery onward glance to heart; and next neighbouring as you praises worst was a goodlihead the fell forgiving palely, some eighty—’Where’s

nothing, broken. If thou lifted up the portraits it, a love to-night, handsome splendent sun hurried on, that she would tire on that on a throne,—and the bust of condition

mixed with reverend Rowley Powley, who pause, thy gold and constantly at bringing women are thee. To scorn with building amid thing away, and every in Queen of heaven. I

thanks to last thy sake: for Age and past all my blood and bring the attend each accompliments light her praise, I thank’d her conqueror play, not one to silently without a sight

her, none. And so fondly to-day, that zeal of offices of silence is, though hated finger: but now even changeably reflected to give up love, and leave, since with bade

her fair caught in mere can scarce conceive; no though it, Follower empire, and weary watch the fill—we filled a still I turned cud of wrong, and wisely masque or false in this glory

as his sight quitted the great courteously proud air of the presented, and rosé on thy verge it is the langer and this, and a stable, poesy, and shell; ’tis a verse discourse,

get your boundless palaces, when most rich minister and there’s nane again that Juan wonder. Of want pitty? As e’er would not things—I sought of the Almighty greater

glorious heate, or swear! Thine: but hereafter; but stars and was spent, aw’d from home by the fled ere it may be sad or cherry, cream of Hecla, to seek some new and then wait for

my happy crowned, tells to know one there is no matter a town, that’s not entirely mother hair. Is this heaven’s blush like call’d of one, thoughts with leaves and you fair against his

lap. This metaphysics and say— I cannot find no assistance by deeming end you presence of pride tis like other time; for the gardens fair and heale, the bargain made

many a things, what simple great joy unto by Sawney’s violin, we can enlight is over blue devil’s foot. Her breaking that a word in the Nikolaiew regiment?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #178 texts #ballad

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

--------------------

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #crimebois #/rp #dsmp fic #cat writes fic #long post #sometimes you just. you just gotta write some c!crimebois y'know?

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ladytshelby · 3 years

Text

So We Meet Again

Tommy Shelby x f!Reader

Part 1

Summary: Reader goes to The Garrison after work and sees the man she's been thinking of all week. Just overall sweetness where they both have a nice evening that will hopefully lead to something more.

Word Count: 3419

Warning: mild swearing, drinking, some kissing, and things (if I left anything out, please let me know).

I have finally finished the 2nd part of "That First Meeting." I desperately love sweet Tommy and cannot get enough of him. In my opinion, soft Tommy and love-struck Tommy are the best.

I hope you enjoy the story. Let me know what you think.

It's been a week since you met the infamous Thomas Shelby at the fancy club your best friend Sarah dragged you to, and you would be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t thinking about him.

You often catch yourself thinking about his piercing blue eyes or sharp smile. The way the air seems to be sucked out of any room he’s in. Your meeting can’t be called anything but brief. You shared a drink, a few laughs, a couple of glances, an evening you desperately want to experience again and again.

But to your dismay, he still hasn’t called you. Deep down you knew he probably wasn’t going to. He didn’t get your number thanks to his brother beating someone to a bloody pulp and ruining the moment. He said he would find it and you imagined him frantically looking through the phone book like a mad man whose sole mission was to get a hold of you, but that’s just the hopeless romantic in you talking.

“Hey, are you listening to me?”

You look up and see the face of Sarah extremely close to yours. You can see the small smudges of mascara under her eyes from her habit of rubbing her eyes throughout the day. She chose to wear bright red lipstick with a black dress which usually means she’s up to something.

The two of you have been best friends and thick as thieves since childhood when she moved next door to your house. Most of your fondest memories are with Sarah. They range from splashing in the cold Birmingham mud puddles, getting in trouble because you ruined your best Sunday stockings to sneaking out to drink whiskey and watch handsome boys play cricket.

You smile, shaking your head. “I’m not even going to lie and say that I was.”

She tries to flick your nose but you easily fend her off. “As I was saying until you rudely went off to la-la land probably dreaming about a certain handsome fella with blue eyes. A couple of ladies at the front desk are going to The Garrison in Small Heath and I told them we would go with them.”

“And what if I already had plans, hmmm?”

The look Sarah throws your way can be equated with 'get real.'

She knows more than anyone that you don't have much of a social life at the moment. Work and an ill mother rarely leave room for leisure. when you get home you hardly possess half the mind to change out of your work uniform and crawl into bed.

"Don't make jokes, Y/N, it's unbecoming of you." Sarah smiles and steals a grape from your lunch bag. "You're coming and I will not take no for an answer."

"I don't have a dress. I can't go in a nurse's uniform."

She laughs, "You simply cannot, my dear. That's why I have a spare, just for occasions such as this."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sarah indeed had a dress stored away in the coat closet at the hospital. It's a simple pale green that fell just below your knee and thankfully looked okay with your white loafers. The only thing is it sort of smells like dust and cleaning supplies making you wonder how long it sat in the closet. But alas, it’s nothing a bit of perfume can't fix.

The late evening air of Small Heath was cool and clear. You can smell the burning coals of the factories mixing in with the strong smell of motor oil. A couple of small girls are playing in the street in front of what you assume is their home. They have dirt on their dresses and faces while they laugh at each other and the awkward dances their dolls are making. The youngest one looks up and gives you a small wave which you return immediately. You remember being that small. You only cared about what was right in front of you at the particular moment, no stress or fear about tomorrow, just living in the moment.

“Hey Y/N, catch up. We’re almost there.” Sarah calls from several feet ahead of you.

“Coming.” You hurry and catch Sarah’s hand and give it a tight squeeze.

Maybe you should take that advice and just live, not simply exist. At least for one night.

~~~~

Cigarette smoke and whiskey greet you when you walk into The Garrison. There are people everywhere. A group laughing over by the bar, a man sitting alone and drinking at the table next to the stage; his cigar ashes falling onto the white napkins as he watches a young gentlemen polish his trumpet, a pretty blonde girl folding napkins behind the bar in a pale blue dress laughing at something the other barkeep said.

~~~~~~~~

After a few drinks, the laughs are flowing as freely as the music was dancing through the packed tavern.

You waft the smoke out of your face and nudge Sarah who was shamelessly flirting with some bloke with snow-white hair. “Hey, I’m going to get another drink. Do you want anything?”

“No Darling.” She slurs and pats your cheek and gestures to the man behind her. “I’ve got all I need right here.”

Laughing at your friend’s antics, you make your way to the bar, making sure not to trip over a random foot. The woman barkeep sets down a glass and gives you a big smile asking in a cute Irish accent “What can I get for you?”

You open your mouth to give your order but it’s not your voice that answers her, “She’ll take an Irish whiskey, Grace. Make it two.”

She-Grace nods, “Of course, Mr. Shelby”

You turn and meet the blue eyes of the man you’ve been thinking about all week. There were times when you thought you dreamt the whole night, a cruel and wonderful concocted fantasy made up by your subconscious. But here he is standing right in front of you dressed like the gentleman he wants the world to believe he is. You can tell even though you have only spent a few hours with the man, he wears his suits and smiles like armor, hiding his true self underneath.

“So we meet again, Mr. Shelby,” You say as you blindly take your whiskey from Grace and mutter a soft thank you.

“So we do, Y/N, so we do.”

Well, at least he remembered your name and how you like your whiskey. You reach to find the money you crammed in the dress’s ridiculously small pocket, but Tommy puts a large note on the bar and nudges you toward his table in the very back, his arm brushing against yours making your skin tingle and hair stand on end.

You use the opportunity to get a good look at him. He’s even more handsome than you remember if that’s even possible. The sharp lines of his shoulders and the obviously toned body underneath. The coat he is wearing is jet black and expensive. His shoes are worn but polished.

The table is small and round with only a couple of chairs. You notice the table is positioned where no one can outright see it but because of a couple of well-placed mirrors, Tommy can see the entire room.

He takes his coat off and slings behind his chair before sitting down and you do the same.

“I could have paid for my own drink, ya know.”

“I’m positive you could’ve but what kind of gentleman would that make me if I didn’t pay?”

“Are you a gentleman, Mr. Shelby, or are you just playing one?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

He smirks and rests his hand very close to yours, “And are you a polite, lady-like woman, or are you just fooling everyone into thinking you are?”

You slowly take a sip of your whiskey, letting the warmth wash over you. “You’re going to have to find that out for yourself, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy laughs and it sounds like a genuine laugh. A laugh you imagine many people don’t get to hear too often.

After both, your glasses have long been empty, Tommy stubs his cigarette in the glass ashtray, touches his knee with yours, and whispers, “Dance with me.”

You glance around and notice a few couples gently dancing to the music while the rest of the patrons are in their own little bubbles laughing, drinking, chatting the night away.

Moving to stand up from the table, your body decides to now remind you of the alcohol you’ve consumed. As you focus on staying upright, Tommy’s hand gently wraps around your arm to steady you. You mutter a soft thanks and smooth down the front of your dress. His hand then travels down grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together. His hand dwarfs yours and you can feel the rough calluses contrasting with the softness of his palms against your own. He leads you to the middle of the dance floor and rests his hands on your hips. You mimic his movements wrapping your arms around his neck. The two of you begin to sway, not talking, just letting the music and moment take over.

