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lifblogs · 25 days

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Afliplan Diatane

Week 13 Prompt: "Stop touching me!" // "I'm not touching you!" Alt. Prompt: Crashing Hard Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 3004 Summary: Eight weeks ago Hunter was shot, and he received life-saving surgery, and has been recovering... now with the help of a med he's no longer supposed to be taking. Hunter's body doesn't handle running out of it very well. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Drug Dependency, Suicidal Thoughts READ ON AO3

“Stop. Touching. Me,” Hunter hissed out through clenched teeth. He was in the cockpit, hanging his head over the console, waiting for the nausea he had grown quite used to dissipate.

Tech huffed from beside him, and moved away. “Technically I am not touching you. I was about to.”

“I felt the air displace from your hand.”

“I understand you have enhanced senses, but that sounds quite ridiculous.”

Hunter couldn’t tell him it was extra sensitivity from the meds. While they dulled the signals he was getting from his nerves, they seemed to enhance everything else, especially around when his body expected a dose. He didn’t want the others to know he was still on them though. But he needed these meds. He wasn’t an addict of some sort. He needed them!

Even now with the medicine re-entering his system the pain in his abdomen was an ache that stole all his thoughts. He had in fact been groaning, a hand to his stomach, until he’d at least sat down to get some rest.

The hand at his stomach clenched, a throb going around to his hips.

Tech leaned in, and Hunter wanted to snap that he was too close.

“Are you healing well from your surgery?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hunter lied.

To him it was a lie. The Kaminoan doctors said he was fine, that he could go back in the field, but he didn’t think fine meant that it would be hard for him to walk, to sit up, to do anything. It was always there—the pain, right on the edge of his awareness, if not fully taking it over.

He was hiding the medicine from his squad. He couldn’t let them know. They’d take them away, or report that he wasn’t up for active duty. He’d be separated from them, and worse… he’d be completely useless.

Hunter wasn’t sure he liked the dark medical exam room compared to the blinding white of the majority of Kaminoan facilities. He certainly didn’t feel comfortable being out of his armor, and wearing the drab, red clothes he’d been forced to wear during his brutal recovery.

The Kaminoan standing before him was looking over some test results at the moment, and had already lifted up Hunter’s shirt to observe the long row of puckered red scars on his abdomen that followed along on either side of a deep, long line. And in the center of that was a jagged, angry circle, a deep red that looked like his healing had scarcely begun.

“CT-9901, I am pleased to see this progression of your healing, and it is my expert medical opinion that you no longer require afliplan diatane.”

Hunter’s jaw clenched at that.

They’d already tried lowering his dose of the med, but whenever they did he was left with so much pain he could barely think, let alone walk, and function. He was managing to steal some just fine, but without it… Could he get away with stealing even more of the medicine? Now he wouldn’t have his regular dose to add to it.

“You’re sure of this?” Hunter asked.

“Physical therapy should be sufficient for pain management at this time.”

Sure, physical therapy was going great, and it was helping, but only so much. And worse, lowering a dose meant sickness. Without afliplan diatane he was usually nauseous, shaky, dizzy, and couldn’t stop sweating even as he was as cold as he was hot. It left him so miserable, and only the med could fix it. His body wasn’t ready.

I can’t… I can’t do this.

Hunter nodded his head, forcing himself to say, “I do like the physical therapy.”

“It seems it. Your scars are much more mobile than what we would expect from someone at this stage. You are clearly putting the work in.”

And he was. But he could only do it with the afliplan diatane.

The Kaminoan tapped away on the tablet, announcing, “There. I just canceled your prescription of this medicine, and you are cleared for field work.”

Hunter barely heard all the words, heartbeat speeding up from fear.

I have to get that med somehow. I’ll manage.

Hunter forced himself to take deep breaths, telling himself the med would kick in, that he’d be okay.

“What’s up with him?” Crosshair asked of Tech, as he entered the cockpit.

“I believe Hunter is still suffering from his wound and surgery.”

Crosshair huffed. “A droid did shoot right through him.”

Now the pain was burning instead of sore, a flash of pressurized brightness, and then he had collapsed, Wrecker having to drag him to cover. Smoke poured from the wound, the acrid stench of ash and burning flesh had had Hunter throwing up, blood mixed in, as his gastrointestinal tract had now been compromised. There wasn’t blood to hold in, the wound cauterized by the blast, but dust, and dirt, and smoke had gotten inside. Wrecker had brutally packed the wound as Hunter had screamed and lost all sense of reality.

