#or i just assume that when it is in debilitating pain that it's just... somehow to fuck with me and i am cognizant that this isn't true

[uncanny-tranny]

You know... it's okay to trust your body. If you are separated from your body to such an extent you feel you cannot trust it, I truly from the bottom of my heart empathize and feel grief for you, but you can trust your body.

It's okay to listen to your body and to heed what it is telling you. I wish you (and your body) well wherever you go. You deserve the peace of mind to feel able to do what you want.

#positivity #mental health #mental health support #gentle reminders #this is something i struggle with myself so that's why i said i empathize (well... i guess as much as you CAN empathize) #(because even if you have gone through the same thing... it's not going to look the same as somebody else going through that) #(and while it can be valuable to express empathy it doesn't mean you truly 'get it' from the other person's point of view) #i struggle sometimes not to feel like my body is fucking with me because sometimes i expect it to function at bare minimum #or i just assume that when it is in debilitating pain that it's just... somehow to fuck with me and i am cognizant that this isn't true #i am cognitively aware that the body isn't Specifically Designed to have a Fuck With You mode even if it feels like it #but my experiences with disabilities and general unwellness made it easy for me to alienate myself from my body #in order to preserve myself i felt the need to separate myself from every flaw (or 'flaw') i have #so when people are confused about why you could mistrust your /own body/ it's stuff like this that can somewhat illustrate it #i think we don't really talk about this but i think it's more common than i would assume #(mostly based on the There Are Eight Billion People principle) #hm making this also makes me realize that abuse absolutely plays into how i mistrust my body. hm. #mistrust in your body feels like self-protection and self-preservation in this weird and almost twisted way (at least in my experience) #but then you start mistrusting *everything* and nothing feels... GOOD or NORMAL anymore #i'm going to play mahjong about this 🫡👍

[should-be-sleeping]

Tough day today... and friendly reminder that being human is easier when we help each other.

I saw one of our neighbors, an older woman we sometimes talk to in passing, sitting outside of her house. I don't know what exactly made me look twice, but on second glance as we drove by I realized her walker was in the grass. She was otherwise just sitting there, like she had a thousand times before, so it would have been easy to assume she was fine and go on with my life as normal but something told me to go check in on her anyway.

She was not fine. She was the polar opposite of fine. Just diagnosed with terminal cancer not fine. No next of kin not fine. A veteran facing eviction from her house for missing rent while in the hospital not fine. In constant debilitating pain not fine. Only semi-lucid not fine. She was extremely alone not fine.

I thought, at most, she might be bored while unable to pick up her walker not fine. A five minute detour from my day not fine. A help her back into her house and say "see you later!" not fine. Instead I spent the last three hours with her because she was so scared and alone and no one should be alone.

We talked a lot while I was there. She's actually two years younger than my mom (who also has cancer but slightly better luck, I guess). I helped her into her house and got her a drink and we talked about what all is going on with her. None of it was good. I was as reassuring as I could be, but there's only so much of this I can actually help her with.

"Why did you come?" she asked through tears.

"Because you looked like you might need some help."

She called me an angel. I told her I was just doing my best. I told her that kindness should never be rare. That we should all try to make the world just a little bit better than it was.

She offered to pay me but I told her I was just there as a friend. Before today we were basically strangers. No need to repay me with anything other than her company, I assured her. She cried, a lot. I managed not to somehow. Something tells me she had needed to cry long before this but in being Strong she never had the chance to.

She needed to get her mail, which is a long walk when you're disabled because it is not at all handicap accessible (across a parking lot, over a bridge, across a small field). So I helped her get her mail. We stopped every three feet because her pain was so bad, but she was determined to be able to go do this with me and not just send me on an errand. I patiently stayed with her and reminded her, through her apologies, it was fine to take our time: there was a nice breeze and birds were singing. She appreciated this. She loves nature.

Halfway back she said she wanted to go to the pool. To put her feet in the water. She loves water, and has not been able to even see the pool in a month. Neither of us were dressed for swimming, but I took her to the pool anyway. There is a stair leading down to it, meaning she couldn't bring her walker, so I offered her my arm.

We went to the pool. She put her feet in the water and then, with more energy and enthusiasm than I'd seen the whole time, she jumped in. In her fancy dress! She was instantly ten years younger at least, clear and happy, floating in the sun. Dress and all. She grew up with a pool and had been on a swim team.

I sat by the edge of the pool while she swam, keeping her company and also making sure she was okay. When she got tired I took her back home and then had to help her get undressed and redressed. I made sure she felt no shame. Getting out of wet clothes is hard for anyone, let alone someone with like twenty pounds of tumors racking them with constant pain.

She was so fucking happy to have gone swimming.

She is trying to "make everything right" before she goes. Trying to repay her debt to society and her debts in general. She couldn't understand why the corporation that owns our houses wouldn't take her money. She was genuinely distressed -- not to be homeless on her deathbed but to not leave this world with a clean slate. I told her intent matters. She can only do her best.

This company not letting her repay her debt was their fault, not hers.

When I finally needed to go, I told her to let me know any time she needed a hand or just wanted company. She told me she was going to die tonight. I told her I hoped not, so I could see her tomorrow. I offered her a hug, we hugged and she sobbed for a solid ten minutes into my shoulder. I told her she was okay. That it was okay.

When I got home I cried myself, because I could not believe she was going through all of that alone. I cannot even imagine how isolated she must have felt. Once I pulled myself back together I sent her a text reminding her to reach out any time and I'd do my best to come over. Like, any time at all.

I hope she is here tomorrow.

#choose kindness #existing helps #if we exist together #life #read more

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Remember the Pokémon trainer ask with having pokepastas in their team? Could I maybe request something angsty?~ basically can I get headcanons of Arven and Kieran’s reaction to finding out Trainer got in a accident and was suffering from VERY lethal injuries and in panic missingno..basically messed them up into a pokepasta trainer,kinda corpse looking and now in never ending pain because of the raw wounds that never fully Heal but ofc take medication to numb the pain down and look out now for they’re friends so they don’t suffer the same fate? :))

Oh btw have a nice day or night!!! Remember to drink water!

Arven

From the moment he, Penny, and Nemona discovered your team enjoying a picnic...he always wondered how you got something like Missingno on your side.

But since it nearly corrupted his damn pokedex trying to just get information on it AND you were reluctant to share your past, he figured you'd just say "don't ask questions you don't want answers to" and end the convo right there.

He definitely wouldn't let Mabosstiff near it.

Last time he went near a Pokémon nobody should've known about...he almost lost his companion.

From time to time, he catches glimpses of your wounds (not during picnics ofc), bandages, and the medication Nurse Miriam prescribed to you, and suggests you save some of the herbs for yourself.

And they do help with your pain management when incorporated into tea or sandwiches (especially the salty herba mystica, which relieves your aches for a little while).

They're not miracle cures, but it's something.

Eventually, there comes a point where you know Arven wants to understand how you acquired Missingno, why you have so many ghastly Pokémon by your side, and why you were determined to defend him and the others down in Area Zero.

So you sit down and explain how you found it by accident in Kanto, caught it, and realized it was simply a lonely creature who wanted a trainer it could love and protect. Like any other Pokémon.

Yet you didn't realize the extreme lengths it would go to achieve that goal....until you nearly suffered a lethal wild Pokémon attack (it was in the dead of night, and you were ambushed while chasing after what you thought was a shiny).

You were bleeding out, bones broken and gaping wounds all over your body, and unconsciously begged for help-

And Missingno somehow heeded your call, escaping its pokeball and reviving you.

But in doing so, you were brought back as a zombie..one who still remembers the pain of that night and often cursed the glitch for not letting you die.

In time though you've made peace with it, knowing you were stuck this way now and it wouldn't let you go...

To the point where it erased its own pokeball from existence and became a constant presence around you, invisible aside from a few occasional glitch particles.

Yet you knew Missingno didn't mean any ill intent--all it wanted to do was save you.

Now you vowed to save others so they didn't suffer the same fate as you, whether that be haunted Pokémon left abandoned in some town or atop a mountain or your human friends in Area Zero.

Your pains aren't as severe now thanks to the meds, and you're grateful for Arven introducing you to herba mystica.

You were afraid he was gonna be freaked out by your story (or not believe you), but..while he finds it horrific and sad at first, he understands you better and is simply glad you're here now.

He's also happy to help his buddy manage their pain better, even if the remedies are only temporary.

Kieran

You had to bandage and conceal a great deal of your wounds so nobody at BB Academy got concerned, with DISABLED giving you a consistent best Heal Pulse to ensure your chronic pain wasn't debilitating).

Even so, Kieran assumes you got better over the past year and is desperate to battle you and win Missingno..something he vowed to acquire after realizing he'll never get Ogerpon.

You try explaining that it's literally impossible for you to surrender it, and it's too dangerous to bring it into a battle anyway, but he thinks you're just lying to him again and bragging.

In the back of his mind, though...he kept wondering why you had so many injuries..

Ofc..he's too focused on being stronger than you to ask you.

But after seeing Missingno come out (in its Fossil Aerodactyl form) and literally glitch Terapagos' beam out of existence and use Cut on multiple falling rocks---he was amazed.

You finally invite him to your dorm to talk after the mochi mayhem events, knowing he deserved some answers.

He sees the pain meds littered all over your countertop, and you finally reveal to him why you need those, why you look the way you do, and why you keep Missingno around:

Basically, after catching and befriending it, you got attacked by some wild Pokémon, and they would've left you for dead had it not intervened.

You made it feel loved, cherished, never using it as a weapon or an infinite item dispenser...and it couldn't watch you bleed to death.

So it saved your life, but it came with a great cost: neverending physical pain with your wounds never fully healing.

You used to curse Missingno for not letting you go, trying to release it several times to no avail, and just being miserable in general.

Yet once you realized it attracted more misunderstood, tortured, and damaged Pokémon to your side..you came to forgive it, knowing it was just like them despite its uncanny appearance: a creature who just wanted to protect its trainer.

Now you take medication (and a few leaves of herba mystica) to numb the pain down, so it didn't hurt as much as it did before.

You wouldn't want anybody to have a brush with death like you did. Not even your worst enemy.

That's why you went so far to protect your friends in Area Zero, especially Kieran.

After hearing your story, he felt so torn up and guilty--and convinced he was being "overdramatic".

You were still suffering all along, for years..and he had no idea, only thinking about himself and his selfish ways and how his pain couldn't possibly compare to-

But you stop your friend from spiraling, holding him and letting him cry out all of his renewed guilt, telling him that his own suffering was valid, too.

He was starting to look like a corpse with the dark circles and paler complexion....and it scared you.

Seems like he took "I wanna be like you" a bit too literally.

But you're glad Missingno saved you--otherwise you never would've gotten the chance to meet him and help him become more confident in himself (ofc you wish things were different before and didn't require you shattering his confidence first).

Since that conversation, Kieran starts taking better care of himself and makes a promise to protect you.

Not from physical threats per se as you're basically immortal, but from rude stares and whispers of how "creepy" you are.

He tends to hug you a lot and lend you his jacket for warmth if you ever get cold in class or in the polar biome.

It does help with the chills you get so often, and makes you feel grateful that you two were still friends despite everything.

#we are baaaaack with pokepastas #clanask #anonymous #pokemon x reader #pokemon sv x reader #pokemon scarlet x reader #pokemon violet x reader #pokemon arven #pokemon kieran #pokepasta x reader #missingno #tw death #tw body horror #headcanons #platonic

[fenristheorem]

How do you think Lance will react or behave when he realizes he’s falling in love with Gardienne?

Somehow, I feel this is a masterpiece of both fluff and angst... mostly angst, I guess, but with a bit of fluff.

Also, since the ask doesn’t specify, I wrote this assuming that they’re not in a relationship. It gives me more to write, however, I’ll be happy writing headcanons on Lance realizing he’s falling in love when he’s just casually dating Guardienne!

~Under the cut~

Lance realizing he's falling in love with Guardienne:

What is this feeling that he is feeling???

Is he dying? Having a heart attack? Has she poisoned him?

Lance is confused as all hell - why is his heart racing and his body tingling around her?

He knows why, and he wants to kill himself for it

He nearly destroyed the world, killed his brother and now he’s falling in love with the woman who should have killed him. Nice job. Well done.

Lance thinks he’s sick really. Maybe he’s actually ill or maybe he is twisted beyond redemption.

He decides not to tell her, she would probably kill him if she found out. Maybe he should tell her then???

It starts out slow. He begins to focus on her greatest qualities; the time she invests into the guard, her adamance on protecting the guard and Eldarya, her stubbornness on not taking shit from anyone - even her superiors. She doesn’t play games when it comes to safety and moral boundaries.

But she’s also soft, and kind. She’s not afraid to open her heart up willingly to others knowing how easy it would be for her to be hurt in the end. She lost many things, and yet she’s still willing to keep loving others knowing that they could be lost in time.

And as much as she used to hate him, and sometimes tries to hate him still, he knows that she’s getting used to having him around.

Lance tries to make this transition as easy as possible. He stays out of her way, does his best to provide help or protection without bothering her, remains friendly and cordial whenever he can. She has every right to be here, he doesn’t, and he’s not willing to step on boundaries.

However, he can’t ignore the warmth that begins to bloom in his chest when he observes her, and over time that warmth spreads from his chest, throughout his body, until it turns into an inferno that burns him from within. He begins to notice how beautiful she is, with vibrant eyes, sleek hair, and perfect skin, littered with small scars from their past battles.

And then she begins to grow comfortable with touching him. It doesn’t happen very often, but it drives him to the edge of sanity when it does.

It can be a small brush, or a gentle touch, but the absolute worst part of it is that he can’t actually feel it. He’s aware of the pressure and length of the touch, but the armor protecting his body doesn’t allow any actual physical touch to occur. It distress him to no end; he’s that close to actual physical contact - with the woman he’s in love with no less - but it can’t happen because of the armor.

He nearly stops wearing armor. But he’s also aware of the fact that he’s a warrior and needs to be well armed and protected at all times.

Besides, it would be very suspicious if he suddenly stopped wearing his armor. The last thing he wants is to scare her away.

However, the burning heat that spreads like liquid fire through his body is eventually replaced by cold anguish. The tingling he feels where her skin should have touched his turns to painful tensing as he steels himself to not reach out and initiate his own touch, knowing that it would likely upset her. His breathing, once completely aware of how steady and deep it is, turns to well-hidden constricted heaves as he breathes through a tight throat. And his eyes, once having glittered with interest and admiration, now glint with tragedy and turn away from her.

He can’t have her, he can never have her, he doesn’t deserve her.

This once beautiful feeling that embraced him kindly has now turned to a cold, painful sheet that lays over him every time he sees her.

Eventually he tries to avoid her for his sake. He finds it hard to think around her - she distracts him - and she doesn’t even know it. This tactic works for a while until he realizes that he just feels empty again not being near her and seeing her around. So he allows himself to go back to a bit of a normal routine, allowing himself to see her around occasionally. This just puts him in agony again, feeling how much he needs her but knowing she couldn’t ever possibly feel the same.

Lance begins to have dreams of her. He dreams that they’re together, alone, pressed so tightly against each other that he doesn’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. In these dreams, he savors the softness of her lips as he kisses her deeply, her enticing scent as she’s laid on his bed, the soft lull of her voice as she calls for him, and the way that she grasps onto his back and arms as she lets him have his way with her. And then he wakes up, cold and alone, and the rest of his night is rendered sleepless as the vividity of his dream quickly slips away to turn into an emptiness that makes him curl in on himself to try and ease the pain.

