#old drafts cleansing

[universalcas]

You were a soldier, don't you remember?

#endvverse-stuff #old drafts cleansing #castiel #spn graphic #casedit

[namazunomegami]

Atonement

Pairing: Geto Suguru x gn!reader

Synopsis: How can you cleanse yourself from the sin that has been tainting you since your attempt to escape? The answer is easy: walk on barefoot for him, suffer some misery, risk your health for him, open yourself up for him and you can earn his forgiveness.

CW: canon compliant, established relationship, toxic and complicated dynamics, religious symbolism, porn with feelings, Geto is a manipulative ass how surprising, gaslighting, m!receiving oral, fingering, non-consensual edging, good old unprotected sex + creampie

WC: 5.3k

Credits: my lovely @notveryrussian who worked so hard to get this fic proofreaded. Ngl they deserve all the praise and respect because we lost literal pages from the already edited draft because windows is crap and they had to start over again. Take one big break darl, you deserve it 💕

Song rec: mythical creature by pregnant whale pain was my main inspiration during writing but i think tumblr dot com is not ready yet to listen to an unknown hungarian avantgarde metal band while reading porn lmao. Maybe i'll drop the acoustic version later.

A/N: Here is part 1 in case if you missed it. I think you need to know what happened to completely understand the buildup and have a general idea about their relationship. This fic is probably my fave I’ve written so far, a special lil brainchild of mine. These two are living in my mind rent free with all their lore and they'll never let me go.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated 💕

Minors don't interact unless you want me to stand outside your house at 3 am with a pitchfork

It was very hard to explain to your family what happened to you. The worry which they approached you with, especially Mimiko and Nanako just stirred a weird sense of guilt in your chest. The twins even offered to help you out with chores, eagerly telling you to rest, let your body heal. Your heart shattered to pieces in that moment, weeping endlessly with fat, salty tears. Your precious darling girls, so considerate of you, so caring, their hearts filled with everlasting gratitude. And you wanted to leave them. You felt like a piece of shit of a parental figure, obviously.

Days passed as if nothing had ever happened. Even in your private moments with Geto, the issue was never brought up. He took care of your wounds, of course, but your escape attempt wasn’t a topic of conversation at all. You swept it under the rug.

Which means it was only a question of time until he was going to wield it against you.

“Leave the scabs alone.” he reprimands you softly, dragging your wrist away from them. The hot water softened your scars, making them itchy, easy to pick away at them. But Geto is so thoughtful for looking after you like some kind of crazy mother hen, right? Even sitting in the tub behind you.

He takes hold of the edge, stepping out of the tub swiftly. The water suddenly drops around you, goosebumps dot your skin from the sudden touch of the moistened air as he hides that broad, sun-kissed form of his beneath a bathrobe. You ache for a bit of peace, a bit of me-time, but since the so-called “accident”, he just couldn’t stop himself from keeping an eye on you constantly.

Your hand dances along the surface of the water, bunching the bubbles together into various shapes, like they’re islands. Like you’re a young god, decorating the plane you’ve created. But his outstretched palm appearing in your vision disturbs your creative process.

“Come, I’ll take the stitches out.”

Compared to when your wound was sutured, cutting out the thread is a relatively quick process. Especially with his competency. The tweezer lifts and holds the knot, as he severs the thread with a pair of scissors and pulls it from your flesh before he moving on to the next. It’s uncomfortable, not in a way that it hurts, but it makes your skin crawl and your bones bend. An overall disgusting feeling. But when it’s over, it does feel better. And knowing him, you wonder if it’s purposeful or not.

“Must you make it painful?” you complain, thumb pressing down on the closed, marred skin. For the wrong reasons though, but you can freely complain.

“I didn’t intend to hurt you.” his voice is soft like silk, but not without a sharp edge in it, slowly unfurling, like the jaws of a venus flytrap. “I just wanted to teach you a lesson.”

You glare at him, your eyes piercing him like a dagger.

“Me? I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

This… was a bit too far, you must admit.

You storm out of the bathroom, like you could get away from the conversation.

“Go on, speak.” his words echo through the walls of the bedroom, making your movements halt immediately. You glance up at the window, faced with his reflection as he leans against the doorframe. “What should I learn from you? That you’re not afraid to run? To put your life in unnecessary danger?”

A long sigh leaves through your nostrils.

“If it comforts you, then yes, I realized that I had made a dumb decision.”

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s standing right behind you. Looming over you, shrouding you like an evil trickster spirit.

“I must admit I enjoyed your little attempt…” his palms are heavy on your shoulders, just like his words echoing close to shell of your ear. “Catching you, watching your resolves crumble, the raw terror plastered on your face…” the way his voice caresses you is just like the way he would hold a blade right against your throat, pressing down on the pulsing veins that could be cut open so easily. Like needles slowly being inserted into your ear canals. Eventually it softens, getting more serious and chiding. “But you did scare me. Have you ever thought about what would’ve happened if I didn’t go after you?”

You’d die, you would definitely die. Bleeding out amidst the leaves and grass, letting the frosty night bite you tense and weak. All alone in the dark.

Hold on…

You wouldn’t be injured if he hadn’t frightened you in the first place.

Did he just… no, it can’t be.

He slowly walks away from you, and you hear the bed creak under his weight. The choking feeling finally lifts from your throat. You turn towards one of the incense burners, already filled, it merely needs to be lit. But you do it slowly, just for the sake of appearing busy, to not feel obligated to carry on with the conversation.

But you should make peace with him before he does. He’ll make you face all of your mistakes and their consequences, if not outright making you suffer because of them. Rub all of them into your face until you have no choice but to plead for forgiveness.

It’s not easy, but you open your mouth. The scent of sandalwood lowers your guards, helping you be honest and brings forth the thoughts you’ve been trying to hide for a long time.

“Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. And I wonder even more about that if we’ll fail before reaching our goal. Fail spectacularly. Because we want to do the impossible.”

“What is exactly the right thing? Being selfless? Forgetting all about our grudges and letting the world trample all over us? Or being selfish and crushing anyone under our feet to keep each other safe?”

Like an elastic band being strained for far too long, you snap. Luckily, the bronze lid of the incense burner holds out under your grasp.

“It’s too fucking late for moral arguments! Can’t you speak to me more directly for once? Instead of hiding behind your… carefully crafted scenarios that only prove your point.”

You should have avoided looking at him. At your serpent, who made you sin, who was cursed alongside you, your serpent who devoured your beloved Adam. You yearned for the remains, sitting in the bottomless pit of his stomach.

But you swore those remains spoke to you, through layers of flesh, scales, and deception. Soft and calm like a light summer breeze.

“Do you have doubts about me, darling? Are you giving up on me?”

The question breaks you, evaporating all of your anger and resentment in a flash. Devoid of any playful tone or hidden meanings, so raw that it takes hold of your heart and squeezes it so tight that it couldn’t possibly beat anymore.

You know how he twists the truth, striking right into the softest parts of you. He feeds you poison – yet you swallow it right down every single time.

“Faith has no zenith, my dear.” you answer, low and sweet, like you wanted to comfort him. The lid on the incense burner closes, giving you enough time to build up the courage to approach him. You weave your words carefully, in such fashion that it can be interpreted in multiple ways. If he switched just one little word, he’d immediately gain more insight into what’s really been weighing on your heart. “There’s no such peak we can reach on which we can stagnate forever. Faith sometimes wavers, sometimes we question our beliefs. Sometimes we’re unsure if our prayers are heard.” you get down on your knees before him, taking his hand into yours, giving him a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “But I do want to have faith in you.”

His features visibly soften. Heavy lids close in relief, and you feel his thumb brushing along your knuckles.

This is your chance! Go on, there’s no time more perfect than this to try to convince him.

“We should really get away from the temple.” you start with an almost resigned sigh, but your excitement soon starts to show. “Just for a few days. Manami will handle the followers while we leave for the countryside, or an island. We can bring the girls even.”

A faint glimmer in his eyes tells you his answer is going to disappoint you.

“They don’t know about the girls, but they certainly know about you.” he reminds you sternly. “The higher ups want us dead and the last time I offered to protect someone, they ended up getting killed.”

His voice is faint, almost shaky. He rarely talks about the death of Riko. And if he ever brings her up in a conversation, you know he means it.

The heavy lid above his eyes drops, violet irises hiding behind his lashes, averted from you. The words coming out of him are barely above a whisper, like his lips are made from lead, like forming the words is a tiring task because they’re so heavy, and filled with something violently torturing him.

“This is a risk I’m not willing to take again. Not even for you. Especially for you.”

You feel something pooling on your waterline. Translucent pearls of tears appear so involuntarily when you see him like this. Sometimes you do want to hurt him, but when you see him in pain, it torments you even worse.

“I’m not asking you to take risks for me. I never did. But you should take some for you. You could use some respite.” you lace your fingers with his. It brings you a strange kind of comfort how your hand just loses itself in his, but it’s yours that looks more lively and powerful. Like it’s you what keeps him together. As if without you he would shatter into pieces. “You take on an awful lot of responsibilities, I think sometimes more than you’re capable of handling.”

Affection sweeps through his features as he caresses your head, from the roots of your strands to the thick bone of your jaw. A lonely thumb brushing along from your cheekbone to the lobe of your ear. And there’s nothing you can do, only stare at him, wide-eyed with reverence, like he’s an ethereal being.

“This is not your cross to bear.”

He wanted to ease your concerns, but you’re much more stubborn than that. You won’t stand there, at a safe distance, watching him drag himself to his Calvary, whipped and crowned with thorns. You’ll push through the crowd, smash them to bits just to reach him and offer your veil to wipe his face. A thousand times, as many times as he needs.

“Of course it is, what do you expect from me? Unlike…” No, don’t say names, do not compare yourself to certain figures in your past and the way they treated him. “I’m worried about you, for no other reason than I genuinely care about you. That’s why I want you to put our plans to aside - let’s unwind a little, recharge. Before all of this drives us insane.”

He deliberately avoids answering, your concern grows and grows like vicious vine. Is this too much to ask for? A small moment of normalcy can’t be granted to you? What are the two of you really? Idols of worship, if not gods at this point because your sheep do regard you as such. But can’t gods long for a visit amongst mortals? Can’t they shed their divine status? You could, but maybe, before he’d let you leave, he’ll feed you pomegranate seeds.

Would you eat them again? Of course you would. Even if you fight and snarl a little beforehand. Because love is the death of duty, and of a peaceful mind, of comprehensive decisions. Love is so mystified, shrouded in the illusion of an immortalized existence, just like death. Love is, indeed, death.