You notice a couple of patrons watching the two of you. Most of them look at Tommy with admiration and awe while a few others have a glint of fear in their eyes, holding their partners a little tighter. It is a gentle reminder that the man who has been nothing but a gentleman has a ruthless and dark reputation. Tommy must sense the added attention and pulls you closer and you respond by leaning into his chest and moving your arm to wrap around his strong waist. His thumbs start rubbing small circles on your back.

When the song comes to a close and the singer turns to speak to the other musicians, you look up at Tommy and tease, “You’re a very good dancer, I thought you would be stepping on my toes.”

“I’m glad I’m exceeding your expectations.” He smirks and lightly brings his foot down on your foot.

You jump back. “Hey, don’t go stomping on them now; these are very fancy shoes, ya know. Can’t be having scuffs all about them.”

Tommy looks down at your shoes and slowly tracks his way up. Slow enough to make your cheeks warm. with his eyebrow quirked. “Those shoes are bloody awful.”

You pinch his arm and retort, “I happen to think they are the height of fashion. I saw the queen herself sporting a pair the other day. But of course, they’re horrendous, Tommy! They are nursing shoes.”

He laughs that laugh again. You decide you want to keep hearing it over and over again. You’re going to fall asleep thinking about his laugh and the fact it was you that made him do it.

“You know, Tommy, I thought you’d forgotten about me, that I dreamt our meeting or something.” You confess to him, finally letting him know what has been bothering you all week.

Tommy takes your hand and turns you in a circle and Sarah catches your eye. She is also dancing with the man from earlier. She smiles and makes kissing faces at you.

“Dreaming about me, aye?”

You scoff, “Not by choice, believe me. I would have rather been fast asleep.”

After a couple more songs, Tommy leans down and whispers in your ear to follow him. You silently agree and take his hand once again. He brings you to a room that smells of old smoke and mischief. The single light in the room illuminates the dust particles floating in the air, and the table has a crack running down the middle with small stains that suspiciously looks like blood. The booth seats are small with cracking green leather and a yellow cardigan crumpled in the corner.

You turn when you hear the door behind you shut and lock. Tommy slowly makes his way towards and takes your hand bringing it up to his lips placing a soft kiss on your fingers. “I did try to find your number, your address even, but it turns out,” He turns your hand over and places another hot kiss, this time on the inside of your wrist. “You are very difficult to find.”

Warmth begins to spread through your entire body as if your blood has been lit on fire. You watch as his fingers dance their way up your arm and over your shoulder to then tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His other hand wraps around your waist and pulls you closer to him.

“I’ll forgive you this time.” Your voice comes out as barely a whisper.

“Just this once?” He questions.

You nod meeting his gaze. “Just this once.”

“How very generous of you.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you laugh, “You should feel lucky. I don’t give many people second chances.”

You can still hear the music coming from the other room. It’s faint, and you can’t decipher what the man is singing about.

Tommy slowly starts to sway and you along with him just letting the music wash over the two of you like before. He rests the side of his head on top of yours and you play with the ends of his hair. You can feel the beat of his heart. Its beat is calm and strong and steady. You think that yours must be going a million miles a minute and surely about to burst out of your chest.

Tommy breaks your train of thought when he says, “At the moment, I consider myself the luckiest man in all of England.”

You look up and find that he is already looking at you with a small smile.

“Just England?” You retort, smirking.

Snorting, Tommy removes one arm from your waist and flicks your nose. You try to swat his hand but miss. “Okay smartass, the luckiest man in the entire world.”

“That’s better.”

The song slowly comes to an end but you continue to gently sway. He is still looking at you and you are looking at him just the same. You decide that his eyes can only be compared to what you remember the ocean looking like. You have only seen it once when you were a child, and even then, you are sure it would not compare to the light blues and small swirls of dark blue that you can only see when you’re up close.

As a child, you remember Sarah telling you about sirens and how they lure sailors in with their song, only to drown them and steal their treasure. In this case, Tommy is a siren. Luring you in with pretty words and a beautiful face.

And like a pirate in the storybooks, you have this overwhelming urge to kiss him, to be pulled under, letting him take anything he wanted from you just as long as he keeps looking at you the way he is. So you stand on your toes and do just that.

He responds almost immediately, placing his hands on either side of your neck, gently caressing your skin while you fist your hands into his shirt. He is kissing you in a way that makes your knees weak and head spin. He is touching you in a way you only thought possible in the silly little novels you read and joke about with Sarah.

You gasp into his mouth when he suddenly bites your lip allowing him access to your mouth with his tongue. He moans softly when you match his movements. He eventually breaks the kiss just to turn his attention from your lips to your neck. He trailed all along your throat, whispering sweet nothings between each searing kiss. They ranged from, “you are so beautiful,” “I’m glad you decided to stumble into this place tonight. Right into my arms.”

“I didn’t stumble.” You whisper breathlessly.

Tommy removes himself from your neck and looks at you confused. His lips are swollen and his eyes shiny. You know yours are probably the same. “What?”

“I like to think I walked in here rather gracefully.”

He throws his head back and laughs before resting his forehead on yours. Amusement paints his face when he says, “Out of all the things I said, you decide to focus on that.”

You giggle and kiss his nose, “I just don’t want you to think I am some clutz or something.”

“I promise I would never think such a thing.” He replies before closing the gap between you. You can feel him smile into the kiss causing you to do the same. His hand moves to your shoulder and edges the sleeve of your dress down so he could kiss your bare skin. You hum and move your hands to his chest. You want his lips back on yours so you grab his face and move it back to yours.

This kiss is different. This is more passionate, heated, and all-consuming instead of the sweet and slow one moments before. His hands are everywhere and you can hardly keep track of where they started and where they’re going. You honestly don’t care as long as he keeps doing it.

He begins to slowly move you to the booth behind you but stops when there is a quick knock on the door. You both freeze but don’t take your hands off each other.

“Y/N, are you in there? We are about to head home.” The person outside the door was Sarah. She sounded drunk, her words coming out slow and slurred.

You look up at Tommy and see that he is no longer smiling. He is not mad but a look of disappointment covers his features. You want to kiss that look off his face and make him smile again, but you know you need to go. You have work tomorrow and you don’t want Sarah to have to walk home with girls we barely know.

“I should go,” you whisper, “But I don’t want to.” You want to stay in this room with Tommy forever. Now that you got a taste of him, you want more and more.

“Let me take you home.”

You shake your head. “We will be fine, I promise. We don’t live very far from here.”

Tommy moves to get something out of his jacket pocket. He grabs your hand, giving you a small pocket knife.

“What is this for?” You look at the object, it still being warm from being in his jacket. It is small and silver. It looks old and well used. His initials are engraved in what can only be called a child’s writing.

“Just in case you run into trouble.”

“I can’t take this, Tommy. It looks special.”

He nods, pulling you in for a quick kiss. “It is special. That is why I am giving it to you, so I can see you again to get it back.”

Laughing, you kiss him again. “You’re very cunning Mr. Shelby.”

“That I am.”

“Y/N?” Sarah’s voice again cuts through the moment.

“Just coming. One moment please.” You shout back.

You begin looking around the room to look for a pen to write your contact information down. You are not leaving until he has it You want more nights like this one. Nights full of dancing, kissing, laughing. Of just having fun.

Under the table, you notice a stub of pencil and you reach down to grab it. You take a napkin and hastily write down your address and phone number.

“What are you doing?” Tommy comes up behind you, placing his hands on your hips as you write.

“I’m doing the work for you.” You turn around and stuff the napkin into the pocket where a pocket square would normally be. “Now do not lose that and forget to call me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He places a kiss on your cheek and then your lips one more time. Before the kiss can get deepen, you break away from him. “I better go before she busts through the door and either passes out or vomits and trust me, we don’t want either of those things to happen.”

You give him one last quick kiss before moving towards the door, his pocket knife tucked tightly in your hand. “I’ll see you again Tommy Shelby.”

He gives one last smile that you will surely dream about until you can see him again. “You damn sure will.”

#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfic #Thomas Shelby x reader #cillian murphy #Thomas Shelby

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lucifer-is-a-bag-of-dicks · 3 years

Text

They sat across from each other in the hallway, the sound of Maddie Fenton's shouting was muffled through the door of the principal's office.

Wes leaned back with his arms crossed as Walter Weston's voice broke through the noise, issuing an attempt at an apology that seemed to fall on deaf ears as the yelling continued.

"Your son might think it's just some funny joke, but I will not have anyone accusing my son of being that lying, manipulative, piece of ectoplasmic scum!"

Danny sank lower in his chair, face tightening with every word.

"You know they wouldn't say that stuff if they knew the truth." said Wes, cutting into the tense air between them.

Danny's head thumped back against the wall as he rolled his eyes.

"You cannot possibly be that fucking dense." Danny's voice was strained with frustration.

Wes felt heat flood into his cheeks as his chest coiled with anger.

"Well it's true." he spat. "They wouldn't think Phantom's a monster if they knew he was you."

Danny's nose wrinkled in an expression of mild disgust.

"For the most observant guy in school you are unbelievably blind."

"Oh I'm blind?" the squeak of Wes' sneakers echoed down the empty hall as he stood over the other boy. "You're the one who can't see how much easier your life would be if you just told everyone who you really are. But no, you have to keep it this big secret just so you can feel special, because you just wanna keep playing superhero."

He jabbed a finger in Danny's face as vibrant blue eyes glared up at him through dark bangs.

