#how the hell do they think this is sustainable we just don’t get to stop ever

[ezraphobicsoup]

exams really just go on forever and ever and ever and ever

#sorry about this one but it’s just hit me that i’m literally not getting a break cause of the german listening #3 days between them i guess and then that’s it we’re back with 6-7 hour school days #how the hell do they think this is sustainable we just don’t get to stop ever #what’s the line like. it keeps happening it fucking keeps happening and i just want to lie down without needing to be doing something else #hghhhgvhnbgghhbghnbghvvbvav #the biggest break it’s possible to get is one school week. 5 days without exams or revision sessions jesus christ what are they doing #and i know i know it’s not their fault and that ultimately it’s an inherent flaw within the way exams work #and that actually they probably don’t want this either. but could they at least say that to us at some point #if they just went hey this sucks but this is what you’ve gotta do and offered a shred of sympathy rather than just shitty #seemingly non genuine positivity i would feel so much better #ok. ok i’m more normal having said all those words probably still gonna post this but then like delete it later or something #i’ll be fine i’m just so tired and will apparently be so tired for the foreseeable fr #but then there’s the future beyond what’s foreseeable and it’ll all get better then. it’ll be fine #ezra’s real life rambles

[jpitha]

Do What it Takes

Everyone goes on and on about the humans, how strong they are, how dangerous their world is, their risk management (or lack thereof) and even their ability to process the rather worrying things they call “food.”

One thing I haven’t seen though is people discussing their… aspect that I find fascinating. They even have a word for it - grit. It’s this ability to take on unimaginable stress, and maintain that strength of resolve. That realization that the only thing they can do is endure. They even have a saying. “When you find yourself going through Hell, keep going.” Hell here is a substution for any kind of hard times they’re currently experiencing. It’s an idiom, don’t worry about the specific meaning of the word. The saying implies that if you’re “going through hell” then you need to keep going, because otherwise you won’t ever get out of the hard situation you find yourself in.

When it was first explained to me, a lot of what I saw about the humans snapped to place, like magnets on a table.

Once, back during the war I saw a single human shoulder a crew operated slug thrower and - by themselves - hold off an entire Zenni boarding party long enough for the rest of the ship to mount a defense. Not only did they shoulder and fire the weapon themselves, but they survived!

Others weren’t so lucky. I’ve heard tales of humans walking into active reactors to stop an overload, blinding themselves from ultraviolet radiation to repair a hull, and sustain withering gee forces to crush attackers. When asked why they’d do that, most of them replied that they just “did what they needed to” or that “they do what it takes.”

I’m not here to say that we can’t do that either. Having grit or strength of character isn’t solely a human development. But maybe as a result of the world they evolved on they tend to have grit in greater supply than other sapient species. They “do what it takes” because they’ve always had to do what it takes to survive.

A human friend has recently offered to take me to Earth, their homeworld to “see the sights.” His only warning about his own planet was that we should probably avoid some months. I asked why.

He waved his hand dismissively as if it was just a minor trifle, an inconvenience. “Oh, it’s hurricane season in the fall. I don’t know if you want to experience one of them.”

“What’s a hurricane?” I asked, cautiously.

“It’s a large storm that spins up over the ocean as the planets way to help remove some heat from the water. They can get pretty wild sometimes.”

When a human tells you that something can get “pretty wild” one’s fur tends to poof out.

I said I’d think about it, and went back to my cabin to research these Hurricanes. About an hour later I was shaking in my seat, glued to my pad watching video after video of houses just… disappearing in the wind and water.

The next day, I confronted him about the hurricanes. Once again, he was dismissive. “You get plenty of warning, and time to evacuate, they’re not that big of a deal.”

I bristled, and my ears twitched. “Not that big of a deal? But your homes get destroyed!”

He nodded. “True, that does happen. But, it’s not a surprise and we come prepared. You do what it takes if you want to live there.”

I think I’ll take him up on his offer.

#writing #humans are space orcs #humans are deathworlders #sci fi writing #humans are space capybaras #humans and aliens #jpitha #humans are space australians

[dragonmuse]

How to be a Dirtbag Fic Writer

I got to do some talking about writing today and I couldn’t stop thinking about it so here are my full thoughts on the matter of being a dirtbag fic writer.

Being the disorganized thoughts of someone two and a half decades into the beautiful mess that is writing fanfic (and a few non-fanfic things too).

What is a dirtbag fic writer? 

 I am talking about someone who is not cleaning up anything. We show up filthy, fresh out of rooting around in the garden of our imaginations. We probably smell a little from work. We will hand you our hard grown fruits, but we have not washed them and we carried them in the bottom upturned parts of our t-shirts. The fruit is a little bruised. It’s not cut up or put in a bowl yet. But we got it in the house! It’s here. Someone can eat it.  

Why dirtbag it? Because the fruit gets in the house. If you’re hemming and hawing, if the idea you want to do seems to be big or you want it perfect and shiny. If you’re imagining a ten thousand step process, so you’re not taking the first step? Dirtbag it. 

How do I dirtbag? 

That’s the best part. You just write. Sit down. One word after the other. No outline, no plan, no destination. No thought of editing. Just word vomit. Every word is a good word. It’a word that wasn’t there before. Grammar sucks? Who cares. Can’t think of the perfect word? Fuck it, put in the simplest version of what you mean. 

Write the idea that you love. The one thing you want to say. Has it been done 3000000 times? WHO CARES human history is long, every idea has been done, probably more than twice. YOU have never written it before. It’s your grubby potato that you clawed out of the ground and guess what someone can still make it into delicious french fries. 

Now here’s the critical part. Write as much as you can squeeze out of your brain. One word in front of the other. 

And then I challenge you this: at most, read it over once and then put it into the world. Just as it is. AND THIS IS IMPORTANT: DO IT WITHOUT APOLOGY OR CAVEAT.  I challenge you, beautiful dirtbag to not pre-emptively apologize. Do not make your work lesser. THAT IS YOUR POTATO! It has eyes and roots and dirt clinging to it because that is what happens.  We are dirtbagging it today. Hell really confused people at do #dirtbagwriter on it.  

Dirtbag writes id, base, lizard brain. Dig in the fertile garden of your imagination. What is the story you tell yourself before you fall asleep? What’s your anxiety this week? Your fantasy? What is going well? What do you wish things looked like? Who is the feral imaginary character you’ve been crafting to take your frustrations and joys out on? 

But, VEE, I wish to have an editor and an outline, use a cool software like scrivener instead of retching up onto a google doc and making it look NICE and PRETTY!

COOL! DO THAT THEN! IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT! You should have a process! That’s cool and healthy and necessary for sustainable writing. But if you’re not writing because all of that seems too much? THEN DON’T. 

Did you know fic is free? That we do this from love? From sheer desire? For the love of the game? If you have a process, and the words are flowing, amazing, I love that for you, you don’t need this essay.  If you don’t, let us continue. 

What does dirtbag writing look like? 

It’s messy. It’s a little raw and tatty around the edges sometimes. It’s weird.  It’s someone else’s first draft. Maybe it winds up being your first draft, Idek, that’s your business. 

It’s jokes that make YOU laugh. It’s drama that would make YOU cry if you read it. You are your first commenter. You are your first audience (and possibly continuing pleasure! If you don’t go back and reread your own work sometimes, you might be missing out on one of your favorite authors cause you wrote it for you! Wait until you’re not so close to it. Years sometimes. Then hey, maybe some of this is pretty dang good actually.) 

It has mistakes. 

Dirtbags make mistakes, but dirtbags have published pieces. They have things other people can read out there. 

What if I don’t get good feedback? 

Look, the most likely outcome of any new, untried fic writer (and even established writers trying something new-ish)  is that you get no feedback. That’s real. Silence. It’s eerie, it’s terrible, it sucks. I don’t want to pretend it doesn’t. But nothing is not negative. It’s a big fic-y ocean out there and we are all wee itty-bitty-sometimes-with-titty fishes.  

You should still do it all over again. And again. And again. You get better at writing by writing. You just do. Nothing else replaces it. If your well is dry? Fill it with new things. Go do something new, read a new kind of book, watch a new film,  (libraries have so much good shit, you don’t even have to spend money for so many things if you have a library card), just go for a walk in a new direction. Stimulate yourself. Got a cup of something hot and eavesdrop on conversations. Refill yourself with newness. 

And hey, speaking of, do you leave comments? Because you get what you give. You can build relationships with people by commenting and that builds community and community means places to get feedback in the end. Comments are gold. They are all we are paid in. Tip your writers with ‘extra kudos’ or ‘this made me laugh’. And hey, when you go back for a re-read so you can tell them your favorite part? Ask yourself how they made that favorite part? What do you like about it?  Tone? Metaphor? The structure? Reading teaches us how to write too! 

BUT, okay. Sometimes. Sometimes there is actual bad feedback and people suck. 

You know the best part about being a dirtbag? Unrepentant block, delete, goodbye. You don’t own anyone with a shitty opinion any of your precious time on this earth. You did it for free, you gave them your dirty, but still delicious fruit and they went ‘ew, this is a dirty strawberry, how could you not make a clean tomato?”  Because you didn’t plant fucking tomatoes, did you? Don’t fight, don’t engage. Block. Delete. Goodbye. 

If someone in person, looked you in the eye when you brought them a plate of food to share at a party and they said “Why didn’t you bring me MY favorite? This isn’t cooked well at all.” You would probably write up a Reddit AiTA question about it just to hear five thousand people say they were an asshole.   Fic is no different 

And hey, when you dirtbag it? You know you did. It’s not your most cleaned up perfect version. So who cares what they think? You might make it more shiny and polished next time! You might NOT. 

Ok, but what if I don’t finish it? 

Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if it’s bad? 

Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if it doesn’t make sense? 

That’s ART, baby. Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if what I want to write doesn’t work with current fandom norms? 

Then someone out there probably needs it!  And what the hell is this? The western canon? FUCK IT POST IT ANYWAY* 

*Basic human decency is not a ‘fandom norm’. Don’t be racist, sexist, ableist, fat shaming, classist or shitty about anyone's identity on main, okay? Dirtbag writers are KIND first and foremost. Someone saying you are stepping into shit about their identity is not the same as unsolicited crappy feedback about pairings. In the immortal words of Kurt Vonnegut: "God damn it, you've got to be kind.”

You’re being very flippant about something that’s scary. 

I know. I know I am. I know it can be scary. But no risk, no reward and hell, you aren’t using your goddamn legal name on the internet are you? (please for the love of fuck do not be using your legal name to write fic) You’ve got on a mask. You’re a superhero. With dirt on your cape. 

That niche thing that you think no one cares about? Guaranteed you will find someone else in the world who wants it. Maybe they won’t find it right away. Maybe they will be too shy to comment or even hit a button. But your dirty potato will stick with them. They will make french fries in their head.

You have an audience. But they can’t find you if you have nothing out there. 

Go forth. Make. 

You have some errors in this essay. 

PROBABLY CAUSE I DIRTBAGGED IT.  But I picked this strawberry for you out of my brain, so I hope you run it under some cold water and find the good bits and have a nice snack. Or throw it away. Or use it to plant more strawberries (I know that’s not how strawberries work, metaphors break when stretched).  

#dirtbagwriter 

Go forth and MAKE

#writing #i'm not an expert #I just have been doing this a long time #and these are my feels #please feel free to throw away this strawberry

[sky-kiss]

Hi there, it's me, your girl, knocking on your door and asking for a tiny fic if you take to this prompt 😊

Strip poker. Lmao no. But maybe. It'd just be Tav getting naked as they lose horribly to him.

Okay actual prompt, sorry. I love possessive Raphael, it shivers me timbers.

What if after he successfully gets the Crown with Tav's help. And Tav thinks they're done forever, and is sad about it during their hurrah meal (THAT HE PROMISED US BUT WE DIDNT GET IN GAME?), but Raphael is very much not done with Tav yet. But plays them along a little, delighting in how attached they seem to be to him.

But also, feel free to do the strip poker adjacent if that appeals more. 😉 Thank you my dear!

________

A/N: I’m going to be super honest, babe. I almost did the strip poker prompt. 

________

“This, my dear, to a most successful partnership.” Raphael held up his glass, a beautiful crystal flute that seemed to catch the firelight; held it. Tav didn’t want to guess how rare it was, or how much it cost. Raphael seemed inclined to excess; the meal he’d promised so many moons prior reflected those beliefs. The first wine he’d served was centuries old; the second was even older. The gown he’d left provided, perfectly tailored, was set with enough jewels to sustain a small kingdom. 

Tav smiled at his toast but could not find it in herself to respond. As fine as the night had been, it held a note of finality that sat heavy on her heart. It was the bow on his victory and his crown. After this, they’d go their separate ways. 

It was objectively the correct course of action. Dealing with a devil of any sort was ill-advised; dealing with one so intimately bordered on suicide. 

Raphael smirked at her, cocking his head to the side. The firelight caught him in profile, sharpening already fine features, casting his eyes in deeper shadows. He leaned forward. “My, has the cat finally caught your tongue? Here? At the end of all things?” 

“Not in the least. Only tired.” 

“I could send you back…” 

“No!” The answer was far too quick. The devil arched a brow, smiling with teeth. He folded his hands in front of him, long fingers interlaced. Tav tried not to fixate on them, or the way his thumb shifted, stroking some invisible line across his wrist. “No, that isn’t necessary. It’s only…I supposed a part of me didn’t expect things to end so soon.”

“But it’s been months, my sweet. Are you not tired of the road? The violence?” Lower, a note of teasing crept into his voice. “My company?” Tav huffed. The adventurer sipped her wine to stop her immediate reply. The one the devil undoubtedly wanted. His eyes, bright as hellfire, glowed. “It should grieve me to leave you wanting, little mouse. You need only say that word and…” he snapped his fingers. The candles leaped with new liveliness before fading to a more intimate level. “We might find some new way to occupy our time.” 

“You have hells to conquer.” 

“And what is a conquest without dear friends?” He chuckled, and Tav fought the urge to shiver. The fireplace was far too large for the banquet hall. Avernus was naturally hot. The air in her lungs felt stagnant and overheated. “Admit it. You're curious. What will Raphael accomplish?” 

“I don’t doubt you if that’s what you’re implying.” 

“Never. I would not dream of slandering my talents or your good sense, pet.” He extended his hand, palm up. “But I would never force my suit. You are, as ever, entirely free to make your own choices.”

