#<it's important enough to warrant its own tag.

[bindeds]

[ BITE ME. ] : 2.2k words. ☆ ⌜ALASTOR X GENDER NEUTRAL READER. ⌟ — alastor catches you with bram stoker’s dracula and decides he can’t let you go until he gets to the bottom of your desires.

#tags. biting, blood, blood sucking, alastor with vampire teeth, reference to his cannibalism, but he doesn’t actually eat you, explicit consent, suggestive

a/n. sorry guys, this was wayyy too perfect of a chance realizing that alastor’s a cannibal. i hope you enjoyed this as much as i did! also, i’m finally starting a taglist! lmk which characters you wanna be tagged for ;>

meanwhile ... vampire lucifer version! BITE ME : AL’S VER PART 2 IS OUT !!!

masterlist. request something! :>

“I can’t wait for us to hang out oh, this is going to be so fun!”

You smiled right back at Charlie, though not quite able to return the ray of light she’d been emitting with her own.

“Charlie dear!”

You both looked over your shoulder to see Alastor approaching with his hands neatly poised behind his back.

“Where on earth are you going at this time with such dreadful skies?” Alastor’s head poked out between Charlie and yourself. He pressed the side of his hand to his brow as he squinted at the view outside.

You and Charlie were standing at the grand entrance of the hotel, straw-woven basket in hand.

The red skies of hell had looked just a few shades darker than they usually were and the gravel’s petrichor smell had started to rise in the streets.

Charlie had taken the pleasure of letting Alastor know that you and her would be going on a picnic date. She had taken extra care in watching the weather forecast yesterday to make sure the weather would only be windy, at most drizzly for today, which, judging by her ear-to-ear grin, was right up her alley.

Alastor’s eyes zipped down to your hand, still leaning in front with his hand retracted. “What’s that in your hand, darling?”

“Oh,” you frowned, holding up the book by instinct. “Bram Stoker’s Dracula. I’m trying to get into the classics and Charlie said to bring a book.”

“Dracula,” Alastor’s voice and tone darkened, and the static scratches of radio surrounded the three of you as his grin grew taller. “Such a classic indeed.”

Alastor finally took a step back from the both of you, but that didn’t warrant both of you enough of a reason to continue on your way just yet—your attention as well as Charlie’s was as good as trapped in Alastor’s hands.

“Charlie, may I borrow your friend for a moment?”

“Alastor! Right now, really?” She urged in gritted teeth.

“My sincerest apologies Charlie, I’ve just remembered some important matters we had agreed to settle the very moment we were free.” Alastor placed a hand to his abdomen before he gave a slight bow.

“We won’t be long,” he drawled in a prodding tone.

“What?” You barked after he let you into his quarters first before shutting the door behind him.

Alastor’s eyes traced your shoulders, your arms—then seemed to set up camp at your hands.

Your grip on your book tightened.

“I see you’re dedicated to your little outing with Charlie, hm?” Alastor circled you as he looked over your shoulder. He twirled around to the other shoulder while he clicked his stick to the ground to use as an axis.

The fire sputtered softly in the background. The renovations done to the hotel had certainly been setting into your skin now—the cover of your poor book had become damp with your sweat. The blaring reds of Alastor’s grand room had somehow been less overwhelming to look at than the man himself.

Your eyes zipped over to his chest, shit, why—how did you get here? Though your eye sockets had been yanking you to look his way anyway, your eyelids gave the threat of a blink that for some reason entailed certain death.

A spindly finger crept its way under your chin and tilted your head up. Your gaze naturally fell to his eyes, so narrow and sharp as they could’ve pierced into your own, but no—instead, his gaze took a step into yours. Ever the polite gentleman, letting you know he was letting himself in as your blinking flickered.

“My eyes are up here, darling,” Alastor buzzed in a gravelly voice that dug below the growling radio static.

You gulped, and it seemed that that had been enough for Alastor to release your chin. “Though I suspect it’s not the outing you’re excited about …”

“Alastor, we can talk about this later—”

“Oh, but we haven’t talked about us at all—not since the fall of Charlie’s hotel,” Alastor grinned but gave a pouting tone.

Right.

You had panicked the moment Alastor left for longer than he should have. When you were the only one who clearly didn’t hate him but didn’t hug him upon his return, he took it upon himself to ask about your attitude towards him. You confessed to having thought about him a little more than the rest of the crew, thinking you would be ripping the bandaid off when he laughs at your face and tells you he doesn’t like wasting his time on such sentiments—but lo and behold, he twirled you around to an old jazz song you couldn’t recognize and said—

“Why, I would be ridding myself of the one person who happens to be a pleasure to be around! Don’t be so harsh on yourself my dear, you’re quite a beauty to be relished, even if I am no such person for the job.”

Alastor’s fingers crawled up to his lips as they tapped in a rippling motion.

“Though, it does make me inclined to try …”

So there you were.

The past few days have been more than bearable with this subtle change as you would have expected with someone who wasn’t known to be into romantics. And Alastor had made it clear that you two were only exclusive without a label—but it seemed the current moment might be testing that statement’s validity.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you reasoned as you held the book to your chest with the title facing him.

Alastor’s eyes dropped back down to your book and up to you again as he shut his eyes.

“And you’re doing just a splendid job, my treasure. Letting me set the pace. But right now, I must admit … it’s rather difficult for me to see you reading quite possibly the most popular piece of fiction on vampires,” Alastor held back a sigh through his explanation, but it slipped between his theatrics nonetheless. “You do know I’m a cannibal, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” you insisted, and for some reason your voice dropped to a lower register as you frowned.

Your gaze had been drawn right back to Alastor’s prying own like a compass needle to the earth’s core—it wavered, but never wandered long.

“Then you should know it’s only natural for me to yearn for your taste,” Alastor hummed. “If only I had known you were enamored by such notions sooner …”

“What does it matter now? Right when I’m supposed to head out with Charlie too …”

“Is it really what you wish to do?” Alastor questioned with a cocked brow. “Because if so …” he stepped aside and showed you the door with his hand motioned towards it. “I will not stop you, my sweet.”

In your head, you prepared for your body to move—but you made one pathetic excuse for a step before you fell ice cold. Your head spun and whirred with the expectation of movement—but your body tensed with the commands your muscles refused to follow; like there had been a mix of commands in which your brain may have known what was right but the very blood that supplied your body remained loyal to the desires pounding in your rib cage.

“Well?”

Alastor stood rooted to his spot, and though his grin had turned into a tamed smile, you knew that underneath his closed eyes he’d been brimming for your answer.

“What … What are you going to do?” You asked innocently. There were a number of things already stirring in your head about your fate in the next ten minutes or so, but Alastor’s hell-renowned status had been built escaping the grasps of others’ expectations.

“What would you like me to do my dear?” He tilted his head at an unnatural angle as his sharp eyes narrowed at you once more, the static noise crackling much like the fire had—only this sound panted and prodded in your ear, demanding to be known.

“No, this is not how this works, Al,” you sterned as much as you could with the tremble in your voice. “You tell me exactly what you have in mind, then I will tell you what I think.”

“Hmmph,” Alastor cooed. “How clever.”

He made his way over to you, and your body reacted quicker than your mind as your steps matched his, only they brought you backwards while he stalked forward.

He leaned into your ear. “I’d like to know what you taste like, dear.”

You attempted to steel yourself as a shiver traveled from your arms to your spine. Alastor’s breath might have been warm but the shiver had shedded off half your warmth and preserved the rest on your cheeks.

He returned to his original position right in front of you, keeping your flickering gaze locked on his, even if his own hadn’t been half as loyal when they switched between your neck and the former.

“Not to worry. I won’t hurt you any more than I have to. I find those fangs that vampires possess quite appealing,” he commented. “So what do you say, darling?”

You nodded. You didn’t mean to.

But by this time your throat, your muscles, the very same ones tensed with the promise of Alastor’s tongue on your skin—they had been pulling the strings because you knew you wouldn’t do it all by yourself, acting so surprised by the things you’re saying.

“Please,” you whispered as you bit your lip. Now’s no time to be praying.

“I want you to bite me.”

Unless it’s to the very demon before you.

“Lovely.”

His hand slipped to your waist and steered you to the right and towards the edge of his bed.

You fell back, your book finally escaped your grasp and Alastor’s shadow casted over you completely.

He adjusted his tie as he set down his microphone, chin held high with a half-lidded glance at your book that laid askew on his bed. He picked it up and flipped it back to front briefly before setting it down on his bedside table like he’d been framing a picture.

“Now then,” he grinned, and his teeth had been completely altered with a straight row—the only two to stand out being the prominent fangs that ended on his lower lip.

Alastor swooped in and you shut your eyes tight from the gush of wind that accompanied him only to be met with his warm breath on your neck.

“I trust you know that this will hurt for an itty bitty moment, yes?” He warned with a voice so vile yet sultry, like his little remarks had slithered into your ear and lapped your head in jawbreaker promises filled with his venom.

You nodded quickly, and froze at once when he punctured you; fire spread throughout your neck, inflamed your cheeks, collarbones protruding as you clawed at his shoulders for purchase—and to your surprise, he adjusted your grip to loop around his neck, which in turn enveloped you closer to him.

A swirling sensation danced into the picture with your jugular pulsing against his teeth. Your flesh and muscles hugged the two blades that only sank deeper into you causing you to bruise even further. You winced, and Alastor’s tongue drew small circles where he had been sucking. Something had been dripping from you and Alastor was sure not to miss a single drop of you. At least, not from your neck.

You bit your lip once more, a sound rising past your throat and holding your tongue hostage. Warmth had now engulfed your jaw and neck as you craned it back to allow him easier access—what was previously festered had subsided into a dizzying pleasure, his fangs almost tickling you along with the wet trails left by his tongue.

Ice washed over the abused spot on your neck when his fangs left you, pieces of your skin still clung onto him until the very last second. He nibbled and bit further down and along your collarbone before he drew back.

He exhaled through his teeth, which had now grown out to be the regular sharp rows he possessed previously. With the way his eyes trekked on your shoulders and jaw, it took every muscle in your body not to shrivel under his critical eye.

“Oh, my dear, you’re absolutely glowing,” Alastor sighed, the inner corner of his brows arched up as his hands remained planted on either side of you. His smile faltered. “If you should even dare to think otherwise, come to me. I will fix what is wrong with this realm, and that is the wretch who convinced the moon and stars they were nothing but rotten work.”

Heavy knocks thundered from the door.

“Alastor! What’s taking so long?” Charlie reprimanded, which made you jolt when she uttered your name along with his. “We need to go!”

Alastor stepped back and dusted himself off which allowed you space to do the same. You fixed your shirt and ran towards the door only for a firm hand on your forearm to twirl you around and dip you, your hair falling away from your face.

“Alastor!” You hissed.

Alastor held up your book with his free hand. “I’m touched you’d let me keep this as a souvenir.”

You grabbed the book and headed for the door again. “I’m late.”

Charlie called your name once more.

“Coming!”

“That you will be,” Alastor chuckled.

You glared at him over your shoulder. “Big talk for an ace.”

“I never know what that means.” Alastor shrugged as he planted his microphone in front of him.

You rolled your eyes before opening and slamming the door behind you, leaving Alastor to think about what he was going to do about your attitude when you got back.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fandom #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin fandom #hazbin fanfic #hazbin headcanons #alastor fanfiction #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x y/n #( ​✮ hazbin. ) #( ⊹ hazbin fics. ) #alastor x y/n

[penname-artist]

Tidbits #6

Overview: Hermaphroditism & Aircraft Sex-Ed

(Slight pre-warning for mature content, though I don't think it's enough to warrant a maturity tag)

Notice: this chapter of 'Tidbits' is reposted from it's original document of 2021, and may no longer be up-to-date with current headcanons

-

This is being dedicated to an entire - long - chapter. Yup. This is a thing! Hold onto your hats y’all!

This is an important tidbit to make, purely because it will help explain a lot of concepts and themes surrounding my (generally not safe for work) fics, as well as the headcanon of the world and its inhabitants. While this may not be everybody’s cup of tea, it’s still going to be relevant to my storytelling, and that’s why this is here! So let’s...talk about airplane and helicopter reproduction systems, oh joy. XD

First and most notably to this rather lengthy headcanon explanation (because it’s the most often used slash needed to explain), helicopters, as well as large aircraft, both have forms of what is called hermaphroditism [herm-aff-row-dite-is-um]. While they each display them in different ways, both have the same basic principles: males and females each have their own male and female reproductive organs, stacked one on top of the other, hidden beneath separate sets of releasable panelling.

Now for the main differences between the two species, large aircraft are simultaneous hermaphrodites, meaning they have both parts, and can use them, you guessed it, simultaneously. Both exist at the same time without overcrowding each other. The ways they do this are mostly because of the fact that large planes have much lower hormone levels, even as adolescents, so there’s never a problem that one set is simply outpowering another. Now this does mean that they have to deal with female cycles (though, aircraft do not bleed) but again, natural hormone levels are so low and so well evened out that there never seems to be a big difference in behavior. (Side note: you might still see Cabbie swiping extra caffeine from the kitchen, though.)

Large aircraft will still have one set that determines their gender from birth, however, and that is whichever set is positioned closer to their underbellies (this works the same way with helicopters which we’ll get to in a minute). Then as they reach adolescence, both reproductive organs will begin to properly function. As a special note to add, no, they can not self-impregnate. They do still have to have a partner in order to reproduce.

And now onto my personal (very biased) favorites, the helicopters. Though they share the main hermaphrodite aspects, helicopters are known alternatively as being ‘sequential’ hermaphrodites. From birth, there is always one set that will be more prevalent and have stronger hormones than another, making the secondary dormant by comparison. The stronger set (or the natural one, I should say - transgender helis do of course exist) will always be the one closest to the craft’s belly, the same as large craft in determining gender, and the dormant set will be resting behind it. To put it very bluntly, cisgendered male helis have a penis in the front and a vagina behind it, and cisgendered females are the reverse!

When helicopters reach their adolescence, only the main set will be active. The dormant parts will remain dormant...for the most part. There is however one aspect of these dormant parts that need to be dealt with into a helicopter’s adulthood, and that is precautionary cycling. About every ten years or so, or roughly 12 different times in their lifespans, a helicopter’s secondary panelling becomes highly active only to ensure that it is healthy and functioning, and ready to use if absolutely necessary. Cycling will last between one and two weeks when active, and then (granted it doesn’t become actually active during that time, ie they’re not dropping eggs or releasing sperm) it will naturally just go back to a dormant state. Generally speaking, male cycling will make them more moody, and females will be hornier and occasionally more aggressive or dominating. Oh the wonderful world of double hormones.

Now, you may be wondering, “But why have a second set of reproduction parts if they serve no purpose for most of their lives?”. Well you see, the only reason helicopters and large aircraft even evolved to having hermaphroditism in the first place is their need to not go extinct. It’s much more difficult for the both of them (large aircraft in particular) to find suitable mates to bear children with, especially when you need to find one male and one female to do so. In the case of planes such as Cabbie, as well, there’s historical evidence to prove that this hermaphroditism was purposefully bred into them in order to maintain high numbers of C-119s without having to decline females in war (sexism being what it was). The evolution definitely saved their afts in the long run, however, making it easier for them to reproduce effectively.

So why are helicopters different, why have their secondary sets completely dormant from birth as opposed to large aircraft's way of doing it? Long story short for their excuse: it's for emergency uses.

Helicopters are a species of aircraft that, historically, often bordered on the lines of 'difficult' in keeping good numbers of. Compared to the vast majority of aircraft, helicopters actually don't have as long a life expectancy, capping at 150 years, whereas prop planes in good condition will average 150, some even topping 200 or more. (Side note: Helos have also consistently had some of the highest numbers of same-sex couples in their species, seconding only to larger aircraft. Hermaphroditism is full of The Gays, apparently!) As a cherry on top to all of that, helos also have much stronger hormones than large aircraft, since they are much smaller and lighter. Because of these small issues in reproductivity, it's alleged that hermaphroditism evolved into the species as an emergency use for hard times. In the instance of, say, an apocalypse, so long as you have two helis, not necessarily two helis of differing genders, you could still conceivably continue their species. But that's only hypothetical scenarios, I'm not implying that Blade may be forced to carry pups for humanity in any kind of alternate universe…yet.

Though small aircraft don’t really need as much of an explanation for their way of doing things, I will add them to the pile as well just for clarification; small ‘craft, including all the prop-planes (and the sweet potato) are born with one of two biological sexes - but a male’s parts are tucked away in a cavity almost identical-looking to that of a female. Their balls are also further in the body so they’re protected from harm (though I’m sure a fist at the right angle over there would hit them effectively XD), and that’s just across the board, all males and male parts are that way across the aircraft spectrum. So, in essence, they’re basically like whales and dolphins! (I’m now thoroughly regretting adding “Do whales have balls?” to my Google search history…)

Now, some random things relative to all of this that I also wanted to point out, gestation periods! Aircraft differ by make and model quite a bit, but the general rule of thumb is that smaller bodies equal shorter terms, heavier bodies equal longer ones.

The shortest gestation periods are within the small single-engine prop planes, going from the world’s smallest (the Starr Bumble Bee model, respectively) into planes about Dusty’s size, though he is stunted in size for an Air Tractor, and their pregnancy times are around three to four months at a time.

Slightly larger aircraft, including most of your warplanes and bigger single-engine aircraft, have gestation periods of six to ten months.

Small double-engine planes, Bulldog as an example, are between eight and eleven months.

Bigger double-engines, starting at Dipper’s type and going all the way up to Cabbie, have a minimum period of twelve months, but often go up to fifteen.

Light helicopters, and most often skidded copters, have a period closest to a human term of nine to ten months.

Bigger helicopters, Blade’s size and up, capping a little under Windlifter’s size, are all twelve-month terms.

Windlifter and other big choppers, which also include models with double rotor assemblies, take around thirteen months.

Okay, you got all that? Alright, I got one more round of random things to add here, if you’ve made it this far, and these I didn’t really organize all that well so it’s just a mix of headcanon tidbits here!

One feature between aircraft coupling is reproductive magnetism. This is a bit of headcanon I’ve added to an upcoming Prop Calendar project that you’ll hopefully get to see, one day at least. There are natural magnets lining the rims of each panelled set of parts, and they grow more powerful with arousal, until the point of orgasm, when they quite literally snap full force with the set of a partner’s, like a lock-on system during mating. Between two of the same sets of panelling, there’s not much magnetic response, but between a male and female coupling, the opposite polarities get really damn strong.

Despite the obvious sequential hermaphroditism within helicopter species, their societies are still a widely homophobic and transphobic demographic (as shown by Blade’s relationship with his father and biological family). A lot of your helo purists will believe that your secondary set should be ignored at all costs, and that giving in to using it is equivalent to an unforgivable sin. Times did change for them in needing to have such a thing, but times are changing again to make that something that shouldn’t need to be shunned.