Your palms cup his face, his skin radiates warmth through you. The warmth of the evening sun that makes the sky bleed with the prettiest colors you can imagine. Your touch slowly encourages him to look into your eyes, finding a strange kind of determination and care mixed with your obvious worry. A Magdalene dwells within your gaze, who already washed her prophet’s feet with tears and dried them with her hair before he starts his last journey to Golgotha.

“I told you a million times, if you fall too deep into your misery, when you feel like you can’t come back to the surface on your own, let me know, so I can pull you out. Or let me know so I can go after you. And we’ll drown together.”

All those little pacts and vows you made during the years echo through you. Even the first one, the most ancient of them all, when it was still easy to hide your concerns behind your techniques.

I’ll keep an eye on you.

It’ll keep an eye on you.

You lean closer, foreheads and the tips of your noses touching. Eyes closing in almost perfect synchronicity.

“Promise me, Suguru. Promise me again.”

You wait and wait, until his warm breath brushes your skin like fine silk, like a feather.

“I promise.”

You sigh in relief. It hurts, it hurts so much. There’s so much place in your heart for him to dwell in. He owns it and he won’t give it back. Ever.

You only wanted a chaste kiss, but a special type of hunger wakes deep below your navel. You taste his words, you swallow them down, nipping them from his lips. You look for the rest of them, his thoughts that hadn’t been formed into words yet, the rest of the sentence, you search for it with your tongue inside his mouth.

You grab onto the sheets, trying to push yourself up. Like you could overpower him, like you could battle against him. To have him laid out on the mattress, defeated. But he stops your advances with a palm resting on your shoulder, gently pushing you away.

“You’re not healed yet.” he whispers, truly concerned.

“Then I’ll be on top, I don’t care.” you oppose breathily, your fingers trying to pry his robe open.

“The cut on your hand could re-open if we’re not careful.”

Oh, how you adore him when he’s so tender with you, but now, this is the last thing you want. You want to bare your teeth and go right for the throat.

“Then you’ll stitch me up again.” There’s a playful edge in your voice, and you kiss him again with the same curve of a smile while he lets you crawl on top of him.

And he smiles against you too, delighted by your eagerness. You, trying to eat him up, digest him - he’s just enjoying you and the feast you’re having. Taking everything from you. He only wants to capture you, to cage you in his hold. He’s kneading your flesh leisurely and humming into your mouth contently, almost lazily.

In the crooks of his body, you find your religion.

The sharp line of his jaw, the tendons of his neck, the hollow caverns around his collarbone. But your mouth carefully avoids the scars slashing through his chest, after all those years, it still pains him when the lightly coloured, textured skin gets touched. As if these lips of yours and your aimlessly trailing fingers were the same blades, penetrating the flesh again and again.

There’s not a morsel of him that you weren’t intimately familiar with. In a way that rivals how much you know about yourself. And what you know even better is that how can you venerate them, dote on them, adore, and idolize with such devotion you could anger all deities created by man and make them scream blasphemy on you.

You take his cock in your hand, teasingly working your palms around him. Pumping it, stroking your thumb along the underside to make his breath hitch. His dick grows beneath your hands, getting harder and heavier. The first beads of precum get smeared along the length by your skillful fingers.

“You know you don’t have to- “but you cut him off while settling between his legs.

“Just relax and let me do all the work.” your response comes out a bit more deadpan than planned. “You deserve it once in a while.”

And with that, you wrap your lips around him, enveloping him in warmth and wetness, your tongue slowly swirling around the head. His thighs twitch, more precum oozes into your waiting mouth as the muscle between your teeth works eagerly. You give him a few, gentle sucks, slurping up the mixture of your own saliva and his arousal. Between ragged breaths, he reminds you to breathe through your nose as you take more and more of his length. You relax your jaw, your fingers tense around the base of his cock and you’re trying as hard as you can to defeat the urge to gag. When you fit all of him inside your mouth, you empty your lungs and give him a harder suck, hard enough to make you cheeks hollow and his chest heave. As your free hand is occupied with kneading his balls between your fingers and knuckles, a moan bursts out of him.

The sound boosts your confidence, filling you with a wicked kind of playfulness. The kind of wicked that makes you pull back your tongue a little, as to not keep your teeth hidden. You drag them along his sensitive, pulsing underside, balancing the pressure between pleasure and pain. Like you could prove to him that you’re ready to bite back, that this is the only moment when he can’t control you, that he shouldn’t underestimate you.

And just as if he could read your thoughts, his hand goes for your head, fingers getting lost between your strands. But he’s not as cruel as to push you down on him, instead he guides you, increases the rhythm that you’re working with. Steady and firm, but not too fast. You earn yourself his praises, soft curses pitched higher than his normal voice.

This is what real worship looks like.

When you feel the muscles in his thighs and stomach tensing up, you stop. You emerge from the space between his legs, wiping your lips clean and admiring your work. All that flushed skin blooming in pink on his chest and face. You move, trying to get into a new position, settling your calves right next to hips. You start aligning yourself with his cock to finally start grinding on him.

He sits up and traps you with an arm coiling around your waist.

“Since when were you so reckless?”

His hand creeps around the apex of your thighs. A finger barely brushes along your slit. By adding another digit, he spreads your folds, finding hot, smooth, slippery flesh.

“I would’ve prepped myself.” that’s all you can say in your defense.

Fingertips circle your hole, applying a bit of pressure, checking how much you’ve loosened up. He invades you slowly as your lungs empty, the hardened skin on his fingers stroking and massaging your sweet spots before he starts working you open.

You wrap your arms around him, slowly undoing his bun to have something to grab onto as you jolt, as your bones melt, as your brows furrow in bliss. The moans coming from you are breathy and tender, and you hide them in his strands. He twists his fingers inside you, stretching your warm muscles further, making your back arch and you press your hardened nipples to his chest. Your essence engulfs his knuckles, clear and sticky like honey.

The heel of his palm settles right against your clit and you shamelessly grind on it. Your mewls pass over his ears as he’s nuzzling into the crook of your neck, nipping at the skin of a faint scar. But you resist giving in, you stop him, telling him that’s enough, but in reality you just want your control back. Take back the lead and revel in it.

And somehow he obeys, laying back into the sheets.

You slip out of your robe, showing yourself fully. The bruises on your skin can finally bathe in the dim lamplight, painting the complexion of your sides, shoulders, and upper arm in different shades of blue and purple, like paint on bare canvas. Like the night sky carrying storm clouds, like you’re rotting, decomposing. You find a twisted, perverted joy in the fact that he must be seeing them for the whole time.

“Slowly, slowly.” he murmurs softly as you’re pushing the head of his cock inside you. “There’s no need to rush.” Trimmed nails trail up and down from the flesh of your thighs to your bruised sides. Tender and slow like a ghost, goosebumps pepper your skin from the tickling feeling. “I’m already yours.” He purrs and your heart flutters.

And there’s so, so much pride in you that only you can render him to this state. Too powerful for the world to bear him, capable to burn this plane to ruins, defying the barriers between a mortal and a god - or something way worse than that. Maybe you should receive twice the respect from your herd, for being the only person who can enslave him in this way, that only you can have this sort of power over him. Only you can overthrow him. Because you’re just too dear to him, too close to his burning heart.

Maybe it’s your time to warn him. Tame him like the monster he is.

You move with your own rhythm. His hand caged between your fingers and pressed down against the sheets. You give him no other choice but to venerate you back and he does, with pleased, low rumbles coming from his throat. Only a singular hand is allowed to roam your form freely. On your back tracing the shallow line where your spine lies beneath skin and flesh, wandering towards the inner part of your thighs, then to your stomach and chest. And you reward him with a prayer of your own, encapsulated in deep, long sighs.

But you’re too trusting of him. You let your guard down too easily.

You’re holding onto his kneecaps, leaning towards them a little, allowing every inch of you to be seen. You want to give him a show, but your knees are too worn and tired.

He takes hold of your hips, helping you guide yourself along his length. His pelvis moves along with you in synced rhythm. Your teeth are pressing down on the soft skin of your lips, but you can’t keep your whimpers in. You’re getting close, your muscles and nerves are st tight and pulsing, your walls are pressing down on his length. His name mindlessly slips out of your mouth.

Maybe you can say you love him before you shatter.

But his fingers clench around you, strong and firm, stopping your movements. Lifting your hips up so high that his cock is barely inside, robbing you from your incoming orgasm.

You’re shocked, eyes staring into the nothingness, open wide. Your stomach drops, stirring up all kinds of feelings dwelling in you. A chill races down your vertebrae as you glance down at him.

“Suguru..?” Your voice is weak, shaky.

Fear courses through your being, primordial and all-consuming.

And when he speaks to you it’s all dark, shrouded in malevolence.

“You forgot one thing, darling. After I brought you back from the forest.”

No, no, no, he can’t do this to you! He can’t hold your orgasm hostage for the sake of toying with you! You should puncture his flesh your nails, scratch him, tear him up, but you can only grit your teeth. Your features twist from bliss to rage.

“You…” boiling anger swims through your voice. It’s like it’s not even your voice - more like a hiss, a growl.

There’s an undecipherable mixture of pity and amusement in his eyes. He twitches inside you but you’re too upset to notice.

“Apologize.” he sneers - almost commands.

His words cause anger to bubble up in you.

“Oh, you piece of shit…!” you seethe, but sob and moan when he slams you back on his cock, stretching you around his length again. Wanting to quench your rage with the sensation you crave the most right now.

“I hope, for your sake, I don’t have to repeat myself.”

It doesn’t matter how much you try to squirm, fuss and wriggle, he forces you still. His behaviour frustrates you to no end when you’re so desperate for a bit of friction, the horribly hollow and burning feeling of your lost peak torturing you seemingly endlessly. To the point where you’re too tired to put up a fight, when you’re teetering on the edge of breaking. You know you must swallow your pride, you have let him have it his way.

“I… I’m sorry.” you apologize meekly, teary-eyed, your voice a pathetic mewl. He finally starts lifting you up and easing you down, building you up slowly. But it’s not enough. You need more but he won’t give it to you just yet.

“You do?” he asks you in a way that it cuts deep into your marrow. It’s not even close to a loving tease – no, he’s outright mocking you.

Vicious bastard. You should grab his throat and squeeze the air out of him.

