Eridan Ampora (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
uncodlyawwesome) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2012-08-22 11:46 pm
uncodlyawwesome) wrote in ataraxionlogs2012-08-22 11:46 pm
Entry tags:
[closed] no one evver said it wwould be this hard
CHARACTERS: Feferi & Eridan
LOCATION: Feferi's room
WARNINGS: Talking about death, probably about assimilation woes, etc. etc.
SUMMARY: Eridan tries to apologize to Feferi.
This is one of the things Eridan never thought he would have to do.
When he'd killed his friends and destroyed the Matriorb, Eridan had felt vindicated. Proud. So fucking good that it had made him sick, right down in the depths, beyond the reach of lanternfish. Telling Kanaya to wait for him, that he was going to help her with the orb, knowing full well that Feferi was going to start shit about his plan - his plan that didn't include the restoration of their race - it had felt so fucking sly. So fucking smart. Beating Sollux to a fucking pulp had felt so good. Beating Sollux's cockiness right out of him, seeing that smarmy, landdwelling bastard lying like a broken fucking scalemate, it had just been the perfect comeuppance to some asshole who thought he was so fucking cool. What a fucking moron, Eridan had thought. Who the fuck did he think he was?
And when Feferi had come after him, a hot, white anger had gone right through him, a wave, a fucking tsunami of how fuckin' dare you, how fucking dare you, and he hadn't even been sure what he hated her for when he raised his wand, only that he fucking hated her and wanted her to die.
So she had.
And then Kanaya had dropped the matriorb and she was looking for a fight, and it was right there and he'd always wanted to know what it would feel like to kill every single landdweller, so why not kill every single troll that could ever live, Jack would probably appreciate it, who fucking cared about it, there was nothing they could do so just fucking go.
So he blew it up. And killed Kan for good measure.
He'd seen Karkat when he'd left, open-mouthed and stunned, and he wants to pretend that he'd thought I'm sorry, but he knows full well that he hadn't. He'd thought, bet you wish you'd taken me seriously now. And then, bet you're fucking scared of me now. And he'd hoped that Karkat was scared of him. He was terrifying, larger than life and better than Dualscar himself, and when he'd felt sick about it, hunting down Vriska (fuck her for thinking he hadn't been a worthy kismesis), he shoved it deep down in the depths, past the lanternfish and the giant squids, figuring he'd deal with it later.
Later never came. Kanaya did. She bisected him, hot and painful and the worst part was he felt it all and stayed conscious long enough for that horrific sickness to get the bends coming up.
When he'd woken up here, he'd been able to shove that shit back down, into a pressurized container fathoms below, and he'd ignored it. It came up, once or twice, a sticky-sick feeling that reminded him that he'd killed an entire species. He boasted about it once or twice, but it left him feeling nauseated later. He dreamed about it when he curled in his pile. He dreamed he could hear all the trolls that never would come screaming at him.
And then Feferi showed up. And she'd demanded an apology, one he knew he should give, one he knew he wanted to give, but one he didn't think he'd mean, if he said it right then. Because all he'd be doing, he knew, was placating that grossness, trying to make it go away without having to deal with it. So he'd let that sick, you killed everyone feeling come up, bit by bit, rubbing the wound open with every talk with Feferi, with Nepeta, with stasis sickness and bleeding out his eyes. He figured it'd take a sweep, three sweeps, twenty, to get to the right point, so he hadn't worried.
And then he'd been shoved in a white-hot room and made to feel warm and accepted and at peace. A big voice in his head saying, It's all right. Everything is normal. You are part of the whole. That deep-sea sick going away as though it'd never been there, because he didn't need to feel sick or sad or angry. He didn't need to feel anything at all, except calm and at peace.
But fucking Feferi had come and had taken him away from that, and as the shuttle got further from Strela and closer to what he used to be, he had felt that white-burning hate for her all over again. It didn't last, not more than a second, but it lasted long enough that once again, that bubbling sick horror (at what he'd done, at how good it had felt, at how good he had felt) had come to the surface, and even if he pushed it back down, it just bobbed back up. Nothing to pull it down, because he didn't have it in him. It just stayed there, in the mired oil slick, mixing with how sick he felt over his own fucking individuality, over how alone he felt and how much he hated this place, how sick he felt just seeing his cape and scarf and his stupid purple text.
He wishes he could say Sherlock dying had nothing to do with what he's doing now, but it had. Because if Sherlock could be killed for no fucking reason, then so could Fef. And there aren't dreambubbles here. No reviving kiss. Nothing like that.
So now here he is, giving Feferi only a little warning about his intentions, about actually wanting to apologize for once (i wwanna talk to you for a sec i owwe you this), instead of feeling like he needs to - and it's important to note that. He wants to. He's not being told to. When people tell him to do something nowadays, he wants to do it just to make them happy, to bring back that feeling of acceptance, and this - this can't be like that. He has to do this, and for better or for worse, he has to tell her something.