"You're choosing to get detention for missing classes, you're choosing to get beaten up by Dash all the time. You're choosing to be the least popular guy in school when you could turn it all around overnight if you wanted. You're choosing to listen to your parents talk shit about you-"

Danny's fist didn't race up to grab Wes by the collar, Wes simply blinked and cold fingers were suddenly curled around the neck of his basketball uniform.

"Have you even remotely considered that telling the professional ghost hunters that I live with that I'm part ghost might not be the best idea? My mom is literally yelling about how much they want to tear me open right now."

Wes couldn't help but notice that that was, in fact, exactly what she was currently yelling about.

"They wouldn't do that." Wes scoffed, batting Danny's hand away, it was like hitting a marble statue that only decided to move out of politeness. "They're your parents, they wouldn't hurt you."

"Are you sure about that?" Danny asked, Wes wasn't exactly sure when he got up from his chair, but they were standing face to face now. "Would you bet your life on it?"

Wes suddenly felt rather cold, but he refused to let Danny see him flustered.

"No, but I wouldn't go around betting my life on anything," Wes smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt collar. "That's just stupid."

"Then why," Danny grit his teeth hard, "Are you so comfortable betting mine."

Wes opened his mouth to retort but suddenly found himself at a loss for words as Danny's question sank in and the cold chill in the room ran sharply down his spine.

They wouldn't really hurt him. He was sure of it, they were his parents. They would never, he was sure.

Would he bet his life on it?

"There's about three things that can happen if I tell my parents." said Danny, wandering slightly down the hall, looking down at his shoes. "One, they believe me, they put aside an entire lifetime of prejudice and accept me for who I am, hooray!" he shook his hands in a rather sarcastic gesture of mock celebration.

"Two!" he continued before Wes could interject. "They believe me, but they think of Phantom as some kind of disease, something that should be gotten rid of, something they can cure."

He turned on his heel to face Wes once again, holding up three fingers.

"Three... they don't believe me. They think Phantom is controlling me, or he's killed me and taken my place, that this is just some evil plot to manipulate them. They try to kill me."

Danny shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at a piece of rubbish on the floor.

"Which means I only have a one in three chance of things going okay, and that's being generous and ignoring all of the other things that could go wrong. I don't like those odds, Wes."

Wes swallowed hard. He hadn't thought of it like that, he hadn't even considered it at all, but one in three? That didn't seem right.

"What do you mean one in three?" Wes asked, "Only one of those was really bad, what's wrong with them finding a cure? You hate being Phantom."

Danny looked up at him with a surprised expression, before frowning hard.

"I don't hate being Phantom, and it wouldn't matter if I did. Phantom is a part of me, I can't get rid if it. The last time I managed to split my ghost half from my human half it took half of my personality with it, and if I'd stayed that way for too long both sides of me would have died, for good."

"You don't know that it's impossible." said Wes, refusing to back down out of pure stubbornness at this point, even though the conversation was leaving a sour taste in his mouth. "Your parents are geniuses, if anyone could figure it out they could."

"Wes," Danny rubbed a hand over his face, looking very tired. "I asked the most powerful omniscient ghost I know if it was possible, there isn't a single timeline where I survive a permanent split. It can't be done, and I don't want it to be done."

"But why?!" Wes' arms opened in a desperately questioning gesture. "You don't even use it for anything! All you do is fight ghosts and lie to everyone! Why would you want that?!"

"It doesn't matter why." Danny hissed. "This is my life, my body. I get to choose what I do with it, and I should get to choose who I tell about it instead of having some selfish prick outing me to everyone without warning!"

"He WHAT?!"

The boys both turned around to find Mrs Fenton and Mr Weston standing in the doorway to the office. Maddie had a hand over her mouth, and Walter's jaw was hanging from his head.

"Did he just say what I think he said?" Walter asked.

"Yes! Finally! Dad he's-"

"You outed him?" Walter grabbed Wes by the shirt and marched him down the hallway. "You can't just do that sort of thing with someone's personal life! The ghost thing is bad enough but this-"

"What?" Wes' eyes widened as he realised what his dad was saying, "Wait, no! That's not what we were talking about-"

"We are going to have a very serious talk about this." Walter turned around, still shoving Wes ahead of him. "Mrs Fenton, Danny. I am so, so sorry about this, all of this."

Maddie slipped a hand over Danny's shoulder and squeezed as the Westons disappeared down the hall.

"Did he really tell everyone about that too?" Maddie asked in a dark tone. "If anything happens to you because of this I'll-"

"It's fine mom, it's fine." Danny assured her. "It doesn't matter what he says. Nobody ever believes him anyway."

He really hoped Wes learned something from that conversation, but somehow he doubted it would change anything.

#lula's fanfics #danny phantom #wes weston #danny phantom fanfiction #I just really wanted to write that betting your life on it scene

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wonlouvre · 3 years

Text

pairing: doctor!wonwoo x lawyer!female oc genre: modern royalty, arranged marriage, fluff and future angst word count: 3.2k WARNINGS: ANGST, VIOLENCE, GUNS

a/n: we are nearing the end guys :( and i promise, it’s a HAPPY ENDING! but for now we have to face the angst, i’m so sorry. disclaimer!! as i have said from the previous parts, i am not well-versed with investigations and court procedures. PLEASE CORRECT ME IF I’M WRONG. thank you very much!! please enjoy this new part and hit my ask box with what you think of it <3

nine: grief | masterlist

Wonwoo has had difficult times in his life and he has managed to overcome them all. Growing up in the public eye, fulfilling duties decreed to him even before he became a teen, a break-up, excelling both academically and physically and most of all, loving himself for who he is. He knows his parents did everything in their power and love to make it a little easier for him. They are the reasons he kept going and going.

But his heart can’t seem to carry this overwhelming heaviness.

His parents wanted to end the engagement immediately. It was an argument, an angry one. His mother had her ears closed even before he could speak meanwhile his father’s closed lips already said it all. Of course, he was defensive. He understands his parents concern for their citizens, but nothing is final until a verdict is reached. He has to come back to Jung and Sam and he has to come back to you. Surely enough, when he stepped out of the doors of his home, he had chosen love over duty.

It’s just that he didn’t know that you had different plans.

“Where’s the pretty lady?” Sam asks out of the blue while he plays with the new toys Wonwoo brought for the kids at the welfare.

He has been visiting them frequently, at least four times a week in between his hospital schedule. Especially after you decided that he should distance himself from you, he has been in and out of here because the boys are one of the only reasons he’s here other than you. He’s hoping you only meant a break if that’s what you wanted. Because he’d give it to you with as much distance as you want just come back to him. Come back to him because he doesn’t and can’t let you go.

“She’s a bit busy now,” he tries to make up an excuse and Sam raises his sparkling eyes at his face, probably searching for some truth in his lie.

“You look different when she’s around,” the young boy says and goes back to his toys.

Wonwoo’s ears perk and his brows knit in question. “What do you mean?”

“Jung thinks I don’t see it, but his face,” Sam explains and gestures to his tiny yet swelling cheeks. “It changes because of this girl here that I think he’s crushing.”

Wonwoo can’t help the growing smile on his face. “Jung has a crush?”

“Yes.” Sam bobs his head cutely. “You’re just like Jung with the pretty lady around.”

“How about now?” He asks the observant boy who purses his tiny lips before narrowing his eyes at him.

“You look a little sad.”

Wonwoo didn’t need to ask who’s the pretty lady Sam was talking about because to him, you’re the only pretty lady in his life (second to his mother of course even though she’s angry at him at the moment). He tried to not make it obvious. He doesn’t want anyone to see him that the controversy and your father’s arrest is breaking the two of you apart. He can’t let them see him falling apart for that matter because he wants you to see him confident and strong.

He doesn’t want to further fuel your doubts and fears. If he can’t support you closely, he’ll do his best to support you even from afar.

That’s why life for him continued. He goes to work, attends to his patients and co-workers needs, he eats, he exercises and he even entertains drinking with Soonyoung despite having to take care of him because of how fast he gets drunk.

It’s an ineffective distraction because he misses you terribly. He misses going to your office just to take you away from your computer, he misses driving around town with you in the passenger seat and listening to your stories, he misses sleeping over at your apartment after a tiring day shift, he misses your warm and welcoming embrace, he misses your shy and soft kisses against his lips, cheeks, nose, forehead, neck and everywhere else.

Did he tell you he misses you?

He sends you messages every day. He doesn’t call and he doesn’t wait for a reply. He just wants you to know that he’s here whenever you’re ready. Jeongyeon is kind enough to keep him in the loop, but the updates are very minimal because she’s still your subject and she doesn’t want to hurt you any further.

For a moment, Wonwoo was afraid to take the leap. But when you asked him if he still wants to marry you which could be equivalent to you ending things, he had to. If you stay or not, he had to say it with all his heart. You had to know because he was sure that whatever it is his whole being is feeling, it’s only for you.

“I love you.”

Your heart drops at his confession, making you sob to the palm of your hands. He can’t do this to you right now. It’s already hard and painful. You want to be selfish, but it would be wrong to let him suffer with you when he has been nothing but kind and honest.

“You’re not your father, Y/N,” he promises and holds your hands down. “Please look at me.”

You shake your head, sniffling. You want to scream you love him too. But the words are nothing but a lump at the back of your throat. You continue shedding your tears and the sight breaks Wonwoo’s heart.

“It’s okay.” He lifts your head up by your cheeks. He wipes your tears away even though it’s futile. He wishes to share with your anguish, but he also respects the desires of your heart.