Tav pursed her lips. The little alarm in the back of her head was screaming. Run, it said, get far from here and far from him. She’d never been good at listening to those notes of reason. Raphael must have seen it too. The devil smirked, the right corner of his lips curling back to highlight the point of his fangs. “I wouldn’t…see us part ways. Not yet.” 

“Mmm. And why not? Indulge this…inquiring mind.” 

 She sighed, shrugging. “Because I’m…fond of you, devil.” 

“Good girl, honesty is always the best policy.” Gods, but he looked insufferably pleased with himself. Raphael leaned back, resting his chin in his palm. He drummed his fingers against his cheek. “It would be dangerous for you to stay, of course, and I could never endanger one so dear to me. Unless…” he let the sentence hang between them, full of potential and thoroughly premeditated. Tav could feel the noose tightening, the hooks he’d set in her flesh from their first meeting tugging at her soul. “A patron makes all the difference in the hells. Were you to swear yourself to me, you might remain.” 

She laughed. “Is that all? Just put myself in your hands?” 

“My hands, my lap, my bed.” His smirk took on a particularly feline quality. “Don’t look so surprised, pet. I kept the Emperor out of that lovely head. Did you think I hadn’t seen what was in it?” 

He made a vague gesture with his left hand, and those lurid imaginings came forward. The dreams that had chased Tav into an uneasy sleep for months: his touch smoothing over her hips. His mouth on her breasts. Touching, and teasing, and…

“Enough.” She swallowed, head spinning. “You’ve made your point.”

“Swear you are mine, devote yourself to me, and I will give all your imaginings form. What is one mortal life compared to pleasure eternal?” He held out his hand again. 

And Tav took it. 

#bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #my fic #asks #tav is drinking idiot juice bless their heart

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Congrats on 1k! I'd love a little missing scene fic between 2x04 and 2x05 where Stede gives some much-needed TLC to Ed and all of his mutiny-sustained injuries during his first night back on the Revenge 🥺

YES this is my NICHE!! Get absolutely cared for and cherished Ed!

Send me a prompt and I'll write a 1k word fic!

--

Ed had a thousand half-baked plans swirling through his mind as they rowed back to the Revenge.

He didn’t think Stede understood just how badly the crew would surely want him to stay gone. Ed’s current top idea for their best strategy was to pretend that he had become stricken with malaria. He’d also once met a guy who claimed to have been able to cry blood on command, and he was hoping that maybe he could do that, if it came down to it.

Fuck, but he was tired.

He’d had a hell of a day, was the thing, and he’d kind of been relying on staying moving or otherwise letting himself just drift along, and now that he had to sit still, and it was getting dark and quiet, everything was starting to rush in.

His head was pounding, and it hurt so badly he could feel it in his teeth. His split lip stung. His arm had kept getting sorer, until now he really didn’t want to move it. If he had been lucky enough to avoid a couple broken ribs, they were sure as shit bruised.

Point was: he felt like warmed over shit, and he was beginning to suspect from Stede’s increasingly worried glances that he might’ve noticed.

Fortunately, all his planning turned out to be useless.

As they pulled alongside the ship, Olu’s face popped up over the side. “Fucking finally,” he said. “What’s taken you so long?”

“Well, we stopped by an antique shop for dinner, which burned down,” Stede filled him in, reaching out to steady the ladder Olu threw over the side, “and then Buttons turned into a bird.”

“Ed with you?”

Stede pursed his lips, looking at Ed over his shoulder. “Yes, he actually-”

“Jim says they want you to lock the cabin door tonight,” Olu said. “As a precaution.”

Olu’s head disappeared, and Ed just stared up open-mouthed. “Huh. Thought that’d be harder.”

“Well, I had a feeling.” Stede held the ladder steady, motioning for Ed to go first. “C’mon.”

Ed would never know how Stede managed to get him up the ladder, because the second he put his foot on it, the world went spinning away, and suddenly the sky was on the ground, and that certainly wasn’t good.

The next thing he knew, he was laying on the deck, and Stede was saying “give him some space, please,” in that bitchy tone Ed loved so much.

“‘M fine,” Ed mumbled.

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England,” Jim muttered under their breath.

Ed let his eyes slip closed again, listening vaguely as Roach promised to bring a few first-aid supplies to the captain’s cabin.

“D’you want me to take care of him?” Roach asked.

Before Ed could even lift his head to say no, Stede was saying, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

Ed risked a peek around as Stede helped him up, supporting him with an arm around his waist as he led him towards the cabin. Fang gave him a genuine smile, but Frenchie wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Jim still glared at him.

“It’s okay,” Stede whispered into his ear. “You don’t have to worry about anything right now.”

Ed’s headache must have been worse than he thought, because he kind of drifted, half-conscious, as Stede got him seated on the couch. He heard Roach’s voice again, saw Stede sit something on the cushion next to him.

“I can take care of it myself,” Ed muttered half-heartedly.

“You don’t have to, though,” Stede said softly.

Ed sort of nodded, and the next thing he knew, Stede was sitting next to him, warm and real and there, and there was a soft cloth dabbing at the cuts on Ed’s cheeks.

Stede helped Ed shimmy out of his jacket and his shirt, whispering apologies when Ed cried out as that jostled him, and set to work soothing bruises and patching up cuts. The wound on his arm hurt like a bitch, but it thankfully wasn’t too deep for Stede to feel like he couldn’t stitch it up himself.

He should’ve felt more cautious, he knew, shouldn’t have been leaning into Stede’s side, halfway to nodding off, letting Stede see all the vulnerable bits of him so soon.

But Ed was tired, and everything hurt.

“Shh,” Stede kept soothing, so gentle and so earnest that Ed exaggerated a bit, whining like he’d never had worse pain before just so Stede would keep comforting him. “Only a bit longer, you’re doing so well.”

Roach had left something for the pain, a syrup that went down sweet as honey, and Ed was glad that Stede had taken over, because he might’ve kissed anyone who gave that to him out of sheer relief.

As it was, Ed was so tired he wound up just kind of mouthing at the side of Stede’s face.

Stede laughed, pulling Ed into his side, wrapping his arms around him, and the whole world went soft and steady. “Tomorrow,” Stede promised. “You can rest, now.”

Ed let his head rest on Stede’s shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, humming in delight at the feeling of Stede’s hand softly circling his waist to hold him steady.

He wasn’t looking forward to how he’d feel in the morning. He knew he’d be on unsteady footing, unsure what to say or how to say it, and Stede would probably come up with a whole speech for him to memorize for the crew, and that would go over like a lead balloon, he imagined. He wouldn’t know how to respond when the crew were upset or angry with him - as would be their right, of course. And he wouldn’t know how fast Stede would want things to move, or if he’d be angry with Ed, still, too, or…

Ed sighed, tucking his nose further into Stede’s neck, breathing in, just allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of Stede around him.

That was tomorrow. For now, he was safe.

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd fic #my fics

[mamawasatesttube]

happy wip wednesday thursday!!!

tagged by @deadchannelradio ty monty ily :D i'll tag... who do i know that writes. @misspickman @loisinherlane umm... im definitely forgetting some friends sorry for not having a brain but est quod est and all that. if you wanna pretend i tagged you feel free tho wahoo!

“What’s the prognosis, doc?”

Kon rests his arms atop the back of the pilot’s chair, leaning forward to peer at the yoke in Tim’s hands. The ship is flying steady for now, but the several red, flashing alerts on the screens make it pretty clear that’s not gonna hold forever, not with the damage they sustained getting the hell outta Dodge.

Kon rests his chin atop Tim’s head. “Think we’re gonna make it?”

Tim grunts. “Mn. We’re steady for now, but we don’t have more than maybe… two hours, before that last fuel pump gives out in engine three.”

Well, damn. Those Denebian space pirates just had to hit the engines, huh?

He can feel the struggling fuel pump, shuddering on the fringes of his TTK aura. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot he can do for it, even with his telekinesis; sure, he could pump the fuel through to the converter himself, but without the rotating component from the back of the pumps that completes the circuits, power won’t go through the engine, and the thrusters won’t actually ignite. So he can’t just try to pump the fuel himself to give the overworked last pump a break, and the other two that are supposed to help it are already toast.

“Well, worse comes to worst, I can always get out and push,” Kon offers, only half-joking.

Tim quirks a tiny half-smile at the front window. “I don’t think it’ll come to that, but good to know it’s an option.”

Cassie, leaning in the doorway, sighs and rakes a hand through her hair. “So then, what’s the plan? Did you find somewhere we can stop and hopefully get some spare parts to do repairs?”

“Yeah.” Tim points at the navigation screen to his left. Kon peers at it, then out at the stars. “Planet in the Goldilocks zone in orbit around Albireo.”

“Oh, Erysimon.” Kon nods in recognition. “Yeah, cool.”

“You’ve been?” Tim quirks an eyebrow.

Kon shakes his head. “Nah, not me. Heard a lil about it from Kal. He fought off Brainiac out in the Albireo system a few years back—apparently there was some time travel bullshit, you know how it is—and the Erysimians were real grateful to him for it. He said they’re a nice bunch.”

Cassie snorts. “I mean, not to doubt you, but I think he’d say that about most people. Even ones I’d wanna punt.”

Bart suddenly appears at Kon’s side, shoving past him to plop onto the armrest of Tim’s chair. Tim makes a mildly disgruntled noise but makes no true effort to dislodge him, and Bart rests his elbow on Tim’s shoulder, peering at the navi-com. “Who are we punting?”

“Nobody, Bart.” Kon lightly flicks the back of his head. “We’re talking about landing on Erysimon so we can get some scrap and fix up the third engine.”

“Oh.” Bart hums. “Yeah, we should do that. No point in me having a space-chauffeur if my spaceship is broken and won’t fly.”

“Space-chauffeur?” Tim repeats dryly.

“That’s what I said,” Bart agrees.

“You don’t even pay me.” Tim taps something on the navigation screen, then sits back in the chair, folding his arms over his chest. “How am I in your employ?”

“Classic Tim, being a space capitalist. I should’ve expected this, but it’s still disappointing.” Bart shakes his head. “Obviously I pay you in love, friendship, and taking extra fries off your hands so you don’t have to worry about them. Duh.”

 Kon can feel Tim’s shoulders shaking ever-so-slightly with repressed laughter. “Oh, right. my bad. Obviously.”

#rimi writes #its core four space adventures time babey!!!!! #core four #itll be a While til i publish any of this one but. there they go

[deripmaver]

Griffith, Sex, and Power

Feat. a brief special guest: Laurent of Vere from Captive Prince (spoilers, and of course canon typical content warnings for both Berserk and Capri)!

Ok time for a complete 180 from all my Berserk meta posts so far hahahah. Probably this is one that’s been made before, but I wanted to take a crack at it possibly from a different angle than before. This’ll be just sort of a ramble, no panels ‘cause those panels make me sad and I don’t want to go looking for them.

In CS Pacat’s Captive Prince, Laurent of Vere was directly inspired by Griffith from Berserk. Part of what allows the audience to forgive him for the sexual violence he causes Damen is when we learn that said abuse is just being replicated from his own experiences. Laurent has learned by being abused as a teenager that sex and power are intrinsically linked (as he says to Damen, his perception of sex is that it occurs “as a man takes a boy”), and so when the man who killed his brother (and lead to his abuse in the first place by leaving him with his uncle) is put in front of him, the ways he dominates and reasserts power over him come from his own sexual trauma.

It’s not hard to see how this characterization draws from Griffith. As a young teenager, he is given the “choice” (which isn’t really a choice at all) to make money to sustain his dream by winning battles, and thereby sending his followers to their deaths, or by prostituting himself to Gennon. As far as we know with what’s given to us in canon, up until he sleeps with Princess Charlotte this is his only sexual experience - purely transactional, a show of power from those who have it forced upon those who do not have it. 

When Griffith has sex, in Princess Charlotte’s case, or... commits sexual assault, in Casca’s case (twice), it’s not a coincidence it happens at moments where he feels at his lowest and most powerless. It’s ALSO not a surprise that he replicates the dynamics he’s familiar with during these sexual encounters. With Charlotte, he goes to see her to regain a sense of control and authority after Guts leaves, and during that encounter she expresses uncertainty at the beginning, outright saying no before eventually just kind of submitting to it. This encounter I think falls into somewhat of a gray area of fictional consent, because we see ultimately Charlotte happy with it, and thinking only fondly of it in later chapters, but it’s undeniable it’s coercive and considering how the whole thing is framed vs the sex between Guts and Casca is framed, I think the discomfort is intentional. 

Then, of course, with Casca, these encounters are outright sexual assault and rape. Again, it’s not a coincidence that these happen when Griffith is feeling completely shattered, completely without power, at rock fucking bottom. It’s heavily implied that some of Griffith’s torture was sexual in nature, if not outright rape though considering how much rape of women there is in Berserk I’ll forever be pissed as hell that Miura didn’t bother to show any of that happening to an (adult) male character if that is what he intended. 

So now, as far as what’s been shown in canon, Griffith’s sexual experience is underage prostitution, coercive sex with Charlotte, and now possibly rape combined with torture. After this, he assaults Casca in the wagon (only stopping because he physically can’t go through with it due to his injuries) and when he’s able to move again as Femto, rapes her. Rape is fully about power, and to Griffith sex is about power in general, and the eclipse to me is a very clear show from Griffith that he’s the one with power, he’s the one whose will the world bends to, and he needs to reassert that power over everyone. 

As an aside, it’s very interesting to me that in those moments of powerlessness, the people he uses to reassert his own power aren’t the men who have taken from him, but women. I mean, during the eclipse he’s hurting Casca to get at Guts, but like... He doesn’t rape Guts LOL when he easily could. I’m sure most of that is just Miura not wanting to draw sex (even if it’s rape) between adult men, but taking a more meta view, it replicates power dynamics and hierarchies of misogyny and oppression in the real world in an interesting way.

Griffith, as a character, knows what it is to be powerless, and is desperately climbing for more and more power throughout the story of Berserk to never experience that again. However, in doing so, he becomes the same as the oppressive nobles who hurt him, and once you accept that hierarchy it chips away at any intrinsic sense of justice you may have. This hasn’t come up again since his rebirth, but it will be interesting to see what his reaction will be if something happens that does shake his absolute authority over humanity, and what he’ll do about it. I think that moment might be coming up sooner than we expect.