By the time he’d made it back to Kamino, riddled with fever, delirious from the agony, near-dead, it was a relief to be taken to surgery, to fall into a cloudy nothingness of sleep and medicine.

Crosshair put a hand on his shoulder, and Hunter pulled out of his grip.

He leaned back, trying to breathe.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“What aggravated it?” Tech asked.

The medicine. He couldn’t tell them it was because he had gone a bit longer without a dose, just an extra hour.

Panting, he wiped sweat from his brow.

“I don’t know,” he got out.

Clarity came back, like he had been looking through rippled transparisteel and now it had been smoothed.

Hunter took his first deep breath in quite a few minutes, and it was like stepping onto a planet with beautiful, fresh air, and bracing wind, and sweet relief.

In that moment, Hunter forgot that he was almost out of his med.

Hunter collapsed mid-battle. Everything was too loud, too bright, too confusing. Where was he? Who was shooting at him? What was he even doing here?

“Hunter!” Crosshair called through comms. “Get back on your feet. The tank is heading your way.”

Tank?

Oh, right!

He tried to rise, but stumbled, falling down to one knee, shaking, sweating.

He couldn’t stop sweating, couldn’t get a good breath in.

He was so hot he wanted to rip his armor off. He was so cold he wanted to lie cocooned in a heated bed.

Nausea had his vision tunneling, and vertigo suddenly took over his brain.

Hunter tilted sideways, tried to catch himself, slipped, and landed badly, right in the middle of the battlefield, probably tearing some muscles in his left arm. But that pain was nothing compared to the ruining agony in his abdomen.

His comms were so loud, his squad asking what was wrong. The dust was too confusing, the fires, the blasts, the explosions, it was all so much. And he didn’t really care about it, didn’t care about any of it.

He was too busy feeling like his stomach was getting ripped open.

Hunter had taken his last dose yesterday, and had been shaky for a day now, not sure how to get more, how to tell his squad about his problem.

And now he was crashing, hard, and he didn’t even care that he was a prime target now. Take him out! Maybe it’d make the pain stop. Please, just take him out.

Do something. Somebody do something.

Oh kriff, the awful pain. He curled in on himself, arms around his stomach, pressing, like he was having to hold his guts in like after his surgery.

“Tech, get Hunter. You’re the closest,” Crosshair called. “Echo, cover him. Wrecker, head for the tank. I’ll take out the main turret from up here. You do the rest.”

Time slowed, even as it sped up. Yet every second of this ripping, burning, sore agony was too much.

Someone was shaking him, and he almost threw up. He let out a groan through gritted teeth, panting hard, barely able to stay alive as this pain utterly destroyed him. All that existed were those moments between throbs, where the pain was incrementally less—barely, but almost enough to breathe—and then it’d throb, and his muscles locked up, and he screamed around a mouth closed tight from agony. His eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that they were starting to hurt. Hunter was clawing at himself, fingers digging into his hips, bruising. It was all he could do just to hang on, to somehow cling to life.

He was shaken again, and he groaned.

“Hunter, it’s me,” Tech said. “I’m going to get you out of here. Can you stand?”

Hunter couldn’t answer, which was all Tech needed to grab him, and start dragging him to safety. Tech wasn’t as naturally buff like the regs, or Hunter, but he diligently worked on each muscle group till they were hard, and powerful, and could do what needed to be done out in the field. Droids were closing in as Tech grunted, quickly dragging Hunter. Hunter clung tightly to his arms, armor creaking, which made him grunt again.

Tech deposited Hunter behind a ruined wall, and knelt over him, holding back the droids with his pistols.

Smoke cleared for a moment to show a clear blue sky, and Hunter wanted to sink into it, almost felt like he was, like he was floating, and falling, and he could feel the rotation of the planet, its course around its sun, and the solidity of the ground was no more, turning to liquid, and he was sinking, sinking…

“You ran out of afliplan diatane, didn’t you?” Tech asked, voice unusually hard.

“How—”

“I’m not stupid, Hunter. I have been tracking your symptoms and behavior for weeks.”

“I’m not an addict!” Hunter bit out around a scream that ravaged his throat.

“I never said you were. However, your body seems to be.”

Hunter’s head was pounding, right from inside, like something was trying to break free from his skull.

He tried to lift his head up, to watch the battle, but it fell back down to the ground all too quickly, wrenching his neck somewhat.

Hunter tried curling up again, but Tech didn’t move from his position guarding him.

