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Prestige...

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Half of this fandom simp for this man

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THIS, READ THIS PLEASE

everyone is posting their takes on the tom casiello incident so heres mine

Seguir leyendo

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Can't believe that worked

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This is what I call pure luck

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"I'm here because I have to be. What's your excuse?"

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;; Everyone decided to bully me, so I'm getting revenge. ùmú

Warning: Blood

That's about as far it goes cjjdkw ;;

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There wasn't a single coherent thought flying through his head, a dreadful sense of panic and despair gripping his heart with an icy claw, unrelenting in its hold. So much crimson oozed from the gunshot wounds in his abdomen, slowly dripping onto the cold ground below. His normally smiling visage was a pained grimace, tanned features now suddenly pallid, sickly.

He didn't remember everything that happened. He remembered a man raising a gun within a crowd, the man on the ground rushing to pull him aside, away from the shooter's aim. He remembered screams, remembered being yanked into a dingy alleyway, and that was it. It felt like everything played in slow motion, even when the other's body collapsed from blood loss, just barely clinging onto consciousness.

Elliott looked up at him with those big hazel eyes of his, not a shred of remorse or regret in them. He didn't even look particularly scared of dying. He looked peaceful, and it only made Park's heart clench more at the sight of the man so willing to die for him. It made him sick—he didn't deserve such kindness, not after the atrocities he's had to commit to get here.

Elliott didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die in his place. He didn't deserve to die in some disgusting alleyway, his mother absent at his side, the face of the man who killed him the last thing he saw. This isn't how he deserved to die. This wasn't right. None of this was right—no, it wasn't fair.

But, even though he was just on the verge of death, weak from so much of his blood leaving his body, Elliott's hand raised, brushing a thumb along his cheek, wiping away the tears he hadn't realized he let fall. He hated crying. He hated appearing weak. He cried when they died, when she died, and now when he died. Just another person to sob over, another face to haunt him, another reason to get justice, more blood on his hands.

"Hey sugar," the trickster whispered, voice cracking and weak, near inaudible. He found himself placing a hand upon the other's, holding it there; it was cold, "you don't need to cry. That's not how I want to see my baby for the last time."

Park hadn't said anything since he heard gunshots ringing through the air, hadn't moved much on his own up until moving his hand to hold Elliott's. He had fallen to his knees, looked over the wounds in horror and realization.

"Y'know," Elliott began, and Park wanted to tell him to shut up, idiot, save your strength, but he couldn't speak, couldn't move his mouth to formulate a sentence, "I really wanted to start a family with you before I died… Not… Not sure how you feel about… kids, but… maybe, one day… we could've adopted…"

A sad smile spread across the trickster's visage, looking up at Park with so much adoration that he felt like he was going to get sick.

"Mom would've loved it… Would've loved to see little grandkids running around…" He suddenly frowned, laying his head on the cold cement, suddenly appearing to have some shred of regret. "Mom… kinda… fucked up that promise… to not die on you…" A sigh left him, strangely amused. "You'll… probably just forget me anyway…"

"Elliott!"

Surprise overtook the holographic expert's visage, eyes riding to meet Park's once again. There was so much pain in those beautiful eyes of his. It was like looking into the eyes of a man who had lost the entire world—and maybe he did. Those crystalline tears were pouring out now, streaming down his cheeks and into those fascinating cybernetics, falling into his lap. He didn't really see Park cry much. When the nightmares were bad and the anxiety became too much, sure, but he rarely, if ever, cried out of sadness.

He reminded Elliott a bit of a kid, actually. He couldn't control his tears, the tightness of his grip on Elliott's cold hand. He was hiccuping, trying to calm his sobs, but it seemed to be in vain. It wasn't the look he wanted to ever see on his beloved's face, especially if it's caused by him.

"Stop… talking… please…" Park somehow managed between the sobs and gasps, grasp tightening on Elliott's hand. "Save your strength—"

"Sweetheart, I hate to tell you this… but shutting up isn't gonna save me… as much as you want it to." Elliott chuckled before groaning in pain, weakly curling his fingers against the hacker's cheek. "I… I really did want to live my life with you…" That sad smile returned, eyes looking over Park's features, over every freckle he's memorized and over every unique shape. "I would've loved to know what your answer would be if I asked… if I ever gained the courage and asked you to be mine… until we're old and grey… a-and yelling at kids to get off our lawn."

"I would've said yes…!" Park's volume had risen, spoken with clarity, so Elliott didn't have to strain himself to understand it. "I… I would have said yes…"

"You'd live the rest of your life with little ol' me?" That got a better smile from Elliott to appear, genuine with his eyes warm and full of happiness. It was the look Park wanted to see him with—everyday of his life, not just now. "Baby? Can you smile? Just once? I know it kills your cool vibes, but… I don't want to die knowing I left without seeing that pretty face smiling… one last time…"

It was hard, and Park had to pretend he wasn't watching Elliott's life fade from his eyes, but his lips did curl, and, though tears still fell from his eyes, there was a smile for him, his final request. It wasn't perfect by any means—lips quivering from the suppressed sobs threatening to escape him, eyes still shedding tears uncontrollably, and hands still tightly grasping the hand pressed so firmly against his cheek—but he couldn't deny Elliott this. He couldn't deny the man he gave everything to and took everything from.

The trickster's smile broadened just a bit. "Perfect… just like always…" He gently tugged Park down until he was able to press his lips against the other's in a momentary kiss, the hacker now leaning over his prone body, the smile having faded from his visage. "I love you, Tae Joon. Kick their asses for me."

And, just like that, the life faded from his eyes, and Park was alone.

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Crypto angst?