#berserk meta #berserk #captive prince #griffith #Laurent of Vere #we interrupt ur regularly scheduled casca meta etc etd #etc etc

[awakenedsalamander]

would you be willing to speak moron the Technocracy? you have very interesting takes on it and I would like to know more

Happily!

So to me the Technocracy (in its 20th and 21 century incarnations, anyway, the early Technocracy/Order of Reason is different in some significant respects) represents a view of the world that is divorced from anything other than data and hard facts. This viewpoint is not exclusive to scientism, the paradigm I discussed in my recent post on the Technocracy, and is in fact an arguable core of pragmatism itself— there are times when it is essential to put aside ideals, emotions, and speculation and work only with what you can tangibly interact with. Sometimes, you have to put aside how the world should or could be, and work only with what it provably, unquestionably is.

But if you’ve ever discussed politics with someone who keeps insisting “well, that’s just how the world is,” rather than engaging with new ways of thinking or unconventional ideals, you’ll probably have realized that this way of looking at things can be profoundly limiting.

(Incidentally, this is why I think there’s the tendency to align most Technocrats with Stasis/The Weaver— the paradigm of technology itself can be Dynamic, Entropic, and Questing in a lot of cases, but the way the Technocracy uses it is broadly static, I think.)

Let’s use an example here, and talk about climate change. There’s a tendency to view the people most effectively driving climate change— the executives who profit off it, the lobbyists and politicians who sustain it, the demagogues and conspiracists who argue against its reality— as malevolent. They know what they’re doing, they know how it hurts the world and the people who inhabit, and they’re fine with it. Maybe some of them even enjoy it. This is basically the tack Werewolf: The Apocalypse takes with Pentex, for instance.

And that view is, to a larger extent than I think is remotely comfortable, true. Reckoning with the truth in that is part of what makes Werewolf fun, and it’s also one of the drivers on Mage’s own Nephandi.

But, I think it’s also true that most of the people responsible for ecological collapse don’t see themselves as doing anything wrong, and are instead able to just elide the details of the morality and ramifications of their industry/system/ambition and focus purely on the benefit. As said earlier, that is sometimes necessary— in an immediate crisis it can even be a godsend— but in the long-term and on a wider scale it can be quite damaging.

See, if you focus only on quantifiable data, there’s a way to look at climate change as kind of a trade-off you make for important numbers to go up. Industrialization is, economically speaking, incredibly beneficial, the advancement of technology improves not only wealth, but also security, communication, and even quality of life, and from the point of view of certain fields (at least as they currently exist) like agriculture, commercial shipping, energy production, and so on, the policies that really combat the bad effects of climate change would be disastrous! Can’t we afford a few more degrees Celsius for all that?

And if you want to get really dark, there’s the fact that wealthy countries and their oligarchs are going to be the least affected by natural disasters, resource conflicts, and pandemics. It won’t be easy, sure, but nothing ever is, and from a realpolitik standpoint, if other nations (which are potential threats after all) suffer those bad effects more than you do, then maybe weathering the storm is tactically viable…

So all in all, don’t pump the brakes, and certainly don’t reinvent the wheel here! We’ve got a good thing going, and it could be chaos to stop it! Hell, with all the benefits we’re getting, we might even invent some gadget or technique to solve the worst of it.

But of course, this misses so much. In the same way that topics I wanted to touch on, like algorithmic culture and automation, may have valuable benefits from certain points of view, you have to look at the whole picture. With climate change, you already see mass extinctions, and no amount of restorative cloning is going to reverse the ecological damage there. We’re going to see an increase in displacement and homelessness by disasters and the need for people to relocate from dangerous areas, which will ruin lives, if not end them. To say nothing of the inhumanity of allowing suffering on this scale when something can be done about it, right now!

But how do you prove that “ecological damage,” “ruined lives,” and “inhumanity” are worse than the loss of trillions+ of dollars which we’d have to spend to avoid them? It’s apples to oranges— no, it’s the abstract to the concrete. If someone only wants to think about the numbers, then there’s at least a debate. There’s cost benefit analysis and logistic comparison— but not action.

Now, I am simplifying significantly here. There are many reasons that climate change and other societal crises aren’t addressed beyond scientism, or political inertia, or even just greed and selfishness. To name a few, we also struggle against ignorance, against fear, against exhaustion, against bigotry, against the unknown. It’s not so simple. One of the problems with the worldview I’m attacking is its tendency to simplify things by smoothing over the issues, so I don’t want to do that.

But I do think that the biggest issues in our society can’t be tackled with cold math and a focus on what nets the best cost-to-benefit ratio. I think in a lot of cases, that kind of thinking— which, to bring it back to the point, is the kind of thinking the Technocracy embodies— is what got us these issues in the first place.

God, was this too serious for a World of Darkness discussion?

Anyway, thanks for the question! I appreciate the chance to analyze the topic.

#mage the ascension #wod #world of darkness #essay? #ramblings #also #I know it was a typo #but ‘would you be willing to speak moron’ is a hilarious phrase #and I thank you for it #the technocratic union #technocracy

[karatekels]

Mediation - Chapter 4 - TIGmas Day #9

I was initially worried about this chapter being too short, but we ended up with over 7500 words, so... crisis averted, I guess!

I blame the very fluffy smut. Speaking of which...

TW: graphic sex, oral sex (female receiving), questionable dubious consent (she's rather emotionally vulnerable but I believe she consents)

Enjoy, everyone!

Previous Parts: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

---

Mediation

Chapter 4: Causation

---

Reader's POV:

You emerge from the warehouse just as the sun is starting to set, the flashing red and blue lights of the cop cars that surround the building casting shadows of the action unfolding.

No one had sustained serious injuries in the operation – officers or suspects. The worst that you had was some bruising across your body and a small cut on your right temple, the bleeding long since stopped. The bust had been even more successful than you and Cash could have hoped for: a dozen thieves, a half-dozen of the supposed brains behind the operation, hard drives and shipping containers full of evidence… this one would go down in the history books.

You catch a flash of movement underneath the underpass next to the warehouse, still on high alert from all the adrenaline. Heading towards it cautiously, you recognize Cash’s silhouette in the shadows. Looking over your shoulder and seeing that everyone is still busy, you dart into the darkness.

“Cash! What the hell are you doing here?!” you hiss, shoving him further out of view. “You know you aren’t supposed to be this close to a crime scene; what if they think you’re in on it?”

“Oh come on. I’m far enough away. Besides, I’m sure the department’s rising star would vouch for my innocence,” he replies casually, unbothered as usual with the potential consequences of his actions. “Looks like everything went off without a hitch?” he asks, looking over the top of your head to observe other officers carting out perps in cuffs.

“It went perfectly,” you breathe, feeling like you’re nearly floating as you ride the high of the operation’s success. “I don’t even think Terry’s stubbornness will be able to hold out in the face of all this. This is huge, Cash.”

“I know. If this works, I…” he trails off, a slightly pained look flashing across his features before he looks down at you with a smile. “I really don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for this.”

“Well, I do,” you inform him with mock arrogance. “You can get the hell off the premises and stop risking your parole!”

“Alright, fine – on one condition,” he amends, looking down at you with an uncharacteristic seriousness.

“I don’t think you’re fully grasping the concept of showing gratitude; it’s not typically a negotiation.”

“We should do something to celebrate tonight,” he says, ignoring your sarcasm. “Why don’t you come for dinner at my place when your shift is over.”

You mull the idea over. It’s not that you don’t want to accept his invitation; on the contrary, you think you want to more than is wise for your current situation. The two of you haven’t spent time together without the goal of working towards Cash earning Terry’s forgiveness. This would be the two of you, in his home, without the weight of responsibility on your shoulders. You don’t want to betray Terry, but then, who was he to decide who you could and couldn’t spend time with? He could have input as your partner and best friend, sure, but you were a damn adult.

“I’ll order a dozen spring rolls and let you eat them all.”

Well, that settles it.

“You drive a hard bargain, Cash Ewing, but you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He scrawls his address in your tiny notebook before you can change your mind, whistling as he walks away from you – you think you see his truck off in the distance.

You turn and head back to the crime scene without another word, intent on finishing up quickly.

You’re interested in finding out what the rest of the night has in store for you.

---

You arrive at Cash’s place just before 8:00, the Captain letting you off early and with strict instructions to rest for the next few days. You’d gone home to shower and patch yourself up a bit, confirming that the cut to your head wasn’t anything to worry about, and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

Choosing an outfit had taken some time – this wasn’t a date, and you want to make that perfectly clear, but you are still celebrating together. You eventually settle for dark jeans and a pretty blouse; a safe enough option for dinner at a friend’s home.

You have to park down the street, his small driveway not having room to accommodate your vehicle as well as his truck. You walk down the sidewalk to his house, a surprisingly large detached home, and the front door opens just as you approach. You’re struck with devilish inspiration, hiding behind a hedge to try to scare him.

“Yeah, I can meet you there no problem.”

You freeze, confused by his words. Sure, you were a little early, but where could he be going on such short notice?

“Yeah, the plan went off without a hitch. I’m really looking forward to seeing the payoff.”

Your whole body goes cold, and you find it hard to breathe as you watch Cash end the call on his cellphone as he hops into his truck, the engine thrumming to life.

Cash had… he had lied to you? Had this whole thing been a set-up, a way to get another player out of the way so that whatever shady business he was running with would have less competition?

Terry had been right the whole time.

You watch his truck drive down the street, feeling horribly betrayed and used and hurt, like your insides have been cut open and hollowed out. It takes you a moment to regain control of your body, but the moment you do you’re flying back down the street, throwing yourself back in your car.

You start driving before even consciously deciding where you’re going, just trying to push past your numb state enough to be somewhat aware of the road in front of you. When you park, two blocks away from the Deja Vu jazz club, you’re only half-surprised at where you’ve ended up. You don’t even know if Terry is back yet, but if anyone can understand what you’re going through right now, it’s him.

It’s a Sunday night, so the club isn’t in full swing, just a regular bar with jazz playing on the radio. You walk in feeling wooden, trying to keep yourself together for just a little longer.

“You look like you’ve had better days, Y/N,” a voice says from behind the bar. Turning your focus to the man, you give him a weak smile.

“H-Hi, Jake. Is Terry back home yet?” you ask, hoping that your desperation isn’t too evident in your voice.

“No, not yet, I’m afraid,” the older man replies, looking uncomfortable with your obvious emotional distress. “Can I get you a drink?”

You shake your head violently, unable to speak, your lips pressed together tightly to keep from crying. Jake surveys you with pity for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision.

“Right, come with me.”

He walks around the bar, wrapping a fatherly arm around you and guiding you through the bar to the stairs at the back.

“He got home a few hours ago,” Jake informs you quietly as he leads the way, presumably up to Terry’s room. “He’s out grabbing groceries right now, and asked me to tell anyone that came by that he wasn’t coming back until tomorrow if they asked for him. But I’m willing to bet that you’re exempt from that rule,” he says knowingly, and you manage to give him a grimace somewhat resembling a smile. This wouldn’t be the first time you crashed at Terry’s place – it was common to celebrate closing a difficult case with a late night at Deja Vu, and it was no secret that Jake wanted you and Terry to settle down with one another.

He reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his keyring, unlocking the door to Terry’s apartment and gesturing inside with an arm. “Make yourself comfortable, Y/N. He should be back soon, and I’ll send him right up.”

“Okay, Jake. Thank you so much,” you choke out, trying to hastily close the door behind you without being rude.

Turning on the light overhead, you take a look around Terry’s sparse apartment, eyes lingering on his travel bags at the front door. You assume he was only here long enough to bring his stuff upstairs before heading out again; he must be exhausted. You walk to the kitchen to look out the window at the city street down below in the hopes of distracting yourself from the guilt of bothering Terry with your problems that he had warned you about on multiple occasions. But before you can start mentally spiraling down that unpleasant train of thought, a couple of photographs on the kitchen counter catch your eye and, being nosy, you decide to investigate further.

You immediately regret your decision, even as you can’t take your eyes off of the pictures of Cash and Terry.

They could be brothers, with their twin blue eyes and their tall, strong builds. You notice that in one photograph, Terry has his arm wrapped around his partner’s shoulder in a friendly hug as they pose for the camera, a horseshoe ring on his finger just like Cash’s. There is something so beautifully carefree in their expressions, and it makes you ache. You’ve only seen flickers of the light and happiness reflected on both of their faces in these pictures, and you’re again overwhelmed with frustration and sadness at this messy situation.

You force yourself to look away from the pictures, unable to stomach the pain of seeing how much had been lost in this years-long predicament, not to mention where you stand in it all.

Hopefully Terry will be home soon, and hopefully he won’t hate you when he finds out what you’ve been up to in his absence.

---

Terry’s POV:

Terry arrives back home at 9:00, his arms laden with grocery bags. He still has a few days off before he needs to go back to work, and he doesn’t want to have to leave the apartment anymore than he absolutely has to. Working on the farmhouse had been no easy task, and he’s looking forward to a few days of rest before heading back to work.

As he enters the club, he heads over to Jake at the bar. Maybe a nightcap would help him get some restful sleep, or at least ease his aches and pains.

“Hey, Jake! Could I get a –”

“No.”

He goes to glare at the man, not in the mood for his snark, only to see a serious expression on the man’s face. Something is wrong.

“You need to go to upstairs; she’s waiting for you.”

He doesn’t even take a moment to thank the man, jostling his bags as he all but sprints through the bar and up the stairs. You were the only person on earth that Jake would let into his apartment without asking him first; the only person he still trusted or cared about beyond the scope of a typical friendship.

The only one he loved.

He tries not to anticipate the worst as he struggles to fit his key in the lock, opening his front door. He sets the groceries down on the counter by the front door, scouring the room for you and finding you curled up in a tight little ball on the couch, seemingly asleep. His gaze softens as he quietly closes and locks the door behind him, taking off his coat and shoes before slowly approaching you for a closer look.

You’ve taken the small trashcan out of his bathroom and put it in front of the couch, used tissues in and mostly scattered around it. Your eyes are red from crying, and the bags beneath them look like you haven’t slept in a week, but you look relatively unharmed. He can’t think of a time in the five years he’s known you that he’s seen you like this, and he can’t even imagine what has caused you to look like this now. Had someone died? You look heartbroken.