“Yes, I do!” you cry out without thinking. “I’m sorry for running away from you.” you push the words out through your whimpers. He increases the pace, making you yelp and shake, you end up closing your eyes reflexively. He robbed you from the sensation for so long that you became sensitive, it’s easier to make a mess out of you. Your face is red with shame, so much so you can’t look him in the eyes. The humiliation is like an invisible rope tightening around your neck.

“Promise you’ll never do that to me again.”

He pushes your hips further along his length this time, shifting you a bit towards his thighs. Creating a perfect angle, he uncovers a sweet spot inside you that makes you almost incapable of forming coherent words. And he eats the sight right up.

“…I promise… I promise...” you manage to get your answer out in the form of a choked hiccup. Your vision blurs. Everything is too intense for you to handle. You swear that the very shape of you could dissolve at any given moment.

Faith is desperate. Gods are hungry for despair. So they deliberately make you suffer and only then reveal themselves to you.

His fingers dig into your waist so hard it burns. You feel the world shift with you and then you collide with the sheets. Your bruised back ripples with pain. You’re unsure if he did it out of spite or not. You don’t know if he’ll completely shatter your dignity, or if he’s fine with just enforcing the feeling that you can never be above him, that you can never defeat him.

His weight on top of you is overwhelming. The midnight dark locks of his hair spread around you like spilled ink. And through the thick fog of your mind, too far gone in twisted, masochistic pleasure, you lock your legs around his waist. You don’t want him to go away. You might as well cease to exist if he does.

“And what do we say when we apologize?”

The soft plea coming from you is more instinctual rather than deliberate.

“Forgive me.”

You ache for him to move, you’re starved for the incoming high. Like a ravenous beast, all devouring. When he finally gives it to you, his thrusts make you feel possessed, make your back arch, your head falls back into the pillow as if you were offering your neck to him (maybe one day he won’t be able to resist the urge and will bite down on the jugular, through your trachea, putting you out of your misery) - you don’t dare to beg for anything else.

Maybe just for a little blood. A mark he can wear, just like you wear your bruises. Your nails somehow acquire a will of their own, your scratches have him excited and pleased.

His fingers meander around your jaw, gently coaxing you into letting him guide your gazes to meet again.

He’s imitating you, admiring his work like you did with him. And what he sees is a being stripped from any likeness of a dignified human being. With eyes so blown he can see the bottommost pits of Hell in them.

And he’s satisfied, rewarding you with a soft kiss on your temple.

“I forgive you.”

Your release crashes over you like a tide, submerging you, burning you to cinders on the inside. Tearing you apart. And when he collapses on top you after filling you to the brim, you feel like a festering wound.

He’s a disease, miasma, a flesh-eating parasite crawling inside you.

“You’re…” you huff. “You’re awful.”

“I know. But you love me all the same.”

You wonder what you should have done to earn a different outcome, but you give up soon. Looks like he already had plans for your atonement in mind. After all, gods are impatient creatures. They’re dependent on your reverence and servitude. And you’ve waited for too long to make things right.

Why, why, why - it echoes inside your head.

But if you think about it… he’s your serpent. The vilest, most horrendous creature created by God. The one who charmed you, tempted you with sin and has now sunken his fangs into you. Of course he did, and instead of trying to heal from his venomous bite, you want to catch him - to find out his reasons, to prove to him that you didn’t deserve that.

And yet you could never, ever prove him wrong. Your serpent will always think it was right to bite. It’s in his nature afterall.

“Is your hand alright?”

He makes it up to you with spoiling you again. He cleans your wounds so sweetly, so thoughtfully, looks after you in a way that nobody could, which confuses you even further.

He cherishes you, destroys himself for the sake of keeping you safe - not like it’s a choice, but a must - just like a mother would. He scolds you, reminds you not to make the same mistake again, collars you, keeps you on a tight leash, only loosening it (just a little) when he succeeded at making you play by his rules, just like a father would.

And somehow, he excels at both. Way better than those two ever did when it came to you.

You wish your glare could pierce right through his skull when you hand the empty glass back to him. You don’t have it in you to play nice. You don’t even attempt hide that you’re sulking, he probably finds it funny - adorable even.

“Go to hell.” you spit and lay back into the sheets, your bruised back facing him.

“Oh, darling…” he coos, but the surface level sweetness of his tone hides a sharp edge of condescendence. He crawls into bed, right behind you, caging you in his embrace, forcing you to feel the warmth of his body. The warmth that you’re so used to, the one you can’t sleep without it. Nobody has ever made you feel this safe, and the fact makes your heart ache and your stomach twist.

“If there’s a Hell, I’ll see you there.”

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #getou suguru x reader #getou suguru x y/n #getou suguru x you #jjk x reader #suguru geto x reader #meesa writes #DAAARLING GUESS WHOS COME BACK FROM JAIIIIL #Idk what kind of deep psychological issue of mine is in that fic but now its your job to decipher #just please dont bring Freud into the picture I hate that man

[rottenroyalebooks]

My Girlfriend is a Witch

 Pairing: Corpse Husband x Witch!Reader

Warnings: None! Maybe a sware or two.

Genre: Real Person Fic, Fluff

A/N: This has been in my drafts for quite some time so here is a quick little Corpse Husband Fic. I havent written on here in so long due to my life crumbling under my feet. I have done a lot of research for this but I am NOT 100% sure of everything just yet. I’m not apart of Paganism myself, but I respect everyone that is!

***

“Y/N, you did not just walk into this apartment with another Crystal.” The tone of her boyfriend made her freeze as she walked into the apartment, an all too familiar plastic bag hanging from from her elbow and her face morphed into an innocent smile.

“No... not another Crystal.” She shuffled into the kitchen and placed the bag on the counter top so she could remove the items from her bag and place the plastic bag in the bag full of bags that the two keep under the sink.

“Let me guess, herbs?” Corpse asked, approaching his girlfriend with a small smirk on his face.

She shook her head, “Nope.”

“Candles?”

“Negative, ghost rider.”

“Please tell me it’s not incents again, last time you cleansed the apartment I sneezed like crazy for a week.” His pleading eyes made Y/N laugh in delight.

The pair have been dating for two years and have lived together for five months. The transition of living on his own to living full time with his spiritual witchy girlfriend had been kind of difficult. He wasn’t aware about how serious she was about her craft, so when he opened one of her boxes and found some kind of rodent bones in a small clear container, saying he was surprised would have been an understatement

Though as they started to get used to the new arrangement, he was able to learn a thing or two about what she does and how she lived. Kind of like how she just loved bringing home a new Crystal almost every time she stepped out the apartment. It was getting overwhelming at this point.

Y/N smiled up at him and pulled a small black velvet pouch out of the bag, “Okay, I lied, it is a crystal but it’s not what you think! I had something made for you!”

He rose an eyebrow and he smirked, “Oh yeah?” He held out the palm of his hand and smiled as she placed the pouch down gently.

He opened the pouch and carefully removed a black sleek ring from the pouch and his eyes lit up, “A ring? This is a crystal?” He asked and she nodded, excitement in her eyes.

“I know playing with your rings helps with your anxiety and Hematite, this ring, is supposed to help deflect negative energies in stressful situations.” She explained and put her hand into her pocket, pulling out one of his other rings that he thought he had misplaced a few weeks prior.

“I didn’t know your ring size and if I asked it would have ruined the surprise so I took one of yours to bring to Maggie.”

He chuckled, sliding the ring on his left ring finger, “I love it, thank you.” He mumbled, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his chest.

“Aren’t you playing Among Us with your friends today?” She asked as she took a glimpse at the time.

He looked at the clock on the oven as well, sighing as he placed his chin on the top of Y/N’s head, “I do. Are you going back out?” He asked letting her go and watching as she went back to the bag.

“Nope! I got a new Tarot deck while I was there because my old deck vanished. I need to break it in and cleanse the cards. I might try to communicate with Aphrodite or Hades, but they really liked my old deck so I am not sure if they’ll react well to this new one.” She rambled as she crumbled up the empty bag and placed it under the sink. 

“Be careful.” He said as he turned around and made his way to his recording room.

***

As the third game came to an end, a few of his friends were taking the time to talk with their streams, Corpse wasn’t streaming he was just there for his friends. He was talking with Sean, who was also not streaming at the time.

“Oh! Corpse! I found your girlfriend’s Instagram account! I didn’t know she was into Witchcraft.” Rae’s voice piped up as her little astronaut came running over to the two.

Corpse smiled at his computer monitor, even though they couldn’t see him, “Yeah she’s Pagan, I believe.” He said glancing over at the girl in question who had wandered into his streaming room, noise cancelling headphones on and Tarot Deck in hand. Her tounge was poking out from in between her lips as she concentrated on her reading.

“Her profile is so aesthetically pleasing! Can I follow her?”

He let out a small chuckle, “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, just be wary if you ask her for a tarot reading; the cards can be quite cutthroat. She’s still doing research as to who her spirit guide could be, but whoever they are, absolutely brutal.” He shivered at the memory of when Y/N gave him a reading around when they first started dating, let’s just say it didn’t go too well.

“You seem to know a lot about this stuff.” Sykunno said and the others agreed.

“I just listen when she talks about it, because she enjoys it and it makes her happy.” He glanced over at the girl one more time as her phone lit up next to her.

“I followed her.”

“Me too!” Sean said and he laughed, “She bought you a ring? Dude she is so adorable.”

“Rae what’s her username?” Sykunno asked.

“I’ll text it to you.” Corpse said, grabbing his phone from the desk and glancing over at her once again; her eyes were still glued to the cards almost frozen in place.

"What else does she like to do?" Lily's voice popped up, he hummed lightly.

"Well she loves crystals and has been looking into palm reading, there's a shop nearby that she's been visiting recently and now my apartment is being taken over by crystals and incense." Everyone laughed at that.

But he wouldn't have it any other way.

#writers of tumblr #fanfiction #rottenroyalebooks #rottenwrites #corpse #corpse husband x reader #corpse husband #Corpse Husband #corpse fic #sean mcloughlin #youtubers #corpse husband fanfiction

[avelera]

Some missed opportunities for Norse Mythology references in the Loki S2 Finale

I want to quickly preface this by saying the Loki show never claimed to be about or even incorporate more than passing nods to Norse mythology, so the following "missed opportunities" are more things that I think could have been cool and were perhaps within reach as references, but that even at my most wildly optimistic I didn't and still don't really expect because the show has been so very clear on this front. It's not fair to say these are flaws because the show never pretended to be about Norse mythology. NEVERTHELESS, because I'm a big nerd:

1) Ragnarok - All respect to Waititi and Thor III, it was a great interpretation of the myth, but I've always longed for something a little closer to the doom and mysticism of the mythology and the Loki S2 finale came tantalizingly close to invoking it, but fell short of actually using the word. Because Ragnarok isn't just about the fall of the gods, it's about the destruction and rebirth of the world. "After [the events of Ragnarok], the world will rise again, cleansed and fertile, the surviving and returning gods will meet, and the world will be repopulated by two human survivors." 

