but creepypasta characters with an escaped outlast trials reagent!reader
im talking freshly escaped fully brainwashed fully desensitized to violence ready to murk a whole hospital the second someone mutters "spider, eye, lamb" fresh off that easterman propaganda
holy toxic relationship dynamics🤤 (eyeless "im not like those other doctors, ill fix you" jack to be specific)
obv im gonna fuck around w the timeline and shit but shhh
MORE SHIT I DONT FEEL LIKE WRITING BUT MAYBE MIGHT ONE DAY COME BACK TO WHEN I STOP PLAYING VIDEO GAMES
listed by how likely i am to finish them
CHARACTERS:
Zuko (ATLA/TLOA - 3 pieces all ~200 words)
Pocket (Deadlock - 1 piece ~200 words)
Spider-Man (Marvel Comics - 1 piece ~900 words)
Qin Shi Huang ( ROR - 1 piece ~400 words)
Lane (BBD - 1 piece ~1.1k words)
One Piece Various (One Piece - 1 piece ~900 words)
ZUKO
The warmth that spreads through Zuko's chest was one he used to only dream of. It's soft, light in a way he can't help but crack a smile at.
The wedding itself is nowhere near as grand as he's used to, but seeing the joy on both Aang and Katara's faces is worth more than any luxury afforded to him at stuffy noble weddings. He looks at you across the small clearing whilst you talk with Toph, who grins broadly as she leans against an Air Nomad statue that's definitely older than Aang himself.
"So," Sokka starts from behind, startling the usually composed Fire Lord when he slings an arm around his shoulders, "when's your wedding?"
Zuko balks forward, but is quick to steady himself, caught off guard by both the question and Sokka's sudden appearance. "Excuse me?"
smth smth chamberlain
"Don't remind me," Zuko groans into his palm.
Even as Zuko grows into the role of Fire Lord and his physique sharpens alongside his wit, he's still the same boy you'd fallen for at heart.
I.
The breeze sways your robe as you trek through the palace garden, the midday sun warm on your skin as it peeks through speckled clouds. In your years living in the Fire Nation following the end of the war, you've grown to appreciate the peaceful balance afforded by spring, and the new life that bloomed in its wake. Part of you wonders what your dear husband could be up to, though he's most likely still stuck in the meeting regarding the scattered remnants of the New Ozai Society. Your maids trail close behind as you ponder dinner, their professional stoicism cracking in lieu of marveling at the garden's beauty despite the earliness of the season.
"Are you alright, my lady?" Kirara, the younger of your two handmaidens, questions with a small tilt of her head. You offer a small hum in response, your fingers brushing the wooden railing lightly as you stop to watch a pair of koi swim calmly in the center pond.
There's comfort in routine.
Even now, as your feet begin to ache from the tightness of your too-small shoes, and sweat beads benath your robes despite their lightness, you remain poised—the picturesque version of a nobleman's daughter that you were bred to be.
Your eyes flit across the gathered crowd, finding each group your gaze settles on more bizarre than the last as unease brews in the pit of your stomach. A child nearly knocks you over in your stupor with a flutter of youthful recklessness and unbound joy, landing in the arms of his father who lifts him with a smile despite the shadow of war behind his eyes.
A pair of hands steady your fall, and you quickly straighten yourself before any attention is drawn, glancing around the courtyard before finally turning to your savior.
Mai's brow raises with the closest thing to amusement she could muster, the smallest quirk of her lips drawing an unladylike glare from you in your flustered state. She looks almost exactly like she had since you last saw her before she moved to Omashu, if not a little more worn.
She greets you casually, well, as casually as women of your standing could afford to be, offering a bow
POCKET
No one ever talks of the silence that lingers after a gunshot—how it hangs in the air, ringing almost tauntingly in your ears as the horror settles in.
You watch in slow motion as Arin falls, their gaze finding yours amidst the shattered glass and ruined cake. You see the shift between shock and uncharacteristic fear, to pain and haunting realization as your name slips from their lips, all within the three seconds it takes for them to hit the ground. The thud echoes through the estate's grand halls, and blood pools beneath them, painting both their suit and the pristine carpet a vivid crimson.