He turns this distress into physical labor; training harder and more often, spending more time at the forge, going on longer, harder missions in hopes of being away long enough to eventually forget about her. But nothing he does can truly distract him.

When he trains, he wonders if she’s perhaps watching him in interest and admiration from a corner he can’t see. When he works the forge, he can only imagine how she would react if he made a special reawakening gift dagger for her. When he’s away on missions, missing her so much that it hurts, he wonders if she’s missing him too.

Lance eventually gets used to this feeling - it’s just like his emotions on his brother’s death, or the terrible crimes he’s committed in his past. It’s an emotion that physically effects his whole body. And while it can be debilitating, sometimes, late into the night when he’s left alone to suffer to his own thoughts and opinions on himself, it’s nothing that he can’t live with.

He does his best to avoid and ignore her, but he can’t help but jump eagerly whenever she acknowledges his presence or extends a bit of warmth to him. He’s nearly completely sure that she doesn’t know about this, he hides it very well, but sometimes he wishes that she did. Who knows, maybe she does feel the same? He can’t know for sure until he asks, but he knows that if she doesn’t it’ll complicate things beyond any possible repair to the point where they won’t be able to function around each other. The cost of telling her and having her not feeling the same heavily outweighs the cost of not telling her and him suffering for who knows how long with an unexpressed love. He refuses to complicate things for the guard again, especially when it’s for something so personal and useless to the rest of the guard, so until she expresses any sort of interest that may possibly reflect his own emotions, he’ll bite his tongue and suffer it.

He’s suffered many things before, he can suffer the burden of hopeless love.

I hope this is alright! Again, I’m happy to write headcanons on Lance already being in a relationship with Guardienne and realizing he’s in love with her then, just submit a request if that’s something I should write. I might make that a scenario/short-story combined with his confession of the weight of his feelings if it’s asked for.

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

#eldarya #eldarya lance #Eldarya Lance ane #eldarya lance headcanons #fenristheorem writing #askfenris

[yinses]

salvation and redemption   if you could only save one soul in this wretched world fyodor dostoevsky x reader rating: t  a/n: interrupting our normal scheduled programming for this idea i couldn’t get out of my head after going through my 5th rerun of bsd. i’ve always found fyodor to be an interesting character and he remains as an enigma i can’t shake.

“you love me right, kroshka?”

your hand paused at the crown of his head, a lapse in both your thought and judgement. it should have been a practiced answer for you, with how often he asked it. your response should have been expected as well, certainly given how his arms-his hands warmed your body. being with him was like living with a bomb inside your chest, a timer with no limit as he teased your existence by his mere proximity. 

everyone assumed you’d been numbed by experience. no one truly trusted a man like fyodor do. so of course you were simply submissive by defeat. you couldn’t escape if you wanted, so why not be pliant and just enjoy the life you were given until he deemed it time for your retribution. 

but in truth, you never feared fyodor in the way others did. 

you didn’t dread what he was, your trepidation stemmed from the person he once was. a child lost in his own ideals and thrown head first into a task bigger than himself. 

for as long as you could remember, it had always been you telling him not to worry. that it would always work itself out somehow. and in the event it didn’t? you would be there to save the day. 

in your youth, due to your ability, you likened yourself as a hero. not the super kind, with all the strength and posture. no, you were more comfortable behind the scenes, the afterthought once all the glory had dispersed. 

everyone liked to think it all happened in a simple swoop. the champion would defeat the adversary, stop the chaos and life would go on. but only for those unaffected by the utter destruction left behind. crumbling infrastructure and a debilitated economy. 

growing up in moscow was just another city under the predation of evils and conflict. it was easy for such a place to worship the one who could bring forth deliverance. yet in the overwhelming relief of the downfall of the perpetrator, they often forgot about the repentance of the souls and atmosphere that was distributed in the process. 

truly what did grieving do for anyone but bandage cracks when they needed to be filled. 

as a child you had more cracks than porcelain should have allowed, yet the integrity remained if only in name. 

“watch out!”

“wait, fyodor don’t!”

but you were too late. with a sigh, you fell to your knees uncaring of the blood that stained your already soiled socks as you cradled the dead canine. it had been made feral by nature, instead of choice. starved due to the lack of substance in his environment and forced to turn on whatever viable option was left. 

you were just children. fleshy but not overly meaty and certainly not part of its diet. he struck out of his own fears of humans, cruelty baring its vulnerability to the world. in search of your own next meal, you’d stumbled unknowingly into its territory. 

already dirty from the streets, fyodor hadn’t seconded his thoughts when he’d darted for the nearest trash can in hopes of salvaging anything to appease your stomachs. he’d been a moment too late to see the dog hidden in the corner, already thrown back by a lunge before he could dare to evade. it had been instinct for him to strike first, a thoughtless punishment executed out of fright. 

rubbing his freshly scraped palms against his ratty jacket, fyodor spared you a sour look. “yes, kroshka, im fine. thanks for asking.” his dry reply went unacknowledged as he rustled through the garbage. 

in the changing seasons of russia, even the newly dead didn’t take long to scum to the cold. despite the insulation, it’s coat already had a chill as you ran your fingers through it’s fur. 

“you’re not actually going to bring it back are you?”

uncaring of the way it stained your clothing, you drew the dog close to your chest as a dull light m encompasses your body. in that moment, time seemed to stop as if altered by a silent command before it backpedaled backwards without regard for reality. at the first shift of life, you carefully disentangle yourself and put distance between you as the animal slowly comes to terms with its restoration. 

not even a drop of blood was present as evidence of its past demise. shaking it’s coat, it stood on unstable legs, gaze filled with trepidation without cognition. a good deed should bare fruits of gratitude. 

so why were you suffering from the sharp pain of fangs tearing into the flesh of your shoulder? your cry was short lived, however, as fyodor jumped back into action, a quick touch of it palm undoing your works. 

in his haste, he’d carelessly knocked over the metal trash bin causing the crash to echo through the night. coupled with your cry of pain and the wail of repeated death, it was no surprise that your commotion attracted attention. 

“not every life deserves a second chance.” 

you don’t fight it when his fingers close around your wrist and he promptly drags you out of sight. whether the police or less honorable citizens, it wouldn’t be good for the two of you to linger too long. your hand grips the curve of your shoulder where the attack had just missed your throat. a second light show reveals a dingy shirt but one without tatter or blood. the pain from the bite gone with it but the sting of your decision lingers. 

“not every deed should be punished,” you whisper. 

you expect for him to stop you then, overcome with the need to debate but he continues to drag you along, making up for your lack of speed with his strength. 

“this world wouldn’t need either if it wasn’t so cruel. maybe then people like us could be happy for a change.”

for orphans, a strive for happiness was best waited out until you could age enough to properly take it from the world at will. eventually the two of you would be able to contribute to society and earn a decent living. 

it was easier to dream of a house. not too big or small. one that sat comfortably on a plot of land away from the dirt and grime of the city. you’d live off your own crops and grow old by your own ambitions. these for the aspirations that manifested in your heart. leaving only room for emotions like acceptance and expectation. 

but fyodor was already sowing the seeds of condemnation and reformation. tired of the mishandling of the world and the path it was on. as a child he promised you a life without faults. you couldn’t have imagined at that age, how many of his own would manifest in turn. 

yet out of obligation- or perhaps maybe it was affection. you stayed with him. slowly the hero of your story became the villain and your backstage presence was pushed further and further out of your inherent role of retribution. 

what good would punishment be if you unraveled the seams of disciple after all? 

salvation and redemption. 

that’s the name given to your ability. 

the ability to reverse the wrongs of the world, at the price of your own soul. for as black as this reality was becoming, at your rate you would have long been swallowed up had it not been for his intervention. 

gradually your hand picked back up its pace, fingers working their way under dark tresses as you scratched at the scalp. for some many years, you’d only known the body lain against you to be cold, shivering against the bricked walls of abandoned buildings. but because of his actions, his directive- now you were both warm, fed and properly housed. 

no, you didn’t need to be the hero. they only ever perished in the end. 

just his salvation. 

his excuse for redemption while he scoured the world for crime and provided the diligent punishment. 

dropping your head, you pressed your lips against the rise of his cheek.

“until the end, fyodor.” 

#fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #.some queso

[vintagedolan]

could you maybe write a lil something about grays girlfriend getting a migraine? like how he would react or maybe he knows the look on your face when you start to feel one coming on. i get them a lot and just need gray snuggles, forehead kisses and for him to play with my hair 🥺

 as a chronic migraine sufferer this hits ~different~

You’d had to learn how to function. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop just because you felt like your head was going to explode. 

Internally, it was a shit show. Your stomach was churning, lights painfully bright against your eyes - even the smallest sounds were deafening. And that was all on top of the pounding in your head, the feeling of your brain beating against the inside of your skull with every fast beat of your heart. You prayed it was as worse as it was going to get, that it wasn’t going to progress into the debilitating pain that would have you curled up in the dark for hours.

Externally, you had on the everything-is-fine mask. You did your best to keep your face composed, to keep listening to Ethan talking about how excited he was for the candle launch - the meanings of the crystals, which ones he thought were going to sell best. 

You thought you were playing it off well. You shifted, let your head rest on the bottom of your palm, subtly putting pressure on your temple to try and ease some of the ache. Ethan was standing, so you couldn’t look at his face for too long without the lights making things worse, but you still tried to nod along and give him an encouraging smile or comment when you could. Only somebody who really knew you, knew your tells, would know something was up.

And after a year of dating, Grayson prided himself on knowing you very, very well. He suspected it as soon as he walked in, but it wasn’t until you closed your eyes for a moment too long and sucked in a long breath that he was sure.

“Baby, does your head hurt?” 

You turned to look at him, catching his concerned frown over by the fridge as he watched you.

“A little.” 

He knew in your world, that meant a lot. 

“You wanna go lay down for a little bit?” As if on cue, the pounding in your head started to somehow intensify even more, moving behind your eyes and pulsing. You nodded - or at least you assumed you did, because Grayson was next to you then, guiding you out of your chair with an arm around your waist, headed down the hallway. 

It took you a minute to realize you weren’t headed towards the bedroom.

“Where’re we goin,” you mumbled, not even having the energy to keep your words from running together.

“Pod studio. It’s quieter, and darker in there,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your head when he reached around to open the door. The newest room in the house was wonderfully decorated, but you didn’t have enough time to appreciate it. All you were focused on was the very inviting looking couch that he was leading you over to under the dimmed lights. 

You sat down, head dropping into your hands and thumbs moving to your temples, desperate for any kind of relief. 

Grayson crouched down in front of you, ducking so he could meet your downward gaze.

“I’m gonna get some stuff, I’ll be right back okay? Hang in there.” 

The whimper that came out of your mouth was involuntary, and you hoped he didn’t hear it as he hurried out the door. You weren’t sure how long he was gone, but you looked up when he got back with his arms full. Balanced in his left was the diffuser that usually sat on his shelf in his room - he’d already prepped it with peppermint oil, knowing it was supposed to help with headaches. In his right was a bottle of water, some medicine, and your favorite blanket from the living room. He came and crouched in front of you again, passing the little pills and his hydroflask over.

“Here baby,” he turned his hand so the pills fell into your palm and you grimaced, knowing that tilting your head back to swallow them was going to make the throbbing worse - it always did. 

“They’ll help. Please take em, for me,” he murmured, low and soft so it didn’t hurt you. You nodded at him, watched him sigh a bit in relief as he untwisted the cap of the bottle and kissed your forehead, standing up to plug in the diffuser while you took them. 

The lights dimmed down as low as they could go without being completely off, and then finally he was there, the couch dipping down with his weight as he climbed on next to you. You waited until he got situated, laid back against the pillow and the arm rest before you used the energy you had left to crawl on top of him, straddling his lap and tucking up against his chest as he spread the blanket over you.

“Tell me if need to move,” he whispered - the best position always changed based off where your migraine was centered, and he was content to let you use him however you wanted. This time, you moved until that little bump on his shoulder was lined up with your right temple, giving you just enough pressure to take the bite off the pain. 

He took your stillness and the little sigh you let out as the sign that you’d found the ‘sweet spot’ as you called it and he was careful not to move much as he brought his right hand up to your head, gently starting to run his fingers over your scalp and through your hair. He turned his head, pressed a few kisses to your forehead before he spoke.

“Hate seeing you hurting like this. Wish I could make it better.” His voice was so soft, so careful to not cause you any more pain.

“You do make it better. You always make it better,” you mumbled, pressing a kiss to his neck, sweet and light. It still made his eyes flutter closed, right hand moving from your hair down to your neck, over your back and back up in a soothing cycle that distracted you from the pain until you could drift off in his arms, hopeful for relief when you woke back up.

#anon #ask #g:blurb #im so soft fuck #grayson dolan blurb #grayson dolan concept

[generallynerdy]

One life, I thought—a thousand deaths (Jon Antilles & Fay)

Summary: On Queyta, Obi-Wan Kenobi is not the only one to escape Durge and Ventress. One of the four legendary Masters, Jon Antilles, emerges from a lava stream despite knowing he’s going to die. He’s so sure of it that he crawls his way to Fay’s side, wanting to spend his last moments with the woman who he considers his Master. But she has other plans. Plans to make certain that Jon Antilles lives past today.

Warnings: Angst, Character Death, On-Screen Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, there’s both sorry, Self-Sacrifice, The Curse of Immortality, holy shit i made myself sad dude Word Count: 2,191

Prompt: Angstpril Day 2 - Sole Survivor

Author’s Note: listen I know nobody knows about these characters that are in literally one comic but I have FEELINGS about them okay?? Jon is meant to be a badass mysterious enigma but he screams sad boi and Fay is like...the greatest cryptid Jedi ever, I love her. So, of course, I decided to make them and Knol and Nico suffer. (Also I know Obi-Wan survived the mission but the Sole Survivor still applies because Jon is the sole survivor of the four legendary Masters, just in case that wasn’t clear.) I just finished this today, so the editing is minimal.

Read on AO3

*

Using the Force as a shield is, in theory, one of the easier skills a Jedi utilizes. That is assuming, of course, that the Jedi in question is in good health, a decent mental state, and isn’t under a severe amount of stress. If said Jedi is, say, three feet into a pool of lava, already bearing grievous injuries and the weight of the deaths of two close companions, and feeling the fading life of another, the simple task, understandably, becomes something of a problem.

Jon has finally managed to pull the Force around him like a blanket. It protects him from the bubbling lake around him now, but the first few seconds he couldn’t pull it off were torture.

As it turns out, lava burns. It burns like shame, like failure, like the nightmares Jon used to have about his Master abandoning him on a planet in Hutt space for getting just a little too mouthy. And it hurts nearly as much.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He makes a rule of not cursing, but right now feels like an appropriate time to break it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He claws at the charred remains of his robes. Contrary to popular belief, lava doesn’t melt initially, as Jon now knows. Instead of melting, he burst into flames for the few seconds it took to pull himself together, though they felt like an eternity. Red, throbbing burns litter his entire body, his hair singed but miraculously intact thanks to his hood, which is entirely ashes now. The pain consumes his thoughts, making his shielding start to flicker in and out.

And then, through the debilitating agony, a touch of something familiar.

Jon’s eyes fly open. “Fay,” he whispers.

Her light is dimmer than it should be, not flickering in and out mischievously like it usually does. But still, she makes an effort to reach out, to check on him. It sends a sob up his throat.

“Hold on, Fay, hold on.”