He immediately regrets leaving you by yourself to go work on something as insignificant as renovations, the guilt eating him alive. Desperate to be of use, he gently drapes a blanket over your body; you look like you need the sleep, and he’s not going anywhere.

He sets about tidying the place up, picking up the tissues and returning the trashcan to the bathroom before moving to unload the groceries. His travel bags are mostly filled with dirty laundry, so he doesn’t bother to unpack them yet; that could wait until after he figured out what was going on with you.

When you still show no signs of waking – he knew from experience you were a rather heavy sleeper – he decides to take a quick shower, hoping that it would help him be fresh and alert to help you with…whatever it is you needed. He rushes through the process, not wanting you to wake up without him there, quickly toweling off and changing into some of his last clean clothes, grey sweatpants and a black sleeveless muscle shirt. He’s in the middle of towel drying his hair when he hears you stir.

“Terry?” you call for him groggily, and he flies out of the bathroom, quickly coming over to you. He pulls one of the kitchen chairs over to the end of the couch that you’re curled up on, sitting next to you and hunching down to search your expression, your body for anything that might give him a clue as to what the fuck happened.

“I’m here, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he says softly, watching you blink up at him through your bleary eyes. His hands itch to hold you, but he keeps himself under control. He’s had years of practice, after all.

“What happened, Y/N?” he asks, gently pushing the question when you fail to do or say anything for several long minutes. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong, Terry!” you exclaim, though your voice seems incapable of the volume at the moment. “I fucked up, I was so stupid, and I’m so sorry!” you wail, hiding your face in your hands as you start to cry again. He immediately slides off his chair to his knees, his chest brushing your legs as he wraps his arms around you to grip your shoulders.

“Hey hey, none of that,” he tsks, wishing he could just scoop you up into his arms and squeeze all of your hurt out of you. Instead he stands, quickly moving to the kitchen to get you a glass of water and holding it out for you. You take several gulps, the glass shaking in your grip, and he gently takes it from you to set it on the coffee table.

“Look at me, Y/N, please,” he pleads with you, and after a moment you lift your head, your watery red eyes locked with his. “I promise, whatever you did or think you did isn’t going to be as bad as you think –”

You cut him off, keening loudly in a piercing, heartbreaking note that sends his heart up to his throat and down to the pit of his stomach all at once. Unable to refrain from comforting you any longer, he moves to sit next to you on the couch, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. You feel uncharacteristically fragile, so different from the fierce, confident woman that he’s come to know and love.

He gives you a few moments, and you manage to get your tears and your trembling relatively under control. He’s not exactly sure when he did it, but at some point his hand had guided your head to rest in the crook of his neck, and was now stroking your hair slowly, feeling you relax under his touch. He tries to stay focused on the matter at hand, but he can’t deny how incredibly natural it feels to hold you like this, to take care of you. Neither of you liked to be vulnerable, especially with one another, but he knows that the two of you had tiptoed around the issue more and more as your time working together had gone on.

“Terry?” you say his name in the quietest, most broken voice he’s ever heard, and it makes his heart twinge painfully. Instead of responding he releases you, turning you both so that you’re facing one another so that he can try to convey just how willing he is to do any-and-everything for you through his gaze alone. You seem to receive the message, taking a deep breath.

“Before I tell you, can you please promise that you’ll let me finish explaining myself before doing anything… rash?”

The request has his guard up, but he nods tightly. He’ll give you whatever you need.

“I’ve spent the last week working on tracking down the crime ring running that operation on scrap metal in the area,” you begin, your eyes watching his for any hint of a reaction even as he does the same to you. “We arrested nearly twenty perps today, and have secured a ton of evidence.”

“That’s… incredible, Y/N,” he says, more confused than ever. Why did this have you so upset? Had you been promoted as a result of your work? Were you leaving? “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you; that’s a lot of progress to make all by yourself.”

Guilt washes over your face, and you break eye contact with him. “I had a team of six with me today during the bust; I was covered, no one was seriously hurt on either side.”

“But?” he presses, losing patience now despite his best efforts to remain calm.

“I… I wasn’t working alone this week. I was working with Cash.”

Your eyes fly up to his to gauge his reaction, but Terry finds that he’s nearly going numb, staring out into nothing. You’d gone behind his back and lied to him? About this of all things? After everything he’d said and done to dissuade you from listening to that corrupt, lying piece of –

“How is that even possible?” he asks hoarsely, interrupting his own train of thought. He doesn’t want to get angry yet. He promised you, and unlike you – unlike everyone else, apparently – he kept his promises.

“Terry, I didn’t go looking for him, I promise. When we talked about it last month, I kept my word. I didn’t speak to him or so much as see him until the beginning of last week. We ran into each other while I was in pursuit of a suspect and he helped me get the guy down. I didn’t even know who he was at first, I swear…”

He bites his tongue so hard that he worries it might bleed, but nods at you to continue. You’re cringing away from him as though you’re worried he’s going to hit you, and while he is very upset with you right now, he knows himself well enough to know that he would never lay a hand on you in anger.

“He came to me the next day with some intel, that he thought he knew where the crime ring’s base of operations was. He wanted to report the crime to me directly, so that I would be able to tell you so you would see he had left all that crap behind. We got to talking and he offered to help me work the case since I was doing it all mostly on my own while you were gone. Everything went perfectly, Terry, until tonight. I thought that together we would be able to prove to you that he’s cleaned up his act, so that you would give him a second chance, but…” you stop, seemingly unable to continue past the lump in your throat.

“What happened, Y/N?” he growls, his temper starting to rise. If that fucker had laid one hand on you…

“We were going to get dinner tonight, to celebrate the break in the case, and I got to his house early. He didn’t know I was there, but he was on the phone with someone else and I overheard him talking about payoffs and plans. He left to meet someone, and then I came here.”

A part of him feels guilty for the relief that flows through him. Cash hadn’t hurt you physically or tried to seduce you – he’s rather surprised, the latter would be fairly par for the course for the bastard – but had deceived you rather similarly to how he had lied to Terry. His anger towards you all but evaporates; sure, he was disappointed that you hadn’t listened to him, but your intentions, as always, were pure and good. You were simply too trusting.

However, he’s still unsure of why the other man’s deception is hitting you so hard. If you were telling the truth, which he believes that you are, then you had only worked with the man for a week. Why was Cash’s betrayal so devastating for you?

“I’m so sorry, Terry! You were right and I should have listened to you. I j-just… I figured I owed it to you to tell you the truth myself, rather than you hearing about it some other way. I understand if you h-hate me, I really do, and I promise –”

He stops listening, his hearing disappearing completely as he tries to process what you’re saying. You were so upset – nearly hysterical – because you were worried about what he thought about you? That he would hate you for being lied to be the man that had done the same to him?

For such a brilliant detective, you could be so oblivious sometimes.

He suspects that that fucker has put it into your head that he would lash out at you for the smallest infraction against him. What other reason could there possibly be for you to be so wary about how he’s going to react to your confession?

“Right, I’ll be back in a bit,” he says abruptly, rising from the couch and moving to the front door. His temper had reminded him of its presence, and this time it wouldn’t be ignored. Cash lying to him all those years ago was bad enough, but doing the same to you was absolutely unacceptable.

“W-Where are you going?” you ask in a panic, clearly confused by his sudden shift in demeanour.

“I’m going to go try to beat some sense into him, at the very least,” he snarls, throwing his coat back on and digging through his pockets for his badge and gun. It couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

“Terry no, don’t! Please,” you beg, stumbling as you try to cross the room to reach him, your eyes brimming with concern. “This was my fault –”

“He took advantage of you, Y/N, of you and your kindness. He knew exactly what he was doing,” he insists angrily, speaking more to himself than to you at this point.

“I gave him the means, the motive, the opportunity!” you babble. “I encouraged us working together to solve the case, I made this mess! I was stupid to trust him, but I did, and I’m sorry. Please don’t throw your career away by confronting him about this. You’re all I have left.”

That gets him to stop in his tracks, frozen between you and the door. He glimpses the photographs of him and Cash on the kitchen counter. The two of them had been inseparable, closer than brothers… He couldn’t let what happened with Cash happen with you.

He doesn’t think he could endure it.

Terry turns back to face you, your small frame visibly trembling from the combination of emotion and fatigue, and he acts on instinct, closing the distance between you and gently taking your hand in his as he leads you back to his couch.

“Sweetheart, you need to calm down, alright? We’ll both stay here, okay? I promise. Just take a few deep breaths for me,” he croons, and sets about spending a few minutes helping you calm down and clean up. Soon you are breathing normally again aside from the occasional stuttering gasp, your eyes teary but dry.

“T-Terry, I’m s-s-so sorry. I should have believed you, I should have listened, I just wanted you to be h-happy again,” you stammer, and he can tell that you’re working hard to keep yourself from sobbing again. You were always so selfless, always prioritized him first. He knows that you’ve seen how affected he’s been from the way people have screwed him over, and he doesn’t like the person that he’s become, but to say he hasn’t been happy is patently untrue. Working with you, getting to know you… it’s been his greatest source of happiness.

He can’t say that he was planning on doing this at all, let alone now, let alone like this, but something is pushing him to be open and honest with you, maybe to set himself apart from Cash.

“You were right too, Y/N,” he says gently, lightly caressing the side of your face, needing to confirm that the small cut he sees is nothing to be concerned about. “We should give people second chances. Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t have gone back to that life, and he never would have hurt you like this. You just have more good in your heart than I do. Hell, you have more good in you than most people do…”

You smile up at him through your tears, and his heart takes off like a hummingbird’s, thrumming against his chest. He’s cradling your face in his hands now, and he doesn’t think you’ve really noticed.

“It’s one of the things I love the most about you.”

Your sudden intake of breath at his confession is the only thing that breaks the silence in the apartment, the two of you leaning in towards one another as though pulled by a magnetic force.

He gently presses his lips to yours, feeling your whole body shudder against him before you gasp into his mouth, kissing him back needily as you wrap your arms around his neck. Moving slowly – he doesn’t want to rush things and spook you, despite the unbridled joy thrumming through his veins as he’s finally able to kiss you the way he’s wanted to for ages now – he lifts you up off the couch, just long enough to sit down himself with you in his lap, your lips never parting. He brushes his lips against yours again and again, wanting to absorb your pain with every kiss, wanting to distract you from your hurt, wanting to do whatever it took to make you happy.

“Terry,” you whimper against his lips, and a part of him wants to interpret it as permission to continue, but he knows from your tone of voice that you’re having second thoughts. Reluctantly he pulls away, checking your expression for an indicator of what you’re thinking. He can’t resist kissing your forehead as he leans back, his arms still locked around you, one at your hip and the other tangled in your hair at the back of your head.

“I – we – should stop before we get carried away,” you breathe, unable to meet his eyes. He thinks he hears reluctance in your tone, and latches onto it with hope.

“What’s wrong with getting carried away, honey?” he asks, curling his arms to press you against him more firmly. “You’re safe with me,” he coos reassuringly. Give him the opportunity, and he would spend the night showing you just how much he cares for you with every single move he makes. He just needs a chance; he isn’t sure he can keep himself from you now that he’s had a taste.

“Terry, I’m exhausted, I’m an emotional wreck…I don’t want to do this if there’s even a chance I could lose you for good. If we go down this road and it doesn’t work out, I...” you trail off, unable to voice even the possibility of the two of you not being in each other’s lives.

“This doesn’t need to be anything but two people that care about each other being there for one another. Just for tonight,” he coaxes, feeling your doubt melt away. So the sex might mean more to him than it will to you; he’s more than okay with that, so long as you don’t regret it in the morning. He’s a simple man; he’ll take what he can get. “But you’re never going to lose me, Y/N. Let me prove it to you.”

He kisses a line from your temple down to your jaw, letting out a pleased growl when you tilt your head to the side to give him access to your neck. He lavishes the sensitive skin between your neck and your shoulder with lush kisses, finding a spot that makes you whine and honing in on it, sucking and nibbling the delicate flesh until you’re moaning his name, writhing in his arms.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he groans, surveying the dark hickey he’s left with a primal sense of dark satisfaction. You arch your body, your hips rolling against him as he runs his hands up and down your sides possessively, wanting – no, needing to feel you. Call him selfish, but he’s going to have all of you tonight, especially since he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to have you again.

“Take me to bed, Terry, please!” you plead with him, and if you only knew the number of times he’s fantasized about hearing you say those words…

He stands, his hands at your waist, lifting you up with him until your arms and legs naturally wrap around his body tightly, your face buried into the crook of his neck as you pepper him with feather-light kisses that have him swearing he’s died and gone to heaven.

“Your wish is my command, princess,” he teases as he carries you over to his bed. He gently lowers you onto it, taking a moment to look down at you: hair fanned out around your head on his pillow, face flushed, eyes gazing up at him with lust.

You sit up as he takes a seat on the bed next to you. Terry watches you intensely, unblinking, his eyes noticing everything as your small hands brazenly trace the muscles of his bare arms up to the back of his neck to play with his still-damp curls, nibbling your lip shyly as you explore his body.

You take a brief reprieve to build your confidence, and he’s happy to grant it, then your hands slowly move down from his neck to his collarbone, your dainty fingers eagerly exploring his firm pectorals. He does his best to stay still, to be calm and patient, but as your hands wander down past his ribs to his abs he can’t help the groan that escapes him, his head dropping to rest on your shoulder. You let out a nervous giggle.

“Sorry, am I moving too fast?” you ask nervously, and he bites back a bark of laughter. Instead he silences you both with a passionate kiss, his tongue seeking entrance to your mouth. He doesn’t let up, intent on kissing you breathless as he lays you down on the bed again, keeping his weight off of you as he comes to lay on top of you.

“It’s been more than five years, Y/N; I don’t think we could move any slower,” he jokes once he’s let you up for air. You giggle, holding his face in your hands as you look up at him with a soft smile. “But I’m here for you sweetheart; have your way with me however you want!” he adds with a lopsided grin.

“So generous of you, Mr. McCain. Always the pinnacle of chivalry,” you tease, twining your hands back around his neck. He tightens his grip on your small waist in return, wanting to memorize this moment so that he can cherish it forever.

“Only for you, doll,” he replies in a husky voice, moving back as you sit up slightly, leaning on your elbows as you rest your forehead against his.

