#post-s5

[wackus-bonkus-maximus]

meet the cast of "lies of attrition"

everything's going so well in my and @ladyofthenoodle 's post-s5 fic! look how fine it's going! absolutely nothing can or will go wrong!

[coffeebanana]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Some nightmares refuse to fade.

***

[Read the full fic below the cut or on Ao3!! CW: panic attacks, dissociation, depression]

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Please, no.

Chat squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to rid himself of a sudden, blinding panic pounding through his skull. But it was too late. Ladybug’s slate-stained image was seared into his mind, her face frozen in pain, devoid of everything that had once painted comfort across his soul. 

Her mask was half-torn, such that Marinette's bare cheek was cradled closest to his chest. Like maybe he'd tried in vain to protect her from the blast.

From his own destruction.

A choked sound ripped itself from his throat, a painful lump following in its wake. He had no way to fix this, nothing to do but pull her in closer. To tighten his arms around her precious, fragile remains.

Another mistake. 

She crumbled in his grip; ashes floated up like a mosaic, blinding his vision. Frantically, he pawed at the air—trying to gather her fragments, to force her back together. If he caught enough, perhaps he could papier-mâché her likeness. He could use his tears as glue.

But there was no time for that before a fiery breeze tore through the street. Marinette’s remains were swept away, and only Chat’s strangled cries could follow. 

The further away they fled, the more he came undone. There was nothing left to tie his mind together, to keep his pain from exploding like a supernova.

Nothing to keep the world from collapsing in on him.

“What did you expect?” Nightormentor’s voice sliced through the smoke. “You’ve always been poison to the ones you loved most.”

NO!

With a frigid gasp—one that curdled his tar-slicked insides—Adrien awoke. Once again, there was a darling weight in his arms. Only this Marinette was warm and solid. Her limbs were tangled in the blankets she'd pulled to her side of his bed, and one of her hands curled slightly into his T-shirt as her breath tickled the fabric.

She was alive.

Adrien just wasn't sure his heart still knew how to beat.

He was too hot and too cold all at once, both drenched in sweat and trembling. His chest felt like someone had trampled it, and every attempt to breathe sliced further into the wound. 

When he closed his eyes, the world was still on fire.

Stomach lurching, he carefully rolled Marinette’s weight off his chest. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t listen to the even sounds of her breath without hearing echoes of his own sobs slip between them. 

The room spun around him as he stumbled to the bathroom; the world still appeared as though through smoke—muted and unreliable, the air too thick to breathe. He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, his empty stomach convulsing, only to realize the sickness inside him wasn’t the kind he could expel.

He remained there, braced against the toilet seat, until his limbs eased their shaking enough for him to crawl away. Even so, he barely made it to the wall beside the sink before one of his arms gave out, and his cheek slammed a little too hard into the handle of one of the cupboards he twisted into a seated position. Hissing in pain, he let his face press against the wood there, shuddering at the way the cold surface shocked some life inside of him.

Time ceased to make sense after that. One moment, his chest was burning, pain reverberating through his back as he struggled to fill his lungs. The next, it seemed he’d become a giant cloud. A numb expanse of icy droplets, ready to fall at a moment’s notice.

Light gradually awakened the room, a subtle warmth flickering near the edge of his awareness. He only fully realized the day had come when, somewhere beyond the door he’d left ajar, the bed creaked.

“Adrien?” Marinette called. Her voice was gentle, but pierced through him all the same. “Everything okay?”

No.

Panic set in anew as footsteps approached. He swore he could somehow taste the blood pounding in his ears, and he clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out. To keep from breathing, even.

He didn’t want to be found. Maybe, if he held his breath until his lungs screamed again, he’d remain concealed in his lifeless fog.

But ironically, it was harder to keep from breathing when that was his actual goal. He sucked in sharp breaths, timed to his heartbeats, and hid his face in his hands.

“Oh, Chaton...” Marinette’s slippers scraped across the bathroom tiles, coming to a stop within his sight. Too close. “Did it happen again?”

He managed a nod, bottom lip quivering as he bit back a sob.

A long exhale piqued his attention; it started as a noise from above and ended as a warm breath against his cheek. Kneeling at his side, Marinette rubbed her hands against her thighs.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Adrien shifted his jaw from side to side, guilt hooking its talons into his gut. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

It wasn’t a lie; he felt plenty bad about inadvertently dragging her here every night. She deserved the comfort of her own bed, regardless of whether he could actually get any sleep without her. So the least he could do was actually let her get enough rest.