The world blurred, vision like rippling and cracked transparisteel, the very essence of reality unable to make it through.

Days seemed to pass, the sun wheeling overhead. Maybe it was hours. Minutes? Time was fleeting to him, especially when compared to his pain. There was no perfect measurement of it for Hunter, not when all of it was suffering, and agony.

Eventually, he was vaguely aware that he was on the Marauder. Someone had taken off his armor from the waist up, and there was an IV dripping fluids into him.

“Is this gonna help?” Wrecker asked of someone.

Echo answered, “It’s the best we can do to keep him alive till we get to Kamino.”

“You stupid kriffing idiot,” Crosshair cursed.

Oh, was he addressing Hunter?

Hunter tried to think of a response, to bite back, but all he could do was groan.

“Do we give him pain medicine?” Echo asked.

“Bad idea,” Wrecker said. “Isn’t medicine the problem here? Maybe we shouldn’t be adding a different one to his system.”

Hunter grunted as he felt the ship jump into hyperspace.

Oh no, he was going to—

He turned his head, someone helping him onto his side somewhat, and he puked into the bucket that had apparently already been used at an earlier point.

A large hand rubbed his back.

Hunter couldn’t breathe, and his abdomen hurt beyond belief, and yet he couldn’t stop—

He was choking, burning, eyes watering so fiercely he couldn’t see. That large hand smacked his back, and he could breathe again, only to—

“Remind me never to get med withdrawal,” Crosshair said.

Hunter wanted to yell at him for clearly being so judgemental, and to tell him, tell everyone that he wasn’t an addict. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. They had to know, they had to—

Oh, finally, he was done… for now. He coughed and gasped, trying to catch his breath.

Those large hands—Wrecker’s hands—helped him get comfortable again. A cold cloth was placed on his brow, another to the back of his neck, Wrecker gently lifting his head to do so.

“How much farther to Kamino?” Echo asked Tech.

Hunter didn’t hear the answer, but Echo’s groan meant it wasn’t good.

Exhausted, Hunter drifted off.

White. Everything was white. So bright his eyes burned, so bright his head throbbed, and he tried to keep his eyes closed, but wakening and awareness told him to try and open them.

He wasn’t sure what had woken him, but then there was a sore, aching jab into his left arm. A grunt left him.

“Hey, Hunter, you with us?” Echo asked.

“Based on the machines monitoring him, he is clearly awake,” Tech scoffed.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Wrecker asked.

A Kamionan voice answered, “CT-9901 is stable.”

Hunter didn’t feel stable. His abdomen ached so fiercely he could have sworn a hole was getting punched in him.

“Am I supposed to be in pain?” Hunter asked through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” the Kaminoan responded.

Hunter sighed. “Oh. Great.”

He managed to open his eyes. He was in one of the emergency medical wings, and Crosshair was sitting on the bed beside his, checking his rifle, pretending to ignore him. The others were crowded around.

“CT-9901,” the Kaminoan said, drawing Hunter’s attention away from his squad, “when you are able, Jedi Master Shaak Ti would like to have a word with you.”

“Understood.”

Hunter’s heart raced.

A day later, Hunter stood before Jedi Master Shaak Ti at the balcony overlooking one of the training grounds.

“So,” Shaak Ti began, “Hunter, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He straightened even more, stomach aching, and clasped his fingers together behind his back till they ached.

“I hear you have been struggling with recovery from a battlefield injury you sustained eight weeks ago.”

“Um… yes, sir,” Hunter responded, hesitant, not sure where this was going, but having some idea.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How do you feel now?”

What am I supposed to say?

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he eventually responded.

“Hmm, with this med, correct? Without it…”

She left that hanging, and Hunter bowed his head, looking at his feet.

“Sir, I—”

“It is okay to have these struggles,” Shaak Ti said. “You are not the first soldier to become dependant on a medicine, or a form of treatment. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

She’s talking to me like—

“I’m not an addict,” he insisted.

“No, perhaps not. But your body wishes to say otherwise.”

Hunter swallowed roughly, cheeks heating with shame. His stomach whirled. He forgot to breathe.

“Typically this type of behavior would lead to you being court martialed.”

Hunter raised his head, stunned, worried. “Sir—”

“But in this case, as the commander of an elite squad, such an action would leave your men without a clear path to follow. They need you, Hunter.”

“I know, sir.”

“And that means you cannot be dependant on this med any longer.”