Gee does that sound familiar! Almost like destroying all of the timelines to create them anew! Almost like that's what Sylvie was invoking by telling him it's better to accept destruction rather than accept imprisonment, and to build something new out of the ashes.

That's Ragnarok. That's literally Ragnarok and they invoked it in so many ways there short of actually using the damn word.

Loki, the god destined to bring about Ragnarok, proceeding to directly bring down the current timeline by destroying and then renewing it with a male and female survivor to help rebuild (visualized with Mobius and Sylvie's little chat at the end, even if it's the TVA they helped rebuild not the human population) sure does sound astonishingly close to invoking the story of Ragnarok.

And even though I'm bummed they never called it Ragnarok, I completely understand why! Ragnarok has kinda already happened in the MCU (never mind that Ragnarok itself is cyclical and will come again, but I digress)! I'd even go so far as to guess that earlier drafts probably did make it clearer but the thread, except for its bones and outline, were abandoned or left unnamed explicitly because it would be confusing for those not familiar with the myth or who would conflate Ragnarok with its Thor III invocation. Alas.

2) Loki bound - Already sort of invoked in Thor II with Loki imprisoned, which is why I don't think any more overt reference was made, but Loki was rather famously bound up in mythology. In this case, in a cave with a snake's poison dripping into his mouth. Not saying Loki bound to his throne of time needed to be conflated with how he was imprisoned until Ragnarok in the myhology, but the imprisonment parallel is there.

3) Loki becomes the new Odin, sacrificed upon Yggrasil - "The generally accepted meaning of Old Norse Yggdrasill is "Odin's horse", meaning "gallows". This interpretation comes about because drasill means "horse" and Ygg(r) is one of Odin's many names. The Poetic Edda poem Hávamál describes how Odin sacrificed himself by hanging from a tree, making this tree Odin's gallows. This tree may have been Yggdrasil." (source)

IE, Loki has sacrificed himself upon the world tree for power and knowledge and for the sake of the world. In this, unlike in the mythology where Loki is not Odin's son, Loki ascends to a parallel of his father's throne to follow in his legacy, having finally learned his father's lessons about rulership and self-sacrifice. Perhaps like the mythological Odin, we will learn that in making this self-sacrifice, Loki too has gained phenomenal knowledge and power?

4) Ratatoskr - This is more foward-looking and I don't in a million years think they'll do it but it would be so cool - so cool - if at some later point Loki has a friend or a servant or a squirrel form or idk, something that invokes Ratatoskr, the squirrel that lives in the World Tree and freely travels up and down its branches delivering messages. Please, MCU, give Loki a little squirrel friend??

#norse mythology #loki #loki spoilers #loki meta

[wrathofrats]

Yeah hi idk what this is I blacked out and came to and this was in the docs

Uhhh basically ifrits first church service and communion as hosted by Omega and alpha

Or omega baptizes ifrit and alpha lets ifrit drink the blood of Christ from his cunt.

Major warnings for intense blasphemy, mockery of the Catholic Church, degradation and religious shaming.

Also alpha is trans because WHY NOT

Ok enjoy.

-

A strong stream of incense wafted into ifrits senses.

The thick air of dust and smoke invaded him, his vision and hearing feeling more cloudy than usual.

He knelt on the carpeted steps to the church stage. Omega standing a couple of feet in front of him and looking impossibly large at this angle.

“What do you ask the church for your summon?”

He doesn’t think he should be looking up. Omega looms directly over him, staring at alpha who sits behind him. He acts as some sort of guide, as some sort of owner of ifrit, like he’s in charge of him.

Ifrit truly cannot make out alphas answer, the words tumbling over his head. Only the low tone of alphas voice penetrates the anathemic fog that surrounds him.

“Are you willing and able to fulfill your duties to bring up your summon in the satanic faith?”

A cold draft creeps down ifrits back as alpha moves to sit next to omega. He doesn’t look at his summon, he stares only up at his own form of deity. The shadows cast across his face make him more demonic, more monstrous than usual.

He reaches down and puts his wrist to alphas mouth, forcing him to sink his fangs into the rich vein of liquid. Omega serving as some metaphor for the word of their lord, his existence meant to praise someone higher but forced down with his own hands being covered in blood.

A warm wet thumb swipes across his forehead. Omega using the blood that drips down his wrist to mark him with the sign of the cross. It’s comforting in a horrific way. The warm sinister smiles of the church combined with the macabre comfort of the blood dripping down his face.

Ifrit thinks he too would bleed for the church if it held him tight like this.

“Do you renounce god and all of his empty promises?” Omega holds his book high with one hand, the other reaching down to unbutton the pants of his uniform. He’s already hard, a true testament to his devotion and love. It’s admirable.

Ifrits hand plaster together in front of him. “Yes father”

“Do you believe in the almighty father, the creator of the earth and all its demonic beings?”

A drop of precum beads at the head of omegas cock, long thick strokes milking himself of the holy liquid. Ifrit truly can’t help but stick out his tongue, desperate for a taste of their sick purity.

The book snaps shut. A screaming echo in the old room. Alpha doesn’t look up in fear of what has angered omega, ifrit being the antithesis and staring his leader in the eye in confusion.

“You’d think you’d know better from the pits. Rotten children don’t deserve to be saved”

The moisture leaves the fire ghouls mouth. He’s confused, scared, ashamed for being so greedy.

“You’re disgusting, I’ve let a sinful being kneel in front of me, offered to cleanse you of your blasphemous ways and you’ve repaid my kindness by being a greedy whore?”

“Father I’m sorry please forgive me-“ ifrits stammers out his apology through forming tears. Omega words cut deep through his devotion and lets it bleed through him, taking over his need to be.

“I hope your knees are raw. I pray you repent”

The book opens again and omega scans it for the place he stopped, continuing to stroke himself just above ifrits face.

He can’t tell when he becomes close, the act of masturbation only serving as a ritual to please his higher lord.

“There is no god that can give you your purity back”

Omega cums hot and thick across ifrits face and chest. Ropes of holy water landing on his cheeks, blessing him, baptizing him of his former demonic ways from the pit. He can feel the sin lift from his skin and burn with the holy liquid.

A rough sleeve wipes ifrits eyes, tilting his chin to smile at him.

“You’ve done well, you may savor the blood and body of Christ now as a child of the dark church”

The unmistakable sound of someone undressing comes from behind omega. Alpha rids himself of his clothing as omega slots behind him, both still perched on the carpeted stage and stairs. Candles and golden objects surround him like his own altar, his own ritual of body and blood.

Alpha opens his legs with a push from omega, hairy thighs leading up to his cunt, shining and on display. His clit engorged with devotion and peaking through his folds. Omega picks up a golden chalice, holding it high above his head, the other hand spreading alpha for ifrit to see.

“Through him, with him and in him, in the unity of the dark spirit, all glory and honor is yours almighty, forever and ever”

“Amen”

Omega tips the chalice over alphas chest, letting the red wine trickle down his body to pool between his legs. It stains his skin a crimson red, a stream from the top of his neck to his thighs. No doubt some kind of blood lain metaphor

“You may take your first communion my ghoul”

Ifrit doesn’t hesitate, dives between alpha legs to lap up the wine from his cunt, sucking the sweet liquid from his t dick. Alphas slick mixes delicately with the blood of Christ. His smoky musk catering the bitter sweet taste of the intoxicating alcohol. Ifrit truly cannot tell what he’s more drunk off of. The wine or the devotion he feels to his own lord.

#hey idk what the fuck this is either #I’m sorry #no I’m not #actually….. #anyways I did so much research for this #be so fucking certain of what this is before you read it jfc #the band ghost #ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #fanfic #wrath writes #alpha ghoul #omega ghoul #ifrit ghoul

[heliads]

final vigils from a cursed son

Luke Castellan is going to leave Camp Half-Blood for the final time. He reaches out to his father for old times' sake. Or he tries to, at least. Hermes never answers, anyway.

masterlist

Luke Castellan prays to Hermes one last time before he goes.

He hadn’t meant to, really. It wasn’t anything he had in mind. Praying to his father was something Luke considered fairly irrelevant by this point; either Hermes would ignore it or, worse, he’d do something stupid like give Luke someone else’s quest so he could come back as half the boy he was before he left, rewarded with no glory but a face split up the side like a ruined seam. Still, it happened. Miracles, as it turns out, can still be achieved through prayer. Fathers can listen. They can try to give you something more than isolation.

Luke finds himself in the strawberry fields. Connor Stoll once told Luke that this was where he had felt the spirit of Hermes the strongest, or maybe that was just because he’d been stealing berries right under Argus’ many eyes and got away with it. Regardless, it seemed like a good place to start. Campers tend to avoid the place this time of year, too afraid that they’ll get drafted to help with the produce. Demeter kids love it, but they’ve all wrapped up for the day.

This leaves Luke alone in the waving mass of green. Red berries dot the ground; fleetingly, it reminds Luke of blood spattered on the ground. His original plan had not been to start a war, it had merely been to Get Revenge, whatever that might entail. Kronos was the one who suggested that a total cleansing of the old ways might be in order. Eradication of the gods had seemed good to Luke, so he’d agreed. Even if that might involve more blood than just berries spilled on the soil of Camp Half-Blood. Who said revolutions were clean?

Luke kneels. Even after a few minutes, his knees begin to twinge with the ache of being locked in an uncomfortable pose. It’s either a sign that he needs to stretch more or just another bonus of being his dad’s kid. No one in Cabin Eleven is good at sitting still for long, except the unclaimed ones. Either way, Luke needs to find a way to quit it. The Titan Lord will need a good soldier, a strong one, and what has Luke ever been but willing?

He doesn’t really know how to pray. It feels strange doing it to someone who’s supposed to be your father, even an absent one. Especially an absent one. Luke lets his eyes close slowly, crosses his hands in his lap, and thinks–

Hermes?

He breathes out, slow and low. I want you dead. A pause. I also wanted to give you one last chance. It’s not like you’ve given me anything so far but a bad quest and one useless token of patronage, but here it is anyway. One final shot. What are you going to do with it?