Though this isn’t confirmed headcanon, I’m really just thinking out loud on this, but I have considered toying around with the idea of airplane sex drives and how those may naturally alter between species. Larger aircraft may tend to have a much lower sexual appetite, whereas smaller or more flexible craft have a much higher one. There are, of course, plenty of exceptions to that (Oscar), but that’s an unconfirmed concept of differences in species.

And that concludes our random-ass tidbit (that took way too long to produce) on plane and heli sex-ed! Now, I am aware there’s a lot of aspects I haven’t covered here, so if anyone has any further questions, feel free to add them into a comment, I’m always open to getting questions to fill up Q and As, and I’ve got a few already that I’ll be rolling out in the next chapter. That will be all I’ve got for today, apologies for my lack of posting right now, I’m trying to barrel through a writing block and it’s only half-working. XD

#disney planes tidbits #disney planes #disneyplanes #planes fire and rescue #disney planes 2 #tidbits

[nudgeling]

Was originally not gonna show any of this until I was finished, but I got impatient so here's a snippet of a Pearl fic I'm working on. Content warnings in tags.

~~~

We close in on a clearing in the woods. It’s a location that’s been important since the very beginning of the game. It's where the players were first welcomed onto the stage, and now, where the last ones have departed from it.

The place has gone through many changes throughout its stay, now almost unrecognizable from its original shape and form. We recall its earliest memory; when the area was green and lush, with a rich oak forest surrounding the spherical glade which was centered to the direct gaze of the midday sun. The players were greeted into the world with bird song and soothing wind underneath a sun that was warm but never burning. It was beautiful. First impressions are everything, after all, and no other place in the arena required such a well-calculated environment as this one. 

As such, We are far from unfamiliar with the space we’re now approaching to observe. However, something very significant has happened to it during the last four seconds; something which has turned our carefully constructed scenery into a twisted mirage of itself, like a gravely mutilated corpse only We can identify. The change warrants not only a second look, but another overview from ground zero as if we were analyzing it with fresh minds. We open our many eyes.

Most importantly, a black crater remains where the player Scott once stood. Pieces of his flesh lay scattered around the premise, some more than a hundred meters away from their point of origin. The smell and sting of smoke lingers in the air and seeps into the earth for a long time to come like an invasive species. Just as intrusive is the white ringing noise that imbeds itself inside the ears of the many unfortunate wolves who stood witness. It screeches inside of their heads despite their futile attempts at scratching it out with their paws. From above, the whole place looks oddly like a red star.

After a minute of groveling and enduring the steadily receding noise, the cubs are the first ones to move. They’ve picked up the scent of fresh meat, and now little else matters. They stalk towards the free food spread out in the grass, looking towards it and their mothers to silently ask for permission. They are not unaware of the weighing silence of finality, but it’s easily trumped by the allure of meat, and a rumbling stomach. The mother wolves don’t say anything, their attention lies elsewhere, which the cubs take as a “yes” in the absence of a “no”. One small fluffy creature after another disperses from the pack, eager to take part in the feast. They fight each other with tiny paws and milky teeth for the largest piece of what once was the player Scott.

The oldest wolf, a gray female with red eyes matching the tint of her collar, stands apart and keeps a watchful gaze from the shadows of the trees. She's wiser than her peers and picks up on something they don’t. The scene to them is tragic, shocking, bloody, but looming above it all is a foreboding sense of wrongness, a feeling she's as familiar with as her own bones. She should be dead twice over, and yet…

The other wolves don’t notice her approach until she's close enough to brush fur with those she passes. They don’t recognize her, so they growl and bare their teeth at the intruder. Death has washed away her smell and her collar used to be yellow, so she doesn’t blame them. What is left is an acute sense of danger, layered on top of her already undaunted stride and thick muscles moving beneath her fur. As such, her authority remains as well. No one dares to make a deliberate move to stop her as she moves through the crowd like a boat parting water. Loud barks of protest making no pretense of their distaste follow her, but only a short low growl can make a momentarily daring wolf scurry out of her path and join the collective mass that’s joined around her. She doesn’t slow her firm tempo until she’s reached her destination.

The player Scott, who smelled of poppies, oak, and burning wood, is gone. An unmoving figure on the ground clad in red who smells of smoke remains. This, she thinks, is the source of the wrongness.

Despite the scene, her tail wags at the sight of her owner. She settles down beside her, lays down in the moon-shaped curve of the human body’s waist, and awaits a soothing hand to stroke through her fur. It doesn’t come. 

The figure doesn’t react to her companion's presence. Nor has she reacted to anything since the blast sent her flying back down the hill, blowing soot and blood in her face. Her still gaze, a single red eye peeking out between curtains of brown hair, is fixed on an inconsequential tuff of charred grass. 

No one else sees what We see; a red string tied around the tip of her finger, usually always tense like a pulled bowstring, that now lies slack. The end of it lies a couple meters away from her, stinged and frayed at the edge. It’s been torn off, while everyone else’s tether was dissolved. Wrongness indeed.

We close in on the figure, training every eye on her unmoving body and fog-covered mind. Her finger twitches. She makes the realization at the same time we do. 

The player Pearl is still alive.

#doublelife #traffic smp #trafficblr #pearlescentmoon #traffic fic #double life fanfic #double life spoilers #cw character death #cw blood #the watchers #nudge.writing

[titoist]

many thanks to my friend @vetulicolia for having the consideration to tag me in this. i intuit that this game has the basal concept of something akin to, ah… "list 6 songs that are important to you" - or perhaps 6 songs that you have just been listening to, recently, regardless of importance. i figure that i will do a mishmash of both, and see what comes of it.

pilotredsun - vitamin kid (pilotredsun, pilotredsun, pilotredsun… pilotredsun is immensely important to me as an artist and a musician, but i would hardly call them a favorite - in the sense that one often wouldn't call fine wine their favorite drink. perhaps i see pilotredsun's work as something adjacent to music, but different enough to warrant distinction in its own right. Vitamin Kid, in specific, is…hm. i have listened to a lot of pilotredsun's discography, and while vitamin kid is perhaps not my strict favorite, it is quite important to me, as it was one of the first pilotredsun songs i ever heard, and is still immensely endearing to me in a nostalgic sort of way. relatively early pilotredsun is always a treat to look back on, the collected soundcloud works.)

They Might Be Giants - Stand On Your Own Head (i recently discovered a love for this this due to the recommendation of someone i know, and i am immensely grateful. i had listened to it in the past, passingly, but had never really sat down to give it a thorough review before, and i've found a love for it. it's definitely not my favorite off of Lincoln, but it is nonetheless a track i have recently been obsessed with - "i love the world, and if i have to sue for custody, i will sue for custody!")

casio dad - i'm ok with you (im unsure how to properly describe my feelings on casio dad - and, believe me, i have tried before. but my loquaciousness turns to mush under the benevolent gaze of classic j - the artist behind casio dad and the current…co-owner, i believe? of the band 'glass beach'. i like casio dad very much. it is possibly my favorite 'band' of all time. i think it sounds very good. if you listened to casio dad, that would make me happy.)

Seth Boyer - The Cremation of Sam McGee (this track is one that i…initially viewed my interest in as ephemeral, passing, a temporary obsession i would - despite my very sincere appreciation for it - eventually chew up and discard. however, as time passes, it has become gradually obvious, with increasing clarity, that it is turning into a personal favorite of mine. The Cremation of Sam McGee is, as a poem, among my favorites already - and this work translates it into a song with beautiful, beautiful execution, the vocals and backing banjo always stuck in the back of my head in some capacity. a nebulous dream i have is to, one day, do my own cover of this song with sufficient quality.)

Feed Me Jack - Jelly the Queen (feed me jack is a band i view with a degree of heavy nostalgia and melancholy. it was…mmm. i would be willing to say that my discovery of it served as an entry point, a gateway, to my modern taste in music - it got me hooked on math rock, for awhile! and i still do like math rock, but, wew….you shoulda seen me in 2017/2018. despite very probably being in my top favorite bands out there, it met an unceremonious end when they broke up…i believe in 2017? a deep sigh. that occasion is something i view as an immense tragedy, a lost opportunity. )

AJR - World's Smallest Violin (i am, quite (un)fortunately so, of an indie pop penchant. they have crucified me for this in the past, and i suspect they will do so again. i discovered this song a fair bit ago due to a friend of mine occasionally sending it, and it has endeared itself to me heavily - if only for the sound, the idiom of the song, rather than its messaging, which i find myself somewhat apathetic to. it is very overtly meant for those who have some level of disconnect between the acts of them and their ancestors, who ogle and gaze up at the illustrious portraits of patriarchs long-gone on their fireplace and think to themselves, "their deeds were strong, and mine are weak". well, i don't really feel that compulsion, both in the sense of feeling a detachment, and finding their actions to be immensely brave in comparison - i knew them personally, if only for a short while, and they were unhappy and deeply lonely people up until their death, even if their titles of judge or lawyer or business owner could make one think differently for a moment. i, to some extent, inherited their struggles. the song has the lyric "someone somewhere has it worse" - and, though i do not say this with self-deprecation or out of the urge of masturbatory sadness, within the purview of this songs' goal, i am that someone, somewhere, that has it worse. one could perhaps tie this to my previous post. anyway i'm using this as a space for my garrulous personal rumination again & just end it off with my saying that i think it's a good song.)

and i suppose that's that. who to tag…let me think. er…. @mdq, @icetrancer, and i figure that you might get a kick out of this, @liziveth. on top of that, i invite anyone who sees this and wants to do it, regardless of them necessarily being tagged. it's good fun. bows and exits the stage.

[beanmom]

I already dropped these in a reblog but I feel this is important enough to warrant its own post in the tag. Tumblr needs to know that the main nun character in Prey for the Devil cross dresses as a priest for the climactic battle of the movie, and it's, uh, it's a good look. 😳

(The movie is not great, and if you just wanna see this part it's like, 1:07-1:14, but it definitely hits harder if you've suffered through an hour of her in her light blue habit looking earnest and concerned and then she shows up looking pissed off, with her hair down, in a fitted black suit with priest's collar 🥵).

#prey for the devil #jacqueline byers

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[serendipitous-magic]

What is your writing advice for young people who want to write fanfiction and original stories in the near future?

If this is just Way Too Much, skip to the end (#16). My most important piece of advice is there. I also happen to think #5 is pretty good.

-_-_-_-

1) Literally just write. Write whatever you want, and do a lot of it.

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2) You don’t have to post everything. In fact you don’t have to post anything. You can, don’t get me wrong, but it can be intimidating to sit down and think “I will now write something that other people will see and read and judge with their eyeballs.” Because that’s probably gonna lead to nerves and writer's block. Just write down the ideas that you have, the things you want to write, whatever’s in your brain that you want to explore and expand upon and make into something. And then if you want to, share it. Or don’t share it. I have plenty of half-baked ideas and documents and random story chapters and shit hidden away on my Google Drive that will never see the light of day, for a whole number of reasons. I wanted to write it but it wasn’t ~Spicy~ enough to warrant posting, or it’s only like an eighth of a good idea, or it’s like one scene with no story around it, or it’s just something incredibly self-indulgent I just wanted to write for my own enjoyment.

Point being, don’t write for other people. Don’t write so that other people can read it; write what you want, write for yourself, and then if you want to share it, do.

_-_

3) You can pretty much ignore any and all of these for fanfiction. In fact, you can ignore pretty much any rules or guidelines you want for fanfiction. Fanfic is a sandbox. You don’t have to be a “professional writer” to post fic. No one expects you to be Stephen King or Margaret Atwood. Fanfic is just for playing in a fandom and having fun. If you wanna write a 50 chapter slow burn with very little plot aside from the OTP slowly getting to know each other, and no real stakes or central conflict, I guarantee people would read that. Really, fanfiction is the Old West of writing: lawless, wild, unpredictable, and free.

However, here are the rules you must follow:

-Separate your paragraphs. (I’m sure you know this already, but I’m gonna say it anyway just in case.) Do not post one big block of text. Make a paragraph break when someone new is talking, when the characters are in a new place, when a new event occurs that changes the scene, when a chunk of time has passed, and when there’s a major change in subject.

-I know it’s obvious, but... grammar, punctuation, and capitalization. They exist to make writing easy for readers to read, and more people will read your stuff if they don’t have to stop and try to figure out what you meant.

-Use tags and labels, as is possible with whatever site you’re using. Especially if you include possibly triggering content in your story. Again, I know it’s obvious, but it’s common courtesy. Bonus: tagging the themes and content of your story helps readers find it and read it :)

-If possible, limit the use of all-caps and exclamation marks / question marks. 99% of the time, one ! or one ? will do. If you overload the page with a lot of all-caps and long rows of exclamation marks or question marks, it hampers readability.

... That’s literally all I can think of. And, like I said, it’s all pretty basic stuff. You were probably rolling your eyes like, “Uh, yeah, Gwen, I know.” But that’s literally it. You can pretty much do whatever you want in fanfic.

That being said, here’s my advice for both fanfiction and original work...

_-_

4) A quick and dirty rule for coming up with a plot, starting a story, keeping up pacing, or maintaining tension: figure out what dreams, desires, and goals are nearest and dearest to your main character’s heart (see #16). Then set up the main conflict to be directly in opposition to that goal. It doesn’t have to be in a tangible way, though it could be. But, if your main character wants more than anything to reach the ships on the southern coast of your world and sail to a new life, make sure the main conflict immediately prevents them from doing that - in fact, make sure to send them north. If your main character just wants to keep their loved ones safe, kidnap the loved ones. If your main character just wants to date their best-friend-turned-crush, make sure they think they have no chance - or, make them cocky about it, and make sure it makes Person B determined not to ever like them. You get it. Figure out what your character most wants, and then keep them from having that. Boom - your conflict now ties in with your character's motivation. It's like instant yeast for plots.

_-_

5) If you’re anything like me, you want your first draft to be Good, despite all that advice about how the first draft doesn’t have to be good and it’s just to get words on the page, yadda yadda. And if you’re somewhat of a perfectionist (like myself), it’s easy to get stuck looking at a blank page because you don’t have The Perfect Words, and you want what you write to be Good the first time.

Here’s how I cheat that:

Instead of trying to write a Good First Draft from a blank page, hit the enter key a few times, skip a little down on the page, change your ink to red (or blue, or whatever - just something immediately identifiable as Not Black) and just thought vomit. Write whatever the hell you’re thinking, exactly as you think it. Don’t worry about it being readable, don’t worry about narrative flow for now, don’t worry about covering all the details, don’t worry about anything except either a) getting all the details of your idea out onto the page, whether that’s a lot or whether it’s just a sentence or two, or b) if you don’t have an idea yet, finding your way there.

Because this method is also very good for finding your way to ideas when you’re stuck in writer’s block.

Because of how human brains work, getting this stuff out onto the page - in all its messy, stream-of-consciousness glory - will likely spark more thoughts. As you write your original idea about the scene, it’ll likely spark more ideas. Creation begets creation. If you just start thought-vomiting your ideas onto the page, chances are you’ll think of more things as you go, and you’ll start filling out description or dialogue or tone or action or whatever, and pretty soon the scene starts writing itself.

Not sure where you’re going with the scene or which ideas you wanna use? Use a lot of ambivalent language in your “thought-vomit draft.” My pre-writing notes are chock-full of the words “maybe,” “perhaps,” and the phrases, “At some point...” and “...or something like that.” In this way, I don’t tie myself down to one idea; it’s just an idea, and I’m keeping it on the page in case I use it, but I might chuck it in the trash or change it or whatever.

And then, once your ideas for the scene (or story, or chapter, or whatever) are on the page, then go back to the top and start translating them into a “real” first draft. Use black ink, and start copy-pasting chunks of the thought-vomit up into the top part of the document and translating them into Draft 1. Separate out paragraphs where paragraph breaks should be. Add the correct punctuation and whatnot. Change “describe the lobby here - include potted plants, fancy carpet, blood stain, etc.” into an actual description of the lobby. Flesh it out, or condense, or whatever it needs. And if you’re still stuck, change back to red ink and ramble some more until you find a path that feels right, then plug that in. This keeps you from looking at a blank page, and it allows you to generate a kind of Draft 0.5, somewhere between a plan and a first draft.

You don’t have to use every idea. Like I said, jot down whatever comes to mind, put a “maybe” before or after it, and keep working. If the idea grabs you and you wanna keep expanding on it and exploring it, cool. If you just wanna jot it down so you don’t forget it and then move on, also cool. Red-ink draft / “thought-vomit draft” is your time to jump around in the timeline, add or finesse details at whatever point your brain moves to, etc. Don’t try to do it exactly in story order, because you will get tangential thoughts and ideas, and you will not remember to write them down five pages later when you finally get to taking notes on that scene. Trust me. On that note...

_-_

6) Write everything down the moment you think of it. Seriously.

“I’ll remember it when I get around to writing that scene in a couple days / weeks / months (/years).”

You won’t.

Write it down.

Phone, journal, google docs - hell, my family regularly laughs at me for grabbing a napkin during dinner and scribbling thoughts down alongside pasta sauce stains.

And then, once you have it written down somewhere...

_-_

7) Consolidate your writing ideas in one place.

Maybe this isn’t really your style, and that’s totally chill.

Buuuut, if you’re Type-A like me - or if you tend to be somewhat unorganized and you know you’ll lose track of your writing notes if they’re scattered across multiple notebooks, journals, napkins, phone notes, etc. - having one consolidated document of notes is a life saver. I keep mine on Google Docs so I can access it, add to it, and look through it for inspiration anywhere at any time. When I have one of those Shower Thoughts that I jot down on my phone or on a napkin during dinner, I set myself a reminder on my phone to type it up in my Story Ideas document later.

(Or, if the idea I had was for a story of mine that I’ve already started planning / drafting / whatever, I put it in the document for that story instead of the Big Random Story Ideas doc. You get it.)

_-_

8) Have other ways to collect and save writing ideas, besides just writing stuff down. If you like Pinterest, make pinterest boards of your characters or stories or settings or whatever. If you’re big into playlists, make a playlist for your character / setting / story / etc. Or both. Or something else. I’m not good at drawing, but maybe you are, and maybe you like to draw your ideas. Whatever form it takes, having another way to save ideas and think about your stories is invaluable.

_-_

9) Some writers can just start writing with no idea where the story is going, and they just kind of figure it out as they go. I envy those writers. And I do that sometimes for fanfiction, where the stakes are somewhat lower and the audience is reading more for scene-to-scene enjoyment (and to see their OTP kiss) than for a Driving And Compelling Narrative.

But here’s the thing: especially if you’re just kind of starting out, writing without some sort of plan is really, really hard, and will likely lead you into a slow, meandering narrative that will likely frustrate you.

Even if you think you’re someone that just can’t write with a plan (and again, I have the highest respect for pansters out there - I don’t know how you do it, you crazy bastards, but you keep doing you) - even if you think “I can’t work with plans, they’re too prescriptive, I just want to write and see what happens -”

Try at least making the most skeletal of plans.

Even if you have no clue what 90% of the story is, yet. That’s fine. But you need to have some idea of what you’re building to, even if that’s nothing more specific than a feeling, or a turning point for your character. Even if your entire plan for everything beyond Chapter 1 is, “At some point, Charlie needs to realize that Ed was lying to her.”

This is where those Draft 0.5 notes come in handy. Because, more than likely, working on your current scene that way will spark ideas for later scenes, which you can put down at the bottom of the document and save for when they become relevant. In my experience, the line between planning ahead and making a Draft 0.5 is exceptionally thin. One can quickly turn into the other.