Yet no one moves.
Your eyes move frantically before your mind can settle, trying to form words that can't seem to come out.
Marla's hands cover her mouth, and she curls herself into the professor, who in turn wraps himself around her protectively. Even Mina's face betrays her shock, unable to retain the sour glare she usually held when being in Arin's presence for too long. Her rouge lips part, but nothing comes out besides a single shuddered breath.
SPIDER-MAN
A familiar ache quietly settles deep within Peter's bones as he swings through Manhattan, a sigh breaking past his lips as he shifts his shoulders back. The pain has long since subsided, though the fight's remnants remain stubborn, smattered across the skin beneath his suit in a mirage of color that'll be too tender to touch in the morning.
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen had quirked a brow at his lethargic breaths, offering a stay on his couch earlier in the night. He'd velhemetly refused, rubbing the nape of his neck with a humble smile.
"Sorry, I think I'm just going to head home for the night. I've got a few calls to make."
Matt only tilted his head knowingly, offering a small hum and a wish for good luck before disappearing into the night.
His eyes begin to close against his will, and he wonders briefly if he should've taken Matt up on his offer when a buzz of his phone jolts him awake. He lands gracefully on a nearby rooftop, legs hanging over the unguarded edge limply as he pulls out his phone.
It's you.
He feels his breath hitch, tapping on the notification so fast that even he almost cringes, but his excitement dims the second his eyes skim the messages.
Can't call tonight, sorry, Webs, something came up :cc
I love you.
The universe truly hated seeing Spider-Man happy.
He types a quick 'I love you too' before collapsing back against the floor of the rooftop with a loud groan. The concrete is cold beneath him, but he can't bring himself to move when the heaviness in his limbs catches up to him at full force, anchoring him in place despite the growing discomfort in his back.
Above him, nothing but the moon and plane lights shine, drowned out by light pollution. He closes his eyes, trying to map out the stars you'd pointed out to him in his arms when he visited. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel the warmth of your back against his chest, your elated giggle echoing through his mind like a haunting spectre—
"Doing good there, bud? You're not looking too hot."
Peter's eyes crack open, only to squint back closed with a groan when he's greeted by none other than Johnny Storm in all of his blinding brilliance.
"I've seen better days," he quips dryly, finally managing to will himself up, his elbows planted on his knees, whilst the Human Torch takes a seat at his side.
The blond waves him off with a roll of his eyes, the flames around him fizzling into embers in the chilled night air. "Haven't we all?" Johnny stretches his arms above his head, his stifled moan of relief tapering off into a drawn-out yawn before he nudges Peter's shoulder with one of his elbows, his lips quirked in a slight smirk. "Not that I don't mind the company, but what are you doing here, Spidey?"
"Was helping out at Hell's Kitchen for a bit, and was heading home for the night before you came along." Peter shrugs, fiddling with his fingers in his lap as he shifts his sights to the city below.
Johnny snorts out an incredulous laugh, "Seriously? Dude, did you really think you could make it home like that?"
"I feel fine," he flexes his arm weakly, only to be met with his best friend's blank stare, "see? Fine."
"Right, right," Johnny nods along, "because only a totally fine person would be almost passed out on a rooftop in Manhattan at 11 at night."
"What can I say? I'm a man on a schedule."
"Odd schedule you got there, buddy. Care to share? Maybe I can slot myself in—oh! How does a 3:30 sound?"
"Well, no," Peter huffs out a laugh, pulling his mask off with one swift motion, "this wasn't exactly part of the plan."
"Go figure."
"Oh, fuck off, Storm."
Conversation flows easily between the two, with Johnny regaling tales of the Fantastic Four's most recent venture with grand gestures and a lot of hyperbole, as well as Peter's occasional input. It's not long until Peter finds that the prior hollowness in his chest carved by your absence feels a lot lighter, if only briefly.
"Hey, why don't you crash at the Baxter Building tonight? Franklin hasn't shut up about you, you know, and little Valeria misses her uncle Pete very much. She's already on Biochem, can you believe that?!"