But it wasn’t the truth, either.

And as she took his hand, carefully smoothing his fingers over hers, he had a feeling she knew it.

“Adrien…” She tugged his arm upwards, pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Biting his lip to keep from disagreeing, Adrien squeezed his eyes shut. With one less sense at his disposal, he was all too aware of the way she lifted his hand further, unfolding his fingers to press against her cheek.

“See?” she whispered, breath tickling the inside of his wrist. Her head twisted to the side, lips planting a kiss on the heel of his palm. “Everything’s fine.”

He swore he could feel the remnants of destruction prickling against her cheek. It took everything he had not to jerk his hand away.

Nothing was fine.

No matter how he’d come into this world, and no matter how much he despised the fact, Adrien would always be—in some way or another—his father’s son. Sometimes he swore he saw a glimpse of the man when he turned too fast in the mirror. Other times, a flash of fury would seize him; with a sickening sense of satisfaction, he’d know what it might felt like to be a villain.

Even worse, he was his mother’s son. His very existence had killed her.

He’d killed both his parents, in the end. 

So no matter how much Marinette tried to console him, Adrien knew the voice of his nightmares had a point. He was a danger to her, to himself, to the world.

It might not even end up being his choice. All it would take was someone finding out what he was, and stealing the two rings he still couldn’t stand the sight of.

He was, at most, a liability. And Marinette deserved more than that.

She never agreed with him on that point.

“Look at me,” she said now. An edge crept into her voice, one that shocked him into listening.

His heart jumped at the blue of her eyes—filled with all the warmth that the fiery world of his nightmares had failed to hold. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. 

“No, no, no. I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…” Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, okay?”

Adrien couldn’t say it back. He couldn’t find enough truth to shove into the sentiment—not when that was all buried beneath his own misery. It was like he’d returned to his nightmare, with smoke charring his throat and one all-consuming fear.

Just the tiniest wrong movement could ruin everything.

But if he didn’t give some kind of response, Marinette would only worry. So he tugged on her hand—maybe a little too hard considering her yelp of surprise—and guided her to sit between his legs. She moved readily into place, and Adrien forced himself to ignore the fear spiking through his veins, hugging her back to his chest.

Once settled, she twisted around and tried to crane her neck upwards, reaching a hand half-blindly up to his cheek. Heart squeezing in his chest, he tightened his grip around and pressed a kiss to her head. 

She remained tense for a moment too long, but finally sighed and melted back against his chest. Her hand trailed lazily back down to her side, and her breath spilled into a hum of contentment. With her gaze fixed firmly ahead, Adrien could finally breathe again.

He didn’t want her to see the few tears he’d finally let slip down his cheeks—even if she’d no doubt hear his sniffles or feel the way the cries rumbled in his chest. And he didn't want her to examine him to deeply, to discover what he already knew.

One day, he would surely disappoint her.

[wordsmisunderstood]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/9 Fandom: The Expanse (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Chrisjen Avasarala/Bobbie Draper Characters: Chrisjen Avasarala, Bobbie Draper, Amos Burton, Anna Volovodov, Crew of the Rocinante (The Expanse), OCs Additional Tags: PW(ith)P, Meditations on Grief, Three-Part Elegy, Established Situationship, Characters We Love, And the Imperfect Ways They Cope, (Artificial) Gravity, Angst with an Uplifting Ending Series: Part 6 of When you go low, I fly higher Summary:

The days—and nights—that follow the attack on Earth.

[generalluxun]

Will he leave? Never. Will she? He doubts it. Even if he were the ultimate disappointment, his Marinette is too stubborn to admit defeat. What is held between them might be broken beyond repair though. Even more than losing her, the thought of dragging her unhappily through a half-life tears his heart in two.

[seas-of-silver]

Happy Birthday Dear Adrien...

Summary:

Today’s Adrien’s birthday! Everything was going to be absolutely wonderful… right?

From my birthday to yours - happy (belated) birthday @izanogi!!!

Continue reading at:

AO3

[siniendistortion]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Musings about what it means to be finite, but to also have to make choices that effect things beyond your limited comprehension. From the perspective of a semi-omniscient, immortal being who seeks to understand you regardless.