If you’re really, really resistant to the idea of planning ahead, that’s okay. It’s not everybody’s style. But for the love of all that is holy, write down your ideas for future scenes, even if you’re a person that doesn’t like to plan and writes only in story order, because you will not remember that idea once you get to that scene.

_-_

10) You don’t have to write in order.

Here’s the thing: I’m a person that can only do my Draft 1 in story order (meaning, chronological order). I just have to be in that flow; I need to write in story order for me to best channel where the character is at from scene to scene, both narratively and emotionally.

But my Thought Vomit Draft is another thing entirely. By using the brain hack of putting my notes in red (or another color, it doesn’t matter) and going down to the bottom of the document / page and taking notes there, and then integrating them into whatever plan I have, and then translating them into Draft 1 once I get there in the story - by doing that, I can get my good ideas onto the page (and expound upon them and let my muse carry me and ride that momentum while I’m in the moment of inspiration) without writing out of order.

Maybe that’s just me. But if you’re a person who really prefers to write in story order, that could be hugely helpful to you. It is to me.

_-_

11) Emotion and motivation will do more for your story than technicalities of plot.

If your characters really care about something, and their journey through the (shaky or weak) plot is emotionally engaging, it will be a much more compelling story than a story with a “perfect” plot and unrelatable or unmotivated characters.

If your characters care about what they’re doing, and it means something to them, and their goals and actions are driven by dreams or fears or emotions that are integral to who they are, your audience will care too. If you have a perfectly crafted plot that hits all the right beats and has high stakes and fast pacing and drama - but your characters don’t connect with what’s happening in a way that’s deeply meaningful or emotional for them? You’re gonna have a hard time engaging readers.

When in doubt, prioritize character emotion and motivation over plot. Emotion is what drives story.

This power is highly exploitable. (Just look at pulp novels and shitty but entertaining movies.) You can even use it to glaze over plot holes or reinvigorate a limp narrative. Use it that way sparingly, though. It’s a band-aid, not a surgery. 

_-_

12) Evil villains are hard to write - mostly because there are very few truly evil people in the world. (There are a few. Billionaires and several big name politicians come to mind.) But by and large, there aren’t that many evil people. There are plenty of bad people, but bad people have some good in them, somewhere in there. Trying to write an evil villain is hard, because they often turn very cartoony.

Here’s a tip: it’s much easier to write antagonists who aren’t evil. Even if they’re bad people. Of course, there’s no reason you can’t write a villain that’s just truly evil - a serial killer, or an abuser, or a billionaire, or someone who legit just wants to hurt people or blow up the earth or stay in control of an oppressed population, or whatever. But chances are, it’s gonna be really hard to make them feel real, and even harder to create a plot around them that doesn’t feel forced or contrived.

Instead, try writing an antagonist / villain whose motivations and goals directly clash with your protagonist’s - but not because they want to take over the world or see people suffer. Write an antagonist who’s chaotic good, but whose perception of the situation is completely opposite from your hero’s. Write an antagonist whose only desire is to save people, and who will do anything to achieve that goal - anything. Write an antagonist who believes in the letter of the law, and will hinder and oppose the hero’s methods even if they agree with the hero’s motivation. Write an antagonist who got in way over their head and did some things they regret, and now they don’t know how to get out, and they’re doing their best but whatever they set in motion is too powerful for them to stop now.

Write villains who are human. Write a killer who thought they were doing the right thing by taking their victim out of the equation, who vomits at the sight of the body and sobs over the grave they dig. Write a government leader who truly believes she’s doing what’s best for her people in the long-term, even if it might hurt them in the short term, and is willing to endure the hatred and belligerence of the masses if it means securing what she thinks is a better future for her people. Write a teenage bully that thinks they’re the one being picked on by the world, and they’re just fighting back, standing their ground. Write a scientist who will break any code of ethics and hurt anyone he needs to - in order to bring back his baby sister from the grave, because he promised her he’d protect her and he failed. Write an antagonist who is selfish and self-centered and capricious - because in order to survive they had to look out for Number One, and that habit ain’t about to break anytime soon.

Write villains who aren’t even villains. Write antagonists who oppose the hero because of moral differences. Write antagonists who are trying to do the right thing. Write antagonists who treat the heroes with kindness and dignity and respect and gentleness.

They don’t have to be good. They don’t have to be Misunderstood Sweethearts who “deserve” a redemption arc. They can be cruel and nasty and dismissive and callous and violent and etc. etc.

Just hesitate before you make them Evil-with-a-capital-E. Because evil is hard to write, and honestly, boring to read. Flawed human beings with goals and motivations that directly oppose the main characters’ are much easier to write and much more interesting to read.

Ask why. Why is your villain trying to take over the world? What does that even mean? Are they trying to create a Star-Trek-like post-capitalism utopia, but they know that won’t happen in a million lifetimes, so they’re trying to do it by force? Are they actually super in favor of human rights, but they got very impatient waiting for the world to do anything about poverty and war, so they decided to take it into their own hands? Are they determined to fix the world - no matter the cost? Are they terrified and overwhelmed, but committed to see it through to the end? Or - maybe they’re just doing it on a dare. Maybe they don’t really give a shit about world domination, they were just a mediocre rich white guy who decided to fuck around and find out, and now he’s kind of curious how far he can take this thing. And now he’s kind of an internationally-wanted criminal, so he’s kind of stuck living on his hidden private island in his multi-billion dollar secret base, strapping lasers to sharks’ heads for the hell of it. Gross, selfish, uncaring, and dangerous? For sure. Evil? Depends on your definition. See, now we’re getting somewhere.

_-_

13) It’s tempting to let the plot control the characters. It’s easy to drop your characters into a situation and see how they react. But here’s the thing: that doesn’t drive plot. In fact, it bogs down pacing. Instead, try to build you plot off of your characters’ actions and decisions. Let your character build their own situation. Not to say it should go they way they wanted it to go; in fact, usually, their grand plans should go to hell very quickly. But having the characters take action and make decisions, and letting the plot develop based on that, is much easier to make compelling than making a rigid series of events and then trying to herd your characters into them.

_-_

14) Having trouble justifying a character’s actions? Consider having them make the opposite decision, or having them approach the situation in a different way. For example: you need your character to go meet the bad guy, for plot reasons, even though there’s no way it’s not a trap. If the character goes, readers are gonna be groaning with their head in their hands, because c’mon man, that was really fucking stupid. But he’s gotta go, because the plot needs that. Two ways you might handle this: a) He knows it’s probably a trap. He decides not to go. The plot conspires to get him near the villain anyway. Or, b) He knows it’s a trap. But he needs to go, for (insert reasons here). So, he approaches it in an unexpected way. He brings backup, recruiting a side character we met earlier in the story. Or he arrives on the back of a dragon, because ain’t nobody gonna fuck with a dude on a dragon. Or he goes - early, and ambushes the villain. It may work, it may not. He may get himself kidnapped anyway. But it moves the plot along without having Stupid Hero Syndrome.

_-_

15) This is a legit piece of advice: if all of this sounds overwhelming, literally just ignore it and write what you want. For real. Writing should be fun, and every single writer operates differently. If you’re sitting here like “I’m getting stressed just reading this,” just flip me a good-natured bird and get on with your life. I promise I won’t take it personally. Same goes for literally any other writing advice you see. Lots of rules and guidelines can very quickly make anything thoroughly un-fun. Just write. If you’re passionate about it and you do it for long enough, you’ll start figuring out the tips and tricks on your own.

_-_

16) Here’s the best piece of advice I can give you: know your characters. More importantly, know what’s important to them. Build their personality and decisions off of that, and build your plot off of their decisions.

I see a lot of character building sheets that ask a shit-ton of questions like “What’s their most prized possession?” “Do they like their family?” “What’s their favorite food?”

And while these are good questions, my problem with this type of character building is that if you start there, with the little stuff, you’re building on nothing. IMO, to make a truly strong character (not strong like Inner Strength, strong like effective), you need a strong foundation.

Here are the things you must know about your character:

a) What are their greatest fears / deepest insecurities? And I don’t mean “wasps” or “heights.” I mean the deep shit. I mean fears like “living a meaningless life,” or “turning out just like their parents,” or “that no one will ever love them,” or “being powerless.” You may say, “But they’re really scared of wasps! They fall into a wasp nest when they were little and got stung so much they almost died!” Great! That’s a fantastic bit of backstory. They should absolutely be afraid of wasps, and that should absolutely be an impediment later in the story. But dig deeper. What about that event actually scarred them? Was it the helplessness? Stumbling around, swatting at the air, not being able to do a single thing to stop what was happening to them? Was it that they were alone, and no matter how loud they screamed, no one was coming? Was it the bodily horror of feeling themself turn into an inhuman creature as they swelled up from the stings, unable to move their fingers or face normally anymore?

And don’t forget insecurities, because those factor in, too. Are they deeply insecure about their identity? Do they believe, deep down, that they’re ugly? Did they grow up poor and they’ve always been really touchy about that? Why? Dig deep. Figure out what really, really bothers them.

b) What are their hopes and dreams? What do they truly want out of life? What do they consider the most valuable to their experience here in this thing called life? Is it the freedom to forge their own path and be independent? Is it the approval of their family or peers? Is it a home? Is it knowledge, or understanding? Spiritual fulfillment? Is it deeply important to them that they contribute to their community, or protect those they love? What do they need in order to feel truly and deeply fulfilled in life?

Figure out those two things (each one encompasses several things, btw, you don’t have to stop at just one for each), and then use that to inform how they behave and the types of decisions they make within the story. 

It also informs character behavior and personality. 

Let’s say we have a character who’s afraid of helplessness. They’re probably gonna be the person that always wants to do something, try something, no matter how hopeless the situation seems. They’d despise just sitting and waiting, probably, because it makes them feel powerless. They might even be the person that makes rash decisions and acts impulsively and puts themself in danger unnecessarily, because in their mind it’s better than being at the mercy of fate. This is one way you could use a character’s personality to inform their decisions, which in turn helps to inform plot.

Or, let’s say we have a character whose greatest fear is being left behind or forgotten. We may have a chatterbox on our hands. They might be obnoxious. They might love the spotlight, constantly vying for attention no matter the situation, because deep down they’re so afraid that they’d be forgotten otherwise. Or, it may go the opposite way. They may be so afraid of people leaving them that they’re terrified of bothering people. They don’t want to do anything that could annoy people, anything that might give people a reason to leave them. They might be exceedingly polite, quiet, accommodating. A push-over, really.

These are two nearly opposite types of personalities, both stemming from the same core fear/insecurity. You can go a lot of different ways with it. But if you build on that strong foundation, you’ll have a strong character, and a stronger plot.

Likewise, the structure of your story can and should inform the design of these character traits. If you need your characters to team up near the end, it may be impactful if you give your main character a deep fear of commitment, an insecurity about being unwanted or left behind, and make them highly value independence and freedom. That could make their team-up for the final battle very meaningful. Conversely, you can use your character’s deepest fears and desires to help design the plot. Is your character deeply insecure about voicing their opinions or taking a stand, because of trauma they faced in the past? Make them face that. Build that into the climactic third act. Give them the big inspirational speech where they stand up and talk about what they believe to be important, what they think the group should do. And then design that character arc to run through the story, giving you more handholds and stepping stones, more pieces of foundation on which to design the plot.

In this way, character should inform story as much as story informs character. It’s a feedback loop.

Bonus: if you build your character and your plot off of each other in this way, it automatically starts to build in the foundations of that emotional investment I mentioned earlier. If your character’s decisions are based on what they most want and do not want in life, you basically have your character motivation and stakes pre-built.

Note: you need to know these things about your villain, too.

-_-_-

I’m genuinely sorry about the length of this, lmao. But you did ask.

Best of luck!

Edit: I forgot an important one:

17) Start when the scene starts and end when the scene ends.

What do I mean by that?

If your notes say “Danny asks Nicole out after school and majorly flubs it,” start the scene when Danny approaches Nicole after school. Better yet, cold-open the scene on “I was wondering if, you know, you’d wanna. You know. Hang out some time?”

Don’t start that morning when Danny goes to school, unless you’re gonna cover the school day in like one or two sentences. Don’t spend whole paragraphs going through the school day, unless it’s to cover other plot points first (in which case apply these same guidelines there), or if the paragraphs are there for a specific reason, like to illustrate how stressed he is and how it seems like every little thing is going wrong. Even then, trim the fat as much as possible. Expounding and describing everything Moment-to-moment is for the meat of the scenes, not the leading-up-to and coming-away-from.

Here’s my rule of thumb: study how and when movies cut from scene to scene. Movies have exceptionally strict, limited time for storytelling; they’re excellent examples of starting a scene when the plot point starts and ending when it’s over. If you can’t picture a movie showing everything you showed, start the scene later and end it earlier.

#asks #anon #writing advice #writing tips #writing #fanfic writing #fanfiction #character creation #plot development #character development #my advice #original writing

[eunnieboo]

XP-PEN Artist 12 Pro Review!

hello! XP-PEN was kind enough to send me their Artist 12 Pro: LINE FRIENDS Edition for an honest review. i currently use a Wacom Cintiq 13HD, but i’m always interested in affordable alternatives, so i wanted to check it out!

in this review, i will be comparing the Artist 12 Pro to the tablet that i have - keep in mind it is an older version of the Cintiq 13HD, so i’m not sure what they’ve changed recently. but because Wacom is pretty consistent in terms of tablet quality, i believe this is a fair comparison.

so right out of the box, there’s a lot of fun, cute accessories that come with this particular collab. part of this tablet’s selling point is its portability, and i can definitely see why! it feels very light and slim (note: this is a display tablet, like the Cintiq 13HD, so it must be connected to a computer). i was also pleasantly surprised to see all the different adapters it came with!

the pen comes with eight additional nib replacements - my Cintiq originally came with five. i personally have a very light touch, so i’ve never had to replace my nibs before, but i think having extra is helpful for those who have a heavy hand. the portable stand also has one level compared to the Cintiq’s three, but i found the angle just fine.

this might be a personal preference, but i really appreciate how the cable plugs into the Artist 12 Pro. it’s something i wish i could change about my Cintiq - one wrong nudge will send my tablet screen flickering to black before booting up again.

i also love the 3-in-1 cable that the Artist Pro has, because it cuts down on the multiple cords i have running under my desk.

this tablet comes with eight buttons and a scroll wheel on the side. some people prefer using their keyboard, but i like using express keys because i don’t have to move my hand from the tablet at all. so this was a point in its favor for me! these are my shortcuts, for those who are curious:

the driver set-up and installation also went smoothly. i first tested the tablet on a MacBook Air before switching over to a desktop PC, so i got to experience the set-up on both MacOS and Windows. in my opinion, it's easier on a Windows device. it feels a lot more straightforward. while i was also able to successfully install the tablet driver on MacOS, it required a little more tinkering and some additional steps. i wouldn’t consider this enough to dissuade Mac users, i just personally enjoyed my experience on the PC more!

(full disclosure: i had some screen troubles when the tablet was connected to my MacBook, but this was because i had to hook it up via an adapter of my own. i didn’t want to pay $70 for the official Apple product so i got a cheaper one, which ended up being a clown move LOL :’) once i removed the adapter and connected the tablet to a PC, i no longer had any of these problems. just something to look out for if you’re considering using any usb-c adapters!)

now for the most important part: drawing on the tablet! first off, the laminated screen feels very nice. i personally dislike drawing on slippery glass screens (this is part of the reason why i struggle to draw on iPads without a textured screen protector), so the matte, non-glare finish is really satisfying. the active draw space is slightly smaller than my Cintiq (10.09″ x 5.67″ vs 11.75″ x 6.75″), but i personally like small to medium screens so that didn’t bother me.

i do believe the Cintiq 13HD is more precise when it comes to pen sensitivity and responsiveness - however, i feel like the Artist 12 Pro holds its own very well. i’ve been using my Cintiq for years, so i’m very used to how it feels. despite working on an unfamiliar tablet, i was able to sketch, ink, and color quite comfortably on the Artist Pro. while i noticed slight differences in pen precision, it simply resulted in me redoing some lines now and then, and that ended up being my only complaint. the colors looked just as vivid as they did on my Cintiq, and i was able to adjust the pressure settings in order to compensate for my light pen strokes.

in terms of cost effectiveness, my Cintiq 13HD was $700, while the Artist 12 Pro is $300. although the Cintiq moderately outperforms the Artist Pro in pen sensitivity, whether or not that warrants its price tag is up for debate. ultimately, it’s up to the individual to decide what’s more important to them: performance or value. you could go for a tablet that’s affordable, but has some room for improvement, or a tablet that performs slightly better, but is considerably more pricey.

though the Cintiq is twice as expensive, i wouldn’t consider it twice as good. but again, it really comes down to what’s most important for your workflow, and what guarantees you get your money’s worth. i’ve found that huge ranges of pen sensitivity or pen tilt are totally unnecessary for my art, but for some, that may be a deal breaker. personally, i was able to use both tablets well, and neither impeded my ability to draw.

my final verdict: if you are a hobbyist, looking to upgrade to a screen tablet, or trying to get into digital art, the Artist 12 Pro is definitely an option to consider! i think it’s a really solid display tablet, especially for its price point. though i can only speak for myself, my experience with the Artist Pro has been a positive one! XP-PEN seems to be a strong competitor for Wacom and its products, and i’m very eager to see how they grow from here.

⭐️ XP-PEN Official Website ⭐️ 🌱 Artist 12 Pro LINE FRIENDS Edition 🌱

#xp-pen #line friends #tablet review

[outercrasis]

Sessions

Pairing: College!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (18+)

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: References to sex, masturbation (nothing actually occurs)

Summary: After meeting Mando, you just can’t seem to get him out of your head. (events directly follow Introductions)

A/N: Thanks for the kind reception to the first post of this AU! I’ll be making a masterlist soon for easier navigation :) Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future posts or if I’ve missed a warning.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Lingering Impressions

Your day ended up being an exhausting one. Mando had been your most exciting session for more reasons than just the obvious. You'd reviewed the papers of two freshmen, a junior who wanted you to basically write their paper for them, and another graduate student who disregarded every suggestion you made. Needless to say, Mando's gratitude felt extra special after all of that.

Getting home, you're greeted with the welcome smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen as you throw yourself face-first into the couch. The open floorplan of your tiny two bedroom apartment allows Layla to spot you as you wander in.

"Hello to you too!" she calls over. "I'm making chicken marsala."

You lift your head up from the watermelon-shaped throw pillow to smile at her. "You are a saint and I don't deserve you."

"You totally don't," Layla teases back, happily returning to the stove. You flip over on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone while she finishes making dinner. A comfortable silence fills the room, interrupted only by Layla's hums and the discordant sounds of cooking.

Layla has been your roommate since your sophomore year of college, randomly paired together by the dorm sorting system and inseparable ever since. The two of you clicked, a friendship forged over the awkwardness of early adulthood and a shared love of terrible reality TV. Both of you keep busy schedules while pursuing your respective master’s degrees and help each other out where you can. Making dinners for each other is just a part of that.