"You sure? I don't want to intrude…" Silence lingers between them, filled only by the distant city nightlife in full swing down below. A moment passes, and Peter weighs his options, filtering through the various pros and cons with a rhythmic tap of his finger on the concrete. Sirens sound a few blocks away, and Peter fights the instincts of his body to leap off the roof.
A swift punch to his arm is enough to draw him out of his head, his lips curled into a small scowl when he turns to face his uncharacteristically quiet companion.
"Peter," despite the easygoing smile Johnny wears, his voice is edged with an earnestness that makes Peter sit just a little straighter, his scowl falling to a look of confusion, "you're always welcome. You're family—never doubt that."
His lips part in disbelief before settling into a small grin, "…Right."
Qin Shi Huang
The Battle of Changping had been brutal, ripping through the lands of Zhào without mercy and leaving four hundred fifty thousand buried beneath the earth, their last breaths a prayer for retribution and the complete destruction of the Qín.
No man, woman, or child was spared, regardless of status or age.
Your brother had been amongst them, perhaps one of the best cavalry riders of the stationed warriors, so you've been told. He fought valiantly against Bái Qǐ's army, felling any who dared tarnish Zhào 's soil and attempt to cross his path. But it hadn't nearly been enough to spare him from the fate of being buried by his comrades, cursing the kingdom of Qín down to his last breath.
You had been born mere months after the tragedy, a ray of light graced from the heavens within the dark cloud that surrounded your brother's passing. Your innocent cries had filled the humble home, symbolizing the start of a new life in an era plagued by death.
But your birth was burdened by one small, undeniable truth.
You were a girl—someone who could not fulfill the legacy of your brother as your parents had hoped.
The more you grew, the closer you'd come to resembling your brother, down to the very crinkle in his nose when he tried to hide his dissatisfaction. But you were not your brother, not a warrior conditioned for peril, or trained to kill, merely a girl.
And that proved to be enough.
When news of the Qín boy's sentence had reached your household, it was like thunder rolling over a distant valley, imminent of a growing storm.
Your mother had held you close in her lap, her nose pressed against the crown of your head as you fumbled with a loose scrap of cloth with a grummy grin. Her eyes had been dark, tinted by the blackened seed of festered hatred for a boy no older than you. Your father fares no better, his hands tucked tightly beneath his chin, and his jaw taut with brewing rage.
"I don't understand why we shouldn't just kill him."
"The king of Zhào forbids it."
"He's Qín!" Your mother spits out the word like a vile venom, snapping her head to your father, who easily matches her rising temper with a tired sigh. "He deserves to die—to pay for his people's crimes in blood."
"I know," comes his grim reply, "but we must remain patient. It's not our place to decide his fate."
Your mother opens her mouth to retort, but the words seem to die on her tongue as your father reaches across the table, stroking your cheek reverently.
LANE
There's something wrong.
There was still the smell of mildew lingering in the air—unchecked despite your numerous complaints to RJ, and the freezer still hummed in the back, a constant source of noise not quite quiet enough to tune out if left in silence. No, it was something more personal, but you can't quite seem to put your finger on it.
You turn slightly to Lane, who lingers close behind you, his movements slower, more lethargic than their usually lazy drawl. He's quiet—too quiet, especially for him.
You blink for a moment with suspicion brewing in your gut, inclining your head to him slightly as you put the last chip bag on the shelf. "Did you need something, Lane?"
He grunts out a noise and shuffles closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. You feel him sigh into your neck, the weight of his arms heavy on your waist as you wait for a sarcastic remark that never comes.
Okay, yeah, something is really wrong.
You turn in his arms, about to question him, but he all but collapses against you, his forehead resting against yours as his shoulders sag in relief. You jolt away, taken aback by the sudden heat, and his eyes are slow to blink open, unfocused and lacking their usual mischievous spark.
The palm of your hand presses against his forehead, which you're quick to notice gleams beneath the buzzing fluorescents from a thin sheen of sweat.