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Your Fic about Crypto taking care of Mirage is so cute!! I really like the idea of an embarrassed Crypto doing his best to take care of Mirage. But please allow me to show you another situation, Crypto looking for Mirage to pass the time and finds him in his room crying, Mirage says nothing and Crypto just stays there to comfort him.

Mmmm yes I love me some angsty boys. Thank you for the request!!!!

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Tired eyes were glued to the inner workings of the surveillance drone, the hacker replacing busted components and making any necessary repairs to its chassis. He had been working for hours, but he was almost finished, almost done. He just needed to fix the drone's optic and he should be done.

The optic was smashed earlier, Pathfinder accidentally hooking his grappling hook directly into the poor drone's glass optic, shattering it and giving Park a heart attack at suddenly being blinded. Safe to say his drone was useless the rest of the match, only used to EMP whenever the situation called for it. Park kept getting hit with it as well, so he was just about finished with anything that was capable of electrocuting and startling him.

After finishing, though, he decided he didn't want to sleep. His body may be exhausted, but his mind continued to race with thoughts. None were unpleasant; he just wanted to expand on them more, explore what they meant and how they could be more.

However, he didn't want to be left alone with them all night. His mind tended to drift off into different subjects entirely, and they'll likely be ones that make his heart ache and ruin any chance of enjoying his night. There was a guaranteed way of keeping the negative thoughts at bay, though.

Wrapping up his work, placing his drone's chassis back where it belongs, the hacker rose from his chair, stretching out to ease the stiffness in his joints, before he left his room.

Elliott was sometimes wandering the drop ship at night. One could find him staring off into the distance outside, leaned against a rail and enjoying a drink—never anything too alcoholic, nothing that would make him incoherent. Sometimes, he would be watching TV in the lounge, eating a bag of chips, sipping on a can of soda. Other times, he was in his room, working on a project or messing with his suit. There was rarely any other place he was found, Park discovered.

That being said, he tried outside first. There wasn't any sign of him there, however. Afterwards, he checked the lounge. No TV showing the newest episode of that drama Elliott was so fond of, so he wasn't here either. Lastly, Park went to Elliott's room, knocking gently on the door. Surprisingly, he was met with silence.

That's weird, Park thought, knocking again. He's not asleep, is he…?

He recalls Elliott always mentioning that he didn't mind it if Park came inside his room without the other knowing. Park never really went in without permission; he values privacy, and he wouldn't want to invade Elliott's for no reason other than concern.

He'd gently knock again, waiting, before he was yet again met with uninterrupted silence. Quietly, he'd turn the doorknob and push it open, peeking inside.

Elliott's room was always neat and tidy. All of his merchandise and gear was always set in their designated spots and cleaned to perfection. The bed was always made, the floor was never cluttered, and the small workbench he had in his room never appeared messy, components and tools never splayed about haphazardly. It was a contrast from Park's own room—always messy, too busy to get around to cleaning up—so he was surprised to find it in a disarray.

Paper was spread across the floor, his bedspread was unmade, and, sat at his desk, head in his hands with shoulders shaking, was Elliott, quiet sobs muffled by those gentle hands. He was in his pajamas, likely having just woken up, but Park never knew; he was relatively oblivious to what went on in Elliott's room after everyone went to bed, only to the fact that, much like himself, the trickster was an insomniac with a habit of keeping himself awake with work or phone calls.

With his phone thrown on the floor, Park was assuming it was the latter.

Elliott rarely, if ever, talked about his issues, which is something Park himself related to—almost too much. He was always donning that sunny disposition, all glamour and smiles. He never liked people seeing his sadness, knowing that he was suffering. He was a people pleaser, and people weren't pleased when he wasn't charming.

And, as always, Park lacked the knowledge to console him. He knew little about his mother's condition, the fluctuating memory loss, but he didn't know just how severely it affected Elliott sometimes. He was strong, probably stronger than Park ever could be, but he could break, just like everyone else, as much as he wouldn't admit it. But he was never good at comfort, even before the Apex Games. He was never one his foster sister went to for support. He was never the one to ask for support. He was always alone, so he never developed those skills everyone seemed to have, able to hug someone and make everything go away.

So, that's what he did. He treaded through the papers without stepping on them, avoided startling the other, and, gently, his arms slid over the other's shoulders, head coming just beside Elliott's. The trickster froze for a moment, face moving away from his hands for a second to see just who the intruder was, but he immediately relaxed upon seeing familiar hands hanging delicately against his chest. Park's hugs were never warm and inviting, always a little awkward and stiff, but this one—it was tight and caring.

It was enough to cause more tears to pour out, for Elliott's hand to gently grip the other's wrists and let all of the weight that pulled him under release its hold. Park merely stood behind him, pressing his forehead against the side of his head, never speaking nor uttering a sound. There was nothing he could say that would make it all better—couldn't say "it'll all be okay," because it won't, and he wasn't one for false hope. He just let the other cry, let the pent up sorrow flow, simply being there for him in the only way he knew how.

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"I used to fear many things, but that man is gone."

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They totally talk about nerdy stuff 

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Crypto’s Dejá Loot skin is so pretty... I have feelings for that skin 

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난 저 무너지는 건물이고 I’m building that is collapsing 넌 수없이 부딪히다 죽어버린 낡은 비명 You’re a warn-out shriek that has been beaten to death  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-mNXYebIBs

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The Prestige...

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Mirage sweetheart... Why is it so difficult to draw your beard?

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☺️

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A series of doodles based on a true story of ranked woes and a random who kept running off very far away and into three way team fights alone!

My buddy doesn’t like it when I go awol in Octane fashion… But sometimes you just can’t help it…

I’ve started up an Apex fanblog, where I will be reblogging and posting most of my stuff! Please give it a follow if you are interested!

It’s Octane-s !

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Mirage go to therapy challenge