Clenching his fists, he opens himself up to the Force. His actions are ones of faith, not of desperation, and he lets it flow through him as he takes a deep breath. The idea of using one of his Master’s abilities would normally make him nauseous, but the disgust doesn’t even cross his mind this time as he prepares to teleport. He thinks of that open, flat space of rock that Obi-Wan and Fay ran to, their enemies close behind. Focusing fiercely on that distant image, he pulls on the Force and folds the two points—

Jon collapses on solid ground with a heaving gasp.

Every inch of his body protests the change, especially his knees, which burn when they make contact with the ground, but somehow he manages to ignore his own complaints.

Fay isn’t far, or she shouldn’t be, at least. The distance between them seems gaping when he tries to move.

Still, her light is fading fast. And he wants to be by her side.

So, Jon Antilles crawls on hands and knees, dragging his body across sharp stones and past bubbling streams of lava. He aches with each movement and cries out when it becomes too much, but he persists regardless. Something in him knows it may be the last thing he ever does.

Finally, he sees her.

She’s sprawled out, her chest hardly moving as her breathing becomes shallow. Her near-golden hair is filthy with ash and her eyes are dim. She’s hardly herself, Jon thinks, and feels his stomach sink.

Hundreds of years the great Master Fay has lived and breathed. Hundreds of years and he’s going to watch her die today.

“Jon,” she calls out weakly.

He pulls himself to her side, grabbing her hand with his own shaky ones. “I’m here, Master.”

They only met when he was a teenager, but he feels as if he’s known her all his life. They’ve travelled the Outer Rim together, following the Force, for decades now and he’s never regretted a second of it. In all but title, Fay is his Master. She was always better than Dark Woman, even when the bar was six feet under. The only record with both their names will be at the Temple, where the dead are listed, a handful of mission reports with other Jedi, and the stories the younglings share of the 4 legendary, nomadic Masters.

“Knol and Nico,” Fay breathes out, “they’re one with the Force.”

Jon grimaces. “Yes. And the Force is with us.”

She laughs, breathy and half-choked. It’s an old lesson, familiar and grounding. “And so too are they,” she adds.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?”

“Gone, with the cure.” She smiles just a little. “The Republic fights another day.”

Suddenly grim, he squeezes her hand. “But not us.”

A pause.

“But not us.”

The silence overwhelms them. The wind whistles in the distance, carrying with it nothing but smoke and ashes. Queyta isn’t the best place to die, Jon thinks absently. He would rather it have been someplace with flowers.

“I wish it could’ve been Jedha.”

He almost jumps at her voice, but her words jarr a surprised laugh from his sore lungs. “Jedha? I thought you hated cold planets.”

“Oh, yes, but not that one. Force, I should have taken you. The Force there is so...so strong, so pure, you can feel the kyber from the surface,” she explains, staring straight up at him. If anyone else were to gaze so intensely at his scars, he’d be uncomfortable, but she’s safe. She’s family. “And the Guardians of the Whills are so kind. I met a young one of theirs some decades ago. You two would’ve gotten along.”

Jon laughs a little. “You’re always looking to find me friends, Fay.”

Her smile turns sad and she lifts a hand to his face, letting it rest on his cheek. “You’re so young,” she whispers. “Too young to be so lonely, Jon.”

He shuts his eyes, lets himself be comforted by her touch. When he opens them again, she still has that gut-wrenching look on her face. He places his hand on top of hers, unsurprised at how cold they are despite the blistering heat.

“I’m not lonely,” he promises.

Jon doesn’t say that it’s because of her, Knol, and Nico, but Fay picks up the thought anyway. Her eyes fill with tears.

“I have watched so many I love die.” Fay’s voice wavers as she says it. He realises that it’s the first time he’s ever heard it do that. To be honest, he’d thought it was impossible. “Taken by age, by Darkness, by foolishness. Never have I met a soul as good as yours, Jon. And never a Jedi so worthy of love.”

“Fay…”

She shakes her head. “Your Master did not deserve you. The galaxy did not deserve you.”

Pulling her hand away from him, Jon squeezes it. “You did,” he says firmly, though his voice cracks.

“I hope so,” she admits with a rueful laugh. “I hope so.”

He smiles weakly. “I wish you’d found me first. But I thin-I think the Force knew when I needed you to save me. Because you did save me, Master. I could never thank you enough.”

She takes his word silently, holding his hand even tighter. “You never needed to.”

“Thank you,” he says now, even though it’s useless.

Fay’s grey eyes meet his pale ones and suddenly, she’s distressed. “You’re so young,” she repeats.

But Jon can see that she means something else this time.

“Not too young to do my duty.”

“Too young to die doing it.”

Jon thinks of Tan Yuster, one of four Padawans to die on Geonosis. The Jedi have experienced great loss these past months since the beginning of the war and so many so much younger than Jon have died in battle, the clones included. Of course, to Fay, they all may as well be children.

“I will go proudly into the Force,” he promises her. At your side.

Fay’s expression twists. “No.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think we have a say in it.”

“The Force let me live this long,” she says suddenly, as if it’s a realisation, “longer than I should have. Obi-Wan is gone, I’ve done what good I can, except...you’re here. Why are we here?”

“To say goodbye,” Jon offers.

She shakes her head, then tries to sit up, struggling until her would-be Padawan helps pull her up. “I’m done with goodbyes.”

“What are you—?”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Fay presses their foreheads together and grabs his hands with a newfound energy that terrifies him. Chills go up his spine when her presence in the Force covers him like a blanket. Warmth climbs up his hands, then his arms, and with a glance down he finds that his skin is healing.

“Fay, no!” he cries, trying to shove her away.

She only tightens her grip. “Stay still, Jon.”

She sounds more like herself, certain and unwavering. Jon would be happy-crying if he weren’t horrified. He tries to drag himself out of her grip, but she’s impossibly strong. Her healing creeps up his entire body, soothing his burns, though scars remain behind.

“No, no, no—FAY! Fay, stop it!” His screams turn to sobs. “You’ll die, stop—!”

“I already am,” she says, just as certain in her abilities as her fate. “But you don’t have to.”

Trembling, his attempts are weaker now but still there. “Please, please,” he begs. “Not without you!”

Tears stream down her cheeks. She allows herself a moment of weakness; she opens her eyes and meets his tearful gaze, remembering the teenager she first met. He was so scared and so brave. And for a moment, she’d thought he must be a ghost. But no, he was just a boy. For the first time in a long time, she had let herself build a bridge between them, like Knol and Nico before him, even knowing she would have to watch him die one day.

Now, she thinks with fierce stubbornness, she won’t have to.

It feels like her life is leaving her for him, though she knows it’s just fading into the Force. It’s to it that she speaks, the cosmic energy she’s dedicated her long, long life to.

“If anyone is deserving of the time you’ve given me,” she gasps out, “it is Jon Antilles.”

She doesn’t see the horror in Jon’s face, but she can feel it in his quiet Force-presence, so subdued. He hides himself on purpose and it truly breaks her heart. His light is so strong. The galaxy is all the better for his existence.

“I don’t want this! Fay, I don’t—let me die, please—”

Fay only lifts her head and kisses his forehead, the sort of gentle gesture a mother might give her son. “One day,” she promises. It rings with truth, with the strength of the Force behind it. “But not today.”

Jon cries out and tries to rip himself away, but freezes when pure light washes over him. The warmth he’s always associated with Fay soaks into him, healing all his wounds in an instant and rejuvenating his fading energy. Stars burst before his eyes, like he’s seeing into the very universe beyond Queyta, beyond what he’s meant to see with his petty Human eyes. In another instant, it’s gone and Fay is slumping over.

She falls to the ground with a thump, a noise that jolts Jon back into focus.

“Master!” he sobs.

He pulls her up from the ground with the sickening realisation that she’s a complete deadweight. She’s limp in his arms, already paling. Desperate, Jon pushes her hair out of her face and finds...nothing. Her eyes are dull. With his fingers on her wrist, he can’t feel a pulse.

“Fay?”

The steady beat of her Force-presence is gone, a gaping hole in his universe. Their bond, one strong enough to resemble a training bond, is shattered, a physical pain that throbs in his skull.

Jon begins to hyperventilate, his sudden gasps for breath burning his now-perfect lungs.

“Come back,” he begs Fay’s corpse. “Fuck, please. Please, come back.”

He pulls her into his lap, clutching her robes like a child being left behind for the first time. It doesn’t hurt to move anymore and, thank the Force for it because his entire body shakes with the force of his cries.

Overwhelmed with grief he’s never experienced, Jon wails into Fay’s shoulder, rocking back and forth. The agonizing sound rings across the valley, a noise like torture.

It’s only now that he feels the frayed edges of his bonds with Knol and Nico.

He screams again, his vocal cords protesting it sharply.

The last time Jon was this alone, he was a child. And now, he’s right back where he was before he met his three closest companions. Except now, now, he knows what it means to love and to lose. It aches. It aches like nothing he’s ever felt.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t—I need you. What do I do? What am I supposed to do?”

He never gets an answer.

*

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

Masterlist

#sw #star wars #sw fic #star wars fic #angstpril 2021 #day two #sole survivor #sw imagine #star wars imagine #sw oneshot #star wars oneshot #jon antilles #master fay #fay #jon antilles & fay #knol ven'nari #nico diath #star wars legends #river #rivika #generallynerdy #one life a thousand deaths #angstpril2021

[onthepyre]

like real people do

1.4k prinxiety, featuring roman being incredibly stupid

To Roman, almost everything about Virgil is curious.  A lot of it is why.  Why does Virgil try to hide his smile — unless he's with Roman?  Why does he pretend he likes black coffee only to dump gallons of cream and sugar in when nobody's looking?  Why is he so incredibly… adorable?

(Roman isn't quite sure that's the right word, but it's the closest one he can find.)

But there are other things, too.  Where does he find such pigmented eye shadow?  What's his middle name?  Does he like Roman's singing voice?

Roman wants to know everything.  But lately, there's one question that's been almost permanently stuck in his mind: what would it be like to kiss Virgil?

Okay, wait, hang on.  He's not in love or anything — it's just curiosity!  It has absolutely nothing to do with the fervent eye contact Virgil will not stop making whenever someone brings up their love life (Roman can't figure out why — is he trying to show him how dumb he thinks it is?  That he wants to leave?  That he's jealous?  It can't be that).  And it isn't at all related to how he bites his bottom lip when he gets stressed out, which happens far too often for Roman to be okay with it.  And it definitely doesn't stem from Virgil's new experiments with makeup — especially the lipstick.  That's completely unrelated.

He's just curious, okay?  He wants to know.  He feels like he's been spending too much time with Logan, but this idea has wormed its way into his head and it won't leave.

Would Virgil be gentle?  Or would he throw his usual caution to the wind and press hard against Roman's mouth?  Would he go slowly?  What would he do with his hands?  What would Roman do with his hands?  Will teeth be involved?  (Somehow, that seems in character.)  Would Roman even do it right?

And for some reason, it is agonizing that Roman doesn't know the answer to any of these questions.  He's known Virgil for years and hasn't even kissed him once, which he thinks is quite a shame.  

(He's known Patton for even longer and it doesn't get on Roman's nerves that he hasn't kissed him, but he ignores this.)

So, he devises a plan.  It isn't a terribly complicated one, but he assumes this is for the better.  There are less steps to mess up, and fewer things that can go wrong.

First, he gets Virgil alone (he knows it'll make him less nervous).  This part isn't that hard — Roman knocks on Virgil's door at a groggy hour between afternoon and evening, when he knows Virgil will be home.  Virgil rolls his eyes — ask next time, asshole — but his smile betrays his harsh words.

He invites Roman in, and Roman tries to play it cool for a bit.  

"What are you here for?" Virgil asks as he sits down to turn on the TV.

"I missed your face," Roman says, which isn't untrue, but definitely isn't the main goal of his visit, nor does it fit the "calm and collected" vibe he was going for.

Virgil shakes his head a bit and shoots Roman a weird look, but forgets it almost immediately when he finds The Nightmare Before Christmas on Netflix.

"Oh, shit!  They must've just added this!"  He smiles, wide, and Roman's brain just screams, screams kiss him kiss him kiss him over a monotone of wordless noise.  But he doesn't, not yet, because he doesn't want to ruin Virgil's good mood even though something in the back of his mind tells him it wouldn't.

The noise in his head begins again when Virgil turns to lean against the arm of the sofa and throws his legs over Roman's lap, which is far more affection than he's ever shown before, at least through touch.  And Roman reminds himself this is just curiosity, just a vague sense of wonder, and definitely not a debilitating crush.

And this continues, all through the movie, every time Virgil shifts a little bit closer or smiles.  And Roman absolutely loses his mind when Virgil begins to sing along under his breath because his voice is so pretty and it takes every fiber in Roman's body to stop him from diving across the sofa and kissing Virgil.

The credits roll and Virgil looks over and stares for a second.  "Do you want to stay for dinner?" he asks, finally, with a remnant of a smile in his voice.

And Roman, like a fool, says, "Uh, yeah, I should — I should be able to."

Virgil practically bounces off the couch and into the kitchen, with Roman not far behind him.  He digs through the cabinets and settles on spaghetti, but not without suggesting at least three other dishes and deciding, without Roman's input, that he doesn't want to make them.

"Can I…" Roman begins, trying to decide if he's actually going to go through with this or not.

"Can you what?"

Roman chickens out at the last moment.  "Can I ask you something kind of weird?"

Virgil makes a face.  "I mean, within reason."  He pauses.  "You're making me nervous, Princey."

Roman takes a deep breath.  "Have you ever kissed a boy?"

Suddenly Virgil can't look at him.  He frowns into the boiling water.  "Uh, no.  I thought I was straight for fourteen years, repressed like hell for another five, plus nobody has ever asked me out and there's no way in hell I'm going to.  So.  No, I haven't."  He stares at his spaghetti for a bit longer, then glances over at Roman.  "Have you?"

Roman grins.  "A few times.  My first kiss was pretty shit — I think he actually tried to gag me with his tongue."  This prompts a chuckle out of Virgil, and he speaks again.

"I did kiss a girl once, when I was fifteen.  She turned out to be a lesbian, which should give you a pretty good idea of what it was like."

Roman grins.  "Well, that doesn't count, then.  It's like kissing your grandmother."

There's silence except for the boiling water, just for a moment, until Virgil continues.  "I kinda wish I had.  Kissed a boy, I mean.  Just to get it over with."

And.  Wow.  Okay.  This is Roman's moment.  Without actually looking at Virgil, he stutters out, "If — I can.  Um.  I'll kiss you, if you want."

Virgil's face turns three shades of red in seconds, and Roman can only imagine his is the same.  There's a long pause and Roman is worried that he has massively fucked up until Virgil says, "Yeah.  Okay."  And Roman does his best to squash the feeling of elation in his chest but gives up in seconds because wow.

Virgil moves towards Roman but stops at least a foot from him, making direct eye contact the whole time.  Roman does manage to overcome the urge to make fun of him and takes the last step, so he's only inches from Virgil's face.  Virgil's eyes are wide as he stares at Roman.  He places his hands on the back of Roman's neck and his gaze falls to Roman's lips and he finally, finally closes the gap.

There's about five seconds of just still, soft lip-on-lip contact, which already has Roman's heart beating fast, but then Virgil sighs through his nose and Roman can feel the breath on his face and the floodgates open.

Roman hand finds the small of Virgil's back and tugs him closer.  Virgil's mouth, hot against Roman's, falls open, and Roman's response is almost too enthusiastic.  He makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat and Virgil presses harder against him.  Virgil smiles and Roman can feel it against his lips and.

Oh.

Maybe this is love.

And Roman pulls back at this realization.  Virgil's eyes stay closed for just a moment and he frowns before looking up at Roman.