"Shit, you're burning." You draw your hand back, missing how he chases it as you turn to drag him to the same employee-only room you usually try all night to get him out of. His cheeks are flushed a concerning shade of red, his lips parted slightly to speak, but he locks his jaw before anything can come out, biting down a wince when he swallows.
"I'm fine," he croaks out through a wet cough, though the paniful scratchiness of his voice fails to prove otherwise. All you can do is scoff at his incredulity, shaking your head as you flip on the light. The singular bulb flickers for a moment before illuminating the paint-chipped room and the small employee table, where you dump him unceremoniously onto one of the worn seats.
It creaks beneath his weight, his head slumping forward with a low groan while you rifle through your bag for some Tylenol and your water bottle. Worry creases your brow when you turn back to find him half-awake, trying to keep himself upright when he feels your eyes on him.
You approach slowly, brushing back his fringe gently. He looks up at you, leaning into the touch as a half-hearted smirk curls at his lips. "Gonna play nurse again, baby? Make me feel better?"
"You're so annoying, you know that?" You flick his forehead lightly with a fond huff, and he whines, his smirk falling to a deep pout. He pulls you closer by the waist, causing you to roll your eyes as his arms loosely find their way around you.
"I'm dying, and this is how you treat me? Some girlfriend you are," he grumbles beneath his breath sardonically, though the way he nestles his face against your stomach and clings to your legs renders his words moot. "You're supposed to treat me nicely—make me soup and spoon-feed me because I'm too weak and frail to do it myself."
You offer a hum in response, skimming the faded medicine label as you trace soothing patterns on his back. "How cruel of me," you quip back with a light snort before your eyes soften, landing back on him, "Seriously, though, have you eaten anything? I don't want you taking this on an empty stomach."
"Just a Monster."
"That's not—Lane!" You pinch the bridge of your nose in disbelief, shaking your head as you try to break free from his hold. He holds you tighter in response, mumbling about how warm you are and how he'll actually fall over and die if you leave him. He whines when you finally manage to escape the hold of his arms, wincing when he slumps back with a heavy cough. "I'll be back in a bit with something for you to eat. Don't do anything stupid."
"Wouldn't dream of it, princess."
You resist the urge to kiss the grin off of his face, sick as he may be.
"Idiot," you murmur to no one in particular as the door shuts behind you with a quiet click. You let yourself linger by it for a moment, listening to Lane let out the coughs he'd held back in your presence before sighing to yourself.
The store is hauntingly empty without Lane in your ear, left alone with the hum of the freezer in the dead of night. Regardless of the paranoia beginning to build inside you, you stalk through the aisles with vigor, searching for something both nutrient-dense and easy to swallow, which proves to be a harrowing task amidst the endless rows of processed junk.
You land on some apple sauce, contemplating which brand will take less of a hit to your paycheck, when a hand on your shoulder snaps you out of your stupor. The shriek that tears itself from your throat is embarrassingly loud and definitely unprofessional, but you can't bring yourself to care as you whip around to face your assailant.
"What the fuck, Lane?! I told you to…" Instead of the mischievous smirk you were expecting, you're met with the tinted visor of a familiar helmet. "Oh," you muster dumbly, shaking your head as you clutch the apple sauce close to your chest, "sorry, I thought you were someone else."
The biker tilts his head inquisitively, his hidden gaze lingering on you for a moment before turning to the surrounding area. "You're alone tonight." You don't see the small tremble of glee in his shoulders, nor the bashful smile that grows behind his helmet the longer he stays in your presence, your mind too honed in on Lane's illness.
Honestly, what was that guy's issue? What idiot comes into work sick?
"Is there something I can help you with?" It's your turn to tilt your head, garnering whatever shreds of that professionalism you'd initially lost and channeling it into the practiced, corporate smile you'd forged when you started working here. The biker—ah, what was his name again? You feel awful for not remembering, especially since he's always hanging around, but he never seemed to mind.
He slowly points to the two cups of apple sauce in your hands.
ONE PIECE
The serenity of the East Blue was almost jarring.
Nothing like the lingering sense of innate danger provided by the Calm Belt, where Sea Kings hide just below the surface of the tide at every turn, or the quiet just before a stray storm that quickly bleeds into ferocious winds and pelting rain.