“Terry, I… it feels like so long since I’ve been able to think about us. Just us,” you clarify, and it’s clear you’re referring to Cash. “I don’t want to think about anything except you and me. Please help me forget.”

If he has his way, you’ll never think about Cash Ewing or any other man ever again after tonight.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you, always,” he promises, and he can feel you melt at his words. “Just relax, and let me make you feel good.”

You let out a wordless moan of consent that he captures with his lips, kissing you passionately as he pins you against his mattress. His hands trail down your body to your hips, his fingertips exploring the soft skin of your belly where your shirt has ridden up. You arch against him with a mewl, and he grips the hem of your shirt to pull it up and off of you, his eyes greedily roaming your torso. Your ample cleavage is too tempting to resist, and he buries his face between your breasts, kissing the bare skin of your chest above the cups of your bra. You throw your head back, letting out a wanton moan, your legs wrapping around his hips as you grind yourself against him, your fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“Terry, please!” you cry, writhing beneath him and even in this moment he knows he’ll never forget those words coming from your lips with such need.

“Don’t you worry, babygirl,” he coos, laying kisses all over your collarbone, his hands gently but firmly gripping your hips and holding them down. “I’m going to give you everything tonight, I promise. But let me take it all in, honey – I’ve been dreaming of this for ages now.”

You pout at him teasingly, and he takes the opportunity to suck on your lower lip until you groan at the throbbing ache. Smoothing his hands back up the sides of your body, he slides them beneath you to unhook your bra, tugging the garment down your arms and tossing it on the floor behind him. The instant your hands are free, you’re tugging insistently at the hem of his shirt, making him chuckle lowly as he takes the hint, pulling it over his head. Your eyes darken with lust as you take in his bare chest and you lick your lips, making him growl low in the back of his throat before bringing his hands down to cup your breasts. Your nipples are peaked and prominent against his palms, and he can’t resist the temptation any longer, bowing his head to take one into his mouth, one hand teasing the other.

“Fuck, Terry! You’re way too good at this,” you groan, and that stroke to his ego sends a jolt of desire right to his dick. He redoubles his efforts, teasing your breasts with his fingers and lips and tongue until your voice is hoarse from begging, your hands fisted in the sheets after you realized that clawing at his back wasn’t going to get him to let up on you. He’s feeling dizzy from the way you’re coming apart at the seams for him, his straining erection throbbing with need. He’s never wanted anyone so much.

“God Y/N, you feel amazing. I can’t get enough of you,” he moans, grinding against you as you lock your legs around him once more, pressing your centre against his cock.

“Try,” you demand sassily, looking up at him with a teasing smirk that has him growling and reaching for the button on your jeans and pulling your zipper down before tearing the pants down your legs. You gasp from the rough treatment, wantonly allowing your knees to fall open as you look up at him, breathless with need. His nostrils flare as he takes you in, eyes drifting to the scrap of silk and lace between your legs, the only thing concealing your body from him. He spots the damp patch on your underwear and it shatters his remaining resolve.

Lunging forward, he buries his face in the apex of your thighs, laving his tongue along your slit and up to your clit through your underwear. You shriek with surprise before clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle your cries of pleasure, and he groans against your pussy, dizzy from the heady, musky scent of your arousal. You buck up against him, your free hand tangling in and tugging at his curls, and he grips your inner thighs in his large hands, squeezing them possessively as he holds them spread open.

Your muffled pleas take on a higher and higher pitch as you reach your peak, and he chases after your orgasm hungrily, parting your panties to the side and delving his tongue into your tight channel. Your grip on his hair tightens, and he slips a finger inside of you, moving his mouth to suckle on your clit as he curls his finger up against your g-spot, your thighs clenching around his head as you come hard for him. You’re barely coherent at this point, but he manages to pick out a few words amidst your screams, ‘fuck,’ ‘Terry,’ and ‘so good’ among them. Eventually, he feels your muscles relax, and manages to slide up your body while you catch your breath.

“You taste better than I ever could have imagined,” he purrs in your ear, laying hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of your neck, feeling your pulse thrumming under his lips.

“Oh my God,” you pant, squirming beneath him as he squeezes your hips, wanting to claim ownership of as much of your body as possible. “Terry, that was… you were amazing.”

“Just giving you a taste of the worship a woman like you deserves,” he croons in a light, teasing voice, moving himself around your body to lay gentle kisses on top of every bruise he sees; the day’s events had left you rather battered, though he sees no sign of serious injury. He would happily get on his knees and show you the depths of his devotion every day if you would allow it. He’ll do everything in his power to see to it that you do.

Unfortunately, you seem to have other plans, your hands moving to the drawstring of his sweatpants, one hand trailing down to stroke him over his pants while the other dips into his waistband, tugging him towards you.

“Your turn,” you inform him coyly, and he feels like a teenager again, getting close just from you fondling him over his clothes.

“God, sweetheart,” he groans, hips thrusting into your palm. “Feel how hard you make me,” he commands in a rough voice, and you squeeze his length in a way that makes him hiss with pleasure.

“I need to be inside you, Y/N,” he confesses, and you shudder against him. “Let me have you, let me make you mine, baby, please,” he begs, watching your eyes roll into the back of your head at his smutty words. You nod frantically, your eyes now scrunched shut, seemingly unable to speak. He hooks his thumbs into his waistband, pulling his pants and briefs down in one fluid motion and kicking them off. When he looks back over to you, you’re staring at his cock with hooded eyes, your mouth agape.

“Terry, I…” you trail off, trying to find the words. “You’re so big.”

He can’t help the smug grin the spreads across his face at your words, and you giggle, rolling your eyes at him and rolling onto your side to bury your face in his pillow. He slides himself behind you, spooning you, his length insistently prodding between your thighs. You whimper, grinding your butt against him at the sensation.

“I’ll be gentle, honey; I promise,” he murmurs soothingly, running his hands up and down your arms as he clutches you to his chest. “Let me give you everything,” he coaxes, leaning down to kiss you as you turn your head to face him.

Occupying your mind with his tongue, he trails his hand down your body to your knee, lifting your leg up and back to wrap around his, allowing him to open you up. His other hand slides up your waist to your chest, his palm on top of your heart as he pulls you back against him. Guiding the head of his cock to your slick entrance, he slowly pushes inside you, swallowing your moans into his greedy mouth. You’re so fucking tight; it takes everything in him to keep from pounding into you.

“That’s it, baby,” he croons approvingly as you start to rock your hips back against his, letting out little mewls as you slowly take more and more of him. Your pussy feels like heaven, just as he knew it would.

“Mmmhhhnn, Terry!” you cry out, and he knows he’ll never get tired of hearing you moan his name. “M-m-more!”

“You want more, Y/N?” he asks in a low, harsh whisper, biting back a snarl as he grabs your knee possessively, bending it up towards his chest to spread you open more. “You want to take all of me?”

“Yes yes please!” you beg, and it’s music to his ears. He pulls out of you slightly, hearing you whine at the loss before thrusting his hips forward, sinking his cock fully inside you until he’s pressed up against your ass. He groans, your body gripping him tightly like it was trying to keep him there, sheathed inside of your tight heat forever.

“Oh fuck, baby, you feel amazing,” he pants in your ear, his arms wrapped around your torso as his hips set a slow, deep pace that has you nearly sobbing.

“Oh God, Terry baby, you’re so deep,” you whimper in his ear, still rocking your hips back and forth as much as you can in this position. “Your cock feels so amazing, fills me up like it was made to!”

He fucks you harder, spurred on by your dirty talk, and you let out a wanton wail in response, your fingernails digging into his forearms as you cling to him.

He pulls out before he loses himself completely, sitting up and kissing your ankle before rolling you onto your back. You hook your feet around his ass, pulling him towards you impatiently and making him chuckle at your enthusiasm. He eases himself back into you, resting his weight on his forearms to either side of your head and gazing deeply into your eyes.

Every time he’s fantasized about being with you for the last five years, he’s climaxed to the thought of your face looking up at him the way it is now. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t come in you for the first time while gazing down at your beautiful face, twisted into a mask of ecstasy because of him.

“You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart,” he breathes, looking at you with reverence. “You feel so good, I wish I could stay inside you forever.”

You hold his face in your hands, stroking his cheeks as yours flush from his praise. So innocent and shy, even while he’s balls deep in you.

“I want you to come for me, Y/N,” he purrs, trailing a hand down your body to where your hips are joined to play with your clit, watching every slight reaction you make with fascination. “Come on my cock, sweetheart – let go for me.”

Those seem to be the magic words; your eyes roll back into your head as your whole body clenches and twitches around him. You chant his name like a mantra, and he chases after his own orgasm, pumping his hips into you fast and deep as your cunt flutters around him, releasing inside you with an animalistic grunt of your name.

The two of you stay locked in an embrace as you both catch your breath, every inch of your bodies pressed together. He savours the feeling of bone deep satisfaction coursing through him, pressing kisses to every part of your body that his lips can reach.

Reluctantly, he twists himself free of your grip, smiling softly at your incoherent whine as he pulls away from you. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp cloth. You had been so tight, so much smaller than him, and he doesn’t want you hurting in the morning.

Tenderly, he takes the washcloth to your entrance, feeling your body relax under his ministrations. Finished with his task, he lifts you off the bed, holding you with one arm while he bends down to pull the blankets back before sitting you back down on the mattress.

“You’ll stay tonight?” he asks hesitantly, not wanting to push for anything more than you wanted but desperately wanting to spend the night holding you. You give him a shy smile and nod, wordlessly holding your arms out to him. He crawls into your embrace, sliding under the covers with you and taking you into his arms, murmuring sweet nothings into your hair and kissing your forehead.

He’s completely exhausted, but he fights to stay awake until after you’ve drifted off in his arms. The moonlight illuminates your face, and he’s pleased to see a soft smile curving your lips. Unlike when he’d walked in on you sleeping fitfully hours before, you now look completely serene. He feels a surprising amount of pride and pleasure at the fact that he was able to give you exactly what you’d asked for. He’d helped you to forget.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

At least one good thing came from knowing Cash Ewing: he had pushed you right into Terry’s embrace. Now that he’s finally got you, he’s not keen on letting you go.

*boos Anna Gilmour*

---

Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

[Future parts go here!]

#Thomas Ian Griffith #Cash #Cash Ewing #Black Friday #Black Friday 2007 #The Kidnapping #The Kidnapping 2007 #Terry McCain #Excessive Force #TIGmas #12 Days of TIGmas #Smut #Romance #Suspend your disbelief please and thank you #Cash x Reader #terry mccain x reader #terry mccain x reader x cash #fluff #fluffy smut #pining

[chronicsymptomsyndrome]

Extended rant about being poor and disabled under the cut, not really worth reading I just needed to get it out.

Hope everyone’s having a decent day

Listen I’m disabled unemployable massively in debt and have exactly $0 in liquid funds and no sizable assets. Unless you count physical assets. Like I could sell my body I guess. Ugh. Anyway throwback to that one time like an hour ago when I at least had a iPad to use. It was from 2013 so I knew this day would come. Can’t believe it lasted this long. And I know I should be extremely grateful to even have a smartphone, but I cannot use my phone as a computer the way most people do. I cannot hold onto my phone that long. I can’t look at such a tiny screen that long. I can’t crane my neck down for that long. I can hold it up level to my eyes but I can’t hold my arm up that long either. It’s not practical or sustainable. Plus my smart phone won’t last forever. Then what will I do? Without access to the internet? Yeah yeah touch grass nobody had internet for millennia blah blah blah okay but now we do. Now it’s a basic necessity. You need internet to do pretty much anything adults need to do nowadays in order to be an active part of society. I agree it’s fucked up but it’s real. I cannot get to a library. I don’t have friends in walking distance (or any distance for that matter) I have no access to using the internet for more than a couple minutes at a time. Im writing this post in segments over the course of a whole day. I keep coming back to it because I can’t think about anything else. I legitimately don’t know how to remedy this situation.

Not that this is a remedy but I want to inflict suffering onto anyone that’s ever said money only causes problems or doesn’t buy happiness or the best things in life are free or any of that classist bullshit. Two hundred dollars is pocket change to so many people but a little refurbished tablet would change my life right now. I hope every billionaire lives long but suffers endlessly and unfathomably until they die.

Also I hope my dad and his wife are really enjoying their fully refurbished three story three bedroom two bathroom home complete with a sunroom a heated deck/screen porch (yes different from the sunroom) heated floors in every room a garage big enough for their two brand new cars a little Vespa & a whole workshop plus a cute little stone patio with a fucking water feature pond fountain thing that they don’t even see that much what with their practically monthly elaborate getaways and international vacations every year. Fuck I hope they are really fucking enjoying themselves. Meanwhile I have to decide if I want to cut back on food and medicine for a while to save up for a device I can access the internet on.

Anyway. Ignore this I’m just really fucking tired, sooooooo unbelievably fucking tired, of being poor and disabled. Big fucking deal I know I’m so far from the only one. I know I still have so much that some people don’t have. And I’m grateful. But…fucking hell. Poor and healthy would be fine. Poor and disabled but still employable would be fine. Disabled but financially stable would be fine. Disabled with adequate support systems would be fine. My piece of shit grandfather finally fucking off and dying and leaving me something to live on would be cool. I’d kill for any of these. But poor and disabled just feels like someone is beating the fuck out of me and every few minutes they stop for just long enough to help me up and let ms pull myself together and there’s a momentary glimmer of hope until they go right back to beating the fuck out of me. I feel like eventually I won’t be able to get up or pull myself together anymore. I don’t fucking know.

Anyway at least I have a place to stay!! At least I have something to eat!! I can make tea if I want!! My eyesight is going slowly enough that my glasses are still usable!! The fact that I even have glasses in the first place!! The fact that I have any clean water at all, even if it only stays hot for three minutes. I can still take a shower. I have books to read. There a lot of ways in which my body and mind have not yet let me down. Honestly how dare I complain about anything I guess??? I don’t fucking know how I’m supposed to feel

#rants & reflections #delete later #disability vent #disability rant #executive dysfunction #audhd problems #physical disability #neurological disability #autistic borderline #bpd mood #disability culture

[reds-fluff-extravaganza]

Lord X x Reader

Because I have been hyperfixating on these guys again. Requested over on ao3!