"What's wrong?"  Virgil's voice is quiet and gentle and it breaks Roman's heart.

"I can't.  I'm so sorry, I — this is my fault."

And Virgil's face is painful and for a second Roman almost wants to cry.

"Ro, what do you mean, I-"

"I'm in love with you, Virgil."  

Virgil screws up his face, frowning almost, and Roman turns to go — and Virgil grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him into another kiss.

This one is shorter, just long enough and forceful enough for Virgil to make his point before he pulls away.  He presses his forehead against Roman's, smirking slightly.  

"Yeah, and?"

"Wait, do you mean-"

"Yes, dumbass.  I love you too."

Roman laughs — giggles — and pulls Virgil forward again (this is the third time he's kissed Virgil) and he feels him laugh and it's everything.

#prinxiety #tss #sanders sides #roman sanders #virgil sanders #tss roman #tss virgil #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #june's writing #there are So Many GotDang italics in this piece it took so long to get them formatted

[captainpikeachu]

Booker’s trauma, recovery, and the role played in all of this by his nightmares of Quynh drowning

Okay, so we’ve all been talking a lot about how Booker could get better and maybe therapy can help, but I feel like there’s one thing that’s not been really addressed in the midst of all the talking about Booker’s trauma, and that’s the role played in all this by his nightmares of Quynh.

Now obviously with regards to this, the comics have addressed it as him not dreaming of Quynh, but the film has already changed aspects of the lore, and so when I address this issue, I will only be taking the information we have been presented to us from the film, not the comics. 

We know from information given to Nile by the team that the immortals dream of each other until they meet, at which point the dreams stop. We also know that Nile as the newest member hasn’t met Quynh yet, so she dreams of Quynh instead. With these two pieces of information, we can assume logically that Booker, who came into the group in the 1800s after Quynh had already been lost at sea, would also dream of her just like Nile because he has never met Quynh. So this means that since his resurrection in 1812, he’s at best had sporadic nightmares of Quynh drowning under water for 200 years, or at worst he’s been plagued by constant nightmares. 

As if losing his wife and kids weren’t an emotionally traumatic and isolating experience enough, it’s compounded by what could at worst be described as debilitating nightmares, nightmares that you could feel so very viscerally as if it’s happening to you, nightmares that likely would not help one to sleep and rest so that they could be emotionally and physically ready to deal with the toll of the grieving process. 

We talk about how Booker seems unable to move past the “depression” stage of grief, but perhaps what we are all missing here is that nightmares of Quynh is the WHY he can’t move on. 

Maybe those nightmares are what is weighing him down, making the pain and grief and trauma harder to process, and further isolating him from the rest of the team who do not experience this particular trauma. Because even if the team could love him enough to help him through the process of grieving a lost loved one, how could they really help him with the nightmares? It’s not something they can simply move past or make go away. Short of them finding Quynh, which seems like the team had long decided to stop doing for their own good, it’s just going to be there and there’s nothing that can be done. It’s a dark cloud that’s always going to hang over him, actively attacking him in his sleep when he is most vulnerable. 

Joe says 500 years in a box at the bottom of the ocean is enough to make anyone insane. So then surely 200 years experiencing some of that is enough to damage a Booker’s mental health badly enough that he simply cannot properly process grief and trauma. Because Booker isn’t just dealing with his own trauma, but also experiencing part of Quynh’s seemingly to be eternally unresolved trauma. So until Quynh is able to deal with her trauma or they meet and he no longer dreams about her, he can’t really move on because those nightmares aren’t letting him.

Just like Quynh is drowning at the bottom of the ocean, Booker is drowning in his bottles. He is her reflection in a way.

So maybe we don’t see Booker getting better even 6 month later because those nightmares haven’t gone away. Maybe his healing can’t start until they do. Maybe Quynh showing up to him at the end was a blessing in disguise, because if he is no longer dreaming about her, then maybe for the first time in 200 years he will finally have that weight off of his shoulder, maybe he will have clarity, and actually be able to work through his emotions properly without getting interferences from nightmares and trauma that are not his.

Now keep in mind, I’m not saying Booker didn’t make his own choices or that this somehow absolves him of the responsibility of those choices. I am simply saying that recovering from traumatic experiences is hard enough on its own without adding the weight of someone else’s trauma to all of that. And if he’s been holding onto two people’s trauma for 200 years, then there’s no doubt there would be damaging psychological effects. Those nightmares can easily affect his way of thinking, compounding his desperation and desire to die, and feeling like he can’t escape from that bottomless darkness. 

And if Nile in those short moments could get an emotional transference from Quynh, feeling her crazed anger and pain, then that’s what Booker has been picking up and feeding off of for 200 years. Could he even tell what is his own pain and anger from Quynh’s?

Obviously I don’t know what story plots a sequel movie might do, if they will follow the comics or not, but I think it is important that (as of right now) when we discuss Booker’s trauma and how he can get better, that we do not ignore the role that his nightmares of Quynh plays into how he is the way he is, and how perhaps without those nightmares, he can actually begin to work through the darkness and come back to the light.

Because let’s be honest here, we’ve all had nights where we don’t get sleep due to nightmares, we know how exhausting and damaging that can be to a person’s health physically and mentally, and how that effects everyday life and thinking. Even one day’s lack of well rested sleep could cause problems. Extend that to 200 years and we cannot ignore the serious damage that would do to a person.

Also oftentimes when people talk about Booker’s trauma, it is referred to in the past tense. That losing his family was something that happened in the past and that 200 years later he should have been able to cope and deal with it and move on. That he should have found happiness with his new family.

Setting aside that time doesn’t fix all things and loss of one family isn’t just replaced with a new family, if he’s been dreaming about Quynh for 200 years, then his trauma is not just in the past, it’s not just one past event that he’s had 200 years to get over, but rather it is a present and periodic repeating event that is still consistently traumatizing him. This means that even if he was trying to move on and be better, another nightmare, another traumatizing event would have likely set back all the progress made. He is being re-traumatized every time this happens and the grieving process starts all over again.

#the old guard #sebastien le livre #quynh #nile freeman #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #andromache the scythian #tw: trauma #tw: suicide mention #tw: drowning #if anyone needs me to add any tags let me know

[bigskydreaming]

Not to harp on that last reblog but omgggggg. LOL, I had this acquaintance in offline life that tried to stress that like, I shouldn’t let peoples’ opinions of the way my face currently looks get to me, especially with as much stress and pressure as I was under trying to get a surgery that was essentially outside of my personal budget/resources range.

And it was just like, I appreciate the thought and the body image positivity and all that, but I’m kinda bemused that with as much pain medication as you routinely see me take, your go to assumption is that I’m trying so hard to get the prosthetic surgery because of image related issues, instead of like....the debilitating pain issues lolool. Its like, I promise you that conforming to what society says I should look like or my daily routines should be like doesn’t even crack the top twenty lists of reasons why I want a new jaw lmfao.

Its that thing where its like, its not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment in and of itself, its just it really had nothing whatsoever to do with me or my situation or motivations, and its kinda telling when people jump to that assumption despite me prioritizing and frequently making mention of literally a dozen other more pressing concerns. Like, I’m laughing, but in a sort of ‘oh no, a person who has watched you deal with pain and vertigo and nerve related issues for literal months assumes your reasons for wanting a super expensive surgery is people making fun of your jaw hurts your fee-fees and you’re laughing’ kinda way.

Like, it actually is super belittling to leapfrog over disabled peoples’ actual stated issues to make it about stuff that’s not even on our list. If you want to know what’s on the list, just ask, we’ll probably tell you? In fact, we probably already have, many, many times and the fact that you somehow didn’t hear and thus decided to just come up with your own hot take about what those probably are is like....hmmm...maybe....the real issue all along?

[thetomorrowshow]

Slower Than Words Ch. 5

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12

I legitimately feel sorry about this chapter! It wasn’t meant to be this intense, just lightly angsty. Virgil really threw himself under the angst bus for this one so buckle up y’all

cw: gagging, unethical eye operations (not in great detail), panic attack, kidnapping, by a cult specifically, character being restrained (both on a table and not), brief mention of blood, fever, intense pain, vomit, that’s a lot of warnings, passing mention of drugs, singular mention of an IV, surgical implications

~

Everything was decidedly not going to be okay, Virgil realized several days later when he was rudely awoken by rough hands pulling him out of bed and out the door before he could say a word. He opened his mouth to scream and had a rag stuffed in it, which was also rude.

While being dragged down a hallway, Virgil took the moment to reflect on his current mental state, which was scarily calm considering what was happening. Shock, probably. Even more likely was the overwhelming gratitude he was feeling that it was him leaving the safety of the room, not Patton. That gratitude gave way to fear (finally) as he was brought into another room, one with a distinctly medical smell.

The room. Not the room, please, not the place where his eyes burned and he could hear himself screaming but was fairly detached, watching from the side as the men and women in white coats leaned over him and measured his reaction. The place where he was left alone, for weeks, as his eyes slowly healed but never saw again. The place where they had strapped him down, hadn't drugged him even as he struggled and sobbed with pain—

They were doing that now, Virgil realized with a start, and he began to fight, trying to force them away and roll off the table, but they already had his ankles secured.

“Get that out of his mouth, we're not monsters.”

Virgil would have cried at hearing words that didn't come from his own mouth if he weren't already crying. The rag was pulled from between his teeth, and he gasped out incomplete sentences of pleas and desperation.

“Virgil, is it?” a woman said.

“My name, that's my name,” Virgil sobbed, almost incoherently. No one had said it in so long, he almost wanted them to say it again.

“Well Virgil, we're here to help. All we need you to do is lie still.”

Virgil would have promised anything, but he was suddenly aware of the fact that they had finished strapping him down. He didn't have a choice here. He tried to calm his hitching sobs, aware that he definitely looked not only like a fool, but weak.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” he asked pitifully. There were several long moments of silence. Then the same woman before spoke, saying eerily familiar words.

“We're going to fix you, in the name of the Prophets.”

Virgil screamed.

-

Virgil had been in the back of this van for far too long. His mind was still in overdrive with fear, but now he could wonder—why had he been kidnapped? There was nothing special about him. He was just like any other college kid, trying to make his way in life with money in the negative and relationships even lower. The only person who might care about him was his roommate Roman, but he also had no money and therefore would never be able to pay a ransom. Not to mention, Roman was promising. He was only failing geology, he'd just gotten a role in a production at the high end theater across town, and he had a boyfriend who definitely didn't care about Virgil.

There was nothing he could do to escape whatever awful fate these strangers had for him. They didn't look too dangerous, all four men wearing square-looking jeans and plain t-shirts, but none of them had very built figures. Only one looked like he worked out, which was a testament to the fact that Virgil was a pathetic weakling. He should've splurged and bought that gym membership.

The van stopped for hours at one point, Virgil assumed in a hotel parking lot or something. He would've liked to get out of the cramped space, but it was clear that wasn't happening any time soon. His hands were tied to his ankles (a fact that had sent him into more than one panic attack) and both were pulled behind his back in a hog tie, and a bandana was bundled up in his mouth and tied around the back of his head. He could tell it was night; some of the light from the part of the van with seats filtered in during the day. It was nice to have a little light. Darkness scared him—he always slept with the blinds on the window turned to let some moonlight in, now that he was far too old for a nightlight. Now, however, there was zero light and Virgil was barely keeping himself from freaking out. He just had to survive the night, then nothing would ever be dark again.

They were back on the road. The men chatted loudly, but so many of the words seemed to have a different context for them than they did for him. Haven? Blessings? Liberating? It sounded like a cult, and Virgil once again attempted to free himself of the ropes. The only thing he gained was rope burn.

When the door opened and Virgil blinked at the sudden light and wave of heat, he had to assume they'd arrived. Instead of moving (or shooting) him, two people stared. A man and a woman, the man in a simple suit, the woman in an even simpler dress. Sweat trickled down Virgil's temple as he stared back at them, his jaw aching and limbs strained.

“This one will do,” the woman said eventually. The man nodded agreement, and then the ones that had kidnapped him in the first place were dragging him out of the van. Virgil maintained eye contact with the two as he passed. What did that mean? What did they need him for?

The sun beat down on them as the four men carried Virgil across a dirt road. There were small, one-story houses lining the street, but nobody outside. Virgil only had a moment to wonder why before he was being ushered into a large building. It was cooler inside than out, but still stuffy, like the air conditioning was one of those old window units.

He was carried into a room that smelled like a hospital—and looked like one. The counters were laden with different tools that he had no idea what they were to be used for, but looked vaguely like they belonged in a horror movie. The four men rolled him onto the operating table in the center of the room, then set to work untying him. Virgil lay still, hoping to trick them into thinking he would be compliant. He'd wait until his legs were free, then start fighting back.

That was a no-go, as it turned out. The men easily grabbed his legs and pulled a strap over them, securing him into place. He managed to flail his fist into one person's nose, and felt a deep satisfaction when the man doubled over, bleeding. It was quickly snuffed out as the other three got a hold of his arms and strapped them down as well. Then they all left, even the man Virgil had hit, shutting the door and leaving him alone.

Virgil's eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. The only sound was his heavy breathing. He flexed his fingers and toes a few times, trying to get feeling back into them. He groaned deep in his throat as they began to tingle, then ache. He shifted a little, the sweat pooling under his shirt and hoodie making him supremely uncomfortable.

The door opened with a bang, startling Virgil enough that he jumped. Quite a few—seven, maybe—people in white lab coats entered, the last man wearing plain clothes and looking less like a nerd than the others and more like a bodyguard. Virgil swallowed. What were they going to do to him?

“Hello, Virgil,” an older man with a scar on his chin said, smiling too wide. He leaned over the table, and Virgil tried to lean away. The man tsked, his smile dimming slightly.

“Now, that won't do. Don't be scared, Virgil. We aren't going to hurt you.” The man frowned for a split second, then chuckled. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to lie. This will likely be very painful, Virgil.”

Virgil couldn't force his eyes away from the man's, cold brown eyes boring into his soul. He felt the fear rise, bubbling out of his throat in a muffled cry, even as a tear slipped out of his eye and rolled toward his temple.

“We're going to break you, in the name of the Prophets.”

Then they were holding his head still, and—no—no—not his eyes, please, anything else—

Virgil screamed.

-

Virgil didn't know how long he feverishly drifted, but it was certainly hours. His eyes—it was more than burning, somehow. It was the fire of a thousand suns, concentrated in his eye sockets and pounding through his head. All he could feel was the pain, not knowing where he was or aware of any outside stimulus.

The moment Virgil recognized that it was terrifying was the moment that he could feel his fingers. Suddenly, he was no longer a miasma of pain, but a human being (engulfed by pain) again. That was also when he realized there was something pressed up to his lips. He opened his mouth—water, warm and stale but still water—flooded his dry mouth and and he choked as it hit the back of his throat. The bottle was pulled away, and Virgil spluttered for a few moments before all the water was clear of his airway. Exhausted by the fight and debilitated from the pain, Virgil let his eyes slip closed and drifted again.

When he next woke, it was to incomprehensible pain and the sensation of moving, as if whatever he was laying on was being moved. Barely letting himself wonder where he was headed, Virgil drifted again.

The cycle repeated for a while before Virgil found himself fully conscious. It hurt to turn his head, so he laid still, despite all the noises around him. He was shaking constantly, and he was pretty certain he was strapped down. The room wasn't cold, exactly, but Virgil longed for a blanket, something to perhaps weigh down his legs and ease the quaking.

“Can you hear me?”

Virgil wasn't sure if the person was talking to him or not, so he didn't respond. The other noises around the room—a sink running? A quiet conversation?—continued as if nothing happened.