Because he needs her to know something inside him is sincere, down in the depths. And he needs to do it before something terrible happens again.
LOCATION: Feferi's room
WARNINGS: Talking about death, probably about assimilation woes, etc. etc.
SUMMARY: Eridan tries to apologize to Feferi.
This is one of the things Eridan never thought he would have to do.
When he'd killed his friends and destroyed the Matriorb, Eridan had felt vindicated. Proud. So fucking good that it had made him sick, right down in the depths, beyond the reach of lanternfish. Telling Kanaya to wait for him, that he was going to help her with the orb, knowing full well that Feferi was going to start shit about his plan - his plan that didn't include the restoration of their race - it had felt so fucking sly. So fucking smart. Beating Sollux to a fucking pulp had felt so good. Beating Sollux's cockiness right out of him, seeing that smarmy, landdwelling bastard lying like a broken fucking scalemate, it had just been the perfect comeuppance to some asshole who thought he was so fucking cool. What a fucking moron, Eridan had thought. Who the fuck did he think he was?
And when Feferi had come after him, a hot, white anger had gone right through him, a wave, a fucking tsunami of how fuckin' dare you, how fucking dare you, and he hadn't even been sure what he hated her for when he raised his wand, only that he fucking hated her and wanted her to die.
So she had.
And then Kanaya had dropped the matriorb and she was looking for a fight, and it was right there and he'd always wanted to know what it would feel like to kill every single landdweller, so why not kill every single troll that could ever live, Jack would probably appreciate it, who fucking cared about it, there was nothing they could do so just fucking go.
So he blew it up. And killed Kan for good measure.
He'd seen Karkat when he'd left, open-mouthed and stunned, and he wants to pretend that he'd thought I'm sorry, but he knows full well that he hadn't. He'd thought, bet you wish you'd taken me seriously now. And then, bet you're fucking scared of me now. And he'd hoped that Karkat was scared of him. He was terrifying, larger than life and better than Dualscar himself, and when he'd felt sick about it, hunting down Vriska (fuck her for thinking he hadn't been a worthy kismesis), he shoved it deep down in the depths, past the lanternfish and the giant squids, figuring he'd deal with it later.
Later never came. Kanaya did. She bisected him, hot and painful and the worst part was he felt it all and stayed conscious long enough for that horrific sickness to get the bends coming up.
When he'd woken up here, he'd been able to shove that shit back down, into a pressurized container fathoms below, and he'd ignored it. It came up, once or twice, a sticky-sick feeling that reminded him that he'd killed an entire species. He boasted about it once or twice, but it left him feeling nauseated later. He dreamed about it when he curled in his pile. He dreamed he could hear all the trolls that never would come screaming at him.
And then Feferi showed up. And she'd demanded an apology, one he knew he should give, one he knew he wanted to give, but one he didn't think he'd mean, if he said it right then. Because all he'd be doing, he knew, was placating that grossness, trying to make it go away without having to deal with it. So he'd let that sick, you killed everyone feeling come up, bit by bit, rubbing the wound open with every talk with Feferi, with Nepeta, with stasis sickness and bleeding out his eyes. He figured it'd take a sweep, three sweeps, twenty, to get to the right point, so he hadn't worried.
And then he'd been shoved in a white-hot room and made to feel warm and accepted and at peace. A big voice in his head saying, It's all right. Everything is normal. You are part of the whole. That deep-sea sick going away as though it'd never been there, because he didn't need to feel sick or sad or angry. He didn't need to feel anything at all, except calm and at peace.
But fucking Feferi had come and had taken him away from that, and as the shuttle got further from Strela and closer to what he used to be, he had felt that white-burning hate for her all over again. It didn't last, not more than a second, but it lasted long enough that once again, that bubbling sick horror (at what he'd done, at how good it had felt, at how good he had felt) had come to the surface, and even if he pushed it back down, it just bobbed back up. Nothing to pull it down, because he didn't have it in him. It just stayed there, in the mired oil slick, mixing with how sick he felt over his own fucking individuality, over how alone he felt and how much he hated this place, how sick he felt just seeing his cape and scarf and his stupid purple text.
He wishes he could say Sherlock dying had nothing to do with what he's doing now, but it had. Because if Sherlock could be killed for no fucking reason, then so could Fef. And there aren't dreambubbles here. No reviving kiss. Nothing like that.
So now here he is, giving Feferi only a little warning about his intentions, about actually wanting to apologize for once (i wwanna talk to you for a sec i owwe you this), instead of feeling like he needs to - and it's important to note that. He wants to. He's not being told to. When people tell him to do something nowadays, he wants to do it just to make them happy, to bring back that feeling of acceptance, and this - this can't be like that. He has to do this, and for better or for worse, he has to tell her something.
Because he needs her to know something inside him is sincere, down in the depths. And he needs to do it before something terrible happens again.