You just kept running, it was all you really could do in this moment as something was currently chasing you down. You knew this place was dangerous, with all the EXE creatures roaming around, but you never had any issues until now since some of them aren’t as dangerous as others. You aren’t even sure how you managed to anger this one, but you didn’t want to stick around and find out.

What you didn’t know, however, was a certain demon lord was keeping a rather close eye on you. Ever since you had arrived in this messed up world, you were his favorite soul to play with after playing a few of his “games” with you, so now he does what he can to make sure you stay alive, partially for his entertainment, but also because he doesn’t actually want anything to happen to you, which he will never admit such a thing aloud.

So when he found out one of the other EXE creatures had thought it would be a great idea to chase you around to kill you, he was beyond livid. Your soul was his, no one else’s. He was going to take care of this little problem.

You were starting to get tired of running, while also avoiding this thing’s attacks. You heard it preparing another attack, so you had braced yourself for impact, but it never happened… you decided to risk stopping and turning around to see just what the hell was happening, only to find a familiar figure standing between you and the EXE creature.

“…Lord X?” You were a bit surprised to see him there… wait, why was he here? Before you knew it, the other EXE creature was gone. Whether Lord X had killed it or let it go with severe injuries, you didn’t see nor did you want to think about it.

“You didn’t have to protect me, you know.”

“Well I’m not going to let my favorite soul die because of someone else.”

“Oh is that it? You’re here to kill me now?”

“No.” He turned to face you, now walking closer to you. You weren’t sure what he had in mind, so you kept your guard up. What you didn’t expect was for him to suddenly pick you up, to which you made a surprised noise, making him chuckle in response.

“What are you doing and where are you taking me?” You asked him.

“I’m taking you to somewhere that’s safer than here. You’ve sustained some injuries during your little chase… and you look absolutely exhausted.”

“Why do you care?” You weren’t sure if you liked this, you had no idea what he had planned. “If this has to do with another of your games-“

“No, not another game. Like i said, you are my favorite soul to play with, so I am going to make sure you stay safe and alive.”

“I… don’t get it, but… thank you.”

“Of course.” And within the blink of an eye, you were in what looked to be some sort of room? At least there was someplace you could rest, which Lord X set you down on. Though there was something still in your mind that you just couldn’t get over. You were his favorite soul? Why would that be?

“Lord X..?”

“What?”

“Why am I your favorite?” You asked him, still sitting up in bed.

“Because, Y/n,” he turned around to face you once more, “you are different than the other players of my games. For one, you’ve managed to survive for this long,” Lord X crossed his arms at this, “therefore, you are my favorite soul.”

“I see…” you rubbed the back of your head before lying down.

“And if anyone else dares to hurt you, they will never see the light of day again.”

“…thanks, Lord X, for protecting me. Though, again, you didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re welcome, Y/n. I am aware I didn’t have to do such a thing, but I did. I wanted to.” He gives you a light pat on the head, which made you flinch in response, as he turned to leave.

“Rest up, Y/n, we can discuss more later.”

“If you dare think about hurting me in my sleep, I swear-“

“I won’t. However, if you for some reason need anything, you know how to find me.” And with that, he disappears. You sighed a bit and shook your head, a faint smile on your face.

“I knew he wasn’t all bad…” you mumbled as you closed your eyes. “I’ll have to thank him later.” You soon fell asleep, but you knew in the back of your mind that Lord X was nearby, keeping an eye on you.

#sonic.exe pc port #sonic pc port #sfw #lord x #lord x/reader #x reader #reader insert #fluff #fluff oneshot #x reader oneshot #oneshot

[teddyrb]

Baby, I’m sorry

Steve Harrington x Gn!Reader

Genre - Angst.

Warnings - Swearing, allusions to breaking up.

Summary - Steve keeps making it difficult for Y/N to be understanding when he forgets to turn up to their date.

A/N - I don’t like the ending of this one. Also, Y/N says that Steve acts more like a couple with some of his friends - which they name - than Steve does with Y/N. I want to make it clear that this is in reference to the amount of time Steve spends with his friends over Y/N, not because they are doing anything romantic. I also imagine, although it’s not explicitly said, that the reader doesn’t know about the upside down and all of the monsters in Hawkins which is why they are less understanding. 

Word count - 1,164.

Two days ago, Steve told you he needed to reschedule your date. You didn't think anything of it and the two of you had agreed to meet up at the movies and watch whatever you could get yourselves into. You'd agreed on meeting 5 pm, you were still waiting for him outside the movie theatre at 5:30 pm and the coat you wore didn't do much to sustain your body heat. It was infuriating, how could he make the plan and forget it in two days.

You hoped it was some kind of misunderstanding, maybe his car broke down, or someone didn't show up for their shift and he couldn't leave, maybe he tried to call your house but you'd already left or literally else. Anything would be better than him just forgetting. As you made your way up his lawn, you noticed the light in the living room was on. You stopped in the middle of the path and looked through the window, Steve was stood in front of the couch speaking to somebody who was sat down. He'd forgotten. You made your way up the pathway and knocked harshly on his door.

When he opened the door, you saw the realisation spread across his face. "Y/N, oh my God, I'm so sorry. I completely forgot, um... give me like five minutes, Nancy's leaving anyways, if you just come inside we can watch a movie and..." You turned around and began walking down the pathway back to your car. "...Y/N, please, don't walk away."

"No, Steve. I'm done, I can't do this anymore, I can't keep waiting for you to remember that you're in a relationship. That your dating me, not Nancy, not Robin, not Dustin or Eddie, me. I can't keep doing this, I feel like an idiot having to pine over my own boyfriend like your some unrequited crush. God, Steve, do you even love me?" You were shouting across his front lawn but you could still see the hurt on his face at your question.

"Yes, oh my God. Can you not see how much I love you?" He asked moving towards you.

You scoffed at him. "No, Steve, I can't. It has to be there to be seen, you have to be there for me to see it and you're not. I don't remember the last time you told me you did, and I sure as hell know that you've never dropped your plans with them for me."

"I didn't drop our plans, baby, I forgot. Please, you have to believe me." Nancy had made her way to the door.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry. I came here so Steve could pass the book that you wanted to read onto you, then we started talking about life and we must have lost track of time." She made sure you were looking at her when she spoke again. "Steve, may not tell you he loves you enough but it's clear to everyone in Hawkins that that man is head over heels for you. He cares for you so much and he may not be with you all the time but you are all he thinks about and talks about for that matter is you and everything he loves about you."

The first tear streamed down your face, you did nothing to control it. You wanted Steve to know what he was doing to you. "Nancy, I can't hear this from you. Everyone in high school saw him waiting outside your locker for you between classes and we heard the stories of his romantic gesture for you. You got his love and him. If what you're saying is true, if he really loves me, why should I only be allowed one? Why do I need to make the sacrifice, so- so he can forget our dates and make me feel like an idiot for trying, why am I the one who has to give everything up for the possibility that he might grace me with his presence?" You pursed your lips together, you wanted to talk to Steve about this problem, alone.

"Y/N please, just come inside. Nancy's got to go, we can talk." He could read you like an open book, you nodded and made your way back up his lawn and walked through the door into his living room without a word, Nancy left the same way. "I am so sorry, okay? Nancy knocked on my door, I invited her in to be polite because she brought that book over. I read the back of it because I was curious and it just sounded like a book that you'd really enjoy, so I did what I always do and I started talking about you. I fully intended to turn up tonight - I even wore the shirt you said you loved and I have flowers on the table in the hall - but I was so wrapped up talking about you that it slipped my mind, y'know. And now you're crying and I feel so shitty because I'm the reason your crying but, baby, I am so sorry. We can watch a movie here if you want, I'll do whatever it takes for you to forgive me." He looked like he was going to cry himself.

Your voice was soft, you wanted to speak quickly so he wouldn't jump to any conclusions. "I'm not going to sit here and watch a movie with you, you made me feel like an idiot waiting for you out there in the cold." His heart broke and there where tears in his eyes. "I want us to work out, Steve, I really do because I love you-"

"-I love you too, baby." You shushed his interjection.

"But, Steve, I need you to know I'm upset and I need you to know why. Because this won't work if you don't pull your own weight, I'm gonna go home now. We'll figure out what we need to do, when we get up tomorrow I think we should talk properly. If we can't figure this out Steve then we're done for and that's on us but I want to at least try. Can we please try?"

Steve bobbed his head up and down. "Yes, please." He followed you in standing up before you made your way to the door, he picked up the book Nancy had brought you and followed after you. When you made it to the door you saw a bouquet of your favourite flower. "Here, it's the book Nancy brought. You should take the flowers too, it would be a waste to just throw them out." He spoke, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly,

"Thank you, Steve." You said as he handed you the items.

"I love you, Y/N" Steve whispered as he wrapped his arms around you - being careful of your full hands.

You hummed before turning your head to face his ear. "I love you too, Steve."

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x y/n #steveharrington #steve stranger things #steve harrington stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things 4

[punemy-spotted]

A Worthy Grave - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Everybody Dies Alone

Pairing: Federal Agent!Ari Levinson x Witch!Reader

Warnings: THIS IS A HORROR FIC, True Crime Elements, Police Procedural Elements, Possibly a little Twin Peaks, Violence, Murder, Death, Flayed Bodies, Ghosts, Ghouls, Violence Against Women, Violence Against Random Hikers, The Woods are Dangerous, Serial Killers, Choking, Gutting, Witchcraft, Blood, Appalachian Gothic Horror, Eventual Smut, Plot with Porn

PLEASE REMEMBER THAT YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THE CONTENT THAT IS BEING PRESENTED, PLEASE DO NOT READ

Chapter Summary: Any place with enough history in it is gonna have ghosts. And sometimes they call your name.

O Mother It is that fear that moves both heart and tongue To draw tight curtains so that we might let the darker hours pass unseen. We hear you call in the deepest night. We hear you call to us in voices that belong to our dead and gone And we know better, but we follow you into The darkened woods all the same.

— Old Gods of Appalachia Episode 31: Season 3 Prologue

Notes: I’M BACK, BITCHES. This fic is a sort of direct sequel to Glory, Amen, so keep that in mind as you read it, except I decided to include MORE CE babes into this fic and may also include other CE babes in the future. This is gonna be more Twin Peaks inspired than anything else, and I hope you enjoy it! I crave feedback, so tell me what you think!

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

Any place with enough history in it is gonna have ghosts, and these mountains in particular — being the oldest mountains in the world — have the type of ghosts that predate the very humanity the spine of this land is afflicted with. The type of ghosts that — if you’re good and careful, if you find the right gaps ‘tween then and now t’slip between, say the right words to invite ‘em into your space — might just come pay you a visit.

Other times, you don’t gotta say shit.

These woods’ll keep you safe, if you keep ‘em safe, your momma would warn you with all the gravity of a stormcloud, wrist-deep in the rich black earth of her garden, digging out root vegetables and other sorts of magic from that treasure trove of life she’d spent more years cultivating than you’d actually been alive, This mountain will sustain you proper, if you sustain it.

These woods are deep and dark an’ full of the type of demons even your daddy’s Bible would have been scared to name, but you are the blood of both an’  your momma feared no man, woman, or haint in these or any mountains.

Which is why, when the specter shows up on your front porch, screamin’ for blood an’ justice, all you do is give her a name and offer her a plate of cornbread she’d never actually be able to eat.

Stops the screaming though.

Trouble with small towns — especially small towns in mountains like yours — is that sometimes, people go missing. People take walks out in the woods, fall into some mineshaft the State forgot to tag or get got by some apex predator lookin’ to prove just how wild God’s own country really is. People get lost, people just plain die. Nine times outta ten, nobody finds the body but the beasts an’ eventually nobody looks, all chalkin’ the loss up to some mountain sacrifice.

Blood for blood, what you make, I will take.

You’re no stranger to death — Hell, Cocke County coroner, you might almost call it your life’s work — but some parts of the job you could do without.

Parts which occasionally — and currently — include a sobbing woman sittin’ translucent an’ bloody in your kitchen.

You call her Janey, on account of the Jane Doe #117 title stamped on the manila folder sittin’ in your office, the one with the photos of a body that probably once belonged to the unsettled soul you’d invited inside and offered a sacrifice of fresh-baked bread. It ain’t her real name, but that’s what the boys over at Park Services are still trynna find out.

Ain’t nothin’ I can do about your body, honey, you tell her, sitting across from the glum-faced woman and trying to decipher the words she means to say between the static that just can’t stop pouring from that hollowed-out mouth.

Your daddy tried teachin’ you the language of the other side, all deep snarls an’ buzzin’ shadows, but sometimes it’s the words that manage to spill out that tell the truth, those last vestiges of humanity bubbling bloody an’ baleful from a tongueless mouth before death takes its last due.

You know her secrets.

You know she wore heels more than hiking shoes. You know she’s not from these mountains, not anywhere near these small towns. You scraped the dirt from under her fingernails and know she fought to survive with everything she had and you know, gut-sinkin’ and stomach churning, that she was not the first body her killer left behind.

You know you could write her name out on your paperwork and give her family some peace, tell ‘em she didn’t run away, tell ‘em she loved ‘em more than anything in the world.

You know you could tell her boyfriend she wasn’t cheating on him, that the man who picked her up and left her here for the beasts to find was someone she thought she could trust. You could tell her momma she was comin’ home from a good job, that she stopped drinkin’ four months ago, that therapy was goin’ well and she was gettin’ better. You could give her daddy a body to bury long before its time, an’ if this were the Holler you grew up in, you know that would be that.

But it ain’t, so nothin’s ever over, and now you’ve gotta figure out how to prove this shit.

You pour yourself a fourth cup of coffee, watching your cornbread offering slowly begin to mold, decay following death as it must always do. You gotta give me something to go off of for the Feds, honey.

You get static in return.

Well. That and the shrill ring of your landline, that old rotary thing you bought from a thrift shop on the other side of the state, kept connected just in case the towers don’t reach you through the early morning mist.

There’s only one goddamn asshole who’d call you on it at six in the goddamn morning.

You ever sleep, Levinson?

Could ask you the same thing, Doc, how long you been up?

Clockwork. The same conversation you’ve had every morning since Ari Levinson transferred from some national park you didn’t give a damn about up north, his drawl about as much a part of your morning routine as coffee and keeping Goatrude out of your vegetable garden.