Hunter shifted, wanting out of his armor. He was too hot, sweat sliding down the sides of his face, dotting his upper lip, and seeping into his fatigues.

He tried to be a good soldier, tried to keep in what he wanted to say, but it came out in a broken, guttural tone anyway: “The pain.” Oh gosh, he was shaking, feeling like the world was crumbling apart. His abdomen hurt. Did no one understand how painful his experiences had been?

Shaak Ti put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I know, Hunter. The pain will fade in time. It is flaring because your body is trying to get more of the medicine. You will reach a point where your body understands it does not need it, and you will be all right.”

“Do you… promise?” he asked, broken voice quiet, feeling like he wasn’t supposed to ask a Jedi such questions.

“Yes, Hunter. You will be all right. But I have ordered your squad to watch you for the time being.”

He opened his mouth to object, and she went on, “Not that they weren’t doing so already, especially Tech, and Crosshair. Prove that you are not taking the med, and the watch will be lifted. This will all be behind you.”

“You’re talking to me like—like…”

Shaak Ti smiled, and her voice was soft, understanding, as she said, “Addicts are not bad people, Hunter. You are not a bad person. This will pass. As the leader of Clone Force Ninety-Nine, you were made to endure, and will heal from this much faster than other humans. I believe in you, Hunter.”

Hunter bowed his head again, not ashamed, but glowing and feeling hopeful with the praise, and not sure how to show it.

“Thank you, Master.”

She squeezed his shoulder.

“You are dismissed. Your squad has another mission, I believe. Hypori, as I’ve heard, is quite an interesting planet. But do keep an eye on Echo. The Techno Union has a droid factory there. I believe the situation could be… uncomfortable for him.”

“Heh, sounds like we’re all supposed to be watching each other.”

“Well, you see yourself as a family, do you not?”

Hunter smiled, his first real smile in weeks, months. “Yes, sir. We do.”

“Good. They’ll help you manage this struggle, and I know you’ll help them. You’re a good leader, Hunter. Keep going. Some pain is not forever.”

He gave her a quick bow, and left.

Afliplan diatane was still gnawing on his mind, the pain begging, and begging, scraping him raw with it, but if he leaned on his squad—his family…

I can do this.

And for the first time in months he believed it.

#summerofbadbatch2024 #week13 #stop touching me i'm not touching you #crashing hard #star wars #the bad batch #tbb #tbb hunter #hunter #fanfiction #writing #my writing

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darchildre · 6 months

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Gentlemen and Players

(Got distracted and so didn't get to part 1 before part 2 arrived, so I am posting about both parts at once.)

Hey everybody, get excited - it's cricket time! Everything I know about cricket, I learned from E W Hornung and Dorothy Sayers. Here is the sum total of my cricket knowledge: Raffles and Lord Peter are Good At It. That's it; that's all I've got.

Thing 1:

"Cricket," said Raffles, "like everything else, is good enough sport until you discover a better. As a source of excitement it isn't in it with other things you wot of, Bunny, and the involuntary comparison becomes a bore. What's the satisfaction of taking a man's wicket when you want his spoons?

The line about the spoons is so funny to me. I realize that fancy flatware is worth stealing and fencing or whatever but it's still so funny.

Being a gentleman thief who steals jewelry: daring, classy, dare I say, 'sexy'.

Being a gentleman thief who steals spoons: just the silliest thing.

Also very funny is Raffles pouting in his terrible straw hat about the cricket not going his way not five paragraphs after saying he doesn't care at all about it. Thank god someone properly illustrated this ridiculous moment.

Thing 2: "A young gentleman of the exquisite type," huh, Bunny? Bunny my Bunny, no matter how hard you try, you are not good at pretending to be straight.

Thing 3: Oh, poor Bunny, who is now more worried about being humiliated on the cricket field than he is about committing a crime. Let's be real - I too would much rather rob someone than be watched while miserably (and inevitably) failing at a sporting event. Bunny's a better man than I, because I would probably have faked a dire illness or an overseas trip or something to get out of playing sports in front of people, no matter how in love with Raffles I was.

Thing 4: Raffles' weird moral/ethical code is so fascinating. It would be the height of rudeness to rob one's host. But if you're invited somewhere solely because you're good at cricket, then you're practically being treated as an employee which a) is an insult and b) makes you not really a guest. And therefore it's not only acceptable (if still a bit tacky) but almost compulsory to rob said host, as revenge for the insult he's given you.

Thing 5: Aww, Bunny has decided this time not to get cranky that Raffles isn't telling him things, after Raffles rescued him last time! Very cute - let's see how long that resolution lasts.