No, it was simply…still.
You really feel it in the air as you step off the merchant's ship, tossing a bag full of Berries toward your escort's way with a small, thoughtless hum when he offers you his hand. You wave off his thanks with a flick of your wrist, already scouring the stalls of the bustling marketplace for anything in particular that strikes your fancy.
Shells Town is nothing extraordinary, save for the Marine base centered amidst the whitewashed townhouses and shops of civilians. It towers high, its presence looming overhead, bearing the familiar seagull crest that's clear even from your place at the dock.
You squint at it, watching the letters distort from the heat as you adjust the collar of your shirt. You feel almost bad for anyone caught out in the sun for too long.
Ah, well, not much you can do for them outside of offering your pity.
You stop before a textile stall after one more cursory glance at the base, your fingers brushing over various fabrics on display. The texture of the cloth is off—irregular in its weave, but light, most likely processed in a factory rather than hand-spun, like you would have preferred, though it's not too terrible, all things considered.
You take it in red, already sketching up a few uses for it in your head when you smile thankfully at the merchant.
Storing the fabric away in your travel bag, you continue your idyllic stroll through the port town with no particular destination in mind. The East Blue, for all its unnerving stillness, was a welcome change of pace. Some part of you wouldn't mind settling here, maybe opening up a shop of your own where you'd live a monotonous, yet domestic life.
But there was an even larger part of you that hungered for adventure, the part of you that held dreams you dared not speak aloud.
Then again, your thoughts begin to trail as you stop before a tall wooden board, not even the safest seas were free from piracy, so it's not like you'd truly ever be at peace. Wanted posters, both new and faded, cling to weather-worn wood, tacked on hastily by people not paid enough to care.
A smile unknowingly curls at your lips when you catch sight of a grin you've come to know too well, and beneath it, a higher bounty than when you last checked.
Great, as if that idiot needed anything else to be smug about.
With a fond shake of your head, you turn away from the board, but a sudden shift in the air has you pause before you can move. The plaza grows quiet, tense with festering discomfort as your eyes slide between each face of the formerly lively marketplace—
You briskly step out of the way before a shoulder could collide with yours, head tilted slightly as you watch the blond stumble to find his footing. He turns back to you, eyes blazing as though you'd just cursed his bloodline, and his lower lip juts out in a rather unflattering pout.
The two Marines accompanying him rush to his aid, stammering out apologies while you watch the scene unfold in mild bewilderment. He shoves the two aside, beelining it to you with righteous fury and a finger way too close to the trigger of his pistol for your comfort.
"You!" The barrel of the gun stares you down as he points it sloppily between your eyes. "Do you know who I am?"
"Am I…supposed to?" You raise your hands with the intent to de-escalate, but your response only seemed to further fuel his ire. He sucks his teeth, sneering close enough for you to notice the looseness of his suit. Your placating smile dims only slightly when you hear the safety of the gun click, but he doesn't seem to notice the narrowing of your eyes or the reflexive twitch of your hand despite his proximity.
"I'm the son of 'Axe-Hand' Morgan, and I should have you executed for humiliating me!" He's waving the gun wildly now, his other hand clutching the hilt of a sword. It flails with each of his movements, cutting through the air dangerously close to where you stand.
Still, you remain stationary, but your stance shifts subtley upon noticing the two Marines now blocking your potential exits.
You close your eyes and pretend to ponder for a moment before shrugging half-heartedly. "Nope, sorry, doesn't ring a bell."
Four more Marines are quickly approaching from up the street, two are tucked away in the alleys of nearby buildings, and three line the rooftops.
Talk about excessive.
But, these are the Marines, after all—and you learned quick that they are nothing, if not dramatic.
And to think you just wanted to enjoy a leisurely walk. Honestly, you were starting to like the quiet.
MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS and implied watertribe!reader
But Zuko who...
watches his world crumble in his arms as you take the hit meant for him in the initial confrontation against Tagah. Your gazes meet for the briefest of seconds, and Zuko's lips can't help but part as you collapse against him, causing both of you to stumble near the cliff's edge.