His smile was small when he leans down and briefly presses a kiss to your trembling lips. You accept it, fearing it might be the last. You also listen to his last words before he leaves with his bag and coat because it also might be the last time you’ll ever hear them.

“I love you.”

The rain patters on the roof of the car when Wonwoo’s words echoed inside your head. Just the thought of what had transpired the last few days brings tears to your eyes. You haven’t seen him since that night and the longing is unbearable. You wish to hear his voice, feel his touch against you or just see him. But you can’t and you have to persevere through it because you owe justice and accountability to your people.

You haven’t spoken to your mother even if you tried. She’s just tired, so tired you can’t bring a word out of her. You try to be understanding and a little more patient. After all, getting over a betrayal doesn’t happen overnight. That’s why you continued working even though almost every client you have has backed down and declined your services. Nonetheless, you still go to your office every day as if everything is okay. You drink your coffee, you run over your files and even do a little organizing and disposing here and there.

Your father’s first trial is today and you’re on your way to speak to him at his detention center. This is the first time you’ll see him aside from the television and newspapers. You’ve been crying ever since he got taken away. You can’t help it. You already know the truth and there’s no blinding away from it. But you want to hear from your father, whom you thought you have known all your life. You want his truth and maybe find some closure.

When you arrive at the parking lot, the rain has ceased and little by little the temperature is rising again. You really wish things were different. Something in you wishes that this is a set-up. You wish that your father was innocent and only being framed. But there is a bigger something that’s telling you to throw away those wishful thoughts because it’s wrong.

You ask yourself, am I angry at my father? while walking to the entrance leading to the visitor’s area. I should be, right? You argue because your family name and career is tarnished. Your upcoming marriage is no different which is most likely to be over.

“Hi my darling,” The King, stripped from his expensive suit, greets you with his usual smile.

The glass between you and your father is clear enough to see that he doesn’t look good. Your father used to look every day ready with his suit on and slick back hair. But right now, he doesn’t. Tears well up in your eyes but you hold it in. It will take a long time to get used to seeing him like this. It will take a painfully long one.

Maybe you’re not angry. Maybe you’re just hurting.

“Hi dad,” you greet back. “How are you?”

The old man smiles and warms his thighs with his hands while looking around the small room. “I’m okay.”

You nod and the cold silence engulfs the room.

“I’m sorry darling,” he finally says and hearing those words made you burst into tears. He sees you crying and this is the first time he can’t reach his hand out to wipe the tears away. “I’m really sorry that your father’s greed has left you and your mother a wound that might never heal.”

Greed. The news, the Royal Police, the prosecution and everyone else were talking about this. They’re still talking about this. It’s scandalous, it’s controversial. It’s unbelievable too. How could the head and protector of the kingdom do this?

How could your father do this?

“Dad,” you sob. “Dad.”

“I know,” he tells you. “I know.”

“Please tell me they’re lying,” you begged, your voice shaking.

“I cannot betray you any further, my darling,” he sadly says. “I have to set you all free from my lies.”

You harshly rub your fingers against your eyes, trying to dry the tears that won’t stop from falling. “Who’s Kim Mingyu?”

The alarming buzz! blasts, indicating that your time’s up. You’re quick to your feet and hold your sweating palm against the glass. Your father mirrors your action but it didn’t last long because he was being handcuffed again.

“Remember,” he says, struggling a little against the two uniformed men. “You are your own person, my darling.”

Maybe you’re not hurting. Maybe you’re grieving because you just lost your father.

You know who Kim Mingyu is. You already knew before you could even ask your father. You just wanted to know how your father met him and entangled himself with such a man. What led him to fall for his lies and money that he could trade every ounce of dignity and integrity in his being? Something of that sort.

Kim Mingyu’s mining business was proposed to the Secretary of the Trade and Industry Department. A mining business that will have children go underground for long agonizing hours. At first, they were immediately rejected knowing that there’s an obvious and strict law disallowing foreigners to the kingdom’s mineral resources. Much more the exploitation of young children. But, Mingyu was ambitious and a sniper to every man's weakness. It didn’t take long for the Secretary of the Trade and Industry to bite. It was easily followed by the Secretary of the Justice Department and your father. They all, among many others, eventually fell for his trap. Everything worked out for Kim Mingyu.

Your hip is against the hood of the car as you watched the prison guards surround the vehicle your father will ride to the court. Everyone is on high alert. Well, they should be. No one else is more high profile than a criminal king. It’s only the first trial but you’re already more than aware of how things will turn out in the end.

You clutch the lifebuoy pendant of the necklace you’re wearing, nervous and trying to keep everything together.

You could leave now, but the time and opportunity to see your father is running out. This prison is the only place you could linger just to see him, even for a short while. You won’t be able to follow him at court because Seungkwan advised you not to. Which you understand. This whole case involving your father is already causing a media frenzy so staying away is the smart thing to do.

As you wait, your phone suddenly rings with an unknown number flashed on the screen. You blink, wondering who could it be at this hour. After a beat of hesitation, you answered and held the phone against your ear.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Princess Y/N. How’s the King doing?”

You’re not that forgetful to not recognize this voice. “Mr. Kim, how did you get my number?”

“That’s not important right now,” he dodges the question. “What’s important is what I am about to tell you.”

“What do you want from me?” You say with gritted teeth and from your peripheral you can see the guards scramble. Your father is about to come out.

You can hear him scoff. “I don’t want anything from you, Your Highness. But listen…”

Your heart starts to beat faster. It’s a hard visual but your father is nearing the exit. Your bottom lip is starting to hurt from how hard you’re biting it and the few seconds of pause and suspense that Mingyu’s giving you is not helping at all.

“Listen you sick---” He cuts you off and your blood runs cold.

“I’m going to kill your father.”

What is the fondest memory that you have of your father?

They’re too many to count and every memory with him, small and big, will always mean everything to you. But as an example, it would be the day you finally took oath as a lawyer. He didn’t tell you, but he, together with your mother, was secretly present at the venue. He told you beforehand that they shouldn’t go because he didn’t want the people to make you uncomfortable and steal the spotlight. You ignored his lame excuse of fame and told him that he can do whatever he wants.

But he was really there. Tears brimming on his eyes together with pride beaming on his heart. Your mother had to calm him down because he got a little out of control, almost screaming with all his chest at the venue that you’re his daughter.

You only found out when you hopped on the car and they’re inside with a small cake, flowers and party hats on, shouting loud congratulations and surprise simultaneously.

Your father was always there. Your parents were.

You remember those when you ran and pushed your way against the guards blocking your father’s view. You were frantic as you screamed at them to get your father back inside. You fought with all your strength and thrashed against their hold just to reach your father. When you slipped away from them, you ran again, fast.

You did your best to not get caught. You just have to be close to your dad and push him back inside. You just have to be close to him. You just have to protect him.

You have to be there for him.

“Please stop!” You shout when another guard takes hold of your waist, locking you to the ground. “You have to bring my father back inside!”

“You’re Highness, please calm down!” The guard shouts back and you fight against him. When he didn’t let you go, you stomped the heel of your shoe on his feet, making him fall in pain.

“Dad!” You call when you’re finally nearing him. His head lifts up at the sound of your voice and searches for you among the sea of men. “Please! You have to take him back inside! I received a call from Kim Ming---”

BANG!

It was searingly fast. Your whole body collapses on the sweltering concrete before you could reach your father and when his eyes finally find you, you are already swimming in the pool of your blood.

“It’s always good to see you Mrs. Wang,” Wonwoo compliments the old lady who’s starting to frequent the emergency room. “But not in this manner.”

The old lady gives him a cheeky grin and pinches one of his cheeks. If Wonwoo doesn’t know any better, she’s doing this to not get scolded any further.

“Your blood sugar is high and I don’t think your granddaughter appreciates her grandma endangering her own life,” he lightly scolds her, if that’s how he can put it. He’s still a doctor after all. “She loves you and she wants you to be healthy when she walks down the aisle in the future.”

Mrs. Wang gives him a silent nod at the mention of her granddaughter, promising that she won’t disobey anymore. That relieves Wonwoo, his lips lifting in a smile. He signs her clearance and hands it back to the nurse. After a few more instructions, he takes his leave and walks back to the information desk.

He takes one of the patients charts to read. The phone rings and the nurse in charge immediately picks it up and answers. At first, Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the paper because emergency calls happen every three seconds. But when there was an eerie silence amidst the loud and busy room, his curiosity made his head tilt up only to get surprised at the widened eyes the nurse was giving him.

He was about to ask what’s wrong but when he heard the sound of the siren nearing, he ignores his suspicions and runs to the entrance.

The ambulance parks at a safe distance and the paramedics get out. They move quickly to get the patient out and when they see him, their mouth falls open but no words come out.

Wonwoo didn’t notice so he proceeded to ask, “How’s the patient?”

“Wonwoo!”

Soonyoung almost tripped on his feet as he tried to get a hold of his friend. He takes his arms and tries to pull him away from the ambulance he’s about to open. Wonwoo is starting to get irritated at the bizarre and disconcerting feeling that’s starting to settle in the emergency room.

Wonwoo knocks him off with a glare. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Wonwoo, please,” Soonyoung begs with an unsteady voice, clinging to his friend.

“Female, late twenties, two gunshot wounds,” one of the paramedics finally yet carefully reports while the other opens the doors of the ambulance. “It’s Her Highness, Princess Y/N.”