You want something, Levinson, or you just callin’ to ask about my sleepin’ habits?

What, can’t check in on you, Doc? You can almost hear the casual smugness in his voice, imagining the way he might speak around the cigarette he’s probably smoking at too-early-in-the-morning, I got an update on Jane Doe. You need to get out here.

The grind of gravel tells you just how much choice you have in the matter, your houseguest disappearing the moment she realizes you are not about to be alone for much longer, Jesus, Levinson, you gotta give a lady some warning, you slam down the receiver with a satisfying sound, grabbing the thoroughly-molded cornbread and throwing the plate wholesale into the bin and dumping the rest of your coffee pot into a thermos, listening for the sound of his engine roaring to a stop as you rush through the rest of your morning.

You grab your bag as you leave, stalking your way down the gravel walk and flashing Ari Levinson — parked halfway up the driveway and mercifully blocked further by Goatrude doin’ her best guard dog impression — a hard glare in response to his lazy grin, One day I’m gonna have you arrested for trespassin’, you threaten as you get into the too-fancy-for-a-city-slicker truck he drives.

He doesn’t say a word as you get in, just turns the key in the ignition and with a wink and backs away from Goatrude threatening to headbutt his front bumper.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get to the scene, where your crew and work truck are already waiting, jumpsuit and booties prepared for you to pull on before you’re allowed past that yellow tape and allowed to face the scene before you.

And just what the Hell m’I supposed to do here?

Well, Doc, I’m pretty sure you’d say the next step’s the autopsy, Agent Ari Levinson, Park Services Investigation Division — or whatever the hell that formal title is that he handed off to the poor rookie trying to keep curious hikers away from the yellow tape — saunters up behind you, his cigarette put out so as not to contaminate the crime scene, taking it in with you.

Helluva scene too, with its most pertinent part — for you, right now — currently including a body layin’ pretty as a picture on a flat slab of rock, eyes closed and lips blue, naked as the day it was born.

Which all would’ve been fine, save for the lungs, kidneys, liver and contents of a final meal neatly poured from a stomach into a tupperware container and placed around the meatsack-that-had-once-been-a-human-being like an offering to some great and terrible mortician God.

If you got all the answers, Agent Obvious, you wanna explain to me just how the hell I’m supposed to autopsy a body that’s already been done?

Oh, we got a whole lot better than that. You contemplate turning him into a crime scene with your own gloved hands as he turns, gesturing towards the far side of the slab, just past the edge of a cluster of trees, where two of your staff stand with two large black dogs seated patiently in wait.

Surrounding a lump hidden by a big white sheet.

You can guess what’s underneath that sheet even before they remove it, like every shitty horror film you’ve seen. A chunk of meat vaguely shaped like a human, wearing none of its features, nothing identifiable ‘cept raw. meat.

We’ve been callin’ it Jekyll and Hyde all morning, Ari Levinson tells you, Deputy coroner’s fifty yards back dry heaving, so we—

Y’all brought in the big guns. Don’t tell me — that’s the same body.

Got it in one.

You close your eyes for a moment and take several breaths before looking at the scene once again, trying not to curse yourself or your momma for the way your day’s turned.

You got any more bad news for me, or am I allowed to start gettin’ in there and doing my job?

You try to ignore the way Ari Levinson’s gaze holds yours… and the way Jane Doe #117 shows up from over his shoulder, her hollow-mouthed scream silenced the moment the Agent starts to speak again, We got an ID on last week’s vic.

The thing about names is how much power they hold. Your daddy took his name, stole it off the corpse of a man too broken with hunger to protest. Your momma abandoned hers, becoming more of a title than a name, markin’ herself as matriarch an’ Queen of the verdant kingdom she clawed out from the hands of the ungrateful and the undeserving. Both of ‘em agonized over yours, planting seeds of bloom and prosperity in every theoretical letter before they finally settled on somethin’ proper.

Only for you to change it the moment you were old enough to move outta the family home, disappear to the big city an’ make a name for yourself, choosin’ to hide any connection you had to that Holler you called home, not outta shame but outta knowing.

And now it’s back. Starin’ at you from the ID card of a once-unidentified murder victim who’d spent your morning destroying a plate of your favorite cornbread recipe while her physical form remained in stasis in your morgue.

Rogers.

Bein’ the daughter of the town pastor and the town witch came easy for you, just like it did all your sisters. But outside the boundaries of the Holler where everybody knew to respect Ma an’ Pastor Rogers, you knew your family’s ghosts would be all too happy to eat you right up.

Ari Levinson brings you a cup of coffee as you step outside the cold storage of your morgue, looking a bit like you’d seen a ghost and like you’d suddenly regressed to being afraid of them. Alright, Doc?

Stupid questions ought to deserve stupid answers, but you have the good sense to nod your head and busy your mouth with scalding itself on fresh-brewed water somebody whispered about coffee to. Somebody contact her next of kin? You haven’t gotten used to saying her real name, your real name, so instead you just gesture vaguely at the morgue behind you, hoping the agent will have enough sense to use context clues and get to the point.

Thankfully, he does. Family’s coming down tomorrow. Folks live in North Dakota — got no idea how their girl ended up down here. Dad kept askin’.

You tell ‘em we got no idea?

You really think my bedside manner’s that bad, Doc?

Stupid questions ought to deserve stupid answers.

You continue to have the good sense to not respond, leaving Ari Levinson looking slightly more than insulted as you pretend to have heard your office phone ringing and walk right back into the icebox.

That night, the spirit formerly known as Jane Doe #117 comes with a friend. John Doe #43 is… less pleasant lookin’ than the girl whose ID he had hidden inside his flayed jaw, eyeless face staring at you from your kitchen window and tapping on the glass to be let in.

You don’t. Victims of violence like that come with haints attached to ‘em and you’re not about to invite that into your home. The offering of cornbread is left on your back porch instead, with a light left on so he wouldn’t get lost on his way to a meal that didn’t consist of Cliff bars and spinach tortellini. It doesn’t stop his knocking though, insistin’ that your presence alone is enough reason to get in here. That the door is only a few steps away.

As if you’ll risk getting hurt by this ghost who probably won’t even remember attacking you.

Maybe he’s the one that attacked her, maybe he never even saw her, maybe he just wants the same comfort she must’ve craved during her final minutes on this Earth, or maybe he’s just a figment of your imagination as you ruminate on why the idea of a dead girl sharin’ your old last name — not an uncommon last name either, owned by more than a hundred thousand people in the country alone — bothers you so goddamn much.

Whatever the case, you won’t open the door for him, not now. Not ever. You just keep your charms on you when you step outside and feed the goat before lockin’ up the house and going upstairs to go to bed, biddin’ them both goodnight and, We’ll do our best.

The knock on your front door comes not long after midnight, loud enough it echoes all the way to your bedroom, persistent and steady as a drum.

And when you don’t respond at first, it keeps right on banging on the damn thing until you’re convinced you’ll soon see a fist makin’ a dent through that thin wood as the sound becomes a steady pounding.

Doc! Doc, it’s Ari, you gotta let me in.

You’ve heard of haints makin’ mimics of voices, memories, an’ hell, even whole faces of both the living and the dead, so you know better than to fling that door wide open and let him in to see you in your nightclothes before he’s ever even bought you a damn dinner, but that tone of voice he bears chills you to the bone somehow.

Doc, I know you’re in there, you gotta—

Prove it’s you.

What?

You heard me. Tell me somethin’ only Ari Levinson would know I know about him.

Oh c’mon, Doc. I don’t fuckin’ know. Do you even know my birthday?

Okay, so he’s got a point. You don’t admit that.

Fine, fine. What’s the hurry, couldn’t this have waited ‘til tomorrow?

Ari Levinson looks half-wild as you let him in, glancing outside briefly to see the flayed figure of your most recent unwanted visitor still seated mutely on the porch, cornbread rotted to dust and Goatrude holding him at bay. The Agent either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, eyes fixed on you instead, You got a gun?

Got a gu— the hell sorta shit are you up to, Levinson?!

His lips curl back from his teeth in a sort of grimace before he turns, glancing out your front windows and then back at you, You know you have a skinless corpse on your porch?

Oh, so he noticed.

I’ve been trynna ignore it. That’s besides the point, the fuck are you doing out here and why do I need a gun?!

Personal protection, why else? There’s two dead bodies less than ten miles out from your property, Doc, or did you not notice?

The point. You need him to get to the point, and you might actually kill him if he doesn’t, arms crossed over your chest and trying not to let your scowl get too deep. Please don’t tell me you came all the way over to my house just to tell me to use protection.

No, it’s cuz I figured out how to measure distances, he retorts, before… drawing himself up to his full height and letting his jaw set properly, Fine. You gotta promise not to say I’m crazy first though.

Not crazy, says the crazy motherfucker bangin’ on my front door at one in the goddamn morning. You take in the seriousness of his glare for a moment, processing how many times you’ve actually seen him be serious before, Fine. Fine, I got a skinless guy on my porch anyway. Nothin’s gonna beat that.

Famous last words, you know, as you head to your kitchen to start up coffee. There’s no sleep to be had for you tonight.

So you’re tellin’ me you’re the one who found this morning’s corpse?

You watch him, stirring about three tablespoons worth of honey into your coffee in a vain attempt to use the added sugar in your caffeine to stay awake, watch the way his eyes glance askance like he could hide the gears turning in his head, coming up with an excuse for his confession that doesn’t sound as insane as he feels.

You got no idea, you almost tell him, but it’s almost funnier to watch him sweat.

I was investigating a hunch on… the girl, he’s as used to calling her Jane Doe as you are, the name slipping from his mind.

You don’t tell him you appreciate it it.

A hunch. What, you got an informant I don’t know about?

He looks sheepish, which is new for a man you didn’t know had any concept of shame, I told you not to call me crazy, Doc.

So you did. Fine. Just go over this again for me — you went out lookin’ for clues on the Jane Doe cuz you just… thought you missed somethin’, four miles away from where they found her body?

I said I went to the crime scene, Doc. And then I walked for four miles… on a hunch.

You’re going to need more coffee.

Well. Gotta hand it to you, Levinson, you weren’t wrong on that one.

See? Told you. Found the body, but knew I wasn’t gonna be able to justify why the fuck I was out at the ass-crack of dawn, four miles away from the scene and following a hunch so…

So you just got lucky with the hikers comin’ up the way?

He nods, dragging his tongue along the inside of his cheek while he chews over what to say next, looking both thoughtful and displeased, Figured I’d be investigating the scene anyway, any bootprints I had could be explained later.

You have to hand it to him, he did think it out. You sit back, listening to him continue, go on about calling you to the scene — helps to call your partner out, you suppose — and then going back to both scenes to figure out the connection between the dead girl and the skinless meatsack.

Figured that if it worked once, it’d work for Flayed Doe over there, so I just… walked. Followed the hunch, and ended up here—

The Flayed fucker’s been here since sundown — it happens.

You eye him, watching the way he doesn’t react to your casual explanation of why there’s a skinless corpse on your front porch, measuring his words, letting coffee scald your tongue and pretending it doesn’t bother you none as you consider how much you should believe him.

Or how much of his own grave you should let him dig.

You’re pretty calm about the dead guy, Ari’s voice is halfway to an accusation, watching you right back as he processes, measures you up, weighs the way you glance past his shoulder to the thing still knocking at your window and the girl still hiding from the agent in your kitchen.

You don’t answer, not right away, grabbing the biscuit jar and half-slamming it down on the table between the two of you instead, figuring you’ll both need something to fill your bellies on top of the coffee while you so something close to talkin’ about… this place, an’ whatever  the hell it’s doin’.

You’re not the only one telling lies, Levinson.

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x fem!reader #ari levinson #ari levinson imagine #chris evans fic #chris evans imagine #chris evans #marvel fanfic #writing #in which tessa finally writes something #chris evans characters

[lesbiansoncaffiene]

Thinking about the injuries Neil sustained at the hands of Lola/his father

TW: traumatic injury (burns), torture

Like burns are the most traumatic injury your body can sustain so imagine how damaging that would be?? I’ve seen a few fics where Neil loses feeling in his hands because of the burns and I totally agree with that. Especially with how cruel we know Lola was, she didn’t stop for anything. Neil’s skin was probably a lot more damaged than we were led to believe

(Especially since A) Neil is an unreliable narrator and B) he probably couldn’t process the pain after a while)

Okay so imagine Aaron, in all his holier-than-thou med student glory, knowing these things, and seeing Neil’s burns. I know Aaron is apathetic but if he has the compassion to be a doctor he has to have some sort of compassion for Neil, whether he hates him or not.

Imagine Abby knowing the full extent of the damage long before Neil does and not having the heart to tell him. Imagine her knowing when she wraps the burns on the very end of Neil’s fingers and he doesn’t even flinch. Imagine Neil only figuring it out sometime later when he breaks a knuckle and doesn’t feel a thing.

Imagine Neil begrudgingly, angrily, going to Aaron later that night and asking him what the hell he needs to do. Imagine Aaron throwing a cold pack at him and telling him he won’t ever regain feeling in his fingertips but he’ll be fine. Imagine Neil going up to the roof and Andrew not even lighting a cigarette because he knows Neil needs time to process this.

Imagine Neil pinching and pulling at the ends of his fingers as a nervous tick for years because he can’t feel much of anything. Imagine it gets frustrating. Imagine a breakdown one day after college from Neil to Andrew because he just wants to feel it when Andrew holds his hand.

Imagine Kevin getting it more than anyone thought, because his nerves were damaged when he broke his hand. Because he regained feeling eventually, but Neil never will. He ices Neil’s hands when it hurts and makes him take his Ibprofen and gets Jean to give Neil the “you’ll-never-get-better-of-you-don’t-try” talk over the phone in French when he doesn’t.

Imagine Andrew using matches for his cigs for the rest of his life because Neil can’t stand lighters. Andrew, not putting any candles on Neil’s birthday muffins (cause he’s a weirdo), always diligently checking the fire alarms to make sure they work in every home they live in.

Imagine it gets a little easier, but it’s always an obstacle Neil has to operate around when he joins pro teams. Imagine he draws over his scars sometimes when he’s bored. Imagine Allison drawing city skylines and jungles and snowflakes over his scars when she’s bored.