Luke leans back on his heels. This is stupid. The god probably isn’t listening anyway, but even if he was, he’s just giving away his own plan. Even so, he feels somehow compelled to finish it, to bring closure to something Hermes had never bothered to contribute to his whole damn life.

You never should have met my mother. You cursed her. You made her what she is. You made me what I am. Maybe the other campers don’t see it yet, but I do. The gods curse whatever they touch. The only way to save all of us is to cut you out of the equation.

A frustrated, heaving breath tears through him. I don’t know why I can’t just sit back and accept it like the rest. I don’t know why none of them see it, too. You’re hypocrites. Millions of years of wisdom you have and you still ignore us. We needed you. What good is a god without an altar? Without prayers? We were never good enough for your attention. I hope this is enough to draw your focus.

Luke is struck by the sudden urge to sob. All my mother wanted was you. You could have been enough. Why weren’t we enough for you? What is it about a god that only thinks for itself?

Thunder rumbles ominously across the camp; Luke rears back slightly, but then his heart hardens. You’ll see soon enough, though. I’ll never be scared again. I’ll never need anything like I needed you. You’re nothing to me. I hope you’re the first to die.

He doesn’t know how to end this awful, soul-wrenching prayer, so he just says nothing more, forcing open his eyelids again. The shocking light of the sun makes him feel as if his eyes are about to bleed, but he keeps them open anyway, staring out into the bright sky until they adjust again.

Luke waits for something to happen– a divine message, perhaps, or a sign, or any indication at all that Hermes had heard him. Unsurprisingly, he’s greeted by nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been ignored by his godly parent. However, Luke thinks, standing up slowly and relishing the rush of blood back through his lower half, it will be the last.

Luke walks purposefully from the strawberry fields. He needs to stop by Percy Jackson before he goes. After that, he’ll be in the clear.

pjo tag list: @w1shes43, @fadedver, @anxiety-werewolf, @runawayprincesslily

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#luke castellan #luke castellan imagines #luke castellan oneshot #luke castellan fanfic #pjo #pjo imagines #pjo oneshot #pjo fanfic #pjo luke #pjo luke imagines #pjo luke oneshot #pjo luke fanfic #pjo tv spoilers #pjo spoilers #percy jackson #percy jackson imagines #percy jackson oneshot #percy jackson fanfic

[thetravelingtyper]

On The Same Page pt5 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader Bookshop! AU)

On the way home from Price and the beach you recollect an old story...

Part 3, Part 4, Part 6, Masterlist

Warnings: None!

The road home was filled with music, a light heart, and the cleansing of rain. The storm rolled over you, rumbling with flashes of lightning sporadically lighting up the night. Lumbering hills with peaks and festering marshlands spanned alongside. One step off of the lonely road would take you to a world unlike your own. You thought deeply as you drove. Of things gone by, as the ocean disappeared, you missed home. 

You were 13 when your parents became too busy, and left alone to your own devices you stumbled upon sanctuary. In the woods, you found a fox's den, now empty of its inhabitants. But there you found a new life. A fallen log your seat, you brought your typewriter out and started recording. The breaking of sticks down your trodden path, wisps of clouds on clear days. The sounds of birds, swooping swallows with dart-like precision. The growing flora and fungi in the damp woods.

Every day you would return, after school chasing the familiar shadows of your imagination. They kept you close comfort. One day, years later, however as you approached you found the glint of orange, and to your surprise, there was a fox asleep in the den. As you turned past the corner you ended up unintentionally waking the creature, its head popping up with ears like radars. Amber eyes met yours and you both just watched each other. However the creature did not startle, so you slowly approached yards away. Setting down your jacket you sit on it and slowly open the case of your typewriter. While its ears twitch, the fox shows no motion of moving, instead content with watching you. 

Your hours were lost in the lone fox. And to your pleasure, it was there the next day, then the next week. You made it a habit to go to the den with your new acquaintance. As you met your first partner you would just talk in a soft voice to the fox, As junior college passed and your heart had been broken the fox had become something more in your brain. It was a symbol of the resilience of nature, of making the space you find yourself in yours. You finished your undergrad with the first drafts of your first book.

And as for the fox? One day you returned, set on your plan to move for your masters you had brought some meat out for the fox. Yet as you crossed the path you found the den empty for once after about two years. You frowned but left the meat anyway, vowing to return once before you left. But life got busy, saying goodbye and closing up loose ends. You vetted your life and your writing career. Stories covered your room walls, old and new. You were leaving everything you knew. A few days before you left on a brisk moment of free time you went on a whim to the den. 

As you walk you reminisce on the years spent on this path. The turned stones, the old tree house, the creek the elements of your stories light up your vision. You can hear the howling of wolves under the wind, the creaking of moving trees, the ringing of fairy voices. And yet as fantasy swirls with reality you turn the bend to find not only your friend but a few fox kits as well. You stared in all as the fox watched you with bright eyes.

“You did good.” It's a whisper not only to the fox but to yourself as all of the elements of your growing stories fade back into reality. 

A flash of lightning brought you back to reality as you parked the car in your building’s lot and prepared to face the onslaught of London rain. You sling your backpack on awkwardly in the tight space of the car and throw on your jacket over it. Street lamps flickered in wind and rain as you rushed out of the car and to the cover of the parking area. There was some wild feeling in you being exposed to the elements, just like at the ocean and when you were a kid. As you made it under cover you tilted your drenched head back and laughed into the evening. The florescent hum, there is something intently human in your heart. 

You see movement and jump. Leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette is Simon. He watches you a smile playing on his lips.

“Happy Dove?” 

The nickname has you blushing and you shove off your wet coat.

“Yeah, I guess so.” You chuckle. Simon raises a brow at your form before he puts out his cigarette. He shrugs off his jacket and holds it out for you.

“Come on I'll walk you home.” He looks at you expectantly, his body taking up a lot of the space in the hall. But as you move forward he steps aside to allow you next to him.

“Here,” He offers and you hand him your bag, he shoulders it and hands you his jacket. Slipping it on you are met with the smell of smoke and cologne. You relax into it as it engulfs you, something in SImon’s eye shining. You begin the walk under the awning together in comfortable silence. Simon cuts his stride short for you, and you give him an appreciative smile. 

His hair is slightly damp you realize then, it gives him a bit of a boyish look, water-darkened hair complementing his eyes. He looks forward, scanning the path then turning back to you.

“Were you outside long?” You ask, the cold bristling you despite your borrowed jacket.

“No. I was watching out for you.” He offers it honestly. You hum, then you set a hand on his arm without thinking too much. Simon’s eyes widen a fraction and turn down to the contact. You realize then and move to pull away with an apology but Simon offers you his elbow. You pause but you take his arm in yours. Despite only being in a long-sleeved black shirt, Simon radiates warmth and you find yourself leaning into him. He glances at you through his peripheral vision.

“Are you not cold Simon?” You ask concerned. He shakes his head, putting on your backpack fully,

“‘M fine, thanks love.” Is all he offers, seeming content with silence, but he tucks his hand into his pocket, thus pulling you closer and you find yourself silently swooning. A few more minutes pass when you reach the main street, rain still pouring but the bookstore is in sight. 

“Hold on, I've got an umbrella somewhere. I don't want you to get soaked.” 

You pull on your arm and Simon begrudgingly releases you. You dig in your backpack producing a bright orange, fox-patterned umbrella. The sight is a bit bright and contrasts with his aesthetic but Simon opens it and holds it anyway, a brow raised that makes you giggle.  Once you reach the cover of the book store you find the door unlocked so you enter followed by Simon into the warmth of the store. Simon does his best to avoid getting water everywhere but you take the bright umbrella from him with a thankful smile. 

Having heard the door Sam rounds the corner.

“You found her then huh.” Sam notices you in Simon’s jacket and his grin widens and you give him a look.

“Sammy, not a word.”

“I said nothing!” He raises his hands in mock surrender. 

“Thanks for walking her.” He adds and approaches you. Before you can escape you are locked in a headlock as Sam ruffles your hair.

“Sammy! Stop!” You push at his arms laughing. You both spend a fond moment roughhousing before you remember Simon.

“Simon at least stay for dinner till this storm lets up!” You insist, finally tapping out with Sam, he finally releases you with a kiss on your head. The older man stands on the cusp of the affection, watching. You spin back to him staring up with a pretty smile, expectant.

“Alright,” He says it intensely. It makes you pause, he sees this and shifts his weight, then nods an affirmation just as a large crash of thunder startles all of you. 

“We have a spare bedroom if you need it,” Sam checks his phone, “the rain isn’t supposed to let up until tomorrow. You best stay the night.”

The thought doesn't seem to trouble Simon too much,

“If it's not a bother.”

You clap your hands together, 

“I did owe you dinner didn’t I huh? And a sleepover is just like college Sam!” 

Your best friend looks from his painted nails to Simon, the idea seems to crack him up. Simon glowers at him. You chuckle and set a hand on Simon’s arm. 

“I met Captain Price today.”

This catches his attention, turning down to regard you as he speaks.

“He gone fishin’?”

The dry humor catches you off guard but you smile and reply,

“Something like that. He and I talked about stuff. He’s a good man Simon.”

At that Simon nods eye still tracing your hand, He raises his own to it to see your reaction. Your eyes widened at the direct contact, but you had been feeling comfortable with the man. You shoot him a shy smile and he returns it.

“It's a date then?” He asks.

Sam looks up from behind the counter eyes sharp. He meets eyes with Simon and the ex-lieutenant finds his equal in ferocity. Simon takes your hand and shares a look with Sam, a quiet conversation between them before Sam nods and starts to head upstairs, one final glance behind him at you and Simon.

“Can you lock up Buttercup?” He pauses in question.

You can only nod with an embarrassed blush on your face. Sam heads upstairs leaving you and Simon together. He seems content just holding your hand. He takes it, lifting your palm from his arm and simply grasping it in his dropping your hands down to hang. Your heart beats a little faster but you take the next step to interlace your fingers. 

“I gotta lock up Simon.” You say it with a grin but he doesn't move his hand instead gesturing to the door.

“Ill follow.” His mumbles.

You give him a humored look, swinging your hand in his. He waits a moment, releasing your hand as you step to the door, Simon following like a shadow. He reminded you of Nebula, your childhood cat. A cat of few meows but much affection and he would follow you around the house. 