“Can you hear me?”

This time, the voice was louder, and distantly familiar. Virgil nodded slightly, cut short as he grimaced in pain. Moving his head made the pain spike, inducing nausea. Now he felt he was going to throw up, as well as shiver to death. Great.

“Tell me your name.”

“Virgil,” he rasped. He'd never given these people his last name—how they'd found out his first was a mystery to him—but it didn't quite count as an act of defiance when just saying his first name had sapped all of his energy. He tasted copper in the back of his mouth and wondered vaguely if he'd screamed so much that his throat had bled.

“He's conscious enough. Try to get him to stand up.”

Virgil was trying to figure out how to respond to this when he registered the sound of Velcro tearing, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him off of the surface. Immediately his headache spiked, and he cried out, barely aware of his knees buckling and hitting the floor.

A sigh was heard. Virgil sniffed back tears, despite the little voice in the back of his head telling him he had literally zero dignity left. He didn't want to cry, especially not at just standing up.

Then suddenly, they were moving. Virgil struggled to get his feet underneath him, but failed and resigned himself to being dragged. He was certain he was about to pass out. His head grew fuzzy, limbs filled with pins and needles. The sound of himself being pulled on the concrete was even louder than anything that had just been going on in the room; it filled his ears and pounded along to his heartbeat.

He distantly heard a laugh, then gasped as someone let go and his head cracked against the floor. It wasn't too bad, he wasn't very far from the floor anyway, but the pain of the impact still caused him to lose the battle against his stomach, vomiting all over himself and the floor. Some commotion followed that; Virgil's head was spinning and splitting and his eyes burned and put simply, he couldn't keep track.

He drifted again, laying on the floor in his own sick, not sure what was real and what wasn't. Too soon, though, he was brought back to the waking world by a jet of water hitting him square in the stomach. He jerked, then spluttered as the water hit his face. Somehow, while shocking, it was more pleasant than the pain, a nice distraction. That didn't last, though. Soon enough, Virgil was shivering and numb as the water kept spraying, a sob tearing from his throat as more and more went up his nose.

Finally it stopped, the only sounds being the water dripping from his soaked clothing and his shuddering sobs. Virgil couldn't stop crying and shaking, and there was only one thought in his head, playing over and over: I want Patton. Please I want Patton. Please Patton please I want Patton please—

After what felt like hours of just laying there, hands grabbed his wrists again and began dragging. Virgil didn't even try to stand, or stop crying. He was so cold. So, so, cold, and he just wanted Patton, just wanted to be safe. . . .

More noise—so loud—and a little more strain on his arms before he was dropped, palms bouncing lightly off the floor. Virgil wanted to curl up on his side, hoard what little body heat he had, but he couldn't move. He couldn't move, and they were coming closer. His sobs ratcheted up as he just knew they were right above him, holding those tools and moving closer and—

Someone touched him, and Virgil whimpered loud. He couldn't—not again—please no, please please please no—

They took his hand and touched his wrist—an IV, they were just putting drugs in him—with warm fingers, tracing something—

Tracing . . . something. . . .

P-a-t-t-o-n.

“Patton,” Virgil croaked. Patton was here. Patton was safe, Patton would make everything all right. With that knowledge, Virgil finally fell into a comfortable sleep.

~

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404

#slower than words #thomas sanders #sanders sides #ts #ts sides #fanfiction #sanders sides fic #sanders sides angst #angst #virgil sanders #ts virgil #patton sanders #ts patton #...wow #torture #panic attack #i'm so sorry virgil #this was a stressful chapter for him #the next chapter will be better for him right? #right??? #:) #ask to tag #y'all: please stop hurting our boy #me: strong argument but what if i didn't #reminder that none of the sides are unsymp in this! #all members of the cult (minus pat and his dad) #are ocs! #cults #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic

[chaosincurlss]

In another world, I’m camped at my best friend’s bedside, reminding her of all the ways I’m going to help her heal, of all the ways I am grateful she survived, of all the ways I love her. She wears a sleepy smile that I’ve seen nothing short of a million times, and a hospital gown that does nothing to hide away the deep purple of the harm the world has done to her. One person should never have known so much pain, and she never should have had to be the one reaching to swipe away the tears that cascaded along my cheeks. Of course, she wouldn’t be the girl I’d grown alongside if she wasn’t the one trying to piece me back together, even when she was the one falling apart. That would be the place where I know myself, where I know the person before me, where I’ve memorized the features of the face my eyes can’t leave.

In this world, I’m looking down at a person I’ve been told is my best friend, but the girl in the coffin looks nothing like her. Everyone comments on how she looks as if she’s sleeping, but those are just the lies they need to tell themselves, because the truth is that this corpse looks like nothing more than some mangled version of Elena Gilbert. As if some twisted person had been given a canvas and asked to paint an idea of her, a broken and warped idea of her that no restorative makeup was going to fix. Some depraved creature had been let loose with the idea of Elena Gilbert and they’d left her this distorted thing. Her cheeks sunken from where her bones had been crushed and they hadn’t cared quite enough to conceal it, the line of her hair disrupted by the loss from when she’d been pulled across the gravel, the perfect button shape of her nose that should be scrunched by laughter now forever scuffed by the injuries she would never have the chance to recover from. From the slumber she would never have the chance to awaken from. I don’t know why people say they look like they’re sleeping, now more than ever, I don’t understand why they say it. At best, they look dead. At worst, they look like someone you’ve never met, but are expected to mourn anyway.

In this stranger’s stray strands of chocolate hair, I was expected to find memories of the times we’d spent playing dress up before we had any idea of what the world would be. Of when we would take turns in whichever princess dress happened to be the favorite that week, though the plastic pearl clips were the constant that stayed with us through it all, and I wished I had them now — I wished I could tuck her hair away just as we did when we were nothing but a twirling vision of trouble in tiaras, and I wished for the magic they held for us then, the type of magic that could undo the very worst of days.

When I took this stranger’s icy cold hand in mine, it should have reminded me of the very first time she’d slipped her fingers between my own, when her skin against mine spoke of something more than it ever had before, of the night that had felt like finally coming home. When we’d held our breaths, and let the silence lay heavy in the darkness of a childhood bedroom, words too much of a threat to such a flighty thing, if we’d even had words for what we were at all.

There was a sickening connection that I didn’t care to recognise in the midst of all of this — one I didn’t care to recognise, which meant that it was the only thing my mind could latch itself on to. I wanted no link between this nauseating period in my life, and any kind of happy moment that I’d been lucky enough to share with Elena, but it was there. This sense of blur that only came along with an emotion so intense that the human body didn’t know what to do with it. There was no part in our mind well enough equipped for the way that our feelings can simply overpower every other function we have, so comes the blur. Either end of the spectrum, the body doesn’t care to differentiate, it all hits the nervous system in the same way, the edges of it lost to the intensity of it all.

The moments of undiluted ecstasy. The moments of debilitating grief. A blur.

How we went from friends to more, the stretch of time it took and the ways it wove its way into my days and into the very fabric of my being, much like the days since the accident and the flurry of planning for the wake and the way that it chipped away at the very fabric of my being. A blur.

The moments when our hands ventured further than they ever had before, the way she said my name as if it were a question, as if it was everything to her, the moment they said the word ‘dead’ and there wasn’t an inkling of a question to it, as if they weren’t taking everything from me. A blur.

The way her lips brushed over the sensitive skin of my stomach and demanded that every hair I had stand in salute to her and the ways she could make me feel, the way my screen lit up with her smile every time there was a call to make and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to feel again. A blur.

Promises of forever made through tears as we braved her empty home for the first time since her parents went over the bridge and how I couldn’t leave her side, how I wouldn’t let her drown in her despair and waste what they would have wanted for her, how I stand alone without her arms around me and there’s nothing to keep me from going under. A blur.

As I try to find my memories’ home in this shell of a person I don’t recognise, without the comfort of the warm chestnut hues that housed every up and down of this rollercoaster that we had called us, the want of warmth soon boils over into a burn. A burning rage for the emptiness of it all, for the finality we would never have, for the clarity she would never be able to grant, for the moments that should have come with the time that we always assumed was guaranteed. Each moment ahead became blurred — first by the silent and pure anger that bubbled for a life that would remain unlived, buried six feet under with every possibility that went with it — second by the tears that came alongside the accompanying agony of such a realization.

From my parents, to my teachers, to my friends, to passersby on the street — I had always been this little gust of Chaos, the ever-twirling bundle of blonde curls, whose path you didn’t dare enter. Not without a taste for Chaos, or a strong enough armor to combat it.

And, oh, how the Chaos swirled below the surface, nothing in my path but this future of shattered bones and scattered dreams, and all that I knew was that I needed to reach for something real, and the scrap of this imposter that I’d been given was nothing close to enough. So much was left buried beneath the surface, beyond this face that I didn’t know, there had to be a piece of the girl I loved somewhere below the chunky wool of the turtleneck the undertakers had insisted upon. A freckle that sat just where her shoulder met her neck, perhaps they’d tucked away her mothers necklace to keep it safe, there had to be a piece of her somewhere, something to tie me to this desolation.

So, my fingers curled at the material, and pulled in search of a prayer that any God who watched over this abomination knew wouldn’t be answered. They would sit in their almightiness and laugh at the girl whose heart broke too easily, the girl who filled herself to the brim with more hope than any one person should be able to carry, the girl whose mouth would fall agape as her eyes fell upon the jagged markings that should be the dip of Elena Gilbert’s collar bones, the exact place where sweet kisses would pool in exchange for the sweeter sounds of her laughter. Not only was this not the body of someone I knew, it was barely a body at all, something sewn together and strategically layered with thick clothing to fool those who dared to gather here in this place that had no hope of salvation.

At once, my hand dropped away, and the material sprung back into place, returning back to its post to guard the secrets that lay below. I expected that the horror had found its way out from within, that the discovery couldn’t have gone unnoticed, but when my gaze shot upward — the same busy conversations were carrying on. The same stories being swapped of the loveliness of the girl we had all known, and the tragedy of such an accident, an accident that had somehow lost its details between the asphalt and this room. Silence and I weren’t well acquainted with one another, though my mind swam with the images that were now seared upon my brain, and they were something as unfathomable to me as the fact that I apparently hadn’t made a sound. Then I can feel that edge approaching, the one where the blur takes over, the one where your mind decides that your fragile little self has had too much of the emotion that it has given to you, and floats you out to sea until you can be trusted to be returned to calmer waters. There was no comfort to be found within the confines of the casket, lesser comfort to be found in the walls that surrounded me, and yet I couldn’t help but search — as if she might round the corner at any moment, and this might have been nothing more than the worst corners of my mind grasping at my dreams. Solace was all that I asked, among all of the unknown, just a moment of relief.

In a sea of unfamiliarity, there stood a startling reminder of what unfamiliar truly was, a face in the flood of bodies that swirled in this whirlpool that threatened to pull me under — an expression of complete stillness amid this Chaos, tucked away at the very edges of the crowd, where another may have let him remain nothing but alien. Not me, not the ever dutiful hostess whose role was snapping back into place at the sight of a guest left unwelcomed, one who was also uninvited as far as I was concerned. This skin of someone who planned, who preened, who tended to the details and the finer details of events — it was the familiar ground I’d needed to find my footing once again. It wasn’t the hand I’d wished to hold, it wasn’t the beauty mark I’d sworn to worship for the rest of my days, but it pulled me far enough away from the depths to satisfy the ever watchful guardian within my mind that was determined to protect me from myself. If I never said it aloud, the Gods that spent their days laughing away at my misfortune would know and wonder at the miracle of my gratitude for the rudeness of a man who showed up to a funeral without invitation. For they would know that if it weren’t for that moment, if my eyes hadn’t caught on his, if I wasn’t compelled to leave Elena’s side and ever so politely quiz him on his funeral attending etiquette — the waves would have crashed over me, and I never would have seen shore again.

[redrose689]

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Year 2248

As Spock stared at the flashing, gaudy invitation on the screen of his PADD, he – not for the first time, mind you – thought to himself what his parents would do.

When faced with a social endeavor, Spock was never one to particularly thrive. Not like his father – Sarek, Spock quickly corrected himself – did. As a diplomat, Sarek was somehow renowned for his way of making reason with even the most illogical species. The reason for this was frankly lost to Spock, who believed he hadn’t seen such skills displayed by his father in quite a few years.

Perhaps what was considered skill was really just an immeasurable amount of patience.

And then, there was his mother.

His mother was a bit trickier to decipher. As mercurial as Earth’s Pacific Ocean, one moment she was smiling and charming her way around the room (assuming that the occupants were a mix of other species rather than Vulcans, of course), and the next she was quietly bemoaning at how ‘stuffy and horrid’ the whole affair was. From across the immaculately placed table, she would send her young son a pained expression, and this little secret act would bring a warmth to his chest when he was a boy. It had become clear to Spock as he was growing up that although she did not particularly enjoy the tedious affairs that came with hers and Sarek's own respective careers, she was nonetheless capable of acting like it.

But, Spock reasoned, this Starfleet social gathering was not the same as a diplomatic affair. This is something his mother would press on him to go to – to go make friends. This was something his mother would thrive in, in a way that neither Sarek nor Spock could ever.

Frustration flared in his chest. In an uncharacteristic move, Spock tossed his PADD carelessly onto the bed, shrugged on an Earth styled coat, and walked out into the brisk San Francisco air.

Perhaps, he was approaching this predicament in the wrong manner. His siblings – wherever they may be now – would be a more relevant comparison, considering them being closer in age. But Spock quickly decided that Sybok would perhaps thrive with his natural charisma and eloquence, the latter of which was often attributed to their father. And Michael? Well, his elder sister was fearless and undaunted. Focused. On quiet nights, Spock often thought to himself that Michael was more of a true Vulcan than Spock would ever be.

Spock attempted to lift up his coat’s collar in vain, as it did little to alleviate the chilly winds that graced Starfleet Academy. Laughter echoed across from the other side of the courtyard, where a group of students sat together eating lunch.

He – not for the first time – wondered if coming here was a mistake.

As he glanced towards the students, however, a figure caught his eye.

Her short stature had slowed to a stop, as if caught in action. It took him less than a split second to recognize his mother. The only reason it took him any longer was due to her human clothing and loose, flowing hair. It was indeed his mother, Spock reconfirmed, who was somehow on Earth.

From across, Amanda Grayson raised her hand in a sheepish wave.

Spock eyed his mother's drink warily. He's only been on Earth among humans for two weeks, but he has already been made quite aware of the effects of intoxication.

"Oh, don't judge me," admonished Amanda, as she wrapped up her brown hair in a loose, messy bun. "It's been a long week."

Spock wisely decided not to press on it. "I was not aware you had business on Earth."

Amanda raised an eyebrow. "Spock, when do I ever need a reason to see my son?"

"I would assume by your tone that it is never, but it is strange considering I had seen you only thirteen days ago. Furthermore, if I recall correctly, you have not visited Earth in the past eight years."

"Was it really that long ago?" mused Amanda, a small frown gracing her face. Remembering what forced her to return to Earth eight years ago, Spock found himself reluctant to break the silence.

Amanda suddenly shook her head, as if waking up. "Love, how have you been?"

It occurred to Spock that this was the perfect (and he used that term subjectively, of course) time to bring up his predicament. Although Spock was certain of his mother's response, hearing it from her directly would be comforting. But Spock hesitated. He was already doubting his decision in coming here, and he sought no reason to bring that doubt onto his mother. His mother, he knew, would worry unnecessarily.