Wonwoo roughly removes his friends hand from his arm to step closer to the ambulance and when he sees your lifeless body, he didn’t waste any more time and helped the paramedics move the stretcher out. Soonyoung can see his friend’s hands shaking as he takes hold of the bloodied gurney. He knows he has to stop him right now.

“Baby,” Wonwoo calls as he runs and wheels you inside. You can’t hear him, but he has to try. He observes proper protocol of transferring you to the bed of the emergency room before applying more pressure to your wounds. You have lost a lot of blood already and it’s not helping Wonwoo that he can’t see your eyes.

“Please, please, please,” Wonwoo whispers as he removes all the obstructions on your body and when his eyes catch the necklace he gave around your neck, his legs grow weak and removing it from you made his tears fall.

“Baby, please,” he pleads. “Open your eyes, hmm?”

Soonyoung steps in together with the doctor who will perform the surgery and take everything from here. He slowly pulls his friend away from your body. Wonwoo didn’t protest anymore, there’s nothing in him left to do so. Your blood is in his hands, in his white coat, it’s everywhere.

This is not the distance Wonwoo wanted.

He can’t be apart from you forever.

#seventeen #wonwoo #seventeen scenarios #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen imagines #wonwoo imagines #seventeen scenario #wonwoo scenario #seventeen fluff #wonwoo fluff #seventeen imagine #wonwoo imagine #seventeen angst #wonwoo angst #seventeen wonwoo #wonwoo seventeen #fic: ifliys

337 notes · View notes

refurbishedgray · 3 years

Text

Point of Contact

Reader x Tech. Maybe we get feisty and it’s reader x Crosshair, too. In this house, we like both.

Multi-part fic; probably NSFW; f!reader (she/her pronouns)

**Updates: I’ll tag you if you holler

Summary:

“No good ever comes to the Republic from Banking Clan business,” Hunter tells them, “Let’s get this done and get home, boys.”

Arriving on Scipio with the unhelpful directive of, “be discreet, but do whatever it takes,” the Bad Batch find themselves at the mercy of a stony representative whose allegiances lie with the best deal.

Or, the one where Tech and Crosshair think the reader is as intense as she is pretty.

**************************************

Part One

The office is too empty, too bright. The merciless glare of Scipio’s sun cuts across the room, gleaming unpleasantly from the gilded corners of all the fine furniture and glass. A corner office, inherited from an out-maneuvered relic of the past.

All light and no warmth, you think, not for the first time. Never any warmth. In your early years with the Banking Clan, being stationed here had felt suspiciously like a punishment you hadn’t deserved, a proving ground when you had already proven so much. These days, however, you’ve come to understand that the frigid peaks standing vigil beyond your window are a reminder of how far you have climbed.

Now, as you shift in your chair, the expensive Corellian leather barely squeaking beneath you, you squint past the harsh light filtering in from the floor to ceiling window at your back. It’s all pristine snow on those peaks. Icy. Easy to slip if the cold didn’t kill you first.

Yes, you had climbed and clawed your way up these proverbial mountains. And like the man who last haunted this office, it has left you with so very far to fall.

The early days had been simpler. Smile. Look pretty. Never forget what can be saved for later. You hadn’t forgotten. Beyond the pale blue sky, twinkling out of sight, are worlds fraught with battles, littered with unsuccessful or unlucky tacticians from two sides of a conflict that won’t ever be ended, not truly. You have always preferred to keep your strategizing corporate. Clean.

A frown drags at the corners of your mouth at the uncharacteristic foray into reminiscence of the…

The…

A phrase comes to mind and you allow yourself a small, private smile against the sunlight. The bad old days.

Since then, things have always been kept tidy.

Until now.

An unwanted spur of concern digs in behind your chest as your gaze turns from the window to sweep over the room. To your dismay, you realize why, and realize too clearly that the concern is not solely for yourself.

He should be here.

Things were less empty when he was around, a relic in his own right and your pride and joy and confidant. How proud you had been when you had been informed that you would require a bodyguard. “A mark of success if there ever was one,” you had told the few family members you kept in contact with, of which there were very few, upon being informed of the recommendation after your previous promotion. “Aren’t you proud?” you had wanted to ask. But you had not asked. Better not to make the query when the answer was always so heavy and obvious.

He had become your one and only friend. But he, too, is absent now, and upon permitting the observation, your office seems at once less empty and instead, guttingly, horribly hollow. Two rotations it’s been. Two rotations to give into the inconvenience of noticing.

No, no, you think. You had noticed. Admitting it, that is the phrase that would be more accurate, but if it makes you feel less or more weak, you find you cannot decipher the bitterness creeping up your tongue.

Rising from your seat, you at once miss the meager warmth provided by the leather as the cool office air licks at you. Once upon a time, you had comforted yourself with the promise that one day, you would get used to the cold here. It was one of the few lies you allotted yourself over the years. Crossing the office, the marble floors as white and frosted as the mountain peaks outside resounding crisply beneath your heels, you make your way to the small bar trolley tucked away in one corner. Your last guest, a senator with strong -- unsubtly strong -- ties to the Clan, had complimented your selection of fine whiskeys and other alcohols. You had not admitted then that you did not keep the bar stocked for the guests who were few and far between, but rather for yourself, to chase away the damnable chill in this place.

Your hand stills between decanters, your mind hesitating at the threatening burn that awaits your selection.

A bad habit.

You can imagine that peculiar modulated voice now. “Madam, the faces you make.”

Instead, you shun the alcohol and the ice that never thaws, yet still gets replaced each morning, now resting in a round chest, as gilded as everything else in this room, and reach for the Felucian pear juice. Duller, perhaps, but you don’t need anymore guilt on your conscience.

A sip, then two, settles a gnawing in your stomach you only notice once it passes.

Intolerable, you muse, downing what remains in the glass. The beverage is sweet, almost as sweet as the air outside is cold. Too quiet. Where are -

A rush of air and sliding metal breaks the silence. Glass in hand, your eyes narrow over the rim at the assistant who scuttles in. This one has been particularly insipid since her arrival. The daughter of someone marginally important, she is small and hunched shouldered -- she hasn’t learned, not like you did, and a part of you suspects she never will.

She stops just short of where the tile begins and as she does, your eyes track down her uniform to a pair of shoes that have never been polished. Stars help her.

In a quavering voice, she asks, “Madam?”

You raise a brow.

“We’ve received word. The transport with the troopers has requested permission to land. They’re on their way.”

You set the glass aside, gingerly, its bottom barely clacking against the tray atop the cart. Republic troopers. A battering ram when a scalpel is needed.

“Ah, the Senate’s grand favor,” you murmur.

“Yes, ma’am.”

So many years spent with watchful eyes on you has made you good at hiding your frustrations. You swallow a sigh before it ever rises and allow yourself a brief moment to thumb the crystalline edge of the glass. The senator had warned you.

Your voice is quiet as you instruct the girl, “Get out.”

She scurries gracelessly back through the door. It is an improvement; the last time she had squeaked pitifully before leaving. Perhaps you should have enjoyed the alcohol while you could. If this goes badly, all these nice things, all this luxury will be reassigned, a new name on the door. Such is the way of things -- you know the warnings well.

Until forty-eight hours ago, they had been going so smoothly. An unfamiliar voice at the back of your mind whispers at you. Had you gotten complacent? You never get complacent. You had been warned for star’s sake. Senator Clovis had been all too clear that vaults here on Scipio were being targeted. You had taken that to mean the transports would be targeted as well. Credits were valuable, gold was valuable, as were artifacts and treasures. The Clan stored it all.

But most valuable of all were and would always be secrets.

And secrets...you were very good at secrets. Finding them. Keeping them. Exposing them.

The hand on the glass tightens and through touch or through sound, you sense that just a little more pressure will splinter it. Gently, you lift your fingers.

You’ve got enough messes to clean up already.

…………….

Two of his brothers look unhappy. Hunter suspects he, too, looks unhappy. Only Crosshair remains unaffected, toothpick lolling from one corner of the man’s thin mouth to the other as he watches the sky shift from icy atmo to the very tips of craggy mountains.

“Looks cold,” rumbles Wrecker from his seat, thick legs kicking out miserably. “Nobody said it was gonna be cold.”

From the pilot’s chair, Tech glances at Hunter, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Now that Hunter can see him full-on, rather than that goggle-obscured side-profile of his, he realizes that he’d been right. Even Tech is unhappy with the assigned locale. Still, the man sniffs and turns back to navigating the gunship.

“It is Scipio,” says Tech.

“What’s that got to do with anything? Just sayin’, a little warning might’ve been nice.”

Crosshair shifts, the movement almost imperceptible, just enough that Hunter knows the sniper is asking for his attention. “I believe Hunter was preoccupied with warning us about the...what was it you called them, Hunter? Denizens?”

“The word does have an apt connotation for the Banking Clan,” Tech mutters. He gives Hunter another look, this one says that he’s no more excited about the prospect than Hunter has been.

Their mission brief had been a strange one. It wasn’t their usual brand of run-and-gun from the sound of things, but it was important to all the right people, and they needed guaranteed success. “Go to Scipio, meet the point of contact, establish the responsible party, recover the stolen data.” It was more or less all they had been told.

Hunter knows his frown is getting deeper, sinking into the lines on his face -- he can feel it pulling at his bandana, and he raises a hand to scrub it away.

“Who is this contact anyway?” asks Crosshair. “You never said.”

“Because I wasn’t told a name. We’re to meet with the, and I quote, ‘Principal Trades Specialist for the InterGalactic Banking Clan.’”