You flip off the switch for the lights and the neon leaving you and Simon basked in darkness. His pale skin is illuminated by the light from the stairway behind the counter. You turn around to meet him and are caught by the glow of him with the back light. He stands like some bygone god, ever vigilant, but his eyes and hair are soft. He carries your bag looking down at you with curiosity. 

“What is it, Dove?” 

He asks you but your mind is drawn back to the wildness of the sea earlier. You liken it to Simon in your mind. Something beautiful but with the wilderness within, a man of scars and hewn edges. Someone with a stormy past. Your mind swirls with storm clouds, yet here is this man who has taken a step to attach himself to you. 

You want to reach up and touch him, like some modern adonis with honey for eyes and a deep voice. But something caught in your throat, there was so much untold in this story, this connection that it made you stumble. Who was he to step into your dreams? Instead, you step forward to meet him. You raise a hand in question, He steps forwards and meets your palm. His large hands engulf yours.

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

Taglist!

@ghostlythots, @tapioca-milktea1978, @cmbghost

End Chapter 5

Note: This was shorter than I really wanted it to be so expect 6 to be longer!

#cod mw2 2022 fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #soap and reader #simon riley fluff #fanfiction #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #on the same page #captain johnathan price #john price #Simon riley x you #Simon riley #cod mw2 2022 #john soap mactavish

[armageddon-generation]

Justice for Brandon Routh: Everything Cut From Superman Returns that makes it Great

Ultimately it's good Superman Returns didn't get sequels because of Bryan Singer & Kevin Spacey, but I'm kinda obsessed with the forgotten middle-child of Supes' movies, and it's infuriating how the movie's thematic spine and most of its best character-beats got cut.

The Theatrical Cut of Returns is literally half a movie. Brandon Routh deserved so much better.

Sources:

Deleted scene compilation (+Return to Krypton)

The Shooting Script (available to buy)

Superman Homepage deleted shots Page 1 and Page 2    

Novelisation by Marv Wolfman (this, the graphic novel & junior novelisation all used the 2005 shooting script.)

Superman Returns: The Visual Guide (available to buy)

Chew Chan comic art

Requiem for Krypton: Making Superman Returns

Prequel Comics (based on scenes from early drafts, with stories by writers Singer, Dougherty & Harris):

Prequel Comic #2: Ma Kent

Prequel Comic #3: Lex Luthor

Prequel Comic #4: Lois Lane

Comic book recap

‘78 opened with a boy narrating an issue of Action Comics. Returns pulled back red theatre drapes on a comic narrated by Clois’ son, Jason. 

Actor Tristan Lake is recording the voiceover in Requiem for Krypton

From the Script (p.1):

RED THEATRE CURTAINS, drawn shut. The kind found in classic movie houses of yesteryear. The slowly open ... the film flickers to life, fading in on an old comic-book

SUPERMAN. A BOY'S HAND reaches into frame and opens it.

JASON (V.O.): On a distant planet orbiting a red sun, a wise scientist predicted his world's imminent destruction. Despite overwhelming evidence, his pleas to evacuate the planet were ignored, leaving him and his wife no choice...

He turns the page to a panel of JOR-EL and his wife, LARA

JASON (V.O.) (CONT'D): ...but to place their only son into a spaceship and launch it to another galaxy, in hopes of finding the child a new home. A child destined to become Earth's greatest protector...

“In Golden Age style art, Kal-El is placed in the rocket by Jor-El and Lara, comes to Earth, grows up with the Kents, & learns that he possessed amazing powers.”

The script cuts the Smallville part because it’s covered later in flashback.

5 years on, Superman has been mythologised. In-universe, to kids he seems as make-believe as comic books are to us.

This develops Jason’s POV of Superman. He was supposed to have this comic (from 'Uncle Jimmy') when he meets Clark in The Daily Planet

This could be why Smallville was cut; the public only knows about Krypton

The opening scene of Gertrude Vanderworth’s death was originally replaced by:

Prequel: Lex in prison 

Lex’s cell is covered in Daily Planet clippings. He nonologues to henchman Stanford

LEX: I didn’t get you visiting privileges to my private suite so I could repeat myself … My work was more than mere greed … It’s a calling. Why can’t they see the danger? He’s a vanguard for an invasion of super-powered beings. I knew. I always knew. Making sure there was a line of defence against him. The Conquistadors carried a plague that decimated entire civilisations. Who knows what kind of spaceborne diseases he carried? Oh, they may not appreciate my genius now, but they will worship me for delivering them from this menace they so affectionately embrace.

Kitty Kowalski & Gertrude Vanderworth

Lex has a medical exam before his release. His henchwoman Kitty is the nurse. She flirts with him but complains Superman is all Lex thinks about 

Lex burns his old toupé to “cleanse” himself

In flashback, Kitty sees Lex kill an inmate in self-defence. Lex threatens her to protect his perfect record. But Kitty says she’s his “biggest fan” & anger becomes lust 

This is in The Visual Guide (p.26):

"She witnessed Lex murder a fellow inmate. Kitty refused to squeal to the guards, and she and Lex made clear their attraction for each-other."

Kitty is the Vanderworth widow's maid & suggests Lex write to her

She doesn’t like the name Kitty: “My name is Katherine”

An imaginary Superman hovers above, watching Lex leave prison.

Gertrude Vanderworth is waiting outside:

LEX: Gertrude! I’m dying in here. I’m dying without you. Please, take me home. If only you could imagine the grotesque living conditions I’ve been exposed to, dear, sweet Gertrude. You’ve rescued me from Dante’s Inferno, from the depths of human depravity.

Shows how prison changed Gene Hackman’s Lex into Returns’ philosophical maniac

Characterizes Kitty as Lex’s ‘Harley Quinn-lite’ & makes her more active

Stronger explanation for Lex's escape than Clark missing his court date 

The comic's final panel is Lex looking up at the imaginary Superman in the sky, zooming out into space, then leading into...

The Opening Titles as Clark’s journey to Krypton:

(from the Script):

“Stars interspersed with DAILY PLANET HEADLINES tracing Superman’s history, many by LOIS LANE;

“METEOR SHOWER BAFFLES SCIENTISTS”

“CAPED WONDER STUNS CITY”

“I SPENT THE NIGHT WITH SUPERMAN”

“SUPERMAN STOPS CRIMINAL MASTERMIND, LEX LUTHOR”

“LEX GETS LIFE THANKS TO MAN OF STEEL: SWEARS REVENGE”

“ASTRONOMERS DISCOVER KRYPTON INTACT – SIGNS OF LIFE FOUND”

And then the biggest headline of them all:

“SUPERMAN DISAPPEARS”

More headlines follow as the world is besieged … war, famine, crime. Soon, these headlines push Superman to the back pages. Within years, he’s all but faded from public consciousness. Finally, one last headline:

“WILL HE EVER RETURN?”

IS IT KRYPTON? (p.12), LUTHOR GETS LIFE (p.24) & VANDERWORTH TOPS THE FORTUNE 500!! (p.22) are in The Visual Guide

This gives the indulgent title-sequence a purpose. It sets up the consequences of Clark leaving, his history with Lois & Lex, Krypton’s discovery, and the Vanderworth fortune Lex will steal

This transitions into:

Return to Krypton

Concept art by Ben Proctor

The script describes “the remnants of this great civilisation… cities, monuments… all made from the same crystal technology” not in the filmed scene

Clark finds the House of El crest in the “VALLEY OF THE ELDERS . . . a VAST CANYON OF CRYSTAL MONOLITHS arranged in a circle” with more family crests.

Clark's escape is more visceral (Script pp.2-3):

“GIANT SLABS whiz by ... thousands of pieces of glowing kryptonite are hurtling towards him ... Parts [of Clark’s ship] shatter and break off ... The crystal immediately GROWS BACK ... more kryptonite smashes against the window, cracking it. Crystals work quickly to repair the damage, but it keeps coming.”

The filmed version puts Vibes over story: 

The Valley of Elders returns on Lex’s New Krypton in the finale. 

Without the other House crests the El one feels random

Showing Krypton's achievements validates Lex’s plan to resurrect it.

Clark’s ship self-repairing introduces ‘growing’ crystals immediately

Opening an action beat is important because the next one isn’t for 40 mins

Famously, this scene cost $10 million. Videographer Rob Burnett said:

“This was always meant to be the original opening [it] explained why he was so weak when Martha found him [&] that Kal-El sweats in the presence of kryptonite which Luthor notices later ... It wasn't cut until some last-minute test screenings … people unfamiliar with Donner's Superman films & Kryptonian crystals/tech found this dialogue-less opening confusing & uninteresting”

To solve this dialogue problem it was suggested Clark bring his mother Lara's memory crystal with him. She would narrate Krypton's history as Clark explored, contrasting its past glory with its current ruin. But the scene was already finished & Singer decided:

I didn’t feel it ... No-one told me to do it. I had no time restrictions or pressure whatsoever. I just felt the movie doesn’t need this."

But Marv Wolfman did something similar when retelling Jor El and Lara sending Clark away in Chapter 1 of his novelisation:

“It had been a timeless city, strong and powerful. It survived the vast armies of three great nations waging war on its bloodied streets. It stood proud as the signing place of an everlasting peace . . . [Lara] spent her early years dreaming of living where Krypton’s earliest founders had once walked, did not want to believe that this magnificence and all it stood for would soon be gone. She had spent her first year out of university touring the city . . . She trekked out to the Valley of the Elders . . . the fabled roads that Sor-El, Kol-Ar and Pol-As, the chosen representatives from the three warring nations, must’ve taken when they created the original laws of humanity that governed Krypton. From the ground, those crystal monolith towers, reflecting the full spectrum of light, looked to Lara like hands raised in reverential prayer. Kryptonopolis had been grown from a single crystal more than 10,000 years before ... shaped by the earliest Kryptonians into vast cities millions of buildings strong"

The Visual Guide also explains the Valley of the Elders is “Where Sor-El, Kol-Ar, and Pol-Us established the laws that governed Krypton" (p.79)

This is a great parallel to ‘78's opening. That was Clark’s origin. Returns is him mourning

Seeing Krypton contextualizes Clark’s arc. We understand his alienation instead of being alienated by him

It bookends the movie with New Krypton, and gives Returns’ oft-mocked climax ‘Superman Lifts a Big Thing’, thematic weight: Clark is excising the grief that drove him from Earth

Lara's narration about the wonders of Krypton both heightens the tragedy & establishes what their tech can achieve, crucial to Lex's plan

Writer Dan Harris said:

“Lex Luthor’s trying to turn this world [Earth] into the dead world, the place [Clark] can’t live, so it becomes a person’s search for identity and home and their place in the universe.” (The Shooting Script interviews p.27)

Martha Kent and Ben Hubbard play Scrabble 

Martha spells ‘Alienation’ (THEMES!!) & touching Clark’s name carved into the table is lovely visual storytelling

Ben is there when Clark crashes. Martha stops him calling the cops.