Also extremely cute is Raffles' little training regimen of fishing and impromptu games of catch. One hopes they alleviate Bunny's anxiety about sports at least a little.

Thing 6:

...we found an enormous house-party assembled, including more persons of pomp, majesty, and dominion than I had ever encountered in one room before. I confess I felt overpowered. Our errand and my own presences combined to rob me of an address upon which I have sometimes plumed myself...

Because we only ever see Bunny with Raffles and therefore almost always at some point in the commission of a crime, we always see Bunny rattled and anxious, rather than in his element. It's interesting to imagine Bunny at his ease, who is apparently charming, personable and fun at parties. Probably, were he not worried about the police, he and Miss Melhuish might have ended up having a lot of fun gossiping about everyone else at the party. Miss Melhuish is clearly having a lot of fun imagining burglars with him and thinking about whose jewelry she would steal if she had the chance.

Also, the hilarious fear-inspired arrogance of thinking that he and Raffles are "two well-known London thieves" the presence of whom the police might have been alerted to! You have pulled at most three* whole jobs together, Bunny, and haven't run into the police on any of them. You are, as yet, the opposite of "well-known thieves". Literally no one knows about you.

Thing 7: Raffles taking his shoes off so that he can pace properly without bothering other people in the house and worrying (if only a little) if smoking inside is allowed is very cute. I love how excited he gets at the idea of both observing some 'professional' criminals and also beating both them and the police.

Also very cute is Bunny replying to his "My dear Bunny" with his own "My dear A.J.", the very first time we've seen Bunny call him that.

Thing 8:

I had still enough of the honest man in me to welcome the postponement of our actual felonies, to dread their performance, to deplore their necessity: which is merely another way of stating the too patent fact that I was an incomparably weaker man than Raffles, while every whit as wicked. I had, however, one rather strong point. I possessed the gift of dismissing unpleasant considerations, not intimately connected with the passing moment, entirely from my mind. Through the exercise of this faculty I had lately been living my frivolous life in town with as much ignoble enjoyment as I had derived from it the year before; and similarly, here at Milchester, in the long-dreaded cricket-week, I had after all a quite excellent time.

A) The idea that it would be a better and almost more noble thing to actually fully commit to being a criminal rather than the wishy-washy state that Bunny currently finds himself in is going to come up more prominently in later stories, but it's interesting that Bunny is already thinking about it, at least a little.

B) Except that we are talking about Bunny 'my greatest strength is not thinking about stuff I find unpleasant until I absolutely have to' Manders, so no conclusions will be reached at this time.

Thing 9: Awww, Bunny actually does all right at cricket! Good for him. I like that he and Miss Melhuish are continuing to be house-party friends as well and that she "said pretty things to [him]" about the cricket. (Sorry, miss, he's very cute but also very taken.)

Thing 10: Awww part 2, Bunny hearing Mackenzie grabbing someone in the hallway in the middle of the night, clearly thinking it's Raffles who's been caught, and flinging the door open to valiantly rush to the rescue! I mean, it isn't Raffles needing rescuing at all, but by god, he tried. Don't worry, Bunny - someday you will actually manage to heroically come to Raffles' rescue, I promise.

And also we get our first example of Bunny being surprisingly effective at unarmed melee combat but only when he's startled/panicking.

Thing 11: And then, our first properly happy ending, where everyone gets what they wanted: Bunny gets to feel a little heroic and like he's done something good, and Raffles gets to feel clever and to walk off with the best of the shiny things, and they both presumably get enough money to continue not having real jobs. Applause all round!

Thing 12: Raffles did not in any way need Bunny for this job. He does nothing to facilitate the robbery and any help he provides in distracting or hindering the professional criminals is purely coincidental and could have been expected of any of the other members of the house party. Bunny is not useful and it is, in fact, more work to get him to the house: Raffles has to lie to his host about Bunny's cricket skills and then scurry off to clandestinely play catch with him to get him even close to faking it.

Raffles just prefers having Bunny around, is the thing. If there's a chance of something fun/exciting happening, Bunny should be around for it. And if the party turns out to be boring and there's no opportunity for crime, at least Bunny will be there to hang out with.

It's easier to tell that Bunny is smitten, because he tells us all the time, but Raffles is totally head over heels for his rabbit as well. He's just slightly subtler about it because he's not the narrator.