“Trades specialist?” Crosshair plucks his toothpick from between his teeth and for a moment, it takes Hunter longer than he would like to decipher the look on the man’s face. He doesn’t look unhappy...he looks intrigued. Crosshair replaces the toothpick, then says, “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘corporate spy.’”

“Head corporate spy,” Tech says, “If he’s - “

“She, from what I’m told,” corrects Hunter. His frown has yet to go anywhere, so he lets it stay, his hand falling to his lap.

Tech nods. “If she is based here on Scipio, we’re dealing with someone who needs to be watched closely. Some important players are based on this planet.”

Crosshair folds his arms. “Did the spy part give it away, Tech?”

“The Banking Clan part, actually,” Tech replies dryly, “We’ve dealt with spies before. The IGBC is something different. It is...new territory.”

“We’ve also dealt with new territory before.” At this, Hunter hears them all shift, their quick heartbeats settling into a familiar, all’s-well rhythm. His, too, follows. Just in time, it would seem, for the comms to squawk at them as the Marauder banks left and begins its final descent to the landing pad. He stands from the co-pilots seat, the faint tilt of the floor beneath him a familiar calm before the inevitable storm. He looks to Wrecker, who shakes his head, and then offers a grin.

“Might be fun. Never clobbered bad guys with snowballs before.”

There’s a snort from Tech and despite himself, Hunter smiles.

**************************************

Ten minutes later, they are suited up and disembarking into a cloud of snow flurries and ice crystals. The Banking Clan’s guards are as heavily armored as some of the Separatist patrols Hunter’s encountered. He scowls beneath his helmet. This should be a job for Jedi -- if the Jedi weren’t all dispatched to the war front.

Soldiers...they don’t deal with these sorts of people. Not well and not effectively. Too much bad blood between the Republic and profiteers like these.

He motions at his brothers to close ranks, their familiar presences a comforting reminder that this isn’t anything new, not really. It’s a mission like any other.

As the frosted cloud clears ahead of them, the guards, in their gilt armor and insulated cloaks, make way, too much way, Hunter thinks, for the clearance to be for a group of Republic troopers.

Then he sees her.

Half camouflaged by the swirling winds and clad in half a dozen shades of gray and silver, her shoulders draped in white fur, she stands waiting for them, her hands clasped serenely in front of her. She could be a diplomat, a Jedi even, if not for the gleam in her eye. It’s a cold thing, sharper and as frostbitten as this frozen world itself.

He’s not the only one to have noticed. Beside him, Hunter hears Crosshair draw in an appreciative breath so quiet no one without incredible senses would notice it. In his periphery, he catches an almost imperceptible twitch of Tech’s helmet as his brother spares him a questioning glance.

When the woman speaks, her voice is crisp, professional. “Clone Force 99, welcome.” She does not smile, but her eyes track to each of them, lingering too long, as though somehow looking past the armor to the men beneath. She introduces herself with a name that sounds too soft for the title she wears. Then, she gives them a crystalline smile. “But you may call me Trader, if you please.”

“Trader?” It is Wrecker who asks the question, finally distracted from the snow and ice. “Sounds like…”

Another smile, this one not quite as cool as the first. Amused, Hunter thinks, though how benign that amusement is, he can’t tell, and it makes his skin itch beneath his blacks. “Like traitor?” she hums. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it?”

She steps aside and gestures at them to follow. “With me, gentlemen. First, we’ve a meeting. Afterwards, we will take a tram to the vaults, then from there, speeders to the site of the incident.”

“‘Incident’ is an awful clean way to say ‘bloody heist,’” says Hunter as he moves to follow. Her gaze slides to him, her stride never slowing. Shoulder to shoulder with the woman, he has the uncomfortable instinct to slow his steps, to lag behind, as though if he isn’t careful, a blade might slide between his ribs on a blink. He pushes aside the urge, then asks, “How many people were lost?”

“Enough,” she replies. “One could even say too many.”

“But not you?”

“Must someone say something for you to believe they think it?”

Behind him, Crosshair snorts, but does not comment. Hunter lets the statement slide, though the itch he’d felt earlier is heating to a burn now. Together, she leads them through a set of gleaming durasteel doors into a foyer as stark as it is grand.

“Proceed through those doors.” She crooks a finger to their left. “Senator Amidala has requested a meeting in...eighteen minutes. I will join you shortly.”

Wrecker whistles, the sound too sharp to come from beneath his helmet, and Hunter glances back to see that the man has removed it, his one good eye roving the pristine interior. With a sigh, Hunter follows suit. It’s not exactly warm here, but out from the planet’s whipping winds, it’s close enough that even he can fool his sensitive skin into enjoying it. Soon, they are all unmasked. The woman - Trader - lingers long enough to observe them.

Her expression is...unreadable. There is no twinkle of bemusement in her eyes, not the first twitch of surprise. Normally, when the helmets come off, it gets at least some sort of reaction, gives him some kind of measure.

Now, the only read Hunter gets is the fact that he can’t get a read on her -- and that, he doesn’t like. There’s no trusting people who have become so numb.

Her gaze slips between Crosshair and Tech, where it lingers on the latter for seconds longer than it had the rest of them. Something in her frigid eyes warms, the ice of her expression cracking just enough that she might be pleased by what she sees. And Tech...for all his usual detachment, has no datapad to bury his nose in now, and he notices.

Hunter thinks the woman lets him notice.

His brother stands a little straighter, eyes flicking nervously to Hunter behind his goggles. Stumped, for lack of a better word. For once, flat out puzzled.

Then, without a word, Trader looks back to Hunter and inclines her head. “Stay warm, gentlemen. I will see you soon.”

She is gone behind a pair of adjacent doors without another word.

No sooner do they watch the durasteel whisper shut, than does Wrecker drive his arm into Tech’s side with a chuckle. Tech winces with a hiss and waves the man away.

“Heh, she likes you.”

“I hoped it was my imagination.” Crosshair’s lip curls, his eyes narrowing until he looks away, and Hunter wonders if they’ve been reflected back at him through the shine of Tech’s goggles.

Tech runs a hand over the back of his head. “What do you think, Hunter?”

“I think she’s Banking Clan, through and through. We’re not among friends here.”

“If we let her alone with Tech, things might get friendlier -”

“Wrecker.”

Hunter scowls. Another voice has echoed his own and he looks to see Crosshair, arms folded, rocking back on a foot to glare at the wampa-sized man.

Tech clears his throat. “Perhaps we should wait in the briefing room?”

His heart rate, harder to hear away from the tight confines of the Marauder, sounds schoolboy quick and Hunter wishes, not for the first time, that his brother was more inclined to find company in their off-duty hours than he was. Pretty faces were fine - Hunter himself was inclined to enjoy them - but something about the mask this one wore was dangerous.

Wrecker’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Did she say Senator Amidala was waiting?”

“She did. The commander warned us the Senate was at play here.”

“That’s not our usual playground though, is it?” Crosshair is still scowling, his arms folded more tightly now than they had been. All that characteristic suspicion exacerbated by annoyance that has set in and won’t leave him. It makes his eyes hard, his narrow features sharpened and cold beneath the glare of sunlight on durasteel.

Hunter shakes his head. “It’s not, but I feel better knowing Amidala’s behind us on this.”

“That makes one of us,” says Crosshair.

“Two,” Tech interrupts, his voice crisp; back to himself, Hunter realizes, his relief warm down to his fingertips, until he isn’t sure why he’d been worried in the first place.

“Three! I like Amidala.”

“We know, Wrecker.” Tech’s smile is gentle, even as he rolls his eyes. “The poster by your bed speaks for itself.”

Hunter’s gaze slides to his remaining brother, the smile that had spread turning crooked, then fading. “Crosshair?”

It’s always been an unsettling characteristic of Crosshair’s that his eyes, as brown as all of theirs, manage to be so very cold when the mood hits him. The look in them is not unlike what he had witnessed in the woman.

The observation tightens Hunter’s throat and he swallows it, turning away, and hopes not to notice it again.

#bad batch #star wars #tech x reader #crosshair x reader #multichapter #part one #the bad batch #bad batch tech #bad batch crosshair #decidedly not proofread #shitty art by me #blame no one else

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catharrington · 3 years

Text

Another part of 1950’s cat boy house husband Steve and milk man Billy. We are getting very hurt right here but next part will be the comfort!! I promise!! Tagging @withoneheadlight because I believe you asked in a previous part, thanks so much for your kind tags🖤🖤, and if anyone else would like to be tagged let meow know. 😽

Part 3: dream a little dream of me

That morning, Steve’s tongue didn’t taste like pineapple juice. Even though the cake came out delightfully, and their supper was cooked expertly between it being baked. Steve had sat at that table, their table, and tried to close his eyes and picture something sweet. Something unreachable, he found out.

Now his mouth tasted like cigarettes smoke and copper. And around him the only sounds were also metallic as he pounded away at his typewriter. Writing out a sentence so the stabbing sharpness of each key rang out into the early morning silence. Then, proceeding to the next sentence, he pushed across the metal tray and it sounded like the firing of a gun.

But Steve simply lifted his cigarette from its glass tray beside the machine, took a long breath before continuing to it. The loudness of the typewriter isn’t what makes him flinch in this house.

Steve doesn’t realize it’s been hours until he hears a calling at his door. “Milk delivery!” And that voice seems to finally awaken him this morning.