BEN: Martha-

MARTHA: (firm) Tomorrow. Bingo.

She looks at him, stonefaced. He takes another look outside – and at her, and realizes what’s happening. He sighs and shakes his head.

BEN: A meteorite?

She nods.

BEN (CONT’D): Martha Kent, I knew you’d be trouble

There’s a blooper of this scene in Requiem for Krypton & it's mentioned in The Visual Guide (p.20)

Gertrude Vanderworth's death, and Lex stealing her fortune, is shown after Clark passes out in Martha’s arms when he crashes, followed by Lex taking the yacht to the Arctic

Lex Finding the Fortress

Cool details about the Fortress' warm crystals & creating protective weather patterns, explaining the storm around New Krypton in the finale

While exploring the Fortress they find Clark's garage:

From The Visual Guide:

"Lex lingers in a cavernous chamber he dubs 'the garage', where he sees evidence of the construction and launch of Superman's spaceship"

KITTY: So did he?

LEX: Did he what?

KITTY: Take off for his homeworld?

LEX: (looking at Stanford) Well… We gave him a little push.

In the novelisation (p.89)

Lex’s First Experiment

After plundering the Fortress, Lex would test the crystal immediately- “he created a kind of giant Fortress of Solitude in the ice” (Script interviews p.28), destroying the original. Such a great way to raise the stakes!

Extended Clark waking in his childhood room

Clark waking to his starry ceiling & the Kent family photos give his return more emotional heft

Extended Young Clark’s first flight, 

Which leads into…

 “Little Secret”- Clark finds the Kryptonian ship as a boy

From The Visual Guide (p.11): “When he holds the Father Crystal, Clark feels a primal connection to the vanished world of his ancestors”. Martha’s prequel comic shows Jor El & Lara reflected in the crystal.

The Father Crystal is the key to Lex’s plan, so it's important to see its importance to Clark.

'Little Secret' leads into: 

Martha Kent Prequel: The Kents tell the truth

The Kents find Clark on the cellar steps with the Father Crystal, staring at his ship.

They talk in the kitchen:

MARTHA: … I wish we could tell you more… well, anything about your real parents

CLARK: You are my real parents. Those other people, the ones that gave me away… They mean nothing to me. [he bends a fork in half]

JONATHAN: I understand that you feel that way now, Clark. But I have something to show you. [He leaves the room to get something]

CLARK:Ma, I- I… Am I even human? Am I some sort of monster?MARTHA: Clark Kent, bite your tongue! You are our son and we love you. That’s all that matters.

JONATHAN: Clark? This is yours. You were wrapped in it when we found you.

He gives Clark the cloth he was wrapped in when they found him - blue fabric with the “S” shield

This is a big change from ‘78, where Clark didn’t find the Father Crystal until after Jonathan dies. Martha wasn’t there & they didn't discuss it. The Fortress of Solitude made his suit.

Clark's anxiety is more in-line with MoS (“Can’t I just keep pretending to be your son?” / “You are my son.”). Rejecting Krypton is important, as his adult desire for a home drives him from Earth

Here we see Clark feel the alienation he fears for Jason in his final speech ("you will be different..."). Parenting is a big theme of Returns

Clark reads Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman in the Kent barn 

In the script, Clark taking the tarp off his ship leads into the Little Secret flashback- which the deleted scene cuts around. The shots following him back to farmhouse include this voiceover (Script pp.13-14):

LOIS LANE (V.O.): For five long years, the world has stared into the sky, waiting, hoping, and praying for his return. We have spent our days asking where he went, debated why he left, and wondered if he’s even alive…

People have always longed for gods, messiahs, and saviors to swoop down from the sky and deliver them from their troubles. But in the end, these saviors always leave, and we are faced with the same troubles that were there from the beginning.

So, instead of facing them ourselves, we wait for the savior to return. But the savior never does, and we realize it was better had he never come at all.

Reading WTWDNS is referenced in The Visual Guide (p.29)

Articulating Lois’ POV makes her more than a bitter ex. Even the Junior novelisation has this!

In the Theatrical Cut Clark returns to the Daily Planet trying to reclaim the old status quo, until he learns Lois has a family. Here, he faces consequences for leaving before learning Lois has moved on, so he’s less selfishly motivated, and returns to the Planet to actively reconcile with her

Parallels Young!Clark finding the Father Crystal- the inciting moment of ‘78’s plot

Martha encourages Clark to return to Metropolis / Clark meets Ben Hubbard 

This is a cute scene, humanizing Clark

Martha is selling the farm & moving to Montana

(Script p. 76), cut dialogue in purple

MARTHA: Clark, dear… No one will ever replace your father. But, Ben and I have found something special. Together. And, well, this might all come as a shock…

Clark gives her a look. Just level with me.

MARTHA: I’m selling the farm. We’re moving to Montana.

CLARK: Montana?

MARTHA: The lakes are great. And we love the fishing.

CLARK: Fishing?!

MARTHA: Clark, you’ve been gone a long time. And not even you can stop the world from spinning.

In the novelisation (p.76)

Building this subplot from a background character from ‘78 is neat.

It expands Returns’ narrow emotional scope: It's not just Lois moving on

Superman suit in Clark’s case & changing in The Daily Planet closet 

As Clark puts his suitcase in the janitor’s closet he opens it, revealing his Superman costume & a Kent family photo.

So, when he rips his shirt open there’s "NOTHING. Where's his suit? He panics, then remembers." . He must change in the Daily Planet janitor’s closet. As he leaves he "catches a glimpse of his reflection in a window -- he's still wearing GLASSES" (the Script p.44)

Love Superman in glasses as a metaphor for the transition from Clark to Supes. 

The Theatrical cut emphasizes Lois’ POV of Superman’s return but this is more balanced & impactful for Clark 

Lex and Stanford discuss Superman’s return

When Lex learns Superman is back he & Stanford discuss luring him away. You can see Stanford running to catch up with Lex before the Theatrical scene cuts away. Deleted dialogue in purple:

STANFORD: So, what are we going to do?

LEX: You’re going to modify it and attach it to the stern, I don’t care of the instructions are in Russian

STANFORD: You know what I mean, Lex. He’s not stupid. How long do you think it’s going to take him to trace all that stuff back to me– and you. He was supposed to die up there.

Stanford paces. Lex clenches, obviously stressed. He hears the WHIMPERING of Gertrude’s dog. 

Infuriated, Lex hurls the newspaper at it but misses. Enraged, Lex snatches a heavy crystal off the desk, when he STOPS. He stares at something on the NEWSPAPER

Lex bends down and picks up the paper. He smiles, and hands it to Stanford.

LEX: Stanford, you worry too much.

Stanford looks at the article, intrigued.

“WORLD’S LARGEST COLLECTION OF METEORITES TO EXHIBIT AT METROPOLIS MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY”

Lex & Stanford faking Krypton’s discovery makes all Clark's problems his fault. Clark did nearly die, & it makes Lex a more formidable villain

It makes the plot more cohesive 

Clark being tricked by his nemesis > ‘he just left lol’

Lex’s desperation gives him depth. Stealing Kryptonite is now a response to Superman, where in the Theatrical cut it’s so underplayed it seems like just the next step of his plan.

Stanford and The Daily Planet

I can’t find it, but Mr. Sunday Movies  cites an interview where the actor revealed Stanford was a disgraced Daily Planet science correspondent, & wrote the articles about Krypton. 

More plot cohesion, connecting The Daily Planet & Lex plots. If Lois recognises Stanford when she’s on Lex's yacht, she could figure out Clark was tricked, helping her forgive him. 

Extended Clois outside The Daily Planet

Deleted dialogue in purple, (Script pp.58-60):

CLARK: Well … Maybe saying goodbye was so hard because he didn’t know whether it would be goodbye for a little while … or goodbye forever.

Lois doesn’t seem to be listening

CLARK (CONT’D, QUIETER): And maybe he had to go and he wanted to say goodbye, but he couldn’t find the guts to do it, because maybe if he saw you, even one last time… Well, maybe he was afraid that if he even looked at you just… once… he would never be able to… leave (beat) Maybe it was too difficult for him.

. . .

CLARK: So… Do you want to grab a quick bite? Catch up? My treat.

LOIS: Oh I’d love to, but Daddy took the car and it’s my turn to ‘cook’ the family dinner, which means I’ve got just enough time to get back to the ‘suburbs’ and order the Chinese

CLARK: Suburbs?

LOIS: Yeah, we have a really nice place on the river. You should drop in sometime.

CLARK: I’d love to.

Brandon performs this dialogue for a screentest in Requiem for Krypton

Much better reason for Clark not saying goodbye. Corny, but if your gonna justify an OOC decision, do it with the romance at the heart of your movie. 

Lois is much nicer & less dismissive of Clark. Theatrical Lois seems to actively dislike him.

Hints Lois feels stifled as a suburban mom

Lois Prequel: Writing Why The World Doesn’t Need Superman

The ‘Lois at home’ scene begins with a flashback:

Perry tells Lois to write a piece for the 5th anniversary of Superman leaving. She struggles with writer’s block at home, & goes out to smoke. She thinks Clark blows out her lighter, but she’s imagining it & realizes she must move on. That night she writes WTWDNS

Then Richard asks about I Spent the Night With Superman, then Clark is revealed to be watching at the end of the scene.

[After Clark flies away, Script p.63]

Lois picks up some food, then suddenly stops and turns to the window, staring into their backyard. Beat.

RICHARD: Lois? You okay?

Lois snaps out of it.

LOIS: Yeah, sorry. Hey, didn’t I have four won-ton’s?

Jason stuffs a won-ton into his mouth.

LOIS (CONT’D): JASON!

Lois & Richard dive, trying to snatch it from his mouth

A cute Jason moment, & Lois ‘sensing’ Clark makes his spying a little less creepy, selling their 'stracrossed lovers' connection

Superman On Patrol

Two scenes are omitted from the script (p.64) before the ‘Bulletproof’ bank robbery. Presumably they formed a full crime-fighting montage, like in ‘78.