So instead, he answered, "I am well." He tilted his head. "May I inquire your reason for being here, if not for business?"

Faintly exasperated, Amanda reached into her bag.

Spock blinked when a small, soft item was tossed into his lap. In a forthright manner, Amanda nodded at it. "I meant to bring this to you."

The item was made of a soft, knitted wool. "It is a hat."

"A beanie," corrected Amanda. "It's your father's - he uses them whenever he has to go to an ice planet like Andoria for business. It'll suit you well here."

Amanda pursed her lips as Spock inspected it. "You don't like it?"

There was a sharpness in her tone that Spock recognized far too well. Spock and his siblings were definitely on the receiving end of it before, but it was mainly Sarek who was more often than not graced with it.

"It is appreciated," Spock answered carefully. "You travelled sixteen light years to bring me a beanie?"

Amanda gave Spock a soft smile, but it was not a familiar one. And he had a startling realization that it was sad.

“Spock,” she said, with the smile intact. “I’ve been on Earth for the past two weeks, and I’m staying. Indefinitely.”

Spock blinked. “What do you mean to do in this time?”

“I was offered by the Academy to be a visiting professor for the current academic year. We’ll see what happens after.” She raised her hands up. “Don’t worry – I won’t embarrass you here, I promise.”

We’ll see what happens after.

In Spock’s surprise, he forgot to refer to his father by his name. “You left father.”

His mother held her hand out, and Spock accepted it.

Spock always felt from his mother a flurry of emotions. She was a sandstorm, while Sarek was a levelled lake.

Spock felt from her a surprising amount of determination. Of purpose. Some fear, though it was invigorating rather than debilitating, and some sadness and pain. But there was an overwhelming amount of assuredness, as Amanda promised, “Spock, it was not because of what happened – ”

Spock spoke in a fast manner. “That is unlikely considering the argument that had entailed. While we may have had a serious disagreement, it was not my intention for you and Sarek – ”

“‘Sarek’,” suddenly exclaimed Amanda. She threw her hands up. “My god. You both can be so dramatic sometimes. Spock, he is your father. And refusing to call him such isn’t going to change anything.”

“It was his decision to denounce me as his son and cast me out of the S’chn T’gai clan.”

Amanda’s face tightened, and her smile disappeared. Part of Spock regretted that, but the other part felt relieved at stirring her out of the facade.

“I know,” she said flatly. “Believe me, I know. But that isn’t wholly it. So please, do not blame yourself for this.”

“Your words for comfort are appreciated, but not necessary. It is evident that me rejecting the Vulcan Science Academy was a source of great distress among the family, and it clearly led to the dissolution of marriage with Sarek.”

“Dramatic,” Amanda repeated. “And no, love. I am sincere when I say that this was a long time coming. Your father knew it, and I knew it as well.”

Spock found himself confused.  His mother was gazing levelly at him. Her eyebrows were slightly furrowed and her mouth in a small frown, but there was no obscene display of pain or grief. “I do not understand. I was under the impression that you and Sarek shared a… mutually satisfying and content partnership. I was not aware there were serious strains.”

Because past all the arguing and disagreements and shouting (on his mother’s behalf), Spock always saw in Sarek a softening when it came to his wife. And as for Mother, well, Spock steadfastly believed she was capable of loving anything.

His mother chuckled, and Spock deemed it genuine. “Well, your father is not always an easy man to love, and it’s not easy for a Vulcan to give it.”

“When I had asked him as a child, he said that he married you because it was logical.”

Spock remembered it clearly. He was ten years old, then. Covered in bruises and filled with confusion. That was the first time he had hit somebody.

Amanda seemed to contemplate this. Surprisingly unfazed, Amanda shrugged. “Love, you’ll learn quickly enough that logic is subjective.”

Privately, Spock disagreed.

Amanda continued, “And in some way, he believes that there are other things even stronger and more valued than love. In that, I think he’s somewhat right.”

Spock fell silent for a moment. “You do not love him anymore.” Spock found that to be a rather sad thought.

But Amanda frowned and shook her head. “I still love him. I do – it’s just love is not always enough.”

“I do not understand.”

“Well,” she mused. A strong breeze fluttered the strands around her head. “Love is only one facet in marriage – and in any relationship. Another one is history, which is tied to trust. And another is communication.” She sighed. “Your father sorely lacks in the latter. It’s a marvel, considering we are bonded.”

“You are still bonded with him?”

“Of course.” Amanda grimaced. “I know it’s confusing – I hardly understand it myself. But right now, your father and I are simply… separated.”

He thought about how Amanda was to remain here ‘indefinitely’. “Do you intend to remain so?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly after a pause. “We have reached a point where both of us have to get ourselves sorted out first before deciding anything. Your father, especially.”

Spock exhaled, in what was almost a sigh. “I am sincere when I say I did not intend for this to occur.”

Amanda patted his arm. “Spock, listen to me. This wasn’t a sudden decision that occurred solely because of Starfleet. It was a… culmination, of sorts.”

“Of the arguments?” He remembered hearing Amanda’s raised voice during certain nights. It always coincided whenever one of the children tested Sarek’s patience – which happened quite a bit.

His mother’s face softened, and it was almost warm. “No, love. It was not just the bad. All the good, the great, and the tragedies – they’re all tied together. And how your father and I ended up now is just… just how it came to be.”

Silence befell the both of them, and the sound of waves softly crashing filled the air once more.

As they walked back down the winding streets of San Francisco, Amanda asked, “You avoided the question earlier – how is everything? Classes? The people?”

Spock glanced down at his mother. It was strange, how time made his parents shrink. He could remember vividly a time when he thought his mother tall and Sarek towering, like beacons.

“I admittedly am at an impasse.” He explained to her the upcoming Starfleet social. “Essentially, I am uncertain if I should attend this gathering.”

There was a lot he hadn’t said – how he felt himself lacking in friends, in company, and in confidence – yet somehow, Spock sensed she understood. She gave him the same soft expression she always did – faintly worried yet also amused, as if they both already knew the answer.

He knew she would tell him to go and branch out and –

“So don’t go.”

They reached his dormitory building, and they both stopped as Spock turned to stare at his mother.

She smiled. “Don’t go if you are truly uncomfortable. It takes time to acclimate to a new planet and new people – and that’s perfectly alright. It took me ages to adjust to Vulcan society, and even now, I’m still always learning.” She sighed and brushed off a stray leaf from his shoulder.

“But,” she emphasized, patting his arm. “- if it fear that is stopping you, go even if you're afraid – because you're afraid. The first step is always the hardest, but you have a good, sincere heart that people will see. And think about it this way: everyone here on campus is having a fresh start – just like you. Everyone is afraid, nervous, and stressed, and that’s – ”

“Perfectly alright,” finished Spock. For once, he didn’t question the meaning of this paradoxical phrase he has heard since childhood.

His mother beamed up at him. “Exactly.”

Looking at his mother now, Spock supposed he had never seen her so relaxed in public. The only place on Vulcan she could relax was home at the D’H’riset. But on the streets of Vulcan, there was a certain image she carried – the ambassador’s human wife.

To the Vulcans, she was invisible, in that way. She wasn’t Amanda Grayson.

On Earth, she was invisible, too. No, corrected Spock – it wasn’t an invisibility. It was a freedom.

It was something Spock felt here, as well. Realizing this, Spock felt a sense of peace over his decision, for once.

Spock accepted her hug, as she continued, “And I know it’s never cool to have your mother around you during school, but I’m always here should you ever need anything – even if just company.”

“Perhaps weekly lunches will suffice.”

Spock knew he said the right thing when she hugged him tighter. “That sounds lovely.”

“Will you be well on your own?” he asked, as he stepped away.

“Yes, yes,” she assured him. “This isn’t the first time I left your father, you know.”

Spock apparently did not manage to completely hide his disbelief, as Amanda laughed, “There’s quite a bit we didn’t tell you kids, did we?”

“Evidently."

There was a familiar twinkle in her brown eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it.”

An hour later, Amanda tentatively stepped into the cool, brisk waters of the Pacific. The cold bit at her toes, but her eyes closed regardless, and she swayed against the force of the tides and wind.

She deeply inhaled the salty air and relished in the warmth of the sun’s light.

It really had been too long.

Eventually, she sat down – alone – on the white sand. She could hear the waves crashing and the sharp cries of birds as they swooped overhead, as well as the laughter from a young family sitting nearby. It was so loud here on Earth, yet it never felt more silent.

The bond was… silent.

Amanda exhaled slowly, burrowing her hands deep into the sand – and with it, her anger and sadness.

As the fine grains of sand slipped through her fingers, she remembered a time long ago, when she and Sarek were at a beach. Except it wasn’t here in California, but on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. A small smile slowly graced her mouth.

Amanda softly snorted to herself.

There many things she couldn’t tell her son, but those, well, Amanda can cherish them all herself.

#sarek/amanda #spock #sarek #amanda grayson #star trek #s'chn t'gai family #im terrible at remembering to post

[p-artsypants]

Longest Night (39) Remembering

I just want to say thank you to everyone for their reviews. I can’t respond to all of you because I just don’t have the words. But thank you! I read each and every one, and they keep me going when times are rough. Over all, reviews have been kind. I was expecting some ‘omg you’re a terrible person and I hope you die’ but that never came. You guys are just awesome and I appreciate you so so much!

I didn’t expect this story to be so long, and I’m kind of losing steam to pump it out so fast. I’ll finish it of course, but some chapters take time to figure out what’s happening. I have most of the story planned out, but the ‘when’s and ‘how’s are a little fuzzy. You guys have been very patient and I appreciate it. I just wanted to keep you informed. I think you all deserve it.

Ao3 | FF.net

—

You would think that since Adrien and Marinette were finally allowed to be together, things would be smooth sailing.

But it wasn’t. It was awkward.

Which was completely unfair in fact. She was finally with Adrien, but never alone. And he couldn’t talk. They were just out of arms reach from the other, and even if he could speak, what would they even talk about? Small talk? Surely not about the time in the catacombs.

Did he know what she did? Did he remember being an akuma? Did he know how they got out?

So many days passed in that room in silence. They watched feel-good movies one after the other. Nino and Alya would come to visit and share stories of uplifting things that had happened.

They learned of their trending hashtag. They watched the interviews with Nadja. And they got to watch the benefit concert.

“All that money was put into a fund for you guys,” Alya explained. “That way, you don’t have to worry about supporting yourselves. You are taken care of for life!”

On one hand, yes. Wonderful. Finding work and going back to school were two things that Marinette was afraid of doing, afraid of failing at. Like two giant boulders she’d have to pick away at with a tiny hammer. So to know they had a large safety net was a relief.

On the other hand, it was kind of disgusting. They were real people being tortured, with no granted privacy. Everyone had seen both of them naked, in their most vulnerable moments of weakness, crying, panicking, even hallucinating. And people were just watching it. And they got invested and wanted to know more, like they were characters in a show and not people actually suffering!

Taking donations? Fine.

But making a concert out of them like some sort of spectacle? Disgusting.

Watching the interviews, it became apparent that everyone knew about Marinette’s debilitating crush on Adrien. How awkward she was around him, how she embarrassed herself.

There was a reason she had a secret identity. So that Marinette would be safe. Marinette and her family.

What did she have left of her own?

“What was the point of that?” She asked as Jagged’s ‘Exit Music’ faded out.

“Girl, it’s a benefit concert.” Alya quirked her head to the side, like she had no idea what was wrong.

“The benefit of who?”

“Of you two, of course. What else would it be?”

“Did you plan this?”

“Well…yeah? Most of it. It was Jagged Stone’s idea though.”

“Did you pat yourself on the back afterwards? Thought you picked a bunch of really vulnerable moments to really drive the emotion up?”

“What? N-no…”

“You know what I saw? A bunch of people singing a bunch of useless songs to make themselves feel better. What was even the goal? To bring awareness to our suffering?”

Alya huffed. “Don’t be like this, Marinette. Jagged brought the idea to us because there was nothing else he could do. He’s a musician. So he wanted to play music to help you somehow. I’m sorry that my video choices upset you. I thought they were funny and captured the person you are outside the suit. I wanted others to see that person.”

Marinette didn’t have a response to that.

“And you know what? Maybe we did want to feel better. What good does it do anyone if we all sat around feeling hopeless?”

“Yeah, like I didn’t know how that felt.”

Alya exhaled hard. “That’s not what I’m saying. If everyone lost hope, who would even bother to save you? If there was no chance?”

Marinette glared at her. “Well, I hope Hawkmoth really enjoyed the concert, since he was the only helpful one.”

“He wasn’t—“ Alya growled, but bit her lip. “You know what? It’s not my place. I’m sorry. I legitimately didn’t know this would hurt you.”

Marinette turned her gaze away. “I’m sorry for snapping. Thank you for putting the concert on.”

“Nah girl, you can thank Jagged when he comes to visit. He was really worried. And you might thank Luka too.”

“I’ll try.”

—

For his own part, Gabriel was practicing the art of holding his tongue. Some moments it was difficult, but he had to tell himself it was an emotional response to seeing his only son in pain.

In this time of quiet observation, he watched Marinette and Adrien, studying the changes in behavior. Noting was setting them off in anger, and what they were okay with. His goal in the next several months was to push those boundaries.

There was no reason for Adrien to hiss at nurses that were touching Marinette.

Besides this, he was also trying to consolidate Chat Noir and Adrien, and Marinette and Ladybug. It had been a chore since the beginning, but it was still so hard to piece together.

And now with their changes in personalities, it was impossible.

He hadn’t really known Marinette. The few times he met her, he’d describe her as small. Timid, shy, unable to have eye-contact, and incredibly clumsy. From Adrien and Lila, he learned that she had a lot of people that trusted her and was easily liked.

Ladybug on the other hand, demanded attention and respect with her very presence. She exuded confidence that he had found annoying, if not respectable. Though they had been enemies, she was certainly a formidable opponent. Calm, calculating, and creative.

New Marinette was none of these things. Closed off, bitter, quiet, and volatile. Words were like pouring salt on her bare back, some grains fell in open wounds, and it was impossible to predict what would set her off.

Adrien used to be polite, graceful, and wore his emotions on his sleeves, no matter how hard he tried otherwise.

Chat Noir was obnoxious, reckless, and larger than life. He came off as a goofball, but Hawkmoth could tell he took his duties seriously.

New Adrien was impossible to read. Silent, watching, calculating. Completely stoic unless someone touched Marinette. There was no way to tell how he was coping, other than to assume he wasn’t.

The doctor was right, they were unrecognizable.

The only saving grace was the softening gaze Adrien had when looking at Marinette. She was the only thing that seemed to pull him out of his abyss.

“Good morning,” Dr. Boucher stated early one day. Adrien was awake, but Marinette was still sleeping.

“Good morning,” Gabriel returned for his son.

“Well, things are going great, I’m really thrilled with the progress both of them are making. We’ve avoided every complication, quite Miraculously. So I was hoping to do one more procedure on Adrien while he’s still admitted.”

Adrien glanced at the doctor, seemingly listening.

“Your vocal nodules. It’s a really easy procedure, we won’t even put you to sleep. Just numb the area and use a tiny laser to remove the growths. Shouldn’t take too long at all.”

Adrien turned to Marinette, whimpering in the back of his throat.

“I promise you won’t be gone long. Might even be back before she wakes up.”

“I’ll let her know if she does,” Sabine spoke up from Marinette’s side of the room. “You might as well get this done now, Adrien. Then you don’t have to come back.”

“And they’ll only get worse as time goes on.” The doctor added.

Adrien screwed up his lips and gave a stiff nod.

“That’s a good boy.”