It’s not long before Layla brings over two steaming plates of food to lay out on your thrifted coffee table. She sits opposite you, preferring to sit on the floor rather than the couch. You’re eager to dig in, groaning at the first bite.

“I’ll take that as a thank you,” Layla grins, tucking into her own meal.

“God yes.”

“Long day then?”

You groan again, this time in irritation rather than pleasure. “Yes. I don’t know how many more know-it-all grad students I can deal with.”

She’s heard all about your nightmare sessions with students that think they already know everything. You’ve questioned more than once why they bother booking the session if they're just going to ignore your advice and decide their paper is perfect as is. It seems like a total waste of time for both you and them. 

Layla sympathizes and shares her own gripes about some of the assholes she's forced to put up with while working on her research project. After all, no group project is complete without the one person who does nothing but acts like they know everything. Giving each other time to vent another small way the two of you take care of each other.

As you think back on your day and sessions your mind inevitably drifts to Mando. He hadn’t been anything like you’d expected. He was kind in his own way and by far the most amenable session you’d had all day. Not taking off the helmet was odd, as was not giving out his real name, but neither of those had really bothered you when it came down to it. If anything, they only serve to fascinate you further.

“Did something else happen today?” Layla asks, a spark lighting up in her eyes. She can always read you, something that can be either a blessing or a curse depending on what it is you're hiding. You take a few more bites before answering, already anticipating her reaction.

“Well I might have also met Mando today,” You try to throw it out there casually, hoping that if you treat it as though it’s not a big deal she’ll follow your lead. You should have known better.

“You what!? Tell me everything,” Layla screeches at you from across the coffee table. She pushes her food off to the side, clearly deciding that your unexpected meeting with campus's resident celebrity is far more important.

"He came in for a session. His paper was really good, it-"

Layla is quick to cut you off. "I literally couldn't care less about that and you know it. Tell me about him, what's he like? Is he terrifying?"

You can’t help but snort at that. You know why she asked of course - the rumors flying around about him getting out of hand these days - but when you think about him now they all seem ludicrous. The gentle way he spoke to Grogu and offered his hand out to the kid before leaving. The sincerity in his voice as he spoke to you, eager to hear any advice you had to give him. No. Mando was decidedly not terrifying. “He’s… just a guy,” you tell her, not really sure how to explain his unique presence.

The eyeroll you receive in response is warranted. “Are you kidding me right now? You probably know more about him than anyone else on campus and you’re going to tell me he’s just a guy?”

You shrug, shoveling another bite of food into your mouth. “I don’t know what to tell you Lays, I only spent an hour with him. He was nice, really sweet with his kid, and I’ll probably never see him again.”

You’re not sure why you feel a quick sting in your chest at that thought. It wasn’t like you knew him well or that he even owed you anything. Considering the fact that you’d gone weeks without so much as glimpsing him on campus you’d probably only have another chance to see him if he signed up for another session and there was no guarantee he’d return.

“So the kid thing is true?” Layla asks.

“Yeah. Really cute kid, pretty quiet.” Very quiet now that you think of it. You don’t have much experience with kids that young, but you’re certain kids Grogu’s age can talk. He hadn’t said so much as a word, only letting out an occasional noise or two. It was odd, but then he could just be shy or something. Another question you’d probably never have an answer for.

“Is the kid his?” Layla presses.

“I don’t know, it didn’t exactly come up while we discussed his paper on unique material applications,” you snap back at her. You wince a little at your sharp reply. It wasn’t deserved. Layla was simply curious and now the victim of your long day and swirling thoughts.

You quickly follow up with an apology. “Sorry. I just- I had a long day and I really didn’t learn much about him, okay?” 

There’s a small sense of relief when Layla nods, backing down from her inquisition. “It’s cool, I get it. Just promise you’ll tell me if you see him again?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know.” 

The rest of the night passes like usual. You wash up after dinner, a fair trade since Layla cooked, and the two of you get to tackling homework that’s begun to pile up with the semester entering its full swing. Nighttime study sessions have been a regular occurrence since your undergrad days and have only intensified while pursuing your respective graduate degrees. It’s more about solidarity and accountability than shared workload, what with your program being in English and Layla’s in Marketing, but it’s nice. Simply having company is better than doing it all by yourself.

Around 10:30 you call it, eyes bleary from staring at your laptop. Layla is deep into a PDF reading so you leave her to her work and shuffle off to the shared bathroom. While the water heats, you brush your teeth lazily, going through the motions of your nightly routine. You test the water with your hand before deciding it’s warm enough to step in.

Your thoughts drift aimlessly as you stand under the hot stream, unfocused until they land back on him. It’s like you can’t help yourself, the way your thoughts have been returning to him all night. You’ve puzzled about him before, but only in the abstract. A hypothetical more than a real person. Wondering if rumors are true isn't quite the same as wondering about the man himself. 

All throughout the night he kept popping up. One moment you would be considering the symbolic use of color in your assigned reading and the next you would be puzzling over Mando’s favorite color. Maybe orange, if his gloves were anything to go by. Layla's favorite song played and while she sang along you couldn't help wondering what kind of music he listens to. Rock probably, or was that too on the nose? As you sipped your drink you wondered what his drink of choice would be, alcoholic or not. Did he even drink alcohol at all? Something told you he wasn’t much for losing his inhibitions.

It's all the little things, all the little details that actually make up a person that no one bothers to speculate about that consume you now. Who cares about his favorite movie or favorite food when you can guess on whether or not he's been to jail?

As you wash the grime of the day from your body, your mind continues to drift further, settling onto the first thing that captured your attention earlier today. His hands. Those gorgeous sun soaked hands, how fluidly they moved across his keyboard. The firm hold of them when he shook your hand.

Eyes fluttering closed, you can't help imagining that it's his hands skating across your skin. You can almost feel the gentle roughness of them, the way he'd squeeze and hold you - tight, but not so hard that it hurts. Almost unconsciously, your hand begins to drift down your body, only to be interrupted by a pounding on the bathroom door. Your eyes snap open, confusion and embarrassment replacing your fantasy.

"Hurry up in there! I need to pee," Layla yells through the door.

You grumble in response, knowing she can't hear you, but quickly finish your shower. It's not quite as relaxing anymore, flustered by your wanton thoughts. 

Getting back into your room, you check your email before setting your alarms for tomorrow. There’s the usual spam from online stores reminding you of limited time deals, a reminder that rent is due next week (lovely), and a couple generic university emails. Your eyes fall to your new tutoring appointment emails and you flick through them mindlessly to clear them out, knowing they’ll all automatically appear on your calendar. 

Just as you’re about to close out of the app and get some well needed rest, a new email pops through. It’s another appointment alert scheduled for next week. You tap to open it and your heart flutters when you read the name on the form. Mando. No need to wonder about if you’d ever see him again now. You’d be seeing him Tuesday at 3 PM. Somehow you know he won’t miss his appointment.

×××××

Din is exhausted. Between Grogu, classes, and trying to find ways to make money, he barely has enough time to do basic functional adult things. Things like showering regularly, eating more than a required minimum of once a day, or heaven help him sleep. 

He wishes he could afford a regular babysitter, allow himself some occasional reprieve but it's not possible. He makes just enough to keep the bills paid and at least Grogu's stomach full. There's also an ever present paranoia about letting a stranger into his home, much less to watch his son. Only Paz and Cara have ever babysat for him and even that was mostly against his will.

Din slumps onto his couch, exhausted from the long day. He’d found the couch on the side of the road. It’s well worn and has a couple holes in it, but it was devoid of fleas, comfortable, and most importantly, free. His helmet is off, sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it after getting home from campus. He’s mostly used to it these days, but sometimes it can still feel suffocating underneath the custom bucket. Taking it off at the end of the day is always welcome, especially when Din sees Grogu’s eyes light up at his exposed face.

He allows himself just a moment of rest, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the back of the couch. Grogu had finally gone to bed, demanding three stories before he fell asleep and Din not having it within him to deny the requests. A small smile rests on his lips, thinking of Grogu's excitement at his mediocre storytelling. He already loathes the day when Grogu won't ask him to read anymore.

There are about twenty other things he should be doing right now other than sitting on the couch. The apartment hasn't been cleaned properly in weeks, dishes are piling up, laundry needs to be done, he needs to find a job for this weekend, should probably find better daycare for Grogu, has an exam to study for, and a paper to finish writing. He should be doing all of that and more, and yet he can't find the will to move. He stays planted firmly on the couch, letting his thoughts drift. A few different ideas and ruminations swirl around, but his mind settles onto one. Her.

She isn't what he had been expecting. When his professor had recommended a session with a writing tutor he'd been a little miffed at first. Din knew words weren't his strong suit, but he hadn't thought he was that bad. He probably wouldn't have even considered it if she hadn't immediately assured him that it was only a suggestion because she saw potential in his work.

He had still only been considering it, form half filled out, when Grogu had hit submit. He’d looked for a way to cancel the appointment, but couldn’t figure it out with the school’s poorly designed website, so instead he had resigned himself to going. After all, just the one session couldn't hurt and he'd already be on campus.

He thought the tutor would be some irritating know-it-all, pointing out all the mistakes in his paper. Either that, or that they'd be too nervous to make any real criticisms. He’d noticed the way people froze up around him, sometimes too timid to even look in his direction. She wasn't either of those things.

She was all smiles and kindness, not hesitant around him for a moment. Even Grogu took an immediate liking to her, as evidenced by the gift of his frog drawing. Din had more of those than he could count, but very few others had been bestowed the honor of his sacred amphibian themed artworks.

She challenged him in a way he liked, not rude but still forceful. Encouraging him to figure out what it was she was guiding him towards with the paper. Not taking ownership, simply identifying where ideas could be made stronger or clearer. They’d only worked through a few pages in the session and Din already felt more confident in his writing. 

What he liked most though was that she hadn't even asked about the helmet. It was all he heard from those brave enough to speak to him. Where did he get it, why did he wear it, did he ever take it off, what does he look like underneath, and so on. Avoiding all of those questions got to be draining. She didn't even acknowledge it.

She had mentioned the rumors that were apparently swirling around campus about him but that was it. He was a bit grateful for that though, entirely unaware of how popular he'd apparently become. The stares that followed him on campus were hard to ignore, but he didn’t know about their accompanying whispers. He still isn’t sure if the rumors are a good or a bad thing. Her reaction hadn’t given him all that much to go off of. He wishes it had.

That thought stops Din short. Where did that come from? Why did her opinion of him suddenly matter after a single one hour session? Din can’t remember the last time he considered someone else’s opinion of him. Probably when he first brought Grogu home to meet everyone. Now here he is, wondering what his English tutor’s thoughts were about the rumors everyone has been spreading about him. He needs to get out more.

Din shakes his head free, trying to ponder other aspects of his life. Like when he’d be able to get the Razor Crest up and running again. She’d broken down again after only the second week of classes. Paz makes fun of him for riding on such an old bike, but she’s a classic. Din can’t get rid of her, no matter how much she likes to break down on him. In the meantime he could make due with the loaner truck from Peli.

Thoughts of his motorcycle only distract him for so long though. He realizes half-way through the fantasy that he’s imagining taking her out on his bike, feeling her hands clasped around his waist as he rides through the city. The way she’d hang on just a little tighter, pressing herself against his back, as he hits the throttle just a bit harder.

Din sits up on the couch and mutters to himself. “Come on, Djarin. Pull it together.”

She’s beautiful, yes, but to already be fantasizing about taking her for a ride? That’s a bit much. It has been months since Din has seen any kind of action, but he shouldn’t be this desperate after spending only an hour with a pretty face. Still, now that he’s thinking of it, his mind wanders to what she’d be like. 

Would she take charge, calm and in control like she was earlier today? Or would she submit to him, allow him to do whatever he wanted? A small groan escapes Din’s lips at the thought of having her beneath him, begging for him to take her. How she would look spread out on his bedsheets, how sweet she’d taste. He can already imagine how good she’d feel wrapped around him, the way her eyes would look all strung out and cockdumb. It would be a beautiful sight if he’s ever lucky enough to see it.

An alarm Din forgot he set suddenly blares on his phone. He can’t even remember what he set it for as he’s yanked from his lewd imaginings, scrambling to turn it off. There’s a small wave of embarrassment as he registers where he allowed his thoughts to drift. 

Ignoring the uncomfortable pressure in his jeans, Din pulls up the tutoring appointment form on his phone and signs up for another session. There’s an option to select a specific tutor and he’s quick to open it up, choosing her name from the drop down menu. 

There’s nothing wrong about this, right? She’d helped him with his paper and Grogu liked her. She even asked if she’d be seeing him again. That was plenty of reason to have another session. His renegade fantasies had nothing to do with his decision to go back. Din is a man in control of his urges. If anything, this next session would prove that his thoughts were all just fleeting, just a simple result of going too long without anyone in his bed.

.

.

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taglist: @honestly-shite​ @booksarekindaneat​ @wonderless-screwup​ @pinkninja200​ @captain-jebi​ @ajeff855​ @leias-rebelion​ 

Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated 💕

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #college!din #college!mando #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian au #pedro pascal x reader #mandocrasis fic #sessions

[vampireinterview]

It has come to my attention that some of you have not been made aware of the fact that Plato was well known for being a Destiel shipper, in addition to the fact that he also wrote some philosophical works on the side. Let me explain.

Plato was an Athenian thinker whose real name was Aristocles (Plato most likely comes from the Greek word for ‘broad”, he might have been so jacked that people nicknamed him for his wide shoulders, which is irrelevant to the topic at hand but I’m collecting receipts on my hypothesis that all hellers are physical beheamoths). His work regarding the philosophy of love can be interpreted through the lens of the Deancas love story, which can potentially lead us to discover the very essence of what makes Destiel so impactful and universal, so bear with me, I’ll make it as introductory as possible.

Plato’s Symposium is a dialogue which contains the philosopher’s basic view on what love can be. The influence of the aforementioned text has been so strong that even those of us who are blissfully unaware of its contents have heard of the concept of “platonic love”. It is with great disappointment that I have to inform you about the fact that the way in which the term is colloquially used can be considered quite removed from the core idea of what Plato’s love is supposed to be about. Commonly people utilize it to refer to a non-romantic and non-sexual emotion towards an individual. However, even though the extrasensory love was the end goal, it was never too far distanced from the earthly, carnal desire that was supposed to lay the foundation for greater experiences.

One of the most illustrative elements of the Symposium is no doubt the Love Ladder metaphor (also known as Diotima’s Ladder of Love, the Scala Amoris); Plato believes the act of loving to be a part of the process of initiation into the non-material world of ideas. Every step of the ladder helps one approach the transcendence of one’s soul, and so we can single out six steps to immortal absolutes:

1. The first step is developing an appreciation for a particular person. It’s a very much carnal (though not necessarily conventionally sexual) desire for beauty of a specific individual. According to Plato only through the love of the physical can one love the non material. The visceral infatuation with another’s body is often strongly rooted with the self-hatred of one’s own aesthetical poverty: within the carnal love we seek to find that which our own body lacks. The desire between Dean and Cas doesn’t have to be seen as strictly sexual, as the appreciation of beauty does not warrant a conventionally erotic subtext. This sort of fascination with the flesh is most noticeably highlighted in the many “eye sex” scenes in seasons 4-5, and is later brought up by Hester:

The very touch of you corrupts. When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost. 

2. The second step stems from the appreciation for all physicality derived directly from the love one has for the lover’s form. It’s fleshed out any time Dean finds beauty in the dark times, where he would have never found it before or when Cas sees humanity through the lens of the love he has for the beauty within Dean Winchester. This step is all about finding the allure in everybody, not in spite of but rather because of having fallen for a specific person’s material form.

3. The next step is a love which transcends the physical and teaches an individual to feel affection towards the souls. The attraction one can experience in relation to that which is non material is precisely what takes the function of the driving force behind both Castiel’s and Dean’s decisions in season 6 and onward (arguably even much earlier for Cas? or even Dean? Maybe we’re talking about season 4?). As evidenced by the apparent lack of attraction Dean experiences towards Jimmy himself, he must have already moved on to this stage (the Cas he loves is not just the vessel he inhabits). Castiel on the other hand feels heavily infatueted with Dean’s spiritual allure (even when he’s physically on the verge of a breakdown, he’s still beautiful, still Dean Winchester). 

4. It is only then that one can find love for the institution. If one worships souls, then one also has to worship the product of those souls: and, sure enough, loving humanity led Castiel to love its structures and ethical systems and be willing to die fighting for them. In the later seasons he exhibits fascination over all the little rules that guide an average human’s life (which is especially fleshed out in his season 7 dialogues, where he contemplates all the small details of the societal structure, ie: how important is lipstick to you?, maybe the human institutions should ban its production). Same can be said of Dean: the customs and traditions of other people are subject to his affectionate protection in the later seasons, which sets s6 and onwards Dean apart from the early seasons Dean who cared mostly about his blood relatives. The found family arc was for him a process of growing attached to the order of life which was previously foreign to him, and him learning to navigate functioning within a big family structure and an organization (the last one is physically manifested by his move from a chaotic life spent at random motels to living at the bunker, property of the institution of Men Of Letters).

5. Then comes the deep appreciation of knowledge. Now, it is widely disputed whether what Plato meant should be strictly narrowed down to just one kind of knowledge (in many English translations you might encounter the word ‘science’, though used in the ancient sense). The process of gaining knowledge is often equated with the understanding of ideas in Plato’s work, therefore we’re going to stick with that. The act of loving the process of discovering both the external and the internal world is a strong factor which pushes Dean to self examination, or the examination of the inner psyche. It is that pursuit of knowledge that is the very coronation of his entire character arc: the realization of his role within the story (”I’m not the ultimate killer”) which was directly derived from the act of loving Cas.

6. The final stage of platonic love is reaching the love of the very concept of Love. Once again, interpretations vary, but for the sake of the argument, I’ll clarify that: the discussed kind of love transcends both the body and the soul. An individual is in love with Beauty, not just one of it’s physical or spiritual manifestations. In my opinion, this stage is extremely well depicted during the 15x18 confession scene, for it is a kind of love achieved by Castiel. He is no longer just in love with the body or soul of Dean, he’s also in love with the sole idea of loving him. He quite literally states that he’s fallen in love with the idea of just being, just saying it, just falling in love. 

Upon achieving this state, he transcends his material conditions both by leaving the human world (his move to another dimension - the Empty - could be just an illustrative manifestation of the transcendental move of his essence) and giving birth to a new world order. The way in which he later on goes to rebuild Heaven and give birth to a completely new, structure of the universe is in line with a concept that Plato ties into the finale step of the Ladder - pregnancy of the soul. At one point in Symposium he describes Diotima saying that:

That in that life alone, when he looks at Beauty in the only way that Beauty can be seen--only then will it become possible for him to give birth not to images or virtue (Because he’s in touch with no images), but to true virtue (Because he is in touch with the true Beauty).

What is the christian equivalent and personification of the true idea of Virtue if not the abstract concept of Heaven? The moment Cas creates a new portrayal of Virtue he finishes the Ladder. It could also be argued that the true pregnancy of the soul was actually finished when Jack ascended to the status of God: an entity which belongs to the realm of ideas and is perfect by its very nature is birthed through Castiel’s love (which can be traced back to the feelings he has for Dean Winchester).

And it is the fact that Dean’s arc got stuck on the fifth stage of the Ladder that causes me so much pain. He dies before transcending and experiencing the non-temporal and non-relative feeling of love that one can gain only through the admiration of beauty itself. His life was cut short and his soul has already left the mortal, physical world, therefore he is forever unable to experience the feeling of loving Love and Virtue so much that his soul gives birth to an unbreakable idea.

In conclusion: if you ever see somebody say that Dean and Castiel’s relationship is platonic, just agree. It is very much so platonic in the sense that through their carnal and spiritual desires they’ve manged to (nearly, in Dean’s case) transcend their material conditions and reached the divine aspect of ideal Beauty and Virtue, rooted in a love that’s so deep that it’s perfectly able to redefine the structure of one’s existence.

tagging some people who have vaguely expressed interest in acquiring the third eye:

@cryptcas​ @futureheadnerd​ @doctorprofessorsong​ @sinnabonka​ @theangelwiththewormstache​ @absoluteheller​ @fivefeetfangirl​ 

#okay class dismissed #you can go home now #yes this will be on the test #in all seriousness #please reblog this to appreciate my work #it's christmas eve and i spent like an hour writing whatever the hell this is #full disclosure: this is heavily simplified to be just my interpretation of the symposium #feel free to add on to this #spn #supernatural #spn philosophy posting #plato #deancas #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #spn 15x18 #spn 15x20 #spn 15x19 #misha collins #jensen ackles #philosophy #spn meta

[newvegascowboy]

apologies if you’ve already talked about this, but I’m curious about Red’s memories. How much did they remember post-goodsprings? Did they know they had been in the Legion? (if not then when did they realize?) You mentioned in a tag recently that they got their memories back at some point. How did that happen? Was it all of them or just some?

Sorry if that’s a lot of questions i’m just endlessly curious about them sjfjskd. one of my fav fallout OCs of all time

😭😭😭 ahh thank you!! I'm glad you like my funky little courier so much 💖 this will be kind of a wordy reply, so forgive me

Red remembers nothing after waking up in Goodsprings. Pretty much a blank slate. They start to pick things up, like feelings and impressions, but nothing substantial. The things they remember are relegated to certain very strong memories, such as being branded, a very important death and blood on their hands, and something burning. Its enough for Red to infer that they probably didnt live the happiest or gentlest lifestyle.

They know they were related to the Legion in some way thanks to the brand on the back of their neck, but Red thinks that they were a slave, not a Legionary. After Cecelia finds them in the old mormon fort, she clears up a lot of the story in terms of Red's role in the Legion, how they escaped, and what happened after. Red has trouble coming to terms with the fact that they used to be a Legionary, but isnt bothered so much by the outlaw bit of their past, except maybe finding it inconvenient that they're working with the NCR while the NCR has a warrant out for them.

Red is really adverse to learning pretty much anything about their past. They feel constantly at war with themselves, like an interloper in their own body. It's not their body, not their face, it belongs to Jack Castillo - someone Red doesn't even remember. Regardless of how unhappy they are and how little time they've really been them, Red doesn't want to lose themselves to a stranger.

OWB is when Red gets their memories back completely. When their organs were removed, the Think Tank did some repairs on the damaged tissue (as well as replacing Red's left eye with a mechanical prosthetic). Red spends a majority of the time incredibly disoriented and almost dissociative, unable to separate Red from Jack, or vice versa. In the end, Red accepts that things have changed. The acceptance and fusion of their memories is incredibly cathartic. Red still feels uncertain about pretty much everything, but they're no longer afraid of their past, and it enables them to become a much more stable person.

#fallout #kal talks #asks #courier six #courier Red #omg this is long hkksh #turned into less 'what does red remember and how do they get their memories back' #into like a complete dissection of their psyche #basically... red remembers the bad shit and the easiest emotions for them to access are anger and hatred #which is why theyre Like That #why their rage is so explosive #getting their memories back completely enables them to remember that they DID have a good life at times #that there are people who loved them and who they loved in return #what red feared the most is what they needed to be at peace and be a more complete person #not red vs jack but two sides of the same coin #its hard to sort through the memories for a while but red is finally able to view their experiences in the mojave #through a more complete lense

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 23

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: There's Chekhov's gun and then there's Ernesto's poison.  You know the rule.

Art is by @lunaescribe​ and @swanpit​!

***

“This way, all of you, don’t make noise.”

“But Sister Antonia, these are your quarters--”

“And you’ll stay here until you’re told otherwise, chicos. Make no noise. We’ll bring you food here until they’re gone.”

“But the girls…?”

“They wouldn’t take them for their ranks. God willing, they’ll leave them be. We’ll keep them safe, too. Now you stay here, all right?”

A few terrified, wide-eyed glances from the boys. No reply. 

“Am I clear?”

“S-sí.”

“Can we pray, Sister?”

“... Quietly,” Sister Antonia said, her voice tight in the way one’s voice gets when it’s so close to breaking up, and she closed the door, turning the key in the lock. When she turned to grab the bookcase and drag it across the floor, Imelda stepped in to help her push it. It left deep scratches on the wooden boards, but no matter. They would cover that with a rug. 

“Is Miguel still missing?” Imelda asked, her voice as firm as she could make it. Antonia lowered her gaze with a nod. 

“He’s the only one who didn’t come back. None of the boys has seen him since they went out to play hide and seek.”

Imelda bit her lower lip hard enough to almost break the skin. “Nor Óscar, have they?” she forced herself to ask, and the slow nod felt like a blow. Where was he? Where had they both gone? Could it be that they had both made it to her parents’ home, that Miguel had followed Óscar there? Maybe he had, maybe they were both safe. 

God, please.

“I’m sorry, Imelda,” Antonia’s voice reached her as though from a mile away, and she scowled. Anger came easier than despair, and it was more than welcome. No point in fearing the worst behind the safety of those walls.

“They may very well be safe and sound,” she snapped, and marched to the door. “I will go out looking. If they ask, I’m looking for some of our girls. Make sure they’re all in - if anyone asks, this is a girls-only institution.”

“... Do you know where Sofía is?” Antonia spoke up, fear now showing in her voice, and it made Imelda pause. As much as she rolled her eyes at their antics, poorly hidden behind hastily closed doors and too thin walls, Imelda knew they cared deeply about one another. 

“She’s taking care of something important. She will be here soon. Don’t worry,” she added, and smiled in the attempt to convey a sense of calm she did not feel. “She can handle herself just fine.”

Antonia’s own lips curled in a weak smile. “I won’t tell her you admitted that. Be careful out there. I really do want to see the gringo’s face when Padre Ernesto officiates your wedding.”

Imelda, who rather liked the idea of her wedding actually being both legal and valid in the eyes of God, knew they would probably have to settle for the gringo to officiate it, but that was not the moment to voice that thought. Except that, as she stepped out and ran towards the plaza, she quickly found out that perhaps the gringo would be in no position to officiate anything anymore, either. 

“What…?” Imelda stopped in her tracks, stunned at the sight of several men quickly carrying a body towards the church on a sheet, dark blood a stark contrast to the man’s pale skin and fair hair. He looked-- was he-- dead?

If they go around shooting priests, none of us is safe.

There was no love lost between her and Father John Johnson, and yet there was a stab of something in her stomach at the idea he may be dead. He had been trying to help, after all. He had left the relative safety of the parish to help its people.

Maybe he just said something stupid. He does it a lot. Only this time they were armed.

“Go call doctor Sachéz,” Imelda heard someone saying as they passed her by, but before she could even voice her question - would the doctor be of any use, was he even still alive? - someone else called out her own name. 

“Imelda!”

Ceci’s voice caused her to tear her gaze off the gringo who was perhaps an ex gringo. She was running up to her, hair dishevelled in a way Imelda had never seen it - she had always been dignified, even when they were young girls.

But today was not a normal day. 

“They have Miguel,” Ceci panted, grabbing her shoulders. “And Óscar.”

No. No. No.

For a moment, just a moment, the world seemed to spin around her. It was as though sunlight itself faded for a moment, distant screams muffled, leaving the world empty and dark. Imelda’s knees may have buckled, they almost did, but she couldn’t allow herself to collapse.

“Their commander is loco,” Ceci was saying, eyes wide. “He just kept screaming about a deserter, one de la Cruz, and the more we swore none of us knew him the more he lost it. And when Padre Juan stepped in-- Imelda! Wait! Come back!”

Imelda didn’t listen: she just tore away from her grasp and ran, towards the plaza, towards the cries. 

They had her brother. They had her charge.  She had to go to them.

Whenever she thought about that nightmare scenario, Imelda was so certain of what she’d do: get the pistol she had taken from Ernesto, and use it the second it was necessary. But now that it was happening, she knew that taking out the gun would mean signing her death warrant, and that of God knew how many others in the village. A lone woman with a pistol - she would be killed quickly, and retribution on everyone else would be swift. She would be of no use to anyone dead. 

Maybe Ernesto had been right, after all. What involvement she’d had had been from the sidelines. She knew nothing of war; Santa Cecilia knew nothing of war. 

But war had come to them, and it was a matter of learning fast or dying. 

He just kept screaming about a deserter.

There is no mercy in war, Ernesto had said.

He’s one of our own now. I can’t give him away. 

They have Óscar.

I promised we would protect him.

They have Miguel. 

We protect our own.

He lied to us. 

There must be something we can do. Anything. 

As she ran as fast as her robes allowed her, blood rushing in her ears and thoughts going in circles, Imelda could only pray that Ernesto would stay at the González farm, unaware, for as long as possible. 

If he returned too early and they found out he was there, and that they hadn’t handed him over, it would spell disaster for all of them.

***

“Miguel!”

Héctor’s scream was loud enough to hurt his throat, and it was still lost under the echo of the gunshot, under the wordless cries of the people of Santa Cecilia trying to back away, the shouts of those calling out for doctor Sanchéz and the stunned cries of ‘he shot him, he shot a man of God ! ’ coming even from the Federales themselves. 

It was lost beneath all the confusion, and Miguel’s screams. 

“No! What have you done! What have you done!”

“Be still-- be still, brat! Don’t try my patience, there is a bullet for you too if you won’t--!”

“Let me go!”

“I am warning you!”

“Murderer! Let me g--!”

“Wait! Por favor!”

This time, Héctor’s cry was loud enough to be heard. That, and it’s rather hard not to notice someone in a priestly robe throwing himself in front of your horse, gripping the reins and looking up at you with a look of pure anguish on his face. 

The commander seemed startled, pistol still in mid-air, and he let his gaze shift from Héctor to the motionless priest bleeding out on the cobblestones, a few men already trying to press on the wound to stop the blood loss, calling for help to take him to the doctor. Héctor didn’t look down, didn’t focus on the fact he had just witnessed a man being shot down, didn’t even think he was putting himself in danger of being next. 

All he knew was that the man had Miguel, and he couldn’t have him.  

He opened his mouth to plead, but the commander’s eyes were back on him and he spoke up before he could. In his grasp Miguel was shaking, eyes full of tears and skin ashen.

“Are all priests in this village eager to become martyrs? Let go of the reins now, or--”

“I’ll join you,” Héctor blurted out, holding tighter onto the reins. “I beg of you to let him go. I’ll take his place.”

The soldier’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline; Miguel, on the other hand, let out a gasp.

“Héctor, no--!” he choked out, only to trail off when the man gave him a shake. 

“You know him?”

“He is a warden of the Church. I--”

“Well, go back to the Church. We don’t take in priests.”

“I am a novice, not a priest,” Héctor spoke quickly, and fell on his knees. Blood soaked through the robe, warm and wet, while somewhere behind him Father John was taken away on a sheet. Federales allowed it, most of them probably still stunned at the notion their commander had just shot a priest; many held no more love for the Church than Huerta himself did, but fear of God’s punishment was too ingrained in their hearts since childhood not to hold some weight. “I have taken no vows-- none. I can join the army. I’ll do it right now. I’ll do anything you ask.”

There was a hiccupping sob, tears spilling down Miguel’s cheeks. He was always such a lively boy, so smart, always up to something - but now he only looked like the scared child he was. Héctor desperately wanted to comfort him, but he dared not tear his gaze from that of the commander, whose harsh expression had softened even so slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was… calmer. 

“You seem to care about this muchacho an awful lot.”

“He’s like a son to me,” Héctor said, and he realized the truth of it only as it left his lips. Miguel let out another sob, trying to wipe his eyes. 

“Héctor…” he managed, and Héctor finally dared smile at the boy. A shaky smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

“It will be all right, chamaco, I promise,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it, and looked back at the soldier, who stared back a few moments… and finally lowered the pistol, putting it back in the holster. 

“What is your name?”

“Héctor, señor.”

“Héctor and what else?”

“Just Héctor. I-- I have no family.”

“Can you hold a gun?”

“Sí.”

“Shoot?”

“I-- only tried a few times. But I will learn.”

“Mph. I guess it’s something. We can’t be picky these days.”

“You won’t regret it. I swear.”

The man sighed. Much later on, Héctor would wonder if the look he gave him that moment truly was somewhat apologetic, or if it had just been his imagination. To his last day, he would never be entirely sure. “... Very well, Just Héctor. I am Commander Hernández. Welcome to the Federal Army,” he said, and let go of Miguel. The boy jumped off the horse and was in Héctor’s arms the next moment, crying hard, face pressed against his shoulder. 

“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” he sobbed, holding on tight. “You’ve got to get married-- I’m sorry I was so mad at you-- please don’t go--”

I’m sorry, Imelda.

“It will be all right,” Héctor managed, trying to sound as optimistic as he could. “I’ll be back once this is over and I’ll have plenty of stories to tell.”

Miguel sniffled, still holding on tight. “Promise,” he choked out. 

“I swear.”

Another shuddering breath. “Did you-- do you really--?”

“All right, all right, enough. Just looking at you makes my teeth rot.”

Gustavo’s voice rang out suddenly, and Miguel was torn from Héctor’s arms before he could react. He tried to protest, to break free, but Gustavo had already pushed him back towards Chicharrón, who trapped him in a steely grip the boy had no chance of escaping - Héctor would know, he had been on the receiving end of that a few times before. 

As the old gravedigger began pulling Miguel away despite his protests, and Héctor stood - so much blood on the cobblestones, surely the gringo was dead - Commander Hernández gave Gustavo a somewhat weary glance. “And you are…?”

“Gustavo Torres, señor. I wish to join your ranks,” Gustavo said, making a dismissive gesture towards the plaza behind him. “I’ve had enough of this place. I am a good shooter, too,” he added. Héctor knew that was an absolute lie: Gustavo couldn't even hit his own foot with any type of firearm. What the hell was he going on about - and why join the Federales? He was a pendejo, that much was no mystery, but since well did he support Huerta? What was going on?

Commander Hernández tilted his head, seemingly taken aback of for entirely different reasons. It probably wasn’t often anyone volunteered to join. “... Well then. If you’re willing to join, I see no reason to deny you.”

“Uh, Commander…” a soldier approached them, looking a little shaken up. Either he was new to all this, or he found his commander had gone a step too far in shooting a man of God in cold blood - gringo or not. He gestured towards a group of people behind him, separated from the rest of the plaza; all men of varying ages… and, to Héctor’s horror, among them there was a boy. Óscar. “We have the thirty men you ask--.”

“No you don’t,” Gustavo muttered. “What you have is twenty-eight men and a half,” a pointed look in Héctor’s direction, “plus a child. The muchacho with glasses over there? Those two bottle ends on his face are not enough to make him usable with a gun. He couldn’t tell his sister from a donkey. I mean, sometimes no one can,” he added, making Héctor want more than anything to wrap his hands around his neck, thumbs on the throat, and squeeze.

But he could see what he was trying to do, so he held his tongue and his hands. Just barely.

Commander Hernández raised an eyebrow. “If this is an attempt at taking the boy’s place, it is rather transparent,” he said, and Gustavo shrugged. 

“Then I can replace anyone else,” he replied. Either he did an excellent job at sounding like he didn’t give a damn either way, or he really didn’t give a damn either way. “Or you leave with thirty-one men. It just seems fair to warn you that the boy’s eyesight is awful and he’d make a poor soldier.”

Commander Hernández turned back to look directly at Óscar, who pressed himself against the wall under his gaze as though trying to make himself feel smaller, all skinny limbs and huge glasses. In the end, the man shrugged. “Mmh. Those glasses do seem awfully thick, and you do look like you’d make a better soldier,” he said, and he gestured for the closest soldier to let him go. Cries of mercy for others rose up from sisters, wives, parents - but none was heeded. There would be no more mercy that day. 

As he watched in relief Óscar being pushed away from the lineup, eyes wide and bewildered, Héctor only vaguely heard the commander’s orders for his men to give the new recruit uniforms, get supplies and fresh horses from the village, and be ready to leave within the hour. He let out a long breath and turned to Gustavo. 

“Gracias,” he murmured, only to get an annoyed look in return. 

“Don’t thank me. If we survive this, I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Let me guess. This is all my fault?”

“Of course it is. It’s always your fault, somehow,” Gustavo grunted, glaring at the ground while they walked to get their uniforms. “We can only hope the puta is going to follow my instructions and get us help.”

A thought crossed Héctor’s mind, unexpected and blinding as the flare of a match in a darkened room. He found himself blinking, taken aback. He had no clue who the puta may be, but the rest was… revealing. “Those messages-- the instructions-- was it y ouch! ”

“Scream it for everyone to hear, why don’t you!” Gustavo hissed, falling back into step after stomping on Héctor’s foot. It caused him to walk a bit awkwardly, but he didn’t protest or say anything more. Only after a folded uniform was pushed into his arms - obviously used, ill-fitting and with specks on it that looked a lot like dried blood - did Héctor dare turn, heart heavy in his chest, hoping to get at least one last glimpse of Imelda before he left. 

And, for the second time that day, he got his wish. Imelda stood at the front of the crowd, holding onto Óscar. He was already taller than she was, but she cradled his head the way she did when she was a girl and he was just a young child. Miguel was there, too, having somehow escaped Cheech’s grasp. He was holding onto her robe but, unlike Óscar, he was looking towards him. Both him and Imelda were, his face tear-soaked and blotchy and hers terribly grave, and terribly pale. 

I’m sorry, he ached to tell them both. Stay safe. I love you. I’ll be back soon.

But they were too far away, and he could only hope his glance would be enough to tell them that. He could only hope they knew. 

When I return, Héctor thought, refusing to contemplate any other scenario, to add any ifs to that. He’d be back, whatever it took. When I return and we marry, Miguel will stay with us. 

Only then, with that thought in mind, Héctor was able to give them a weak smile.

***

Had it not been for her brother holding onto her like he hadn’t in years, or for Miguel clinging to her robe while shaking with hiccuping sobs, Imelda may have ran forward. She may have pushed through, to the commander, and screamed to him that she knew where to find the deserter he wanted - that he could have him, if he released everyone else.

One man’s life against thirty. Thirty men, including the one she loved, that could be released in exchange for one. 

I could save him. I could save them all, here and now. 

Later on she would not be proud of what she came so close to doing, but neither would she be ashamed. She had promised Ernesto she would protect him from the Federal Army if it came to it, and she had meant it; if it came to taking a bullet to keep that promise, she’d have taken the bullet. But letting other people do the same… that was where she balked. 

As much as it tore at her heart, she knew Héctor had made his choice. He must have known that giving Ernesto away would save him and Miguel both, but he had decided to take Miguel’s place and keep Ernesto safe instead.  The others, though, had no choice at all. Twenty-nine men who knew nothing of Ernesto’s deceit and could not make their own decision as to whether he should be protected with their lives or not.

There were young husbands, young fathers, family men who may never return home, leaving widows and orphans and lonely parents. Who were they to make that choice for all of them? Who was she to do it?

We protect our own. 

He is one of ours, too. 

One life. One life against thirty. 

Héctor may never forgive me.

He can hate me, if it means he’ll be alive to do it. 