Both Raffles movies from the 1930s are based loosely on this story (and its sequel, "The Return Match"). I cannot in fairness recommend either of them as good adaptations - they are both so straight that they feel they have to give Raffles a girlfriend - but the 1930 version is at least kinda fun, and Bunny gets to tackle a dude in his pajamas.** The 1939 version is a remake starring David Niven and Olivia de Havilland and I love both of them but it has been hit super hard by the Hays Code - barely has a Bunny at all, and Raffles has to turn himself in at the end, because the Code didn't allow people to be shown profiting from a crime. It's a bit depressing, really.

They're not terrible movies and are a bit worth seeing as curiosities if nothing else, but maybe just watch the 1970s tv show instead.

*Depending on where you think "Out of Paradise" fits in the chronology.

**How the dude got into Bunny's pajamas, I'll never know. /Groucho Marx impression

#letters from bunny #raffles #gentlemen and players

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stalkedbytrains · 7 months

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Dead Letters, Missing Wife; Letters 4 & 5

History

You wish you had a better excuse for why it took you almost a week to open letter number four. But really it was just nerves. There was something about the ring and everything. It makes everything feel so much more real.

You can't really picture how Siobhan looks, at least not how she would look now, with the years and maturity changing her into someone else.

But you can picture her hands. Burned, cracked, dry and peeling, looking like someone spilled acid on her hands and she's still dealing with the wounds. You don't know why that image is so stuck in your mind, but it is.

As is the image of those same hurt hands sitting down to write you a bunch of letters that couldn't be sent, couldn't be read until you did the work to get them, to open them, to choose to read them.

You spent longer than you'd like to admit, in your bed, just staring at the pile of mail that isn't addressed to you (you're trying to not look at the mail that is addressed to you).

There's this massive weight that you feel coming down upon you. Something like an ocean overhead that is struggling to remain in the air, in defiance of the natural laws and the efforts of the earth to call it home. You feel the massive weight of the water will come down and crush and drown you at any moment.

You put off the next letter a bit longer by trying to sort through the mountain of other mail of Siobhan's. You figure if you can start on a different puzzle, a less personal one, you can make progress without having to deal with that overhead ocean.

But you only get so far. You start to sort the mail by the cities that Siobhan was supposedly in. You have to stop when there's an address in your city. Close by. Super close to where you've been living your entire life. All the evidence points to Siobhan moving back to your city, only a mile away, and the dates on the postmarks seem to suggest that she was back as recently as two years ago.

And she didn't come find you.

That thought haunts you, like a spike through your soul.

You find yourself running your hands along the seal on letter number four.

You open it and read, trying to ignore the rain from the ocean above.

"My sweet,

This journey that I have sent you on must feel deeply overwhelming and I can never apologize enough.

There is something profoundly terrifying for me in doing this. I crafted this mask out of myself. I made something pretty and nice and wore it for so long. I'm afraid of letting you see what is beneath it, because it might be too much. And there are only so many secret things that I can share without revealing the things that are best left buried.

I know that part of this journey that I have set you on, must include pieces of myself, show you how I have grown and changed and who I have wanted to become all these years.

It is hard for me. The being that I am supposed to be, the thing that my father crafted me to be, is a miserable pile of secrets. That is not who I want to be, but it is the nature that has fostered me so I am working against all my better instincts.

I am sorry.

I know you disliked my father, even as a child.

I can't say that I blame you. He is an exacting man. Precise and distant and cold.

I was supposed to be a perfect little one. I was supposed to be quiet and just as cold and distant.

There was a plan. Some great architecture that we can't see when we are small.

We weren't supposed to stay in this one spot for as long as we did. I wasn't supposed to make such a good friend. I don't even know if I was supposed to have friends.

Everything changed for me on that first day in kindergarten when I was first dropped off by my father. He told me to watch and learn.

You loudly declared, "I don't like him! He's weird!" Pointing right at my father.

The teacher scolded you and told you to not say such things about the other kids parents.

As soon as she was done telling you that, you walked over to me. I thought you were going to apologize. Instead, you cupped my face and told me, "I'm sorry your dad is weird. You seem nice."

Not exactly an apology, but it did make me laugh.

It still makes me laugh.

That's when I knew you were someone special. And that was the start of us staying in one specific place for far too long.

I regret nothing, because it meant that I was allowed to stay with you for as long as possible.

I just wish it could have been longer.

But father is an exacting man. And there is a plan. I must follow the plan. Even if I don't want to be that person anymore.