—

Marinette awoke to Dr. Boucher speaking. “Now, in order for your vocal cords to fully recover, I don’t want you to speak for two weeks. After that, you can gradually start speaking softly. No yelling for a while. Okay?”

Marinette raised her head to see the doctor was talking to Adrien.

“What’s going on?” She asked.

“See, I told you you’d be back before she woke up.” The doctor smiled. “We just got done removing Adrien’s vocal nodules, so he should be able to speak within the next few weeks.”

“That’s wonderful.” She said softly.

“And how are you feeling?” He asked her.

She frowned. “Gross. I want to take a bath.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m afraid you can’t. But we can give you a sponge bath and wash your hair.”

Oh.

Oh.

Huh.

What a strange trigger.

One moment, she was safe in the hospital, the next, she was standing in the rain, a deranged Chat Noir next to her. They were looking in the window of a salon. Then she was in a chair, staring at her own horrible perverse reflection.

“Can I wash your hair? Give you a trim? It might make you feel better.”

And then…

Blood. Everywhere. Salo’s lifeless face dissolving into ash. Gunshots ringing in her ears. Adrenaline pumping. Bodies of her tormentors laying all around her.

And Chat smiling with blood in his mouth.

“Marinette?”

Alya’s little sisters hiding and crying. Chloe, terrified and cowering against a shelf. A man dangling over the edge of a building by his neck. Dozens of men being eviscerated, torn to shreds. A whole building worth of angry thugs laying on the floor and writhing in pain.

“Marinette!”

Bodies hanging from the Arch de Triomphe. A fight with Hawkmoth, and Chloe, and Nino.

“Alya!” Her own voice screamed. “Come out and face me! Face judgement for your neglect and betrayal!”

Over and over. Blood. Screams. Death.

Because of them.

Because of her.

A stern hand grabbed her arm. “Speak to me Marinette, what hurts?” The doctor was speaking, but Marinette wasn’t listening.

She turned to look at Adrien, who was only staring at her wide-eyed, tears of his own streaming down his face.

Gabriel was right there with him. “He’s upset too. What did you do?”

“I don’t know! I thought a sponge bath was a fine idea!”

Marinette was reading the look on Adrien’s face wrong. Her own anxieties fed her lies and told her that the fear she was seeing was directed towards her.

And to be honest, she was a little afraid of him too.

He had torn out throats with his teeth, and then laughed about it. He had enjoyed their murder spree.

And so had she. Justice, she said. They were setting things right. Doing what others were too cowardly to do.

But violent revenge wasn’t that far off from what Salo had been after.

In fact, theirs had been much much worse.

“I’m just like her…” Marinette sobbed. “I’m just like Salo.”

“Honey no.” Sabine demanded. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not an idiot!” She choked. “I know what I did! I know the whole story! I remember all of it! I’m disgusting!” And she turned away. Away from her family, away from Adrien.

But she stood firmly facing her guilt.

It was a veil being lifted. A fog rolling back to reveal memories that were aching to be noticed. Deep primal instincts that thundered inside. There was no ignoring it, and it was only a matter of time before the truth became known.

“I can’t take this,” stated Tom, who had been quiet since Marinette awoke. In quick strides, he was across the room and scooping his daughter up into his arms.

Marinette allowed him, and clung to his shirt as she wailed. Sabine came up behind her and petted her hair patiently, silently.

Adrien had his back turned from them, and trembled in his horrified shock.

How could he?

How could he be so cruel and demented? How could he enjoy murdering? With his bare hands no less?

Was he so loyal to Ladybug that he’d kill for her? She hadn’t even asked him to. Was he so depraved that that felt like the right thing to do?

He was a monster. An absolute monster.

Shakily, he took off his Miraculous and tossed it blindly, hearing it ping against the linoleum.

He didn’t deserve to be a hero. He didn’t deserve to live.

“Adrien,” Gabriel said as he crouched next to him. “You should hold onto this.” The ring rested in his palm.

Adrien shook his head, burying his face in his pillow.

Gabriel watched his son sink into himself, swallowed into a dark abyss. One he feared he’d never make it out of. But how was he supposed to help? A pat on the head? ‘There there’? Comfort was so out of realm of his expertise.

Still, there was hope for him yet if he realized there was a problem and wanted to fix it. Looking to the Dupain-Cheng’s, he found Marinette snuggled against her father. The scene was so sweet if he hadn’t known the context.

Gabriel looked to Dr. Boucher. “Can he be moved?”

“Uh, yes. I think that’d be alright.”

Coming around to the other side, Gabriel slid an arm under Adrien’s waist and forced him to sit up.

His head flopped forward and rested on Gabriel’s collar bone.

“Come on, Adrien, it’s alright.”

But Adrien just sobbed against him.

“Adrien,” Tom stated firmly. “Come here, son.” And he held out his hand.

Adrien lifted his head, his chest rising and falling with erratic breath. He looked Tom in the eyes, trailing down to his outstretched hand. That was something he wholeheartedly didn’t deserve.

“You can go,” Gabriel assured. “It’s okay.”

After a split second of hesitation, Adrien staggered to his feet and fell the last few feet to reach Marinette’s bed. Tom caught him before he hit the ground and swept him up onto his lap.

There were tears, there was repentance, and shame. It lasted far too long as the 12 hours of memories roared like a debilitating hurricane in their minds.

And then soon, it started to feel good to cry. It wasn’t great. It was exhausting and draining, but in a good way, like after running a race.

“You remember how it ended, don’t you?” Sabine asked softly. “You gave me your earrings, and I did Miraculous Cure. They’re all okay now. Maybe a little scared and confused, but they’re alive.”

Marinette sighed with a shutter. “I have to apologize.”

“If it will help. But I’m sure they understand and don’t hold it against you.”

Gabriel mimicked Sabine’s comforting motions on his son. “You were both akumatized. You know better than anyone else that akumas are irrational. They embody the very emotion they felt when they are transformed.”

“You remember when I turned into Weredad?” Asked Tom. “I trapped you in a tower, and beat up Chat Noir. You know I’d never do that. I want to protect you, but I also want you to enjoy life and make your own decisions. It was irrational.”

“And you remember when Nonna turned into Befana?” Asked Sabine. “She wanted to hurt you, Marinette. And she turned your father into coal. Grandma would never want to hurt you.”

“You see Marinette,” Gabriel continued. “A lot of akuma’s hurt, and some even kill. They petrify, and turn people to ice cream. But life goes on. Paris heals. You are just unfortunate enough to remember it.”

“Why?” Marinette whispered. “Why did we remember?”

Gabriel frowned. “I think Hawkmoth might be the only one to know the answer.”

“But that’s something to worry about later,” Sabine interjected. “You have plenty of emotions to sort through as of right now.”

Marinette nodded sagely and wiped her cheeks.

Then her eyes flicked over to Adrien.

He managed the smallest smile for her, the fear disappearing from his eyes.

It sent a spark to her heart, and her face heated up.

#longest night #ml #miraculous ladybug #chat noir #ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #fanfic #adrienette #ladynoir

[jadestrange]

Death.. it’s not what you think

I don’t know why but ever since I was a child I was soulfully drawn to a character in a drama series I’m to embarrassed to mention the name - She said somehow she’d always known she would die young and indeed she did.

Ever since I’ve never really managed to let it go. I contemplated death from an incredibly young age and I’ve never really known why. No one close to me had even ever died when I was a child, yet death and the concept of the non-existence was constantly on my mind.

I recall for some reason I always thought about it every time we would drive through this one curve of the road near my grandparents home that would trigger it. Every time they drove past it on the way to drop me off at home I would immediately imagine non-existence, something I possibly couldn’t grasp. For some reason “nothingness” terrified me.

Death seems to be motif throughout my life, but to an abnormal degree. Ever since I could cognitively dream, I had only and ONLY had lucid nightmares. I was aware. But never fully in control. If I screamed, my voice disappeared. If ran I’d move in slow motion. If I covered my eyes from gore or horror my hands and eyelids would turn transparent. I think about the age of 5/6 I finally managed to gain enough control to do one thing and one thing alone…Kill myself

It was the only escape. The simulated pain of death within a dream was much more bearable than the nightmares themselves - even though I experienced genuine pain while doing it sometimes.

One time in particular there was nothing to kill myself with. No tall building. No bridge. No water. No knife. Nothing… 

but a wall

So I ran 

over

and over

smashing my face into my wall - until I woke up.

I felt it all

In fact recently I had a similar lucid nightmare. 

The problem with lucid dreams is that the deeper you go the more real and tactical they feel... and the more you feel. 

I often recall ever tactical piece of physical items in my dreams, analyzing them with my hands and fingertips in awe, amazement and sometimes fear at how real they felt. There was no physical telling in the difference between the dream and reality itself. Only the conscious tells whether it is or isn’t a dream - normally due to the absurdity of their nature.

In this Dream people or things were chasing me. Fear pure fear. I don’t know why. But all I knew was that THAT emotional pain was so unbearable that the risk of the pain of jumping headfirst off a bridge was worth it. I took a moment, feeling the scratchy grit of the cold metal poles of the bridge railings inside my sweaty palms. ‘This felt real’ I knew it. ‘But I had to’, it was the only way to escape. I was no longer in the lucid state of being able to control my environment only myself. I had to fight every instinct any real person would jumping head first into the low ground, the only difference was that little shred of hope - that maybe - just maybe I would wake up from the impact before I could feel anything.

I wonder if that’s what people who jump off buildings think as they’re falling down and there’s no turning back - that maybe - just maybe - they’ll die before they feel any true pain.

I paused writing this. A sudden chilly reminder came over me of a boy who momentary lost his sanity and indeed jumped head first down the stairs and indeed died. My friend saw it... I just felt a memory of a dream doing the same thing. That was weird.. I’m moving on

So right death. Another theme I carry is the need to resolve things with everyone and anyone I have encouraged to the point that it is either annoying or maddening for other people.

I guess I felt and still feel like I’m in a perpetual awareness of my death possibly arriving on tomorrows door.

Or perhaps I just want to feel lighter, because everything else, all the hidden things were too heavy to carry on their own. Like a camel’s back I could handle no straw - or more yet not even a feather.

I guess that makes me rather pathetic in other people’s eyes. But perhaps those are normally the eyes of someone who has not felt that weight.

I’m aware that a kg/ton of feathers is the same as a kg/ton of straws ( a metaphor for different the forms of pain if you didn’t catch that) - but how strong are the camel’s legs? How wounded are they? How well nourished were they since they were born? Are they loved or lashed?

Perhaps the weight may seem the same to outsiders eyes however - how it feels internally cannot be seen but merely felt by those who themselves have experienced it or at least something very similar.

I think I have a very confusing and troubling relationship with Death. On one side it always made me aware of the appreciation of my existence (the physical world, emotions, senes, conceptualization)

But on the other side it always came with an impending sense of constant pressure to fulfill my deeds and “pay my debt” in some sense. perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. More like “do the best I can” you know? Leave your mark on the world, give something back, make a positive impact as your farewell.

Which could either be unrealistic or perhaps it is just my assumption how grander that impact has to be. Something big. Something that says “The carbon footprint left by this one was worth it” haha.

Is that silly? Is that normal? Do other people feel this way or is everyone right about me? That I put too much pressure on myself.

Which too within itself seems to be a contradiction since society itself, friends, family, work, reputation, sustainability all requires pressure.

Some say I over think. While I think others under think.

Which is funny - considering I once had a lectuer tell me I was under thinking a script concept when in reality he was under thinking and unwilling to assume it had any more nuances or complexities that was an incredibly difficult topic to tackle.

It’s funny how sometimes you can seem stupid when you try explain something complex because the jargon and general context / information you’ve build up over time seems so obvious to you. Without that context your explanations can become muddled - since they would require a lot of time to give the context.

Quantum Physics for example. I remember trying to explain the concept to my friends in high school. It seemed… crazy - ridiculous - stupid - pseudo. In a strange retaliation my ex BFF went to the science teacher and queued it to come back to our group to tell me I was wrong (after we all agreed to have dropped it by the way).

I of course responded “Yes because a person who’s literally only studied a high school’s equivalent of physics would have the knowledge of a field way beyond her years and degree”

Eh.. School. Not so much friends. More just the people you settle for. Looking back all my relationships were pretty toxic - aside from one. I wrongfully teased my one friend for having hairy legs once and I still feel really bad about it today, in fact I messaged her a few years ago about it saying sorry.

But what the rest did to me… was.. ah.. definitely not on the same scale. I was betrayed a lot.

I got use to betrayal from a young age. Families seem to think it’s funny to undermine things that are important to children. It’s like they seek joy from it, I think they think it’s fun for the kids but it’s not.

Having your secrets shared between your family and laughed at as a child is.. betrayal. Being neglected, left in unsafe or unhealthy hands, unjustifiably disciplined … physically disciplined - are all betrayals.

I got accustomed to it. Silence was the way. Never tell anyone anything. People don’t help you anyway. In fact they often use it against you. Or worse undermine your pain.

It was strange.. I was clearly bullied. Yet I was the one who got sent to a shitty - oh lets just distract you for a bit but not really do anything- school councilor.

Death… mm. death death death. I understand the contemplation at around the time I started school, but why when I was like little little? Why have I always been crushed so easily?

Why was I always a target?

Did I want pity? no.. maybe sometimes (not that THAT ever worked - but no mostly it is was genuine emotion and debilitating pain. Crying. Freezing. Hyper-ventilating.

I wonder if I did it to myself. Had I done something so outright bizarre that deemed my the school target? What it cause I was a year younger? Was the shame of teachers shouting at me due to my ADD in front of my class.

Or was I just Overly Empathetic?  I remember my first day of school…. the teacher shouted at a girl next to me and I started crying - she in turned shouted at me for crying.

Despite being broke now I did have money as a kid. Not like the rich kids of the school but, I had lunch money. Maybe that was it. I shared it too often maybe?

Was I too honest? Too weird? Too much of a push over? It was everything I had every been taught to my by mother’s side of the family. The family I mostly grew up in.

It’s quite sad. My mom could write a way better book full of funny characters and bizarre relatives like a movie - all the drama - the comedy. She started writing - it was good too. But she was too tired from work and stopped.

I think it’s sad because my stories aren’t funny.. just sad. Maybe with some beautiful moments (although the best ones would be indescribable). I think hers would have been better. A story a woman overcoming a broken abusive family and poverty who worked her way to the top of owning her own company.

Inspiring.

While mine just feels like a bummer… maybe that’s just because it isn’t finished yet.

#mental health #daily diary #death #do you feel the same #melencholy #writing #personal #new to blogging #late night contemplations #quiet contemplation #self contemplation #contemplation #broken #strange #life is strange #life is hard #life is weird #lifelessons #my story #add #parents #being #existence #existance #pondering #diary #depressing shit #life #being a kid #being human

[bow-woahh]

As our differences divide us

Summary: 

Adora believes in the Horde. Catra doesn’t.

Or

An AU where Adora (with the sword) stays with the Horde and Catra leaves for the Rebellion.

Relationship: Adora/Catra

Words: 3287 Notes:

This work is for the She-Ra Winter Gift Exchange, my recipient was @catrahappinessclub who requested a canon divergence AU, which is something I rarely write, and ended up being a bit of a challenge for me. One I thoroughly enjoyed however. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

(read below the cut or here on Ao3)

——

The first time they see each other after Adora’s recovered from Thaymoor, Catra assumes things will be the same.

Well, actually, her instincts have an inkling of doubt.