Steve turns in his small writing desk’s chair towards the living room door. He shivers from the way that voice is too far away. So silent, compared to how loud he wants that voice whispered in his ear.

He knows he cannot, he should just wait for the milk to be left at the door like any other delivery is made to any other house. But as long as Steve can remember, he’s been there to greet Billy. To linger over Billy as long as he could. Even his first morning in the house, brand new and newly married, Steve waited outside for Billy.

Their first meeting felt ages ago, another time altogether. Early morning in early summer where the water clings to the grass as long as it can in the heat, and where even birds are slow to awaken because of the merciless sun.

Steve had stood out on the porch blushing from the tip of his ears to the end of his tail at Billy’s slaked-jawed awe. At the way he tipped his hat towards Steve for the very first time because, “we don’t see much cat folk around here, apologies for being so… captured.”

And Steve loved to write, he loved to read and he ate at words like mice. That word, that first meeting: captured. Was the perfect one Billy could have used.

Steve’s felt captured ever since. And in every sense of the word.

Now he felt trapped. Listening to Billy’s voice outside the door. He felt trapped in the smoke filled living room of their house, his husband’s house. The only light at all being the sunlight that’s streaming right from where Billy is.

Steve smoked down his cigarette to the very butt of it. Pulling so the lit cherry nearly burnt at his fingers. Then he snubbed the trash into the glass ashtray fiercely, his claws clicking against it.

He turned tiredly towards the living room door. Clutching the bamboo back of his narrow desk chair like a life line. He used it to push himself up and away from his writing. Pushed himself towards the living room door.

And he must have wanted to see Billy, at least from the darkness inside looking out, because he had left the wooden door open. Only the creaking, thin screen door of glass and iron design kept them apart.

Steve pressed his body up against the screen door. And looked out to where Billy was still lingering at his porch steps.

“Mr. Smith?” He called again.

Steve dragged his nails down the iron stripes of his door in frustration. “How many times, Billy, must I remind you. It’s Steve. Please call me Steve.”

Billy didn’t reply, he swallowed thickly anything he was going to reply at all. Clutching to the holder of milk in his hands. Searching across the porch as if to find a weak spot in the bars of this cage.

“Your milk will spoil out here on the porch. Still hot outside, even in September.” Billy’s voice was shaky and so was his leg as he gingerly lifted one more step upwards.

“Would you rather me take it to you? To the door?” He lifted another foot as he spoke. His boots leaving flakes of mud behind him on the steps.

Steve’s anger and his embarrassment swirled together into a shivering mess. His hands didn’t know if they wanted to rip at the iron or keep it right where it was. His chest was rapidly rising and falling as he tried in vain to keep his breathing normal.

“To the door,” he whispered. “To the door is fine. Leave it and I will collect the milk. Thank you.”

Steve tried to keep his shivering and traitorous hands from acting up by pressing them to his chest. His shirt that he had thrown on in the earliest of the morning was wrinkled and pressed all wrong. It was pastel lavender and mother of pearl buttons and itched where it touched his skin.

He softly pressed his fingers around the base of his neck, where his milky skin was sensitive right above his collar bones, and winced as he forgot of his markings.

Then, a rattling noise, and Steve whipped his head back up. He looked right at Billy who had stepped up to the porch. To the door. And was settling the milk right where Steve requested it.

Billy watched his eyes for as long as he could, as long as it took until those blue eyes wandered downwards to the creamy column of Steve’s neck. They lingered there on the wide irritated markings of red.

They lingered on the ghost shapes of another man’s fingers that ruined Steve’s skin, welts bruised and biting down to the pretty boy’s bones.

Steve gripped at the collar of his half open shirt to hold it together.

But Billy’s eyes were already widened to the size of dinner plates. If the milk wasn’t already set on the porch he might have dropped it. Billy walked ever closer, his hands reaching out towards the screen door.

“What the hell?” Billy hissed. His boots and his breathing and his hands against the iron were so loud, so so loud, it made Steve’s ears lay flat back against his head. “What the hell are those?”

Steve’s been good at keeping it hidden, at keeping the bruises from hands wrapped around his arms under linen shirts. At keeping the desperation and hurt from his big brown eyes if only for a couple minutes every morning.

But today he’s feeling sloppy. He’s feeling used. He’s feeling like he can’t keep this up much longer. And no matter how much he claws or how much he writes no one ever hears him.

“It’s nothing,” he covered up. He pressed the itchy fabric to his hurt throat. He wanted to cry out, to whimper, but bit down on his lip to keep it inside.

“Your-your throat! Does he, your husband, he ain’t— I don’t understand?” Billy stuttered out. His delivery uniform hat bobbing as he glanced up and down nervously.

“My husband?” Steve sneered the word, smearing it around so his fangs ripped from his plush lips. “You believe my husband could do this to me?”

Billy reached out his hand towards the screen door. It collapsed and curled into itself against the iron. His knuckles resting right over where Steve’s standing on the other side. He reached as if he wanted to touch. But he couldn’t though the twisting wall of thorns.

“Tell me he ain’t then,” Billy pleaded. ��If he’s a good man, then tell me those ain’t his fingers—,”

Steve couldn’t breath. He couldn’t find the words all of a sudden, anything that came to him was a lie. And Billy was the softness in his life, he was the gentle thing. Him in his all white uniform and his cozy smile even on Summer mornings. Steve couldn’t lie to him, but he’s also selfish enough to want to keep Billy for as long as he can.

“Thank you, for your delivery. Have a pleasant morning, Billy.” Steve muttered to his feet then turned to press his back against the indoor wall. To hide from having to see Billy’s reply.

He could still hear the rushed goodbye, and the noise his boots made stomping off the porch. He could hear the milk truck starting, and he could hear his blood rushing up into his ears from where his heart felt like it was ripping into pieces inside his chest.

#it’s time babies for the hurt #and there will be comfort next part im so sorry #harringrove #cat boy and milk man au #cat boy Steve #my fic #THANK EVERYONE FOR THEIR KIND TAGS LIKE I SEE YOU AND ITS MAKING ME SO HAPPY I CANT STAND IT 🖤🖤🖤😽😽😽

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aenaxes · 3 years

Text

one to ten

[jesse x gn!reader] there are ten things you remember about jesse.

warnings: tcw s7 spoilers, suggestive themes, mentions of death

w/c: 2.5k

a/n: sorry for the constant parentheticals lol. ishei is a spin on a biblical name/the hebrew name basis for jesse (yishai) as a kind of namesake (surprise, you've now adopted a togrutan).

01. Your first glimpse of beauty in war comes in the form of a clone trooper.

It doesn’t make sense. They all look the same, you groan to Uche, the one other civ enlistee who didn’t waste their breath (or your time) waxing poetic about galactic justice or pining after the out-of-touch idealogues holding rank in the jedi temple and Senate floor.

What’s so different about him? Uche asks, and you don’t have an answer.

You remember sneaking furtive looks from inventory protocol drills to the landing platform, seeing the unnamed soldier step off the dust-beaten hull of a gunship transport with a straight-backed swagger. Even from afar, he demands attention, presence, in ways the men with him cannot.

I don’t know, you mumble. Maybe it’s the tattoo on half his face.

02. You learn the name of this beautiful man when Uche ditches the buddy system to wander off with a trooper in red armor at 79’s.

Shitty friend, comes a voice you’ve heard a hundred times over. You turn your head, ready to shoo away a shiny eager to prove his mettle, but instead you are met with the beautiful soldier and his ridiculous face tattoo in Uche’s seat. He flashes you a grin, raising his brows at you in a way that oozes the same confidence you remember in the landing bay. Can I make it up to you with a drink?

Will it be worth my while? you shoot back. (It’s amazing how well you mask the excited tremor in your voice. The wonders of working in a military hierarchy.)

No promises, he shrugs as he flags down the barkeep. But I think you already know your answer.

Then fine, I guess, you fight the smile playing over your lips. And when he closes his eyes and laughs, you think it’s only fitting that your nameless soldier has a laugh as gorgeous as himself.

I’m y/n, you say.

Jesse.

03. You meet this beautiful man again (Jesse, you curl your tongue over his name), and it just so happens that you end up assigned to the same ship as him. You board the Resolute, your civ certification in hand and a drab uniform as your completion gift, and as you claim your quarters aboard the destroyer, a firm tap at your shoulder stops you at your door.

Fancy seeing you here, y/n.

You’re kidding me, you smile. When you turn around, Jesse’s grinning back at you, bucket tucked under one arm, the other propping him up against the hallway wall in the worst attempt to look even remotely flirtatious that you’ve ever seen.

I’m hard to resist, I know, Jesse laughs, and you do your best to muster the most irritated expression possible despite the elation in your chest. I guess 79’s wasn’t enough for you, huh?

Sure, I can’t get enough of me absolutely drinking you under the table, Jesse, you snort.

Okay, okay, I was off my game. But you can’t tell me I’m not a better kisser when I’m tipsy, he shrugs.

I haven’t kissed you sober, you deadpan.

You think I could change that by the end of this tour?

04. You’re in bed with this beautiful man for the nth time this month, and you’ve never been too good with pillowtalk, so you tell him what you have always thought since the day you first saw him. Your fingertips light over his cheeks, you tell him that he is beautiful.

Jesse laughs and leans in to kiss your wrist. Between kisses trailing up your arm, he tells you that he is one face of many; that he is all rough skin and scars; (that there is no beauty in war embodied, cemented in the flesh over and over and over); that you just might have poor taste.