His arms brace around you, taking the brunt of the impact whilst the two of you skid against the ground. It's only when he chances a look at you that he sees the vacancy in your once glimmering eyes. His breath hitches, vision tunnelling as he raises a shaking hand, slipping his fingers beneath the band of the necklace he'd poured hours into perfecting.
He searches, and searches, and searches--fingers gliding desperately over your neck, your wrist, and finally your heart when he wills himself to sit up and sets your body down. For a moment, all he can do is stare down at you, praying to every spirit in this supposedly holy land that you would come back to him. He presses his forehead to yours, murmuring prayers and apologies alike before kissing you gently.
Your lips are still warm, still as soft as when last he kissed you ten minutes ago.
Katara's voice barely registers over the beat of his aching heart, and he acts before he can process the brilliant blaze that shoots from his shaking fist, his short breaths steaming as he attempts to reel himself in. He can feel the concern in his friends' gazes, but all he can think of is killing Tagah, addled with the same kind of hopelessness and desperation that hasn't festered inside of him since his banishment all those years ago.
His resentment for the ancient bender manifests in his raging infernos, flames licking up his skin hot enough that he almost feels them, burning away the tears that streak down his cheeks--
A current of concentrated air pierces through him, and he stumbles back with wide eyes, managing to drape himself over you protectively, even in his state of shock. He thinks of the time you spent together in brief flashes, how short twelve years is in the long run, and the argument the two of you had before joining Aang on this stupid adventure.
He thinks of how much he loves you until his heart finally gives.
When he comes to, the first things he registers are the heavy feeling of wet clothes and water moving across his skin. Then a voice--your voice.
"Katara, he's not waking up."
"He's going to be alright, I promise."
His eyes crack open blearily, zeroing in on you as your shaky hands hold water over him. His gaze falls to your necklace, still on as snug as the day he proposed. You haven't seemed to notice him waking up, and before he can stop himself, he launches himself at you with a desperate ferocity.
His lips silence your startled yelp, salted by a mixture of your tears as your hands rise to cup his cheeks, your thumb tracing along the edges of his scar just light enough to draw a shuddering laugh from him. Katara wearily smiles as she leaves the two of you, focusing her attention on Toph, who groans as she sits up, grumbling about how she was going to get Tagah.
"I thought I lost you," he says, the weight of his words hanging delicately in the air whilst he presses his forehead against yours. He holds you like he'll shatter without you, and maybe he will, but neither of you are inclined to find out.
"I know," you start apologetically, pulling away to brush a kiss to his jaw, "I'm sorry, Zuko."
He shakes his head, unable to stop himself from holding his hand over your now-beating heart. "All that matters is that you came back."
You feel him long before you cross the Baroness' threshold. That sinking, foreboding feeling that bubbles hopelessly in the pit of your stomach whenever he graced you with his presence.
But why now?
It had to have been at least a couple of centuries since you'd seen him, and to be honest, he didn't seem too keen on a profession change when the two of you last spoke. You still remember the chill that rippled down your spine when he chuckled at your naivety.
"You want to learn…From mortals? Honestly, I commend your curiosity. Bravo, my dear. What you could possibly gain outside of relishing in their torment is beyond me, though. Do write back should you find anything of note, hm?"
Yet, despite his incessant mockery, here he stands before you, costuming as one of the things he so readily tortured at a moment's notice.
"And this is our doorman. He's usually a lot busier than this, so try not to take up too much of his time, alright?" Blake, your new coworker, motions to the man you so desperately wished to avoid. You try to avert your gaze, but find yourself unwillingly drawn to him.
Unfortunately, the form he chose is uncannily suited—from its almost inhuman height, to the soft curl of red hair that rests just above his arched brow. The only thing keeping you from falling for the guise is the malevolent glow behind his teal eyes that hold traces of the power you'd grown used to associating with him.
His lips tick up a bit too wide when a flicker of recognition crosses his face.
Fuck.
He wasn't suppossed to be here.