Of course, she doesn't voice this to anyone—especially not to Adora herself. Instead, she goes back to the barracks; sits on Adora's (practically their) bed and waits, because immediately after she’d recovered Adora and gotten her back to the Fright Zone, Shadow Weaver had (according to one of the senior cadets who’d been there after Catra was shooed away) taken her in for questioning—what does that even mean? And why ask Adora who was barely conscious when they'd gotten back, when there was all the other cadets, or better yet, Catra?

She laughs to herself.

The witch obviously just wants Adora to herself, to congratulate, indoctrinate, whatever it is she normally does. Catra thinks if it was her in that situation, it would hardly be as nice; Weaver would somehow turn it into a punishment as she always does. Never Adora though. Never Adora, and as long as she's okay, Catra can live with herself. But—

She shakes her head and doesn't bother entertaining the idea.

Getting increasingly impatient, Catra tries to occupy her mind, but she can only focus on how her tail can't seem to stop moving, and she wonders what they're doing that's taking so long. It takes so long for Adora to come back that Catra starts to dose of in that time, comfortable at the foot of her –their– bed. One eye cracks open when she smells the faint familiar scent of Adora, who must still be making her way to the barracks. Her tail perks up, and her ears twitch as she listens out for the footsteps of her friend; her pupils practically dilate as she waits poised to tackle Adora onto the ground the moment she sees her.

Before she even passes through the doorway, Catra is already springing off the bed to greet Adora unceremoniously, saying a split second too early, “Adora!”

However, when she finally enters, the Adora she expects to see is far from the reality.

Weak. She’s frail, barely standing, to the point where Catra is surprised she’s managed to get here all the way from Weaver's lair. Eyes half lidded, bags burrowed deep, out of breath—no doubt from exerting more energy walking—how is she worse than before?

"Catra…" she all but whispers, before collapsing into her arms, nearly the ground, though Catra catches her just in time.

“Jesus Adora!” Catra hisses, panicked as she drags her to the bunk. She lays her down slowly, one hand cradling her head and the other on her back.

All Adora does is give her a reassuring smile, practically mouthing, “Sorry...I’m just a little–”

“Tired? Yeah I know, you were gone for a while, y'know, but what…What happened out there?” Catra interjects, curiosity – and concern – getting the best of her.

“I went to recover the sword.” Adora states plainly, as if she expects Catra to understand the importance of it. The day they stole the skiff flashes back into her mind: the rush and adrenaline of driving it; the giggles and laughter; the Whispering Woods; the shoving and pushing; driving just a little too high which ended in Adora falling and then—

“You mean the sword you thought you saw after you hit your head?” Catra says, sarcasm bleeding through her voice, even though she saw a glimpse of it earlier, not only is it hard to believe the thing’s real, but also it’s an easy jab at a bleary Adora who glares at her halfheartedly, shaking her head.

Sitting up slightly, leaning in and grabbing hold of one of Catra’s hands, she says, “Catra, It’s here, I found it. I was right! I think it was, like, calling to me.” The grip on her hand only gets firmer as Adora says a smidge quieter than before, “I’m sorry I didn’t let you come with me, I just didn’t want you to get in trouble on my behalf.”

Makes sense. Adora’s always so considerate and careful about not getting her in more trouble than she’s usually in with Shadow Weaver. Catra appreciates it at times, and at others...it feels like even Adora sees her a pet to keep out of their ration bars.

Catra sighs, but it isn’t exactly out of exasperation. “Fine. It’s fine. I saw it anyway—I was just messing. But, I thought you’d be feeling better by now.”

“Huh?” Adora says, and it perplexes Catra immensely. Is she that delirious from debilitation she doesn’t know what she’s talking about?

“The sword, it must have tired you out or something, right? You were barely awake when we’d gotten back.” Catra looks at her, expecting something back, expecting this to prompt her memory, and although it seems like Adora’s trying, she has this blank look on her face which she tends to make when she pretends to know what she’s talking about.

“Yeah...the sword,” Adora nods, far too slowly for it to go noticed, and in any other situation Catra would laugh at the empty stare she’s receiving, but Adora’s just gotten back from the black garnet chamber, after being gone for nearly a whole day chasing after some magical sword.

“What happened before?” Catra asks, hoping all she needs is a little more probing.

“Before what?” Adora replies, face falling into utter defeat as she admits she has no clue what Catra’s talking about.

“Before we found you, Adora!” Catra says, hands moving away from her and voice rising above the optimum level for a fatigued, confused Adora, who as a result flinches at the shift in volume. She instantly wants to apologise for it, but she can’t bring herself to, in fact, she virtually forgets to when she goes to look at Adora again, who’s concentrating so hard on searching for the answer Catra wants.

Evidently, thinking intensively is far too taxing, as a second later Adora is wincing, hand gripping her head as if she’s trying to push back against the pain, in a fight she’s bound to lose. Catra moves a little closer, and in an attempt to comfort her, places her both hands on Adora’s face, one atop of Adora’s hand tangled in her hair. She whispers ‘it’s okay’ over and over, until the winces and whimpers placate, and she brings both their hands back down to Adora’s lap.

“Did...you don’t remember do you?”

Adora shakes her head, looking down and the grimy floor.

“Do you remember leaving? Finding the sword? Being in Thaymoor?” Catra implores, trying to see how big the gap in her memory is.

“I...I remember leaving, and finding the sword…” she speaks slowly, as if she’s trying to picture the events in her head. “Then, I think that...there was—”

“There was what? C’mon Adora, think,” Catra says eagerly, adamant to try and fit the scattered puzzle pieces together which are Adora’s thoughts.

Adora shuts her eyes, humming, softly at first then, as she continues, “I think there...there–” she winces again, this time harsher, almost guttural and choked up, the grip on Catra’s hand dead tight. Catra’s eyes widen and she realises she may have pushed too hard again. She bites the inside of her cheek.

“So you don’t remember?” She asks again, despite not needing the clarification. Frankly, she’s just not sure what to say at this point.

Adora, once again, shakes her head and says quietly, “no.”

Catra recalls the events of today and how she had felt. How her excitement had quickly dulled as they passed through Thaymoor, seeing all those dead bodies, seeing mere children, seeing people her age, laying limpless on the ground, void of all life. If she hadn’t been with the Horde...would that have been her? She had no doubt it would. Hordak, Shadow Weaver, they’re both cold blooded and hardened, unempathetic, unsympathetic even. Catra, on the other hand, she’s not like that, no. Hardened, maybe, but she’d never...she’d—she wanted to throw up. How could Shadow Weaver send them there? Well, she knew exactly why. Her obsession with Adora was as clear as day to see, seeing as she sent a whole squadron to look solely for her.

She swallows back the bile in her mouth at that thought, just as she always does when similar things come and intrude in her mind. Then she thinks of something else. “That sword...do you remember using it?”

The question seems to unnerve Adora, as she looks down at their hands in her lap. Catra hopes she isn’t asking too much of her, hopes Adora isn’t hurting herself for her again. “I, um, just remember a surge of power...and feeling heavier and lighter at the same time, and uh, like electricity was rushing through my veins. It’s less of a memory and more of a feeling, I guess.”

“So you remember using the sword—or the feeling of using the sword, but not why, where, if there was anyone with you…” Catra uses her free hand to scratch the back of her head.

“Well, I do know we were in Thaymoor, Shadow Weaver said just as much. I just don’t know what actually happened.” Adora says. “Why does it matter anyway? It was probably just the sword, Shadow Weaver said—”

“If it was the sword, why can’t you remember anything before using it?” Catra says, only mildly irritated at Adora’s usual obliviousness, even if it’s more acceptable than usual considering the circumstances. It’s impossible not to consider the one conclusion she wishes she could stay away from: Weaver. The old hag must have done something. Catra isn’t sure what, but figures it must have something to do with that sword.

From what Adora says about it, using the thing must have tired her out...Catra wants to believe that’s all there is to it, that Adora is just weary from a power that frankly seems beyond the Horde and beyond them all—though Catra doesn’t have time to dwell on that at the moment. Though surely, Weaver would want to replenish her star student energy then? The unease Catra feels is too glaringly obvious for her to ignore, and her instincts all tell her to push on and uncover the answer she knows she’ll receive.

“What else did Weaver say to you? About the sword.”

“She said it possesses a lot of power that only I’m able to use, and how she could strengthen it to be even more of an asset to the Horde.” Adora says it pridefully, clearly pleased at herself and Shadow Weaver’s praise.

That’s when it clicked. The swords power. It’s linked directly to Adora from what Catra can gather, so...her coming back like this had to mean Weaver took some of that power. She realised years ago that black garnet only has a finite amount of power, meaning the same can be said for Weaver. But would she really...to Adora? And what did Adora see that made the hag erase her memory? Was it something that could ruin the Horde? That would make Adora realise Shadow Weaver’s poor treatment of everyone and...and of Catra? Maybe she realised and she—

“It was her.” Catra’s face contorts into something close to anger and disgust mixed into one, hand pulling away from Adora’s.

Predictably, Adora’s face falls, similar to the bewildered face Catra’s seen countless times before, but yet different, with a hint of something else Catra doesn’t bother to put a name to. Adora sits up fully, leaning against the metal wall as she says, “No, she’s helping, like she always is, she cares and wants me to succeed and—”

“They’re using you! Can’t you see?” Catra’s standing up now, hands waving around maniacally, desperate for her to realise what’s always been right in front of her.

“No, they’re not. Clearly, you’re just jealous and don’t want to admit to it Catra.” Adora’s voice is firm and unwavering, like she well and truly believes it. Catra wants to think that it’s only because of whatever mind wiping the witch has done but even before—

“I–” Catra cuts herself off, swallowing down any words she thought to say, deflating completely from her rise of temper.

Adora moves to the side of the bunk, facing Catra fully, who doesn’t miss the small grunt of exertion she lets out doing so. It makes her heart hurt seeing Adora like this, incapable of making it better.

“I don’t understand the problem Catra. Isn’t this what you wanted? With the sword, I can be on top, we can be on top...together.”

Technically, she’s not wrong. Catra did say she wants that. Though, she’s starting to realise only one of those things is alluring to her. One of those things is sitting right in front of her, in pain because of them, because of her.

“They’re hurting you, Adora. She’s going to hurt you more, and I can’t just stand and watch, not when—” Catra stops herself, refusing to look at Adora in case she breaks down right here—she can already feel the cracks in her voice, the bottled up emotions and years’ worth of feelings seeping through that are meant to be contained, that are meant to stay below the surface.

“Hey, Catra...” Adora says, soft enough it soothes her ailments, allows her to look up off the ground. She pats the seat next to her and Catra finds herself ambling over, despite everything, despite how she’s angry and upset; she finds herself in Adora’s arms, ears flattened and tail curling around Adora waist, pressed into her chest, trying to suppress any whimpers, any noise at all from making her weakness more overt. Eventually, Adora’s hand migrates to scratch behind her ear, and any noise that were once whimpers are now purrs, and for a while it’s enough.

It would always be enough, Catra thinks, if it weren’t for the Horde.

That’s when she voices what she’s been thinking for...for too long, but never dared to utter it, knowing it wouldn’t be taken seriously, or worse, it would be turned down, and she always thought if that happened, that her heart would crack in two. But maybe, just maybe Adora would. Maybe she would this time.

“We could...we can leave here y’know—Together, tonight. We, uh, We can rest up and then just like you did in the middle of the night we can, yeah, we can leave, only this time we don’t come back. You, you can take your magic sword too, and we can figure it out together. Can’t we?”

And it’s crazy, maybe a little impulsive, definitely desperate, but Catra thinks things could work, and for a second Adora looks like she thinks it could too. Then, just as she expects deep down, the words she’s been dreading come out.

“Catra...I can’t,” she says, touch unwavering as she continues to stroke behind her ear, as if to pacify her, or simply delay Catra from exploding.

There’s a possibility it works, however Catra thinks it’s more likely that she just feels too weak to fight Adora, not like this, not when she already lost the battle before it had begun. Still, she tries again, no matter how futile. “Why? Why not Adora?”

Adora lets out a small sigh, but answers nonetheless. “Well...this, it’s our home, and the Rebellion, they’re dangerous. Shadow Weaver said they must be the ones responsible for my current state, and it only makes sense. You have to understand that we’re safe here, Catra.”

At that, Catra laughs, she can’t help it, and Adora’s touch wavers now, and Catra sits up, gazing right into her eyes. She knows exactly what she wants to say, what she’s always wanted to say, but instead, she settles on: “Then how come you can’t remember a thing? How come you’ve come back here looking worse than you did after Thaymoor? Answer that.” She spits each word out like venom on her tongue, and the look Adora gives her tells her she feels it to.

Searching far and wide to form words that will make an appropriate response, Adora holds Catra’s stare, then slow and calculated, she says, “Catra...we already went through this and I—”

“Because really Adora,” Catra starts, voice slowly rising, “I know you can be pretty oblivious but I thought even you could see that the Horde are not the good guys!”

The reaction Catra gets is not at all what she anticipates. Adora’s countenance goes from the once calm expression to one of hurt, guilt — which Catra can’t wrap her head around — then as if a memory’s resurfacing, she clutches her head as she did before, only this time, she truly looks like she’s in pure agony, so Catra puts aside her grievances once more and pulls Adora close, who whimpers, cries, whispers nonsense, some of the words sounding close to an ‘I’m sorry’. She holds her like this until the whispering stops, until the cries stop, until the whimpers stop, and holds her past that too, until everyone else is trailing in to get to their bunks and Adora is sound asleep. None bother to take note, or poke fun, or worse, threaten to report it. Maybe they will tomorrow, but Catra’s bribed (or threatened) for their silence many times — Not that tomorrow matters for her.

Catra lets herself cling onto this moment, lets herself indulge as much as she possibly can, especially knowing this is the last time she’ll be able to. For a little while, she closes her eyes, listens to Adora’s steady breathing and the sound of metal clanging and pipes churning. Age old comforts. Soon after, when she knows for a fact everyone is deep in their own slumber, she wriggles out of Adora’s strong hold (still firm although she’s asleep) slowly enough not to wake her, slowly enough that it’s almost excruciating for herself. She lets out a sigh as she looks at Adora’s sleeping form. Beautiful, even like this. Catra’s never had to say goodbye, not to anything she’s actually cared about. This is a first. One she never thought she’d have to experience. A single tear rolls down her cheek before she reminds herself she’s past that, and wipes it quickly, disregarding its existence.

I hope we see each other again, Catra wishes to say aloud, but refuses to try her luck. Hopefully under different circumstances.

She contemplates writing a note, but that seems far too incriminating, not to mention she doesn’t have much time. Instead, Catra’s parting gift is much simpler: one kiss on her knuckles, and then, because she can’t help herself, one on her forehead too. This one lingers for a moment, just as she wishes she’s able to do, but she knows her time is up. Realising she has no clue where she’ll go, she stops to think, and her mind wanders back to her and Adora’s conversation. Shadow Weaver and Hordak have always claimed the Rebellion were evil. Though, seeing as their words had no influence on Catra’s thoughts anymore, who’s saying it’s true? It looks like she’d be heading to the Whispering Woods again then. And somehow, Catra would figure out exactly what happened, she would help Adora.

As she leaves the barracks, Catra looks back one last time, but this time she can’t linger too long, because she’s sure she’d change her mind and give in. This time, she can’t afford to. When she starts walking she doesn’t look back.

Goodbye Adora.

The next time they see each other, Catra knows things will be different.

***

#she ra secret santa #she ra winter gift exchange #adora spop #catra spop #spop #spop fics #shera fics #oneshot #she ra and the princesses of power #catradora #catradora fics #micahs writing #micahs fics #this one was a lil angsty ngl #enjoy!