I wish to simply be yours,

Siobhan"

You close the letter and just sit with it in your hands. This whole thing is starting to get much much bigger. Much heavier.

You sit and you think.

Does Siobhan need to be rescued from her father? Is that what this is all about? Is she stuck in some weird abusive cult? Are these dead letters the only way for her to communicate with you?

With a sick feeling in your stomach rising, you reach for the next letter to grab it and open it.

If Siobhan needs to be saved from her father, from her situation, and the only way to find her is to read through the letters in sequence, then it's on you to hurry up and finish.

You break the seal of the next letter and it already feels different from the first words.

"I'm sorry my dear.

It was only after I finished writing that last letter and sent it, that the realization set on me.

I am not in any danger. My father, while he is what he is and I am what I am, is not threat to me. I am not in any danger from him any more than he is from me at this point.

I simply wanted to explain, and perhaps vent my frustrations a little bit at you. I wanted you to understand the situation I am in.

There is no abuse or mistreatment beyond the attempts to make me the perfect tool for the cyclopean plan that I am but a tiny part in and my family is but a moderately larger cog.

There is no abuse. No danger or imminent threat.

I promise.

I would have told you if there were.

It is simply like being in class. Something you have to do, even if there are benefits and positives to it, it seems hard to discern at the moment you are in it, and you are always wishing you could be somewhere else, with someone else, being happy and doing whatever your heart desires.

I'll be more careful with my words in the future,

Siobhan"

You close the letter and you find that your heartbeat has been raging out of control.

You feel at once, reassured that there's nothing to concern yourself over, and a deep sense of worry that whatever this is will be more than you can handle.

i have a kofi with the rest of my work

#dead letters missing wife #my fiction #original fiction #cosmic fiction #writeblr

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lady-de-mon-coeur · 1 year

Text

Skin to Skin

Ao3

Rated G. Words: 1,022. Language: English.

Adrien is desperately yearning for love and affection. Luckily, Marinette is there to help him,

Lots of perfectly friendly hugs, kisses and tooth-rotting fluff.

!Spoilers for Multiplication and Determination!

It was the 10th time in a row Marinette refused la bise and offered him a handshake instead.

Adrien should've gotten used to rejections a long time ago. But this was the last straw.

"Marinette, please," he said desperately, looking at her with puppy eyes. "I'm glad to hold your hand, but it's not enough."

She considered him, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

"You have no idea how touch-starved I am," Adrien murmured in a miserable voice. "Since my mother disappeared, no one gives me goodnight hugs or ruffles my hair. No goodbye kisses, no cuddles. I really need friendly touches, especially from such an amazing friend as you." He finished, looking at her imploringly.

Marinette listened to him, her expression changing gradually from confused to tender.

"Sorry, Adrien, I didn’t know how much you needed it," she said, putting her warm hand on his. "I'm here if you need me."

"Then please let me hug you and kiss your cheek sometimes," he said shyly.

There were two pretty cherry-pink spots appearing on Marinette’s cheeks.

"Of course you can do it anytime you want," she said eagerly, looking at him from beneath her pitch-black lashes.

"Would you mind me doing it now?" Adrien asked hopefully.

Marinette’s cheeks flushed even more, and she silently shook her head.

Adrien didn't waste any time. As soon as he got her permission, he immediately pulled her into a bear hug.

He could feel that Marinette was a bit tense at first, but she relaxed eventually.

They stayed like that for a moment before they pulled apart, too soon for his liking. Adrien retracted his hands very reluctantly. He wished he could hold her all day.

"Thank you, Marinette!" he said gratefully, feeling a wave of bliss running through every fibre of his body. "Wow, I feel so much better now."

"You're welcome, Adrien," she said with a coy smile. "Come get your daily dose of hugs anytime you need them."

And so he did.

In fact, Adrien took advantage of Marinette’s permission pretty often. He couldn’t get enough of her physical contact. The warmth of her hugs. The softness of her palms. The velvety skin of her cheeks. Her hot satin lips on his cheek.

He asked her to sit next to him in the school cafeteria so that he could be as close to her as possible.

He used every opportunity to cuddle with her during breaks, to place his head on her shoulder, or at least just hold her hand.

Marinette was a little uneasy at first and flinched every time Adrien took her hand, but soon the tension gave way to complete relaxation.

Unsurprisingly, their friendly activities didn't go unnoticed.

Nino was confused. Alya was ecstatic. Chloé was furious. Everyone else was nearly swooning at the sight.