Chapter 4 of Antithesis is out! Seconds before I have to be at work! Please read it, it gives me joy :)

[bcficrecs]

Never Apart by love4books

The family has settled in comfortably at Alexandria. But Daryl remains shrouded in grief that pulls him back to where he lost his hope: Grady Memorial. There he finds an abandoned ward. The stains of the one he lost long rubbed away. But in its place he comes across a letter, addressed in clear handwriting, reading: Daryl.

It wasn’t difficult to determine that the car in front of him was the same one where he made the most fatal mistake in his life. It took him days of non-stop walking, avoiding walkers, and sneaking by groups of nomads to finally come face to face with just one of the many images that have stayed with him like a curse, condemning him for his actions against Beth.

Yet, with all the trekking he endured and prior determination to face the facts, his hand remains frozen on the latch to open the trunk, unable to reach the finish line. He’s out in the open, in broad daylight, back exposed, but he doesn’t move or try to protect his vulnerable blind spot. He can only look down at his shaking hand and feel the tremor in his knees, knowing once he opens the trunk, he’ll either have the peace he needs to move on or will fall further into a pit of despair for the girl he lost.

He continues to stare down at the trunk, wishing to open it like he would rip off a band-aid. Swiftly to avoid too much pain. But his fingers are slicked with sweat which scuffles with the latch, and as the click sounds indicating it’s opened, his hand stills once more in panic. Daryl’s palm keeps it from flying open any more than it already has. He takes this moment to breathe in through his nose, trying to detect any smell, but none comes. He ignores the thudding of his heart that beats in his ears to listen for any sign of life, and yet again is greeted by nothing. Curiosity fueling into courage, Daryl flips open the lid to the trunk.

He’s not sure how long he stands there before he slams the lid with a force that has it springing back up. He does it again and again, his biceps flexing with each push, anger fueling his muscles into action. The latch of the already beaten-up car now broken from his brute strength.

the reality slaps him in the face and becomes too much for him to bear. The weight of the truth having him slink down onto his knees, chest heaving, and forehead leaning on the bumper.

She’s gone. Gone.

Beth… Where are you?

[gaslightgallows]

Ooh and also from the sanity list. May 1 for jon, daisy, and complicated friendship?

1. He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us. (Jon & Daisy) 

With slow, measured movements, Jon stepped into the Secure area of Artifact Storage. It wasn’t exactly the most appropriate place, but there was nowhere else in the Institute to hold someone, apart from the tunnels, and they’d all agreed that would be a bad idea.

From the corner, Daisy watched him, not moving a muscle but following him with her eyes. Jon did his best not to telegraph how nervous he was, and was pretty sure he was failing miserably. They were alone, he’d made sure of that. She deserved that respect.

The door closed behind him, and he looked at her through the steel bars and safety glass. “How are you feeling?”

Daisy’s right shoulder twitched. It might have been a shrug, or just a random muscle spasming from the tension. “I can’t stop hearing it,” she whispered. “The-the blood. I keep trying to listen for the quiet, but all I can hear, all I can smell…”

“I know. It’s hard, being… surrounded. And having to be on your best behavior all the time.”

“Basira, she’s… she still doesn’t get it.” Hard, haunted eyes, the pale brown of sun-dried grass, met his own. “You do.”

“I do.” Jon lowered himself to the cold tiled floor. “I wish I didn’t, but… yeah. I know it. Even when the people you love most aren’t afraid of you, they’re still afraid of what you might do.”

“You’re afraid of me.”

The implication being that he also loved her, as much as Basira did. And maybe he did. He’d gone into the Buried to bring her out, and used himself as bait to lure her into the open, both in the domains and now that the world was safe and sane again, and helped to loosen the Hunt’s grip on her enough for her to know her own mind again. Of course she would assume that he cared.

And he did. That was the damnable thing.

“It’s… different, for us. You and Basira, you’re… you’re friends. Partners. You and me, we’re… closer than friends. Closer than enemies, even. We’ve got the same kind of blood on our hands.”

A little of the hardness faded from Daisy eyes and posture, and she slumped against the walls of her cage. “Maybe that’s why I can’t ever stop hearing it. It’s not out there… it’s in here with me. I can’t outrun it, Jon.”

“Maybe not.” The scar on his throat throbbed. “But at least you’re not running alone.”