Just… i can’t stop thinking about it

#I’m taking a fire safety course rn in case u couldn’t tell #aftg #all for the game #all for the gay #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil #aaron minyard #kevin day #the foxes #palmetto state foxes #allison reynolds #Abby all for the game #injures #Neil I’m fine Josten #also idk how nerves work so some info may be subject to a WebMD check

[the-sixxth-sinner]

To: my future self

Fandoms: Mötley Crüe

Characters: Nikki Sixx

Word count: 552

Warnings: death mention, depressive talk in general

A/N: Merry Christmas :)

(special thanks to @awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands for the inspiration <3)

Dec 23rd, 1987

Hey Sixxdog,

I'm not sure how you'll find this letter, if you'll find this letter at all, but I guess I needed to yell at the void for a second, and you’re the only one that could understand me.

How do I put this? I don't think we're gonna make it. 

My… our… lifestyle is just not sustainable and I’m afraid that soon we’ll crash and burn just like our dreams and the dreams of millions of our fans.

I would never admit it, but I can’t stop thinking about what the fortune teller told me last night. Li’s words, “Nikki, they’re never wrong”, are still echoing in my brain, like daggers jamming into the back of my head, and there’s a sensation in my chest, a cold hand grasping my heart, that just won’t leave.

Let’s face it: I look, feel and act like death is at my doorstep, so my days are numbered. When I look at myself in the mirror I see someone who’s been through hell and is never coming back. I feel empty, cold, dead inside, I feel like I don’t have a soul anymore (if I ever had one)... I feel like a fucking zombie and it gets worse and worse with every day that goes by. I behave like an asshole with my mates and every time I open my damn mouth, I instantly regret it and I don’t even have the guts to say sorry…

I am 29 years old and I fear that it’s too late for me to find true love… Everyone in the band has a chick except for me… And if I’ll ever find the girl of my dreams and start a family with her, what example would I be for my children? I’d just end up like my father…

I’m not gonna lie to you, me, I’m scared of dying. I’m scared shitless. All this time I kinda wished that death would finally take me, but hell, now that it seems that my time has come, I don’t want it to be. I just… I just need some time to get my shit together and then… and then… Ugh, I don’t know, I feel like I already wasted that opportunity completely, back in ‘85, it has all gone downhill since then. But now… if… if I die (there, I said it), I have the feeling that I won’t be back.

And to be honest with you, I don’t think I would want to come back.

So, this is my goodbye.

Goodbye Tommy, you’ve been a good friend to me. The best friend I ever had, in fact.

Goodbye Vince, I know we didn’t always get along, but I’m gonna miss you on the other side.

Goodbye Mick, thank you for all the support, despite the fact that I never showed you how much you meant to me.

Goodbye future self, I wish I could meet you one day, you seem like a cool dude. But I know that’ll never happen, so it’s kinda weird to say goodbye to someone you never met, especially if that someone is yourself.

Goodbye to all my friends, to our manager, to our producers, to Fred, to Karen, to Vanity… and to all my fans.

Please keep going for me.

Nikki

#sinner writings #motley crue #mötley crüe #nikki sixx #motley crue fanfiction #very short piece that i needed to get out of my head as soon as ale posted that letter for nikki's bd #its not my finest work but i like it anyway #can you feel the christmas cheer in the air? yeah that was me. i did that while i was writing this

[queen-of-deans-booty]

I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here: Final Part

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: canon angst and violence

Summary: Sam is suffering the effects of the Trials, and it’s up to you and Dean to save him no matter the cost.

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

x

You make sure no nurse or doctor comes in while Ezekiel is examining Sam. He places his hand on Sam's chest and he looks inside to see how much damage he has sustained since stopping the trials.

"Are you still able to cure things after the fall?" Dean asks.

"Yes, I should be, but he's so weak."

Dean's phone rings, and he answers it when he doesn't recognize the number.

"Who is this?" His face changes into something you don't recognize, and he motions for you to come outside with him. You bring your kids with you because you don't trust this angel around them. "Cas, what the hell is going on?"

"Castiel? Where are you?" you ask once Dean puts him on speakerphone.

"Metatron tricked me. It wasn't angel trials. It was a spell. I wanted you to know that," he sighs.

You can tell in his voice that he feels so bad about all of this.

"Okay. That's great, but we've got ourselves a problem."

"What's wrong?"

"It's Sam. He's--"

Dean cuts himself off because he can't bring himself to say the words.

"He's dying, Castiel. At first, he was okay, and now he's not. We've been praying to you all night. Where are you?"

"Metatron took my grace. I'm no longer an angel." He gives you a moment to process this before continuing. "Don't worry about me. What are you doing for Sam?"

"Uh, everything I can. There's actually another angel in there working on him right now," Dean says.

"What other angel?"

"His name is Ezekiel. Is he a good one?" you ask.

"Ezekiel. Yes. He's a good soldier. He should be able to help until I get there."

"No, that's not an option. Do not come here," Dean shuts him down. "There are angels out there. They came here looking for you, and they're pissed."

"Not all of them, Dean. Some are just looking for direction. Some are just lost."

"What are you talking about?" you ask.

"I met one. I think I can help her."

"No, Cas, I know you want to help, okay? I do, but helping angels is what got you in trouble in the first place. Now, I'm begging you, for once, look out for yourself. Until we figure out what the hell is going on, trust nobody."

"And do what? Just abandon them all?" Castiel sighs.

"Castiel, listen to what we're saying. There are thousands of angels out there looking for you, and you're human now. That means you bleed, eat, sleep, and all of the things you never had to worry about before."

"I'm fine, Y/N."

You're about to argue some more when the hospital starts shaking as if there is an earthquake.

"What the hell is going on?"

"What's happening?" Castiel asks.

"We have more company. Please, just go to the Bunker and we will figure it out together, okay?"

Dean hangs up the phone, and both of you rush into Sam's room.

"Is that one of yours?" you ask about the hospital shaking.

"Yes, they're trying to secure a vessel. We need to move."

"No, if we move him, he dies."

"If we stay, we could all die."

"Not if we ward the room," you suggest.

Dean grabs the first marker he sees and starts writing Enochian symbols on the walls to keep out the angels trying to come for him. Soon, he has this entire place locked down with symbols so that they can't get inside even if they wanted to.

"So, as long as these are up, no angels are coming in, right? No one's coming out. Are you gonna be okay with these?" Dean asks the angel.

"I'll manage." Ezekiel winces and flinches from a noise you and Dean can't hear. "They're here."

"Okay, you two stay in here and take care of Sam. I'm going to evacuate this hospital. Do not open this door for anyone but me," you say in determination.

"Let me go with you."

"No, Dean, stay here and protect our kids." You turn to Ezekiel with narrowed eyes. "Save Sam."

You kiss Dean quickly before slipping out of the room. The windows on either side of you shatter into tiny pieces, causing the glass to fly toward you. You run down the hallway and protect your face, but every window you pass explodes and sends glass your way. You reach the fire alarm and pull it so that everyone can evacuate the entire hospital.

"Everybody out! Now! Get out!" you yell at everyone.

You rush to the nurses' station and see a woman on the ground. You hold your hand out for her to take, and you help her to her feet.

"Are you okay? You need to get out of here."

You turn to see a man in a farmer's outfit stalking toward you with an angel blade in his hand. You step between him and the woman to protect her, but before you can do anything, the woman punches your head from behind and grabs your throat. She lifts you off the ground and glares at you.

"I'd rather not."

You smirk at her just as your eyes glow bright blue, and you send a blast of magic out from all sides of your body. Both angels are knocked off their feet, and you take off running toward Sam's room which is still warded. The female angel uses her powers on you, and you're slammed into the wall to your right. You groan in pain when your face connects with the shards of glass protruding from the frame of the window.

"Let me make this easy for you," she says as both angels walk toward you. "Tell me where Castiel is, or Sam's gonna wish he were dead."

"Good luck getting past the warding."

"Don't worry, we will." The male angel breaks the glass around a fire axe, and you know he's going to use it by breaking down the door. The female angel hauls you to your feet with fire in her eyes. "When we do, I'm going to strip off all his skin along with that husband of yours and your kids, and you're going to watch."

"Bite me, bitch," you growl.

The female angel punches you to the ground, and you laugh at her attempt to intimidate you. You turn and smile at her with bloody teeth, but you're not fazed by the injuries. You spit out the blood and go to stand up, but the female angel moves to kick you in the stomach.

You grab her leg and slam your elbow down on her kneecap, effectively breaking it. She falls to the ground in a cry of pain, and you crawl over to her and place your hand on her forehead. Your magic kills the angel inside, and her eyes and mouth shine bright with white light. Once she is dead, you look over at the male angel who is trying to break the door down with the axe.

The angel sees his dead friend on the floor, and he figures if he kills you, then he can get inside the room without anyone stopping him. He yanks the axe out of the broken door and stalks over to you.

"Wait, wait, wait," you pant, and he pauses. "I'll tell you where Castiel is. I just have one question for you."

"Ask," he glares.

"If Heaven is locked, then where do you go when I do this?"

With your magic, you create the angel-banishing symbol before slamming your hand onto the symbol. The angel's eyes widen as he is banished from the hospital hallway. When the white light fades, you're alone in the hallway. Joanna's cries can be heard from Sam's room, so you scramble to your feet and enter his room.

"Baby, I'm okay." Sam's monitors are beeping very loudly, and you know that he is dying quickly. "What the hell is happening?"

"This just started. With the warding, I'm afraid I'm weaker than I thought," Ezekiel sighs. Dean grabs the same marker and starts crossing off the symbols to give the angel his strength back. "I'm so sorry, Dean and Y/N."

"No, we had a deal! I fight, you save! Save him, please," you beg.

"I would if I could. I'm afraid it's too late."

"Are you kidding me? Are you saying there's no way to save my brother's life?"

"No good ways."

"What are the bad ones?" You and Dean make eye contact, and he sighs. "We're out of options here, Y/N. Good or bad, let me hear them."

"I cannot promise, but there is a chance I can fix your brother from the inside."

"From the inside? Do you mean possession? You want to possess Sam?" you gasp.

"I told you, no good options."

"The only way he can is if Sam says yes. How can he say yes if he won't wake up?" you wonder.

"Sam would never let an angel possess him. He'd rather die," Dean sighs.

Ezekiel, despite the pain he is in, gets to his feet. He waves his hands over the monitors which silences them.

"I'll give you two some time alone with him."

He starts to walk toward the door, but before he can leave, Dean stops him.

"Wait... If I consider this, and I mean consider it, I need you to tell me how bad he is."

Ezekiel walks over to Sam and places a hand on his forehead before touching Dean's. You place your hand on Dean's shoulder so that whatever Ezekiel is doing to Dean, he'll do to you. Much like the last time you went into Sam's head, you're transported from the hospital room into a cabin of sorts.

You're inside Sam's head, and he's not alone. You and Dean walk down the hallway and peek inside the living room to see Sam talking to Death himself.

"I must admit, when I heard it was you I had to come myself."

"I bet you get off on this," Sam scoffs.

"Perhaps, but not in the way you assume. I consider it to be quite the honor to be collecting the likes of Sam Winchester. I try so hard not to pass judgment at times like this, but well done."

"I need to know one thing." Sam takes Death's silence as a sign to continue. "If I go with you, can you promise that this time it will be final? That if I'm dead, I stay dead? Nobody can reverse it, nobody can deal it away, and nobody else can get hurt because of me."

"I can promise that."

Ezekiel removes you and Dean from his head since he doesn't have enough juice to keep you in there. Sam is ready to die. He is going to die, and his nieces won't get the chance to get to know him.

"What the hell are you doing, Sam?" Dean sighs.

"Dean, if you don't want him to die, then Ezekiel has to do this. It's your call. He's your brother," you say softly.

"How will it work?"

"Mutual benefit, I suppose. I heal Sam while healing myself."

"What happens when he is healed?" you ask.

"I leave. It's the best of a bad situation."

"Even if I said yes, it doesn't mean shit. Sam will never say yes, not to you."

"He would say yes to you," Ezekiel says. "All I need is a yes from you, and let me do the rest."

"Yes."

Ezekiel closes his eyes as he concentrates on talking to Sam. You're not sure what he's doing to him, but before you know it, the angel is expelled from his former host and into Sam.

"Come on, girls. We're leaving," you say knowing Sam will wake up.

The man who used to have Ezekiel in him collapses to the ground, and at the same time, Sam wakes up. In order to escape and not have to deal with the authorities you know are coming, you need to leave right now.

As soon as Sam is safe to walk on his own, you three escape with the kids before the authorities can come. The doctors rush back into the hospital to tend to their patients, but they don't pay you any mind.

"So? How's it look in there?" Dean asks.

"Not good. There is much work to be done."

"He's going to wake up, right?" you ask.

"He will."

"So, when he does, is he going to feel you in there?"

"He will not feel me, no. There is no reason for Sam to know I'm in here at all."

You and Dean look at each other in confusion as you reach the car.

"You have to be joking. He needs to know you're there."

"What will he do if you tell him he is possessed by an angel? Without his acceptance, Sam can eject me at any time, especially with me so weak. If Sam does eject me, he will die."

"Fine," Dean sighs, "we will keep this a secret for right now. Only until Sam is strong enough to be on his own. As for him being in a hospital, I'll have to figure something out."

"I can erase it all if you like. He will not remember any of this."

You hate lying to Sam especially when he doesn't trust you and Dean completely anyway. You know he will be pissed about this, but you don't have any other choice. You need Sam. Your kids need him. Dean needs his brother.

After everyone gets into the car, Dean makes his way back to the bunker. It's well into the night when you get to the halfway point, and that's when Sam wakes up. He is not Ezekiel, but Sam.

"Where are we?" Sam gasps, jerking awake.

"Whoa, Sam, take it easy," you say from the back seat. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Like I slept for a week."

"Well, try a day. You've been out since the sky was spitting angels."

"What the hell happened?" he groans.

"What do you remember?"

"The church, feeling like shit, the angels falling, and that's it."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah. Have you been driving around with me passed out for a day?"

"Oh, I mean, I stopped and let a few Japanese tourists take some pictures. Nobody got too handsy," Dean jokes. "I knew you'd pull through. I meant what I said at the church. You're capable of anything, Sam, and hell if you didn't prove me right."

"Good," Sam nods. "We got work to do."

You sigh and lean your head on the back of the seat. Something's telling you having this angel inside Sam isn't the best idea.

x

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