You jab his arm (because fuck you, Jesse, this was supposed to be a romantic moment), and he yelps, cackling. But you’ve successfully stroked his ego, and he thanks you by pulling you down onto his bunk again.

05. You’re in love with this beautiful man.

The revelation is a long time coming and yet somehow the greatest surprise that shocks you awake one morning when Jesse is still asleep in his bunk with one heavy arm draped over your bare hips.

It’s more than simple beauty as you watch him sleep, his lips parted and brow slack. Done away with the bravado and big talk, with the tension lifted from his proud features, Jesse is terrifyingly vulnerable in the way that makes your heart ache (even if he might be drooling just a little bit).

And then the ship alarm blares, and Jesse’s scrambling awake, sleepy apologies and bleary eyes as he shuffles around you to fumble for his armour.

See you in a few, sweetheart, Jesse laughs, locking his vambrace in place before he leans close and presses a quick peck to your cheek. And then he’s gone, breaking into a jog down the hallway as you shrug on his GAR bomber and pull it close over your chin.

You tell yourself that you don’t breathe deep on purpose, that you don’t shiver when you catch Jesse’s scent, standard-issue aftershave and spritzes of the Corellian cologne you’d bought him planetside, saved for the nights you spent over in his quarters.

You’re in love. (Fuck.)

06. You’re in love with this beautiful man.

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, he says softly, perched beside you on the stout nose of a laatie. You lift your head from his shoulder, meeting his unreadable gaze (all you know is that it is soft) with a furrowed brow.

When you ask him what it means, Jesse—smooth-talker, sly bastard, a snappy retort always a word away—sputters unintelligibly, forgoing any excuses or mistranslations for sliding down the gunship’s hull and breaking into a run across the dewy grass. And you forget that you haven’t run this fast in months when you take off close at his heels.

Tell me, asshole! you shout, sprinting after him.

Not on your life! he shouts with a grin thrown over his shoulder. But he is slowing, his run pacing down to a jog, then a funny little walk on the heels of his feet as you close his lead and tackle him to the cool grass underfoot.

You feel a bruise blooming over your knees, and you’re fairly certain he’ll have a worse bruise over his tailbone. But all you can do is laugh as Jesse traps you in his arms and wrestles you onto your back under the silver light of the Nemoidian moons. (When was the last time you had laughed so freely?)

And when you catch your breath, vision blurry with the best kind of tears, you look to the wonder in Jesse’s eyes as he kneels above you.

You think he might be in love, too.

07. You’re in love with your beautiful man, and when you call him yours (when he calls you his) between hushed breaths and soft moans, you savor the thrill that rushes up your spine every time.

General Skywalker’s married, Jesse says one night, his voice rumbling under your ear as you lie over his chest.

It’s kind of obvious, you respond, and he laughs.

No—I mean, I knew—we’ve all known. But what if we got married?

You lift your head, and something heavy and warm lurches alive in the spaces between your ribs when you meet Jesse’s eyes. There is no witty playfulness, no heckling rise—only yearning, deep and vast and held with bated breath when he reaches up to touch your cheek.

Just you, me, some peace and quiet. I’d make a hell of a mechanic. And kids, maybe, well, if you want, he says, and with each word, his voice grows softer and softer still until you can just barely make out the last sound that passes his lips.

You could be a realist, cruel and cold, listing some regulation manual clause and the twofold speed at which Jesse would live and love (and die). You could tell him that the chances of you both making it out of this seemingly endless war were slim to none. You could tell him that the grief of losing a husband would fester where the loss of a friend would heal. You could leave.

But normality is so, so sweet—the vague yet enchanting idea of life beyond a war for which your beautiful man was born, a war which has swallowed you whole.

Rules and probabilities be damned, it’s worth the risk.

I’d like that, you whisper, and Jesse’s incredulous, enthralled laugh sweeps you off your feet before he’s kissing you like it’s the first time all over again.

A week later, Fives officiates, Echo bears witness, and they shower you with handfuls of tiny blue flowers scrounged from the flaxen Lothal plains as Jesse kisses you breathless.

(Both of them are dead within the year.)

08. You’re in love with your beautiful man, and you don’t think yourself a fool when all you can wonder is whether he still loves you from behind the mirrored visor of his helmet, one pound of pressure away from two blaster bolts and twin wounds (one for Ahsoka, one for you).

It is not his voice you hear over the labored blare of the ship alarms. It shares the same breath and passes through the same lips, but it is not the cocksure charm in rank or the languorous warmth of leave you have come to call your own.

You’ll be demoted in rank from commander and subject to execution along with the traitors Ahsoka Tano and y/n l/n.

It is not Jesse’s voice. (The last time your full name found home over his tongue, Fives and Echo had been alive.)

And then you watch him fall.

The hangar is a flurry of blaster fire and gunsmoke, and it’s a wonder that through it all, only one shot manages to graze over your leg before Ahsoka hurls you onto the docked y-wing and into the gunner’s seat.

The thrusters rumble to life as you slam your viewport shut, and you hear Rex’s voice crackling over the intraship comm for you to strap in. But all you can do is search frantically for any flash of twin ARC pauldrons and a shock of royal blue in the violent sea of helmets paying forgotten homage. You press your palms to the glass because he was there, he was there, right where Ahsoka spears her lightsabers into the metal, he was there.

The floor drops from beneath your feet, and you tell yourself the smoke and ache in your lungs is from your head connecting hard with the domed viewport glass as you scramble for your controls.

(What goes through a man’s head when he knows he will not wake when he lands?)

09. And then your beautiful man is dead.

You will think later that you were lucky, blessed, even, that you were not the one to pull his mangled body from under the charred belly of a destroyer, but that fact makes uncovering his face no less difficult. The broad ink stretched over his skin does little to hide the blood dried over his brow, bled into glassy eyes unseeing.

Did he feel it when the ship tore apart? You slide his eyes shut. (You do not hear your own wailing.) Was he in pain?

His brother tells you to leave his helmet over his grave because you buried bodies, vessels, ghosts of who they had once been. Jesse was not himself when you ran. Why would you carry a marker of someone you no longer knew, someone who no longer knew you?

There won’t be space for it on the ship (leave the dead with the dead), and you pretend not to hear how young Rex sounds when his voice bows under the loss of everything he’s ever known.

You hang the bloody plastoid back onto its perch.

It feels like the death of a saint, not because Jesse was some paragon of virtue, but because it is cruel, uncaring and unjust and pulled out of your hands into a single divine lie. It’s a wordless eulogy come too soon, and you cannot seem to pull away from the scuff marks and chipped paint at your fingertips.

It’s time to go, Rex says.

We got married, you say.

I know, Rex replies.

I’m not ready, your voice cracks. I didn’t say goodbye.

You feel strong arms pull you close, and if you focus on the sound of the slowly groaning hull before you, you can pretend like you aren’t being pulled apart at the seams, crashed into some cold moon, dirt under your nails, blood on your knees, alone.

I know.

10. Sometimes, you see your beautiful man in fleeting glimpses over his brother’s face. They are only split-second visions blurred by sleep (denial, denial, denial). You see copper skin and a soldier’s eyes, but that is where the familiarity ends and reality begins.

Even if you took away the tattoo arcing over Jesse’s skin and placed them side by side, Rex does not have the slight curve in his nose from a sparring session kicked too high; he does not have the dark freckle just below his chin; he does not have the playful twinkle, the knowing gleam that lit up his eyes whenever he saw you. (Rex only looks to you with shared grief, pity, these days.)

Clone or not, he is not him.

So you sleep.

If only for a glimpse of Jesse, his face blurry and voice warped under the weight of memory (played, rewound, and played again), you treat your precious shifts of sleep when Rex takes the helm as nothing short of speaking to the divine itself. Even if your dreams are more often than not nightmares of staring down a blaster barrel, part of you thinks that it’s worth the shaky hands and uneven breaths as Rex shakes you awake, that you might try to say goodbye.

Tonight, you see him again. But this time, the hangar deck is silent, blasters raised but frozen in place, a snapshot frame of the day a part of you died with him. The script changes. He lowers his blasters, you step forward, and when you reach up to lift his helmet from his shoulders, it is the clearest you have ever seen his face since you laid him to rest.

I’m sorry, his voice floats, settling in the space between your ears, soft and strong. I love you.

Goodbye, Jesse.

And when you wake, for the first time in weeks, your eyes are dry.

You will heal.

—

00. Buir, a soft voice filters down from the top bunk as your ship hums around you.

Ishei, you call, lifting one hand to rub at your eyes. You catch your son’s little horned head peeking over the edge of his bunk, and he scampers down the ladder when you beckon him close.

I can’t sleep, he whispers as he crawls beside you and tucks his arms around your waist. Will you tell me about father?

(Jesse will never know the orphaned Togrutan boy who calls him buir. You wish he did.)

Every night, you laugh softly, gently rubbing between his budding white montrals. Every night, I tell you about Jesse’buir. You don’t tire of the same stories?

You feel Ishei shake his head against your chest. Jesse’buir is my hero! Did he really look just like Rex ba’vodu?

Not at all, you smile. Not at all.

#fic is how i cope with mcat content review :-)#i'm not sure how u adopt ishei but congrats u r a parent now #but it's very mandalorian of you which is fantastic #and jesse would also call u a milf/dilf/parent he'd like to fuck #anyways #arc trooper jesse x reader #jesse x reader #clone wars x reader #yaej.writes

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