"The Baroness welcomes you with open arms," he smile broadens, deceptively sincere as he turns back to the spectres that mill about or mingle with guests. He pauses for a moment, pondering briefly before turning to your tour guide with an uncanny wink accompanied by a charming grin, "Say, Blake, how about you go and check on Francis in the lounge? Bottomless mimosas can be a lot for one man to handle, especially with rush hour in full swing."
"But what about—"
"I can handle a simple tour, and besides, you deserve a break." He waves her off with a flick of his wrist, offering her a look that has her cheeks burning bright red as she scurries down the hall.
When he settles his gaze back on you, you narrow your eyes, lip curling in distaste as he beckons you forward.
The former fledgling god leads you through the bustling hotel, going into detail on just about every stain and frayed carpet thread while you remain quietly trailing behind him.
It appeared as though he almost cared for the hotel, but there's no way that could be right.
He never cared about anything that wasn't the cries of terror from the mortals he tortured.
"Is something troubling you? I hope I'm not too dreadfully boring."
He's close—far closer than than what could be considered professional, or even normal, for that matter. You can practically feel the heat of every robotic exhale he lets out, his eyes boring into yours with the faintest glimmer of familiar amusement.
"I'd be happy to lend my assistance." Now he hovers by your ear, the ghost of a touch tracing the pulse point at your wrist for the briefest of seconds before it's gone.
ft: portgas d ace (one piece)
reader: gn!reader
wc: 496
cw: spoilers, major character death, unresolved grieving, hurt no comfort
watched marineford am sad
writers block kicking my butt and i miss him so i wrote this instead
come backkkkkkk
From across the battlefield, through the smoke and ash, his eyes meet yours. They're shaky, filled with an insurmountable amount of fear that you'd make fun of him for under different circumstances. Yet, despite the odds, he still manages to smile through the tears. The gesture, once familiar and calming, begins to fray at the edges as the scene before you unfolds in painfully slow motion.
There's an arm around you, holding you to a steady chest when you cry out, one hand clutched onto the burning vivre card even as it singes your fingers, and the other outstretched in an attempt to wipe his tears—to just hold him one more time.
"I love you." His lips tremble as he mouths the words, his smile still as bright as the flames he wields, and your world seems to tilt the second he slumps in Monkey D. Luffy's weak hold. The sound of his body hitting the unforgiving floor echoes in your ears louder than any rumble of thunder or roaring gale you've encountered during your time on the Grand Line.
You raise your hand, slowly opening your shaking fist to reveal the ashes that remain in place of the vivre card moments before the wind cruelly takes them. You reach out in a desperate attempt to grab them back—to grab him back to the safety of your hands, but the arm pinning you remains resolute despite its quivering.
You glance up, barely able to discern Izou's features through the blurriness of tears that just won't stop no matter how hard you wipe your eyes. He says something to you, comforting despite his own pain, but you can't hear it over the drum of your own heart in your ears.
Ace is gone.
—
Echoes of memories long past haunt the deck of the Moby Dick, phantom laughter curling around the air with forgotten warmth.
You hear it sometimes.
The deep timbre of Whitebeard's earthshaking cackle.
And Ace's snicker, lip quirked with the promise of chaos and love all the same.
If you squint hard enough, you can make out their shapes, still at home on the deck. Still alive.
Your chin rests on your knees, which remain tucked close to your chest. Marco had ordered you out of your room as neither acting captain nor doctor, but as your friend who watched as you clutched Ace's pillow so tightly he'd almost believed you stopped breathing altogether. He was just concerned—they all were.
It's not fair, you think to yourself idly, your vacant gaze focused on the endless sky above, your hands clutching the remnants of the beads you'd managed to salvage and string back together. Some were fractured, and some were barely holding shape, but you still held every jagged piece even as your hands began to bleed.
Time will move on without pause, and eventually, so will you, but not once did you think you'd do it without Ace by your side.
guess who fucked up their college course planning and can't contact their advisor so they're now spiraling through a full blown panic attack because they don't know how their college let them sign up for a course they have no business taking and nobody told them it was the wrong course and said course takes place in three days and theyre actually about to fucking kill themself because its such a stupid mistake how could they miss it im gonna cry afain