Everyone around them kept asking if the two of them were dating each other. Did they really look like a romantic couple? Wasn't it usual for friends to give each other hugs and cheek kisses?

Anyway, Adrien didn't care what everyone was saying anymore. He needed Marinette in his life. She radiated so much warmth and affection. She conveyed so much love and tenderness through her touch.

Everything about Marinette was adorable, from the way she had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek to the way she ran her fingers through his hair when they were cuddling together.

Adrien counted hours and minutes until the moment he would see her again.

He started walking her home every day so that he could be with her and relish her closeness for a little longer.

Things went on like this for like a month or so until the day Adrien came to a fencing class, bringing Marinette with him.

By then, Adrien wasn't able to attend a fencing class without Marinette by his side anymore. To be completely honest, he could hardly go anywhere without skin-to-skin contact with her. Long, lonely hours at his mansion were real torture.

That's why he came to the locker room one afternoon, clinging on to Marinette.

Once there, he reluctantly let go of her tiny, warm hand. Then he finally said goodbye to her, but not before getting another cheek kiss and tight embrace from her and giving her an ever-so-soft forehead kiss in return. All in front of Kagami's questioning eyes.

A few moments after Marinette was gone, Kagami asked a question everyone had been asking them for quite a while now.

"Are you guys dating? Can I congratulate you?"

"No, it's not like that!" Adrien assured her. "She's just a friend. What you saw were just friendly hugs. I thought it was pretty normal for friends to act like that."

"Then why with Marinette? Not with any other friend?" Kagami asked slyly.

This question took Adrien totally by surprise.

Really, why exactly with Marinette?

He had so many friends who would be glad to give him all the hugs in the world. So why was he so attached to Marinette? Why didn't he get hugs from Nino? Why didn't he ask Alya to give him cheek kisses from time to time?

Adrien thought for a moment and answered in a very small voice:

"Because she's very special to me. I can't imagine my life without her."

Kagami smiled triumphantly.

"You see. That's what I’ve been telling you all the time. You definitely have feelings for her."

Adrien's cheeks flushed, and he passed his tongue over his suddenly dry lips.

"Do you think that I'm..." he stammered, trying to bring himself to say these words out loud. Then he gulped and tried again. "Do you think that... I'm in love with Marinette?"

Once these words were finally uttered, there was no turning back for him. And he knew he wouldn't want everything to go back to how it was before.

Because this new world that has just been born—the world where he, Adrien, was in love with his best friend Marinette—was so wonderful that he wouldn't change it for anything.

Adrien looked up at Kagami with shining eyes.

"I think you're right, Kagami. I'm in love!"

#ml fanfiction #ml season 5 spoilers #ml multiplication #ml determination #adrinette #fluff #my writing

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rabbithaver · 9 months

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thank you for your response, i am genuinely so sorry to hear. i was staff last year, and my experiences with beau were considerably awful, but i will not go into them. i just want you to know i have seen everything you described and have been righteously angry ever since my departure 😔

i hope you feel better soon, i am so sorry if my ask had triggered any negative memories. i had just sent the ask without really thinking, but i am glad you have gotten away from the community and can hopefully find somewhere else :(

stay safe, i hope things look up for you

aughhhhhh god i am so sorry you went through that. like, Beau was an asshole to me for sure, but at least i didn't have to work with him. i cannot imagine being staff. i wanted to be but beau explicitly forbade it because he didn't like me. in the long run i'm glad i never took up that mantle because good GOD.

anyway don't worry about the ask, you're fine. the PTSD stuff and depressive episode have been an ongoing issue for me for the past 24 hours, it's not anything you did. it's actually really validating to hear that i'm not the only one who had issues with that server, and honestly? leaving was one of the best things i ever did. i got out and i grew up, and things were rough for several years but have since stabilized somewhat. as miserable as i've been tonight, i am in an infinitely better place now than i was back then.

i've found a community that offers all the good QC gave me and more with none of the bad. and the leaders of that community are actually good people who like me — weird gender and far left values and all, so... Beau can eat shit.

looking back at my experience, it's actually a little bit funny to me now... like "bro you were like 34 at the time. why were you beefing with a 15 year old who still has to ask to go to the bathroom?" he's pathetic and nasty and awful to people who don't kiss his ass. you were smart to get out, and if you ever decide to go public with your story and warn others away from QC, i'll be behind you.

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stalkedbyplanes · 7 months

Text

Dead Letters, Missing Wife; Letters 4 & 5

[Letter #1][Letter #2][Letter #3]