Imelda watched, her head wrapped in silence, as Héctor took a uniform and finally, for the first time, looked back. Their gazes met, the coldness in the pit of Imelda’s stomach turned to ache, and the idiota did the unthinkable. He had the galls to smile at her, and somehow it was the most heartbreaking thing she ever had to endure - seeing that smile, and knowing it may be the last time she did.

No. No, she couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let that smile be taken away from the world a day too soon than it had to, no matter if she would never again see it directed at her. She would live with it. They both would.

With a long breath, Imelda made peace with the fact she may never be able to sleep well again as long as she lived, and gently pushed Óscar away. “Go home,” she told him, stroking his cheek, and went to step forward and go speak with the commander. 

Only to stop as Miguel’s grip on her robe tightened and he pulled her back, looking up at her with a tear-streaked face. “Don’t do it,” he choked out, and Imelda’s blood ran cold. It was as though the child had read her intentions on her face, plain as day. “I promised him he’d be safe here. I promised.”

Oh, my little one. It was too much responsibility to put on you. 

Imelda swallowed, unable to speak for a few moments. “Miguel…” she managed, her voice barely audible, most of it stuck somewhere in her throat. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Sometimes we need to make-- choices we’d never want to make.”

“I don’t want to choose,” Miguel pleaded, still holding on with both hands. “I don’t want either of them to die. He-- he’s loco, you didn’t see how he shot Padre J-Juan, he… he really hates Ernesto, I don’t know why, we can’t let him have him…!”

She sighed, and crouched down, wiping his face with a sleeve. “Miguel, listen to me--”

“No. You listen before you do something I assure you you’d regret.” 

Sofía spoke suddenly before Imelda could say anything more, crouching next to her as though to comfort Miguel as well. “First of all, lower your voice, Jesus Christ. Second, don’t do anything. We can kick Ernesto around for putting us into this mess later, and I’ll be first in line, but no need to see him hang.”

“None of those men has ever been in a battle. If they take them--”

“We’ll take them back.” Sofía pushed something into her hand, a folded piece of paper. “We will have reinforcements.”

“What…” Imelda read the brief message, taken aback. Then she read it again, and again, and again; the handwriting itself struck her as much as the content itself. “Wait… this is…?”

“Same handwriting as the instructions you’ve been getting, yes. It was Gustavo all along.”

Somehow, Imelda may have been less surprised to be told that the Pope himself had been behind the entire thing. Gustavo, of all people? Someone who never cared about anyone other than himself?

Except that he took Óscar’s place just now. I owe him. Oh God, he made me owe him. He will never shut up about it, will he?

“It-- what?” was all Imelda managed to say in the end, stunned. But it made sense, suddenly - how José and his men had known their bell needed repair, and why they had come running to fix it after Ernesto’s unsuccessful attempt, once Gustavo took it upon himself to find a solution. She knew there was something behind it, but she had no idea what. Now she knew.

The bell had always been their means to call for help.

Once they have left, ring the bell to a death knell and don’t stop. Help will come. Tell them to follow the trail. They’ll know.

“Wait, what… what did Gustavo do?” Miguel was asking, confusion overriding his anguish. Sofía smiled, and pulled him close. 

“Don’t worry, niño. We’ll fix everything,” she said, brushing back his hair. She smiled, but even her smile was wrong, sharp, teeth ground tightly. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Imelda stood slowly, slipping the note in her sleeve, and glanced up. Now all she could see were people huddled together mourning their losses, while soldiers took all that was not nailed down in the small weekly market. The men the Federales had chosen to join their ranks were gone, Héctor with them, without so much a last word between them.

No matter. This is not the end. We’ll bring them back. By any means necessary. 

“... Let’s take Miguel back to safety, and be ready to ring the bell once they’re gone.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

“There is something in my room I need to retrieve, and a horse I need to borrow,” Imelda said, very quietly, as they began walking away from the plaza. Sofía still held onto the hand of a very confused Miguel; she knew she was referring to the pistol, she had to know what she meant to do, but she didn’t say as much aloud or try to talk her out of it.

“Of course,” was all she said. "Be careful.”

“What’s happening?” Miguel asked, his voice small. Desperately wanting to be hopeful, but terrified of seeing that hope shattered. “How… can you really fix this?”

“... I’ll do my damndest,” Imelda replied, getting a somewhat shaky laugh from Sofía.

“If the gringo heard you, he’d have a heart attack.”

“Oh!” Miguel seemed to recoil. “Padre Juan! Is he-- did they get him help?”

“Huh?” Sofía looked down, taken aback. “What happened to the gringo?”

“He was shot.” Miguel swallowed, and tugged at her sleeve. “He was trying to save me and… and… can we go to doctor Sanchéz first? Por favor-- just to see if he’s… if…”

His voice faded, and Sofía looked over at Imelda with a bitter smile. “First one points a gun at me, then they shoot a priest. Our robes aren’t much of an armor anymore,” she said, and turned back to Miguel. “... I’ll send one of the sisters to see him as soon as you’re safe with the others, and let you know how he’s getting on. I promise.”

Miguel protested, but not too much. He was exhausted, still in shock for everything he had gone through in the span of little over an hour, and all things considered it was testament to his resilience that he was not curled into a ball and screaming. 

He let Sofía lead him back to the orphanage, and Imelda watched them disappear with a long sigh. He was safe now. He could rest. Her own work, however, had only just begun. 

Imelda gave another quick glance behind her, towards the plaza, before she headed back to her room, where a pistol lay hidden beneath a floorboard, waiting to be loaded. She had hoped it wouldn’t come to it; she had hoped the Federales would spare their village until the end of that war. But there they were, and there she was. 

It was time to see if the hours spent learning to load and aim had been worth something.

***

All right, so maybe the painfully slow trip to the González farm had been worth it, after all. 

Ernesto was almost entirely sure his half-assed blessing had precisely nothing to do with the young bull suddenly realizing what went where and enthusiastically getting to work - too enthusiastically, he had definitely seen more bull than he ever needed to see in his life - but he had to admit, the timing had been nothing short of amazing. 

The look on old Manuel’s face had been a sight to behold, and the fresh eggs he had gifted him immediately afterwards were a nice plus. He’d probably been moments away from falling on his knees and declaring him a true miracle worker, which would have been flattering but also rather awkward, right next to a bull and a cow getting down to business.

Ah, he couldn’t wait to tell Juan his blessing had worked, after all. Maybe he’d suggest Manuel González to name any resulting male calf Ernesto and a female Juanita, just to be spiteful. That would teach him. 

Ernesto was snickering to himself at the idea when suddenly, on the other side of the hill, the bell of Santa Cecilia’s church began tolling - slowly, with long gaps between strikes. It was enough to make the smile fade from his face, heart dropping somewhere in his stomach as always whenever he heard that sound. A death knell. 

What happened? Who died? I was away only hours, what did they do?

It may be nothing, of course; one of the old parishioners may have kicked it, a sad but not really unusual occurrence. With some luck, it may be the insufferable gravedigger. Maybe the sexton had finally fallen off the stairs and broken his stupid neck.

But that couldn’t be it. The death knell would only ring out during a funeral, or… or maybe the damn Pope had died, didn’t all churches do that if news came that the Pope croaked? He was almost sure they did. Or maybe someone had just climbed on top of the belltower to fuck with the bell for no reason. 

I was only gone for a few hours. What can possibly happen in a few hours?

Anything, was the answer. He’d learned the hard way that anything can do wrong in a few hours. Everything can go to shit in less than a few hours, and something in his gut told him that was exactly what had happened. Trying to keep a sudden wave of panic at bay, Ernesto spurred the stupid donkey to go faster until he reached the top of the hill, and looked down.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe; it was as though something had taken hold of his lungs, and squeezed all air out of him. From way up there in the distance, nothing about Santa Cecilia looked amiss - but it was not the village itself he stared at. What made his blood run cold was the column of men on horses and carts further west, leaving it behind. Federales.

They’re leaving, Ernesto thought, hands shaking on the reins. It’s all right, he told himself, but it was a lie and he knew it. The Federal Army never left anything behind if not devastation, and the bell kept going on and on and on, the continuous death knell making him want to scream. He could taste bile, stomach clenching.

Dead, dead, dead.

There it was again before his eyes - the men who stood blindfolded before the firing squad, his own rifle gleaming in the sun, the wails of women and children and the elderly quieted down by the deafening bangs once the order was shouted and they obeyed. When they left those villages, too, had he heard the church’s bell ringing to a death knell. Mourning. 

Santa Cecilia was in mourning. His village, his parish. His people. His friends. Who did they take? Who did they kill? 

Not me. They’re leaving, they must not have been here for me. It’s all that matters, isn’t it?

… Isn’t it?

Ernesto didn’t answer his own question. He shut down all thought the way he desperately tried to shut out the ringing of the bell, and spurred the donkey down the hill as quickly as he could, heart hammering somewhere in his throat.

***

They’re mourning us already. 

The thought was enough to almost break him, but Héctor forced himself to keep going, holding onto the reins of the horse he had been given, clad in the too-small uniform that had been drenched with someone else’s sweat and blood. Forcing himself not to turn, not to break, because he knew that if he did he may never be able to put himself back together. 

Was that how soldiers got through it? Was that how Ernesto had survived until he'd found refuse in Santa Cecilia - by focusing on nothing but the road ahead, never turning back to look at what they may never see again?

No. I will be home again. I’ll be with them again. 

Héctor held tightly onto the reins and followed the horse in front of him, holding onto that thought with all he had.

***

They’ll come as soon as they get the message. They must.

Towards the back of the convoy, Gustavo shot a glance ahead towards the commander. He kept riding, not turning once. Thinking the bells were ringing to mourn them, most likely, or the stupid gringo priest who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, or both. Either way, he would be wrong… but he didn’t know that. He wouldn’t know until it was too late. 

Gustavo Torres pulled a knotted-up handkerchief from his pocket, one of several he’d stuffed in, and prepared to let it drop as soon as the column of men turned to another path.

***

With how little he’d lasted in bed the one night she had been dumb enough to spend with him, Sofía had written off Gustavo’s stamina as non-existing. However now, with her arms already aching from ringing the bell no more than a few minutes, she had to take that back. 

Not that she would say that aloud, let alone in his presence, but apparently he wasn’t bitching for no reason when he said bellringing was more work than it looked like.

No matter. Keep ringing. Keep going. Help will come.

So she did keep going, letting her gaze wander towards the column of men, their men among them, leaving the village right ahead of her. She kept ringing as she noticed Imelda leaving the parish down below, clearly having recovered the pistol they had taken from Ernesto and heading towards her parents’ home to… borrow one of their horses.

Be careful, Sofía thought, and might have prayed for her safety if she still believed God gave a damn. Instead she bit her lips and kept pulling. Kept ringing, focusing on nothing else.

And thus failing to notice Ernesto rushing down the hill, into the village and towards the plaza as quickly as the donkey - and then his legs - could carry him.

***

“They came upon us like locusts--”

“I turned and they were there--”

“They took my son! My only child, what will I do--”

“Why didn’t God smite them where they stood!”

“Thirty men, my brother among them, I ran but I was too late, I couldn’t say goodbye--”

Ernesto heard all of it, heard the cries and pleas, the anger and pain, but they seemed so very distant. He stood on the spot, reeling, eyes fixed on the ground in the middle of the devastated marketplace. 

There was blood. There was so much blood, soaking into dirt and pooling in the cracks between cobblestones. People and carts and horses had stepped over it in the chaos, tracking it everywhere; no matter where he turned, there was blood. A trail of it left the plaza, away from it, towards the church. Only one clear trail.

Only one body. 

“Who…?” Ernesto managed to ask. His ears were buzzing, and his tongue felt too large. The reply came like a blow to the pit of his stomach. 

The Delgado widow crossed herself, her skin pale as ash. “Their commander knows no God. He tried to take an orphan, the boy Brother Héctor spent so much time with-- Marco, was i--”

“Miguel?” Ernesto blurted out, horror stealing his breath for a moment. He looked at the woman with wide eyes, feeling as though all strength was sapped away from his body. All that blood, it seemed impossible it had all come from a child. It felt like a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare.

No, not him. It can’t be. Héctor will never recover. 

“Yes, Miguel… the poor child, he was so scared. Padre Juan tried to save him, to stop that man, but that beast pulled out his pistol and… and… ay, I told you, he knows no God. To shoot a man of god like an animal!”

“What-- Juan?” Ernesto looked around again, at the blood, at the weeping people all around - and back towards the church, where the trail led. Above him, all around him, the death knell kept ringing.

“He shot-- Juan?”

Dead. Dead. Dead.

“Sí. Ah, it was horrible. He fell back, and didn’t move-- so much blood, I couldn’t bear to watch.”

Ernesto staggered back, light-headed, struggling to make sense of what had happened. How had it happened? Only hours earlier, Juan had been alive and well - in a good mood, even. Messing with him by sending him out to bless a stupid bull. He’d chuckled, patted his arm like the insufferable bastard he was, promised there would be no Latin lesson that evening.

And now there would be Latin lessons at all, ever again, because that idiota could learn every stupid rule of an useless dead launguage but didn’t have enough brains not to step between a man with a gun and his target. 

Bile rose to Ernesto’s throat, and he closed his eyes. Behind his eyelid the sun still shone, merciless, and he stood in the desert, beneath two swaying hanging corpses, talking to a priest on the brink of death. Left to die for trying to be merciful when the world would not, for trying to put himself between prisoner and executioner. 

It was a bad call, Padre, Ernesto had said.

It was my duty, Padre Joaquín had replied. 

Stupid priest. Stupid gringo. 

High above, the bell kept ringing.

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

When Ernesto heard himself speaking again, his voice was barely audible to his own ears. “... And Miguel?” he managed. Had Juan’s death at least been worth something, anything at all?

“Oh, the child is safe-- Brother Héctor took his place, it was heartbreaking to see, but at least he has a chance of coming back alive.”

Ah, of course. Of fucking course Saint Héctor had taken the boy’s place. What was it with that village that made everyone so damn inclined to martyrdom? What was it about Santa Cecilia that made those who lived there so eager to die a stupid death?

God damn you, stop dying on me. Stop leaving me behind. 

“Padre Ernesto, will you pray to God for our men’s return?” a voice spoke up, and Ernesto turned to face a small, scared crowd. It was the first time he got to linger in a village after the Federal Army left it behind, and he found he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the anger, the pain, the pleading looks. He couldn’t stand how the first thing they chose to do was praying to a God who would not hear, or chose not to listen. 

God had never been any good to Ernesto. He had long since learned that if you want a job well done, you have to do it yourself. 

Ernesto gave a kind smile, seething with anger behind it. Anger was good, though. Anger would get things done. Anger was something solid to cling on to, so that he could ignore that other thing gnawing at him, threatening to undo him if he let himself acknowledge it.

He knew what he had to do.

“Of course,” Ernesto said, still smiling. “I will immediately retire to pray for their safe return in the chapel. If you’ll excuse me.”

He rushed towards the parish before any of them could say one more word - and before any of them could mention anything about the deserter they were looking for. He followed the blood trail for a distance and then diverged towards the back of the church, the death knell unbearably loud in his ears. He did his best to shut it out, to focus on the small voice in the back of his head. Juan’s voice, back when they had only just met. 

“As the founder of my order said, todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.”

Any means to find the divine will. 

Ernesto had seen the wisdom in de Loyola’s words then, and he certainly saw it now. By the time he reached the small shed where holy wine was stored, among other things, the blood rushing in his ears almost covered the incessant ringing of the bell. His hand closed around the cold metal key in his pocket, and bared his teeth in a smile that was almost a snarl, jaw clenched so tightly his face hurt. 

He had no idea what the divine will was, and neither did he care. He knew his own will, and he would see it become reality. 

“Todo modo,” he gritted out, and turned the key in the lock.

***

“... Do you think he has any chance of pulling through, Doctor Sanchéz?”

The man didn’t reply right away, washing his hands in a bowl of warm water that had by now turned almost completely red, as had the towels strewn about. For several moments all Antonia could hear was the quiet splashing of water, the distant echo of the bell ringing outside - what was Sofía doing? - and the painful-sounding gasps as Father John Johnson struggled to draw in each breath, eyes shut, skin pale and clammy, covered by a sheet. 

“Mph. I stitched up all I could, but my guess is that he’ll be the gravedigger’s problem before sundown. I have never seen a man lose as much blood as he did and live to tell the tale.”

Ah. Antonia nodded, folding her hands. There was no love lost between John Johnson and… any of the sisters, really, but this was not something she would wish on anyone. 

He tried to stop them. 

“I see,” she finally said. “We will pray for him.”

“Getting Padre Ernesto to come as soon as he returns would be a better use of your time. He will need the final rites,” Sanchéz muttered. Antonia barely had enough time to open her mouth to let him know she would when she was cut off by a groan. They both turned towards the bed; the gringo was still unconscious, but stirring weakly. Or was he regaining consciousness? Had he heard them? Or--

“Er-- nest--o,” he choked out, and that was it. His head fell back on the pillow and he made no more noise except for a weak, low whimper. 

After a long silence, doctor Sanchéz sighed. “... Go get him, for Christ’s sake, so he can give this poor bastard his final rites.”

Antonia nodded, something heavy in her chest, and went out to do just that. She was told almost as soon as she stepped outside that Padre Ernesto had indeed returned, and headed to the church to pray… only that he was not there. He was not in the chapel, not in the living quarters - not in the yard, nor in the orchard, or in the orphanage to comfort the children, or even back at the plaza. No one had seen him since. 

Padre Ernesto had returned, they told her... only that now he wasn’t anywhere.

***

Chicharrón needed a drink. 

It wasn’t that the events of the day had left him shaken, that he had felt powerless, or that he was terrified out of his mind of how quickly Héctor would die in battle, after a lifetime learning how to handle a guitar and barely touching a rifle. It wasn’t that he worried about Miguel’s state of mind, or that he was generally so upset even Juanita looked crestfallen. 

No, of course not. He was too old for that nonsense. He needed a drink for reasons unrelated to the day's mess, that was all, and he knew just where to find it.

But it seemed someone had found it before he did, because the shed’s door was open and what caskets of holy wine had been left were gone. 

Of course, better of them to have found the wine rather than any weapons or other supplies hidden away - that would have probably made them decide to burn Santa Cecilia to the ground - but that was the last straw and Chicharrón was suddenly too furious to even try and see a silver lining to anything. 

“Those bastards! Even the wine! Is nothing sacred anymore?”

Chicharrón would have kicked the door, if not for the fact he would have probably lost his balance or even broken his peg leg, so he did the next most reasonable thing, and punched it. 

“YOWCHGODDAMNIT!”

He punched the door again for good measure - his hand already hurt, anyway - and limped inside. Maybe they had left at least some wine, at least a casket; it wouldn’t hurt to check.

As luck would have it, there was one casket left, but Chicharrón didn’t pick it up right away. For a long time he could just stand frozen on the spot, staring at the empty space where something else had been stored. Something that was not wine at all. 

Well, look at that. Had those damn idiots taken the rat poison, too? God, he hoped they thought it to be sugar or something or the other. He hoped they would eat it and choke on it. 

Chicharrón limped right out of the shed with the remaining casket under his arm, slamming the door shut behind him and getting ready to toast to that wish - entirely unaware of the fact that a priest who was not a priest at all was currently clambering up the hill with two donkeys, one of whom carrying nothing but caskets of wine, hellbent on making that wish come true. By any means necessary.

High up in the belltower, the bell kept ringing.

***

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#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

[lucrezia-thoughts]

Every Story is a Love Story

CHAPTER 15: SO I'M THE BEST?

Pairing: Marcus Pike x (F) Reader

Warning(s): kissing, ludicrously unrealistic and inappropriate office behavior, movie references no one asked for...

Series Summary: You never expected the story of how you met the man of your dreams to start with, ‘He walked in while I was ass up on his desk moaning about how handsome he was…’

Chapter Summary: "Come ON, bug! You can't just say something like that and then not tell me the details!" Sam whined from his position draped dramatically over your desk...

Link to Master List

~~~~

"Come ON, bug! You can't just say something like that and then not tell me the details!" Sam whined from his position draped dramatically over your desk.

"Yes I can." You teased over your shoulder as you browsed through your email and your calendar for the day. You sighed when you saw a new meeting pop up for tomorrow to discuss the few potential findings large enough to warrant bringing the client on-site. The way this audit was panning out it was going to be at least a needs improvement...which meant it was going to be a tense few days.

"Buuuuug, I was the best you had up til now! You KNOW I was the best you had up til now! You have to tell me how he was better!!" Sam continued as if you hadn't spoken.

"I don't have to tell you anything, Sam." You pointed out as you opened the details of the meeting and frowned. "Ugh...that discrepancy in filing we found is turning into a way bigger deal, Sam." You grumbled, finally looking up at him.

"That just means we'll have some interesting stories from this one." He shrugged. "But that's not important right now!"

"Saaaam..." You groaned and poked his side. "Make like Elsa and let it go."

"No can do, bug! I can't lose my title without knowing how I lost it!" Sam countered, but stood up. "Is he bigger? Thicker?" He questioned and you rolled your eyes. Grabbing your laptop from its docking station, you walked around him to head towards your first meeting.

"Was it technique?" Sam continued after grabbing his own laptop and following you to the conference room. "Did he make you squirt?" He whispered in your ear once you reached the room and you turned around wide eyed to swat him in the chest. "Holy shit, he did! Didn't he?" Sam's face was practically giddy as the two of you took your seats and the meeting commenced.

You shook your head as you made your way to Marcus's office after the meeting concluded and you'd run out to beat Sam's questions. You smiled as you stepped inside and shut the door behind you. "Give me one second to finish this up then I'm all yours, baby." Marcus called to you as he typed away at his computer.

"Sam wants you to teach him your ways." You whispered in his ear after you made your way to stand behind him and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"My ways?" You heard the question in Marcus's voice as he finished up entering his report.

"Mmmhmmm." You hummed and nipped at his ear, sliding your hands down his chest towards his belt to tap your finger over it. "Those ways."

Marcus groaned at your attentions, but chuckled when you tapped his belt. "How did that even-" He started to ask, but you shook your head as you walked around his chair to sit in his lap.

"According to him, and I quote, 'I can't lose my title without knowing how I lost it.'" You mimicked Sam's voice and leaned forward for a kiss, but Marcus had his head thrown back in laughter.

"What? His title?" Marcus grinned as he finally got his laughter under control and wrapped his arms around you.

"Oh god-" You groaned and brought your hands up to hide your face. "Yes...his title...that he gave himself." You mumbled, letting your body rest against Marcus's chest. Taking your hands away from your face when you felt Marcus's hands at your wrists, you sighed.

"Sam was my first...and best, until you." You whispered softly, looking into his eyes.

"Baby-" Marcus started, but you leaned forward and kissed him slowly, savoring the feeling of his lips against yours. You could feel Marcus's smirk when the kiss ended. "So I'm the best?" He asked, already knowing the answer and you shook your head as you moved to get off his lap.

"Nooooo, you're just as bad as him!" You whined when he tugged you back against him and tickled your neck with the scruff of his beard. "Marcus!" You squeaked and tried to pull away, but he held you close.

"I love you, honey." He breathed into the kisses he placed on your neck once he stopped tickling you.

"I love you too-" You smiled and leaned down to kiss him when your phone buzzed in your pocket. "Shit." You grumbled and dug the device out of your pocket.

"Everything okay?" Marcus asked as he held you, thumb absentmindedly stroking your hip.

"Uh...I don't know. They're bringing our audit client in next week...and one of their consultants..." You scanned through the new email quickly. "Yeah... some guy named Patrick Jane?" You read off and frowned when you felt Marcus freeze under you.

"Marcus?"

~~~~

CHAPTER 16: MARCUS, WHAT’S WRONG?

~~~~

A/N: So...a 'Needs Improvement' audit is really not good, just an FYI...As always, comments and feedback are love!! Oh, and please let me know if you want to be tagged on updates!

TAG LIST: @sirowsky  @mrschiltoncat  @alberta-sunrise  @fleurdemiel145 @mrsparknuts  @jedi-mando  @styxfan06sworld  @prideandpascal  @what-iwish-you-knew  @paintballkid711  @artsymaddie  @computeringturtle @northernpunk @sleep-tight1

#fanfic #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #female reader

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Falling Together Part II

Author’s Note: So glad I’ve dove head first into this fandom, you guys are so welcoming and enthusiastic! There will be 2 more parts before this comes to its natural end. Also if you want to be tagged, or I missed you, please let me know.

Part 1

Pairing: Ivar x Reader Word count: 3213

Warnings: None "Are you still feeling sorry for yourself?" Hvitserk prodded, breaking the silence in the warm afternoon. 

Ivar had agreed to go fishing with his brother to clear his head, but between the lack of bites and Hvitserk's questions, there was little peace to be had. He had tossed away his line, and had sprawled out on the dock, falling back into his dark thoughts. Since your argument, you had made your presence scarce. You always managed to be gone before he woke at dawn, and you no longer took meals in the Great Hall. If he managed to catch a glimpse of you in a day it was something worth bragging about. 

Hvitserk let out a huff as he threw his line down. "I'm sure you're not the first man to accuse his wife of being a whore."

Ivar glared at his brother, tempted to push him into the water. "I was only going by what you told me."

"Hey, I told you to fuck her, not to accuse her of laying with any man who gives her trinkets," Hvitserk said between chuckles. "Speaking of which, I saw the boy Einarr the other day. You'd better watch yourself, or you could have a real rival eight years from now."

Hvitserk knew just what to say to make him feel like the foolish boy who crawled around Kattegat again. The boy, who just wanted to keep up with his brothers. He was a King now, but sometimes he still felt like he was chasing after their greatness. Letting out a grunt of frustration, he threw his dagger at Hvitserk's foot, just shy of sticking through the toe of his boot.

Hvitserk leapt back, and shot him an incredulous look. "I hope you don't show that same temper to your wife. She's a delicate Christian flower, not a fishmonger's daughter."

Ivar froze as he felt his back stiffen, and Hvitserk appeared to realize his mistake. "I would never harm her."

"I know that, Ivar," Hvitserk murmured, brushing his hand through his hair. "I...shit. I'm sorry for that."

The sincerity was there, and Ivar believed him, but his mind had traveled far back into a different life. He could still feel the strength of his grip, hear her struggling gasps, and see the love go out of her eyes when he took the breath out from her body. Love was a misery, and it only seemed to bring him grief. His mother and father, Freydis and Baldr, even Sigurd. Perhaps he had done you a kindness by mistake.

He had been the one that had refused all attempts at bonding between you, so it seemed ridiculous that he had chosen this instance to resent the distance. It was your talk of a marriage not needing love that had gotten to him. After Freydis, he was certain he wouldn't fall in love again, but that didn't mean his heart didn't crave it. Marriage should not be a loveless thing, not after he'd seen what it did to his mother. He wasn't in love with you, but he did not want your hatred either.

"What should I do?" Ivar asked aloud, desperate enough that he looked to Hvitserk for the answer. 

"Get her a gift, and apologize."

Ivar frowned. "What kind of gift?"

"Ask her yourself," said Hvitserk, looking over his shoulder. "She's coming this way."

You were indeed coming down the path to the wharf, a guard on either side. Ivar thought you would be wearing a scowl, but you were as poised as Frigg, with no trace of animosity to be found. You indicated for your guards to remain back as you approached the brothers. Hvitserk chose that moment to reach down and pull the stuck knife from the wood. You had caught the act, even growing a smile at it.

"What did you do to warrant a dagger to the foot, Hvitserk?" You teased.

"I'm not the best advisor," He reasoned. "That's probably why it's not my job."

You chuckled freely, all while Ivar kept his gaze away to the water. "Indeed. May I borrow my husband for a moment?"

Ivar gazed up at his brother for help, who shrugged as a reply. "Of course. Guess I'll go find myself some trouble."

"Take them with you. They look far too bored without my company," You said of your guards before taking a seat on the dock beside Ivar. Once Hvitserk was far enough away, you spoke again. "When I was a young girl, I used to run down to the water instead of practicing my needlework. A languid sunrise was all the beauty I needed, and I would watch the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of a ship coming into the havens."

Ivar listened to your leisured words, recalling a time when he would also go down to the shores of Kattegat. Sometimes he imagined it would be his father returning from exile on one of the ships that made port, but as he grew older, it crossed his mind less until he abandoned the wish entirely. His father had good reason to stay away, and Ivar sometimes wondered if it would have been better had he never returned.

"What do you want, wife?" He was tired and the reminiscing about things better left forgotten put him into a sour state.  

"I've come to the conclusion that we cannot remain parted like this forever, and as I told you before, the people talk," You said, smiling at him. Ivar had forgotten what it felt like to have a woman's eyes on him that way, and it commanded his whole attention. "I listened, and decided what would be best is for the people to see their King and Queen together."

"Is that the only reason?" He tested.

"No." You paused to adjust your skirts, and you shifted closer, sitting in a manner that should have been unbecoming of a Queen, but was endearing in its frankness. "I feel there are things that I don't know about you, but I believe your regret to be sincere."

"It was."

You stared at him with something akin to concern. "You were married once before me, weren't you?"

Ivar narrowed his eyes, hating the vast change of the conversation, and how you had sprung him into a trap, like a rabbit to a snare. "Yes."

"I see," You said, and after pausing a moment, you did not say more on the matter.

With your gaze set on the ocean, Ivar was able to take his time regarding you. Hvitserk was right, you were beautiful. You did not resemble the icy nordic women he had been surrounded by, nor were you like any of the English ladies who coward from his men. You were shades of a dark, stormy night, but also the fairness of a pale morning bathed in sunlight. He should be proud to walk alongside you.

When you caught him looking, you mistook what he had been fixated on. You plucked at the bracelet on your wrist as your mouth twisted into a frown.

"If it bothers you, I can get rid of it."

"Your silence bothers me," said Ivar. "You are my wife, I do not want you to be meek."

You burst into giggles, "Is that how you see me?"

"No, I see that you are a warrior who doesn't resort to the sword. This strength you have has earned you the title to be Queen."

"My father's insistence that I marry you made me Queen, but that is kind of you to say," You shifted to face him head on, and Ivar appreciated how you held his stern look. "Why did you agree to marry me? My father's lands are not widespread, you could have easily lorded over us with the warriors you have. It could have saved you the trouble of being tied to a Christian."

"My intentions to raid have not changed, but an alliance in a foreign land is its own valuable treasure. My father had done the same with King Ecbert, but not until he had made an enemy of King Aelle first. I won't make the same mistake," Ivar explained as he watched your loose curls dance in the sea breeze. You did not braid your hair, and it was longer than any woman's in Kattegat. Not to be distracted by your grace, he steeled his gaze, and continued to speak. "As for having you as a wife, I think you know that I find you to be an accomplished Queen, and an acceptable partner."

"Acceptable? Quit with that flattery husband, or I might swoon," You quipped with an eye roll.

"I would enjoy that."

Ivar took pleasure in how you flustered, mouth stuck open and not quite sure how to respond. You were often brash, so he forgot you were still a virgin until your shy side reared. It made his heart speed up to a gallop, a feeling he had almost forgotten. 

You were swift to change the direction of the topic back to neutral ground, but the faint pink still dusted your cheeks. "Would you like to walk with me? The people used to enjoy seeing my parents together when they would stroll the city."

Ivar recalled how his parents would interact with the people of Kattegat, though not often together. He understood your reasoning though, and clenching his jaw, he propelled his stiff body up with the aid of his crutch. You were at his side, hands hovering in the air to give him assistance in a moment's notice if he needed. Ivar waved you back, used to doing everything alone. He couldn't explain it, but it was important to him that you did not see him weak.

As you both started up the path, you placed your hand tentatively through Ivar's arm. The gesture startled him, but he managed to keep his footing. After a while of walking, he decided he liked the warmth of your touch. You remained tight to his side, and the people, yours and his, appeared delighted as you strode through the streets. 

The people of Kattegat had never looked at him with anything other than disdain, pity, and fear. He preferred this new change, bringing him closer to continuing his father's legacy as a worthy King. Ivar didn't share any more words with you, but instead chose to enjoy your quiet presence beside him. He was going to follow Hvitserk's advice about giving you a gift, if only to see you blush again. First though, he needed to decide what you would like.

ooOOoo

After that day by the water, your relationship with your husband changed. All of your games of avoidance stopped, and had been replaced with Ivar's new habit of teasing you. He seemed to like how perturbed you would get, or how red your face would become. You still had not consummated the marriage, but you had begun to share a bed.

The first time you had stayed in your shared chambers had been the last time you had been in your private wing. You had stayed up late, completing your correspondence when Ivar had returned. He had seemed surprised to find you awake, but had struck up a conversation that led you to sitting down beside him on the bed. Sleep had come, and by morning you'd awoken next to your husband for the first time.

When you had stirred, the morning was still young, and there was a quiet in the air that could only be found at the birth of a new day. You were facing towards Ivar and when you opened your eyes you found him toying with your hair. He gave you a coy smile at being caught, but he was not deterred from his actions, and you let him continue until the responsibilities of leading called him away.

Touching was something new that you had both slowly eased into your relationship. Brief grazes of skin, and gentle caressing was becoming something of a routine between you. Ivar's hands were tough and warm, but he was careful with you, as if something held him back. For all of his abrasive shortcomings, he was rather shy and boyish when it came to anything intimate. You were tempted by your viking husband, and your carnal thoughts were at war with your Christian values. You wanted him to push passed that barrier of gentleness and make you a woman. 

There was also the matter of things left unsaid between you. You wanted to ask about his first wife, but each time you came close to speaking up, you would recall the crestfallen look that had twisted his face when you had brought it up to begin with. Hvitserk would know, but that was a line you promised you wouldn't cross. He would tell you one day, so there wasn't much point in dwelling on it.

"(Y/N)," Ivar said, and you jolted up on the bed, not expecting his presence. 

"Hello," You greeted, closing your book as you sat upright. "Have you come to join me?"

"Yes," He replied before hesitating. "I have something for you. Can you close your eyes a moment?"

You shot him a suspicious glance. "What is this, Ivar?"

"Trust me."

He disappeared before you could say anything more. You breathed out a laugh 'Trust me' he says. Ivar did not have a face full of integrity, and you wondered how many people had been deceived by the one called Boneless.

You closed your eyes as he requested, and waited for his return. It was not long until he came back to the door, stopping outside as he called to you.

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes, husband," You answered, growing impatient. 

You listened to each careful step as Ivar approached the bed, and felt the familiar dip as his weight joined you.

"Hold out your hands," He told you, his voice close.

You wrinkled your nose, but did as he asked. What could he want to give you? You couldn't understand the sudden display of generosity, or his reasoning that called for a gift. Husbands gave presents to their wives of course, but you didn't think you and Ivar had that kind of marriage.

Just as you were tempted to peek, something warm and wiry was dropped into your lap. It wriggled with life, and your eyes shot open to find a wolf hound pup circling around in your arms. A pleasant surprise indeed. You ran your fingers through thick, coarse hair the color of iron, and the hound's tail thumped wildly.

You couldn't fight the elation on your face as you turned to look up to Ivar's. He had been watching for your reaction, and you thought you spotted relief in his eyes. 

"What did I do to deserve this?" You asked while your new gift started to squirm in your lap.

"For being patient and forgiving. Our marriage started with us as strangers, but I know now that you are too impressive a Queen to go unappreciated."

The fluttery feeling was back, flooding you with warmth. You no longer fought it back, even welcoming it if you were honest with yourself. When you were alone together, Ivar was different with you. Though you were not in love yet, you had compassion for your husband, and found yourself thinking about him during quiet moments of the day. You didn't think he loved you either, but he had his own way of showing he cared.

"Thank you for bringing him to me," You said softly. With one hand you held the hound to your chest, and with the other you reached for Ivar.

"Forgive me for what I said before. You are too respectable and dutiful to be any of the things I accused you of. I'm not sure why I said them," He said as he accepted your hand.

"I already forgave you for that, Ivar."

Sometimes you could see what was in his heart, and the hurt look on his face reminded you of a lost child. It had to be his first wife. You didn't know how to help him, and it made you want to scream for the truth if it would make him forget. But you also knew if you pushed him on the matter, he would start to pull away again, and you had only just begun to feel like a real wife.

"Ivar," You called for him, bringing him back to you from wherever his thoughts had taken him. His pain was something that you couldn't mend, but maybe you could help him move forward.

You shuffled closer until your leg pressed up against his. He looked uncertain as you placed your free hand upon his face. You were just going to place a kiss on his cheek, but at the last second he turned to catch your lips with his. It was soft and slow, and the perfect first kiss with your husband. Ivar had a tentative grasp of your hip with his arm around your waist, and you leaned into his chest. 

A whimper escaped from the pup whom you had forgotten was still in your hold. He was being squished between you and Ivar, and you pulled back with a sigh.

"Sorry boy," You murmured, giving him a scratch on the ears. 

Your hand was still braced against your husband, and he had not removed his arm from around you. The chambers grew stuffy, and the boldness from the kiss faded into heady unrest.

"You'll need to give him a name," Ivar spoke up after a while. 

He started to remove his braces, and you got up from the bed to grab extra furs for your new hound to sleep on.

"I will," You said as you started to make a place at the end of the bed for the dog to sleep. "We used to have many dogs when I was growing up. My mother used to say naming a pet was as difficult as naming a child, so I'll make sure to take my time to get it right. "

Ivar smirked as he pulled himself under the furs. He was still careful not to reveal his legs, and you wouldn't push the issue. You were still too shy to be naked in his presence as well, especially with how much time had passed since you were supposed to share a bed on your wedding night.

"I like your stories. You grew up with pleasant memories," He said.

Once you got the pup settled, you joined Ivar in bed. "Don't you have fond memories of growing up?"

"With three older brothers, and an absent father? No, my childhood was spent fighting to survive and finding a place to belong. If not for my mother, I would've died young."

You had your head propped up on your arm, and you were facing Ivar as he laid flat on his back. "I wish I could have met her then. Mothers should be merciful towards their children."

Ivar craned his neck to stare at you, a subtle reverence behind his eyes, "(Y/N), can I kiss you again?"

You scurried closer until your noses touched. "Yes," You whispered. 

And he did.

 Tag List

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#vikings #vikings ivar #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #ivar imagine #ivar x you #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar fic #ivar ragnarsson imagine #ivar fluff

[missdrarrydawn]

This blog is why we need post-birth abortion rights for women. Your mother would have made the right choice.

yes wow darling very smart you sound incredibly intelligent for sending this yes yes quite an outstanding achievement you got there, amazingly brave too, yes such courage to go on anon and insult people, wow i applaud your bravery truly

my blog is a HP blog with ocassional diverse content, you're getting mad at a joke post that's probably 4-5 days old by now (i'm not sure about this exactly as i lose track of time easily) that described a real medically documented experience a lot of trans women have been observed to go through as their transition and therapy continues which i said is similar to a period of a cisgender woman because of the very real similarities between the two processes

i very clearly stated twice that they are biologically different but still similar enough to warrant validation

i support trans women and i always have and i always will, they are real women just as much as i am. i also understand, unlike most of you getting mad in the notes of the post, that women are not walking talking uteruses and i do not reduce nor define women by that one thing alone because that would be ridiculous and hurtful, since there is more to being a woman than just having a uterus

i don't really see why everyone is so upset (transphobes gonna transphobe i suppose) that i called a trans woman's cycle period like or a pseudo period, when that is the most accurate term that exists for that process as of right now.

what else would you call hormonal fluctuations of estrogen and progesterone (because guess what? trans women do in fact receive estrogen and progesterone injections as part of feminizing hormone therapy) and other symptoms (abdominal cramping, headaches, acne breakouts, hot flashes, dizziness, mood swings, pain, nausea etc.) happening every 5 weeks and lasting for 6-7 days? that's right, everyone would call that a period, it's just the most accurate way to describe the process.

trans women can not menstruate, they can not bleed because they do not have a uterus (something i very explicitly stated in my post explaining my point but transphobes can't read apparently) but, like I said in my original post, the bleeding is honestly the least important byproduct of a period, or better yet, the entire cycle, because it is just that - a byproduct, a consequence of the uterine lining shedding. it is not the one defining staple of a cycle, a lot of cis women don't menstruate but you don't go around calling them fake so. the bleeding is not the goal of a monthly cycle, it is not the end result your body wants to reach (the end result would ideally be pregnancy), just a consequence of the process, and i argue it is the least important part of it, its nothing more than another symptom, just like the cramps and pain are

do you want to know what your entire argument sounds like? let me demonstrate:

person A comes in with a fever, a sore throat and a runny nose. their doctor tells them they have a cold.

person B comes in with a fever and a sore throat but no runny nose. their doctor tells them they're faking their cold and should stop pretending to have a cold because it is insensitive to people who have real colds since person B hasn't presented every single typical byproduct and symptom having a cold produces unlike person A did

yea? isn't that ridiculous? that's exactly what you sound like

'trans women experience every other symptom of a period i do, on a monthly basis like i do, lasting about a week, like mine do, but they don't experience this one specific symptom that i typically do which is bleeding therefore they're fake'

obviously the cycle of a trans women isn't going to be the same as the cycle of a cis woman, i have not once contested that nor have i equated the two, what i have done however, is defend the fact a lot of trans women do in fact experience their own form of a monthly cycle that actually presents all the symptoms of PMS (if we're going to be super picky about it) and I've stated that there is nothing wrong with a trans woman calling her own cycle a period, even if she does not experience the bleeding.

you all are just incredibly transphobic (i checked out some of the blogs replying and found them to be terfs, ew) and i don't want to cross into your territory any more than i've already ended up doing, and i will not be responding to any of your notes or anon messages anymore because i've moved on from that post and you should too, because it is obvious you will never understand what i'm trying to say and i will never understand the hatred you spew

it is telling though that terfs and transphobes came across my post which was in the 'pro trans' tag, i assume while casually browsing there for people to start fights with? very telling indeed.

i will be a doctor by the end of the year and i do not have time to argue with transphobes online over matters of trans health they know nothing about (my knowledge is far from perfect either because i am not transgender but i have listened to trans people and read about what transitions can be like because i wanted to learn and feel comfortable stating what i have). ive seen y'all constantly talk about indigestion and diarrhea which have absolutely nothing to do with the matter at hand and seen some people bring up endometriosis which also has nothing to do with the matter at hand, no one is talking about disordered periods or other health conditions, we're talking about just the regular period of a healthy person

people have asked me to provide proof i'm attending medical school which i don't think i can provide without giving out my personal information which i am not inclined to do to strangers on the internet and a lot of people didn't believe me but honestly that is not my problem

i know who i am and what i stand for and the thing i said is a true factual experience that many trans women go through as their transition continues and calling that cycle they experience a period hurts no one and only helps trans communities

of course terfs and transphobes don't care about that, which is why i urge everyone to go their separate ways. i do not want your transphobia on my posts and you don't want my activism on yours so if you're itching to comment and get pissy with me or send me anons, kindly don't because i truly couldn't care less about your opinion on matters you know nothing about and don't care to learn about either

coming from one cis woman to another, just scroll past me and any of my posts from now on and i'll do the same for you so that we may never have to interact again in any way shape or form

i'm closing my end of the discourse of the post right here with this and i stand by what i said. i believe you are wrong for invalidating the experiences of trans women and transphobic for wishing ill upon the trans community in general and i do not wish to ever associate with any of you ever again

i have said my peace

goodbye

(if any trans woman or trans person in general wishes to correct anything wrong i stated here please feel free to do so, because i am cisgender and you will of course know more about your transition and experiences than me no matter how much reading i do :)) remember you are valid and loved and pls stay safe <33)

#pro trans #positive trans #again i reiterate #PRO TRANS #THIS IS A PRO TRANS BLOG #A SAFE SPACE FOR TRANS PEOPLE #trans health #trans women are real and valid #i am not having this argument anymore #i don't like fighting and i don't care what transphobic women have to say #trans support #this cisgender women stands with the trans communities

[veenaspakistanlitblog]

Ten Interesting Pakistani Novels

Under the Persimmon Tree by Suzanne Staples (Summary by Amazon)

Najmah, a young Afghan girl whose name means "star," suddenly finds herself alone when her father and older brother are conscripted by the Taliban and her mother and newborn brother are killed in an air raid. An American woman, Elaine, whose Islamic name is Nusrat, is also on her own. She waits out the war in Peshawar, Pakistan, teaching refugee children under the persimmon tree in her garden while her Afghan doctor husband runs a clinic in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan. Najmah's father had always assured her that the stars would take care of her, just as Nusrat's husband had promised that they would tell Nusrat where he was and that he was safe. As the two look to the skies for answers, their fates entwine. Najmah, seeking refuge and hoping to find her father and brother, begins the perilous journey through the mountains to cross the border into Pakistan. And Nusrat's persimmon-tree school awaits Najmah's arrival. Together, they both seek their way home.

2.) The Diary of a Social Butterfly by Moni Mohsin (Summary by Amazon)

This is the hugely entertaining journal of a socialite in Lahore. Pakistan may be making headlines - but Butterfly is set to conquer the world. 'Everyone knows me. All of Lahore, all of Karachi, all of Isloo - oho, baba, Islamabad - half of Dubai, half of London and all of Khan Market and all the nice, nice bearers in Imperial Hotel also...No ball, no party, no dinner, no coffee morning, no funeral, no GT - Get-Together, baba - is complete without me.' Meet Butterfly, Pakistan's most lovable, silly, socialite. An avid party-goer-inspired misspeller, and unwittingly acute observer of Pakistani high society, Butterfly is a woman like no other. In her world, SMS becomes S & M and people eat 'three tiara cakes' while shunning 'do number ka manual. 'What cheeks!' as she would say. As her country faces tribulations - from 9/11 to the assassination of Benazir Bhutto - Butterfly glides through her world, unfazed, untouched, and stopped short only by the chip in her manicure. Wicked, irreverent, and hugely entertaining, "The Diary of a Social Butterfly" gives you a delicious glimpse into the parallel universe of the have-musts.

3.) Maps for Lost Lovers by Nadeem Aslam (Summary by Amazon)

If Gabriel García Márquez had chosen to write about Pakistani immigrants in England, he might have produced a novel as beautiful and devastating as Maps for Lost Lovers. Jugnu and Chanda have disappeared. Like thousands of people all over England, they were lovers and living together out of wedlock. To Chanda’s family, however, the disgrace was unforgivable.  Perhaps enough so as to warrant murder. As he explores the disappearance and its aftermath through the eyes of Jugnu’s worldly older brother, Shamas, and his devout wife, Kaukab, Nadeem Aslam creates a closely observed and affecting portrait of people whose traditions threaten to bury them alive. The result is a tour de force, intimate, affecting, tragic and suspenseful.

4.) A Season for Martyrs by Bina Shah (Summary by Amazon)

October 2007. Pakistan’s former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto returns home after eight years of exile to seek political office once more. Assigned to cover her controversial arrival is TV journalist Ali Sikandar, the estranged son of a wealthy landowner from the interior region of Sindh. While her presence ignites fierce protests and assassination attempts, Ali finds himself irrevocably drawn to the pro-democracy People’s Resistance Movement, a secret that sweeps him into the many contradictions of a country still struggling to embrace modernity. As Shah weaves together the centuries-old history of Ali’s feudal family and its connection to the Bhuttos, she brilliantly reveals a story at the crossroads of the personal and the political, a chronicle of one man’s desire to overcome extremity to find love, forgiveness, and even identity itself.

5.) Karachi, You’re Killing Me! by Saba Imtiaz (Summary by Amazon)

Ayesha is a twenty-something reporter in one of the world’s most dangerous cities. Her assignments range from showing up at bomb sites and picking her way through scattered body parts to interviewing her boss’s niece, the couture-cupcake designer. In between dicing with death and absurdity, Ayesha despairs over the likelihood of ever meeting a nice guy, someone like her old friend Saad, whose shoulder she cries on after every romantic misadventure. Her choices seem limited to narcissistic, adrenaline-chasing reporters who’ll do anything to get their next story—to the spoilt offspring of the Karachi elite who’ll do anything to cure their boredom. Her most pressing problem, however, is how to straighten her hair during chronic power outages. Karachi, You’re Killing Me! is Bridget Jones’s Diary meets The Diary of a Social Butterfly—a comedy of manners in a city with none.

6.) How It Happened by Shazaf Fatima Haider (Summary by Amazon)

Dadi, the imperious matriarch of the Bandian family in Karachi, swears by the virtues of arranged marriage. All her ancestors including a dentally and optically challenged aunt have been perfectly well-served by such arrangements. But her grandchildren are harder to please. Haroon, the apple of her eye, has to suffer half a dozen candidates until he finds the perfect Shia-Syed girl of his dreams. But it is Zeba, his sister, who has the tougher time, as she is accosted by a bevy of suitors, including a potbellied cousin and a banker who reeks of sesame oil. Told by the witty, hawk-eyed Saleha, the precocious youngest sibling, this is a romantic, amusing and utterly delightful story about how marriages are made and unmade---not in heaven, but in the drawing room and over the phone.

7.) A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Shazaf Fatima Haider (Summary by Amazon)

Intrigue and subterfuge combine with bad luck and good in this darkly comic debut about love, betrayal, tyranny, family, and a conspiracy trying its damnedest to happen. Ali Shigri, Pakistan Air Force pilot and Silent Drill Commander of the Fury Squadron, is on a mission to avenge his father's suspicious death, which the government calls a suicide.Ali's target is none other than General Zia ul-Haq, dictator of Pakistani. Enlisting a rag-tag group of conspirators, including his cologne-bathed roommate, a hash-smoking American lieutenant, and a mango-besotted crow, Ali sets his elaborate plan in motion. There's only one problem: the line of would-be Zia assassins is longer than he could have possibly known.

8.) Home Fire: A Novel by Kamila Shamise (Summary by Amazon)

Isma is free. After years of watching out for her younger siblings in the wake of their mother’s death, she’s accepted an invitation from a mentor in America that allows her to resume a dream long deferred. But she can’t stop worrying about Aneeka, her beautiful, headstrong sister back in London, or their brother, Parvaiz, who’s disappeared in pursuit of his own dream, to prove himself to the dark legacy of the jihadist father he never knew. When he resurfaces half a globe away, Isma’s worst fears are confirmed. Then Eamonn enters the sisters’ lives. Son of a powerful political figure, he has his own birthright to live up to—or defy. Is he to be a chance at love? The means of Parvaiz’s salvation? Suddenly, two families’ fates are inextricably, devastatingly entwined, in this searing novel that asks: What sacrifices will we make in the name of love?

9.) She Loves Me, He Loves Me Not by Zeenat Mahal (Summary by Amazon)

Zoella didn’t know whether she was devastatingly happy or happily devastated. Zoella has been in love with Fardeen Malik, her best friend’s gorgeous older brother, since she was ten, but he’s always seen her as a ‘good girl’—not his type—and he can barely remember her name. Besides, he’s engaged to a gorgeous leggy socialite, someone from the same rarefied social strata as the imposing Malik family. In short, Zoella has no chance with him. Until a brutal accident leaves Fardeen scarred and disfigured, that is. Suddenly bereft of a fiancée, Fardeen is bitterly caustic, a shell of the man he used to be, a beast that has broken out of the fairy tale world he once lived in. And a twist of fate lands him his very own beauty—Zoella. This man, however, is a far cry from the Fardeen of her dreams. Stripped of her illusions, Zoella creates her own twist in the fairy tale, beating him at his own game. Order now and read this modern, unusual interpretation of the old-age fairy tale, in which Zeenat explores the themes of love, longing, and arranged marriages.

10.) Undying Affinity by Sara Naveed (Summary by Amazon)

Twenty-two-year-old, Zarish Munawwar, has everything in life she could ever ask for; an elite family, a high profile status, a bunch of good friends and a childhood sweetheart. Being childish, stubborn, imperious, extravagant and a bit impulsive at making important decisions pertaining to her life, is what perfectly describes her overall personality. She takes life easily and can get anything she desires. To her, life is a bed of roses. It is only when she meets, Ahmar Muraad, her mentor and finance professor at university, her perspective towards life completely changes. He looks quite young for his age as every girl at the university thinks he is attractive, seductive, intellectual and rather intimidating. This charming man is every girl's fantasy and Zarish also finds it hard to resist him. But is he fascinated by her? Little did Zarish know how one little interaction could bring about so many twists and turns in her life. After continuous unsuccessful attempts to avoid him, she feels that she is gradually falling for his charm. Ahmar, however, remains oblivious to her feelings. She is ready to abandon her childhood sweetheart for him. Eventually, there comes a time when only he matters to her and nobody else. Awestruck by the sudden revelation, she is dazed to find out that he feels exactly the same for her. Before their love blossoms, a slight tragedy falls into their lives. Zia Munawwar, her father, has some other plans for his daughter. Will Ahmar fight against the world for his lady love or step back? Do not miss this romantic tragedy as it will encapsulate you totally and will stay in your heart forever