The Visual Guide describes two cut sequences that perfectly fill that gap (p. 60):

“In Switzerland, he saved 12 stranded climbers from the peak of the Matterhorn. In Venice, he prevented the famous canals from flooding the city streets. Superman seems to be everywhere at once, but nowhere is he more prominent than in Metropolis…”

Full Deli Robbery Segment

MONTAGE REPORTER #3: Sir, after he captured the men trying to rob your Deli, did he do or say anything?

DELI OWNER: He tried the hummus. He said he liked it – and Superman never lies!

More action! More wholesome Superman! Expanding the scope of the movie beyond Metropolis!

Lex’s Plan

Higher-key Kryptonite heist where Lex’s gang fool guards and witnesses

The movie needs more energy. Like the stolen missile earlier, in the Theatrical Cut Lex’s plan is afterthought bullet-points 

When Kitty returns to Lex after Superman saves her, the stolen missile is being disassembled. Lex takes its explosive & the kryptonite he’ll stab Clark with 

Lois Prequel: Why she resents Superman and meeting Richard

After Perry demands Lois interview Superman we flashback to him doing the same thing after Krypton was found:

But Superman never shows. Months pass until “the world had to admit” he was gone.

The world turned to Lois as their 'Superman expert.'

JIMMY: Miss Lane. You okay?

LOIS: I will be once Perry lets me cover something over than Superman. He left. He's gone, and maybe he's never coming back. How many different ways can I write that?

JIMMY: I know Miss Lane. I miss him too.

The world refusing to let Lois move on by pigeon-holing her as ‘Superman’s Girlfriend’ is important context.

Now Perry refusing to let Lois cover the blackout is part of a sexist cycle she’s fought for years

Lois escapes to the roof for a smoke: "Even as the days kept passing, I held out hope. I mean, he never disappointed me before, right?'

Richard White introduces himself just like Clark:

RICHARD: Those things will kill you, you know. Hello, Lois. I'm Richard White.

LOIS: White, huh? Did Perry even read past your last name on your resume?

RICHARD: I won't deny what it looks like, but my uncle hired me because I'm damn good at what I do. And with you I see wasted talent. The Superman story is old news. The Planet's best reporter should be used elsewhere.

LOIS: You're certainly more insightful than you look, White.

Directly parallels Richard and Clark

And contrasts the rooftop interview with Superman immediately afterwards; we now know she waited here for Clark to return every night until she met Richard

Clark Visits the Fortress of Solitude

When Clark visits the Fortress of Solitude he has cut voiceover (Script p.89):

SUPERMAN (V.O.): Father... It’s been a long time since I’ve come to you… But I’ve never felt so alone.

EXT. FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE - SAME TIME

Superman lands & approaches the console. The crystal has been taken. WITH A VOICE ECHOING THROUGH THE ARCTIC LIKE THUNDER:

SUPERMAN: FATHER!!!

FATHER!!! Is OTT but important when Superman has so little dialogue

Clark is now clearly driven to the Fortress by Lois’ rejection. In The Theatrical Cut, he just checks in because it’s time for Plot to happen.

Losing Jor-El emphasizes the theme of parenthood- Clark loses a father as he gains a son- & justifies Jor El’s voiceover later

Lex's Fortress

In an earlier draft, Clark found the new Fortress Lex grew in his first experiment, and "Clark sunk it and put it underwater"

Originally “Richard & Lois flew there with Clark to investigate & take pictures" (Script interviews p.28) but later on these became satellite pictures that were delivered to the Planet. Lois saw them & understood what Clark had lost.

Lois seeing & understanding Cark's losses is important

Clark destroying Lex's Fortress would be an impressive action beat & Returns is desperate for those. Showing Lex's impact through action!

Extended dialogue on the yacht explaining Lex’s plan

LEX: It’s not just an island. It’s an entirely new continent. Virtually indestructible and self-sustaining. For lack of a better name, it’s Krypton. An extinct world, reborn on our own.

LEX: I’ll have ADVANCED alien technology thousands of years beyond anything anyone could throw at me. Weapons, vehicles, you name it. 

Gives New Krypton more credibility & makes Lex's plan more concrete, especially after Return to Krypton showcased Kryptonian tech

Saving Metropolis

Earlier drafts of the ‘Saving Metropolis’ sequence had “monster waves surging in every direction” (The Visual Guide p.70) Dan Harris also mentioned "waves coming in" and Clark “pulling a subway train out [of the ground]”. (Script interviews p.28) The script omits several sections that could fit these moments.

The script includes Clark saving people from cars set on fire by the gas explosion.

Again, Returns copies ‘78, but that earthquake was way bigger - a dam explodes, a bridge collapses, a train derails. Clark shifts tectonic plates to stop it.

Perry White meets Superman

I understand why this was cut but it’s still cool

The Missile Explosive

After Jason kills Brutus, the deleted scene of Lex finding Brutus’ body is followed by (Script pp.113-114):

INT. YACHT - PANTRY Lois & Jason sit against the far wall, exhausted & worried. The door swings open, revealing LEX. He looks at Jason & winks.

LEX: Catch.

He tosses SOMETHING into the room, wrapped in the handkerchief. It rolls towards Jason’s feet. LOIS CHARGES just as Lex slams the door. Jason removes Lex’s handkerchief, revealing the EXPLOSIVE from  the missile.

LOIS: Honey… don’t move.

Lois is panicked, searching for any way to get rid of the explosive. Finally; a SMALL AIR DUCT. She kneels & pulls at the VENT COVER. It won’t budge. She looks around & finds a LARGE METALLIC SOUP LADLE.  SHE JAMS THE LADLE INTO THE VENT, using it like a crowbar. 

JASON: Mommy?

LOIS: JASON DON’T MOVE!

Lois strains to pry the vent away. After what seems like an eternity, it finally pops off. She approaches Jason VERY CAREFULLY.

LOIS (CONT’D): Okay Honey, stay still…

Lois THROWS IT into the air duct … grabs Jason & rushes him to the other side of the room. The explosive drops down a series of air ducts … Silence. Lois and Jason open their eyes, relieved.

Then – BOOOOOOM! THE BLAST ROCKS THE ROOM. A burst of flame shoots from the vent. Lois shields Jason. The flames are followed by a GEYSER OF SEAWATER. The room is tipped upward. Water is streaming in. Lois tumbles backwards into the water, struggling to reach Jason, but she’s STUCK.

ANGLE UNDERWATER: Lois’ leg tangled in a LIFE PRESERVER.

LOIS: HELP ME! Oh God…

Water floods into her mouth. She disappears under the surface when the DOOR is RIPPED OPEN, AND THE SILHOUETTE OF A MAN STEPS INTO THE ROOM. He dives underwater.

The man rips Lois’ leg free from the cables and pulls her to safety. Lois finally opens her eyes and comes face to face with… RICHARD. She and Jason are stunned.

LOIS (CONT’D): How –How did you get here?

RICHARD: (obviously…) I flew.

Lex’s response to Superman’s son here is more appropriate & threatening.

Another setup & payoff with the missile explosive gives the film more structure. Plot, y'know?

Makes Lois more active

Richard/Clark parallels

Jason recognizes Clark 

[in the seaplane after Superman saves them from the yacht]

Jason curiously looks up at Superman.

JASON: Hey, you look just like–

SUPERMAN: (Cutting him off) Can you fly?

For a moment, it looks like Superman is speaking to Jason – then he turns his head to Richard.

Also in the novelisation (p.285)

More Jason/Clark connection & more payoffs (Jason suspected Clark's identity after seeing him next to Superman on TV earlier)

Context: New Krypton

The script describes it as “almost identical to the ruins of Krypton ... Unlike the ruins, this place feels like it could be full of life – what he hoped to find when he went to Krypton,” with buildings “resembling the Fortress of Solitude”.  made of the Fortress’ glowing white crystals, presenting the facade of life.

Clark confronts Lex in “an exact reproduction of the Kryptonian VALLEY OF ELDERS" (where we saw the El Crest in Return to Krypton). Flickering x-ray vision reveals “IN THE GROUND AND WALLS are pockets and veins of kryptonite” 

From The Visual Guide (p.79):

“New Krypton recreates its planet of origin according to an ancient blueprint, beginning with the vanished capital of Kryptonopolis ... [it] will eventually replicate the towering face of Mount Argo, the bottomless depths of the Xan Chasm, & the polished dome of the Krypton Science Council”

Superman hears something else in the wind, coming from inside the structure: a VOICE. Faint, but familiar. Maybe JOR-EL? LARA? It’s joined by other ghostly whispers before another familiar voice calls out:

LEX (O.S.): See anything familiar?

The ghostly whispers are a cool detail

Now New Krypton is literally a ‘dead world resurrected’, not just some land, & will terraform the whole planet. It brings the movie full-circle- Krypton followed Clark home

After beating a powerless Clark, Lex reveals the truth

LEX (CONT’D): Look, buddy. We sent you there to die, but ya’ had to come back…

Superman looks at Lex, his expression turning from agony to realization.

LEX (CONT’D): Oh yeah. All those photos? Those stories about Krypton still existing? It was me. (Beat) And him.

ANGLE ON: Stanford.

LEX (CONT’D): Thankfully the press doesn’t check facts like they used to. (Beat) Hey, you took away five years of my life. I just returned the favor.

In the novelisation (p.297) & literally every other adaptation of the story. Why the fuck would you cut it?

As Clark drowns:

“Crystals are growing towards him from every direction. ALL GLOWING GREEN from Kryptonite. He tries swimming to the surface, but he’s too weak. He’s trapped ... A mesh of crystal walls are closing in around him, over him like a tomb."

The tomb is a thematically resonant image (New Krypton = graveyard) & heightens the crystals’ threat

Jason ‘senses’ Clark instead of seeing him from the plane window

In the script, Jason wants to help Clark too- not just Lois & Richard deciding.

Jason looks out the window, pointing down to the water.

JASON: There.

He turns to Lois. Beat. She can’t see anything.

LOIS: You’re sure?

Jason nods. He’s certain.

While Clark in hospital, Lois names ‘New Krypton’

it's gone “into orbit somewhere between Mars & Jupiter. Supposedly it’s laced with Kryptonite & still growing”. 

Again, creates a thematic bookend with 'Old Krypton' in the beginning

Outside the Hospital

Ben Hubbard waits with Martha Kent- you can see his shoulder next to her in the Theatrical Cut

There are shots of Lois, Jason & Martha talking while they're in the crowd- presumably Martha offering support without Lois knowing who she is

Martha meets her grandson! The two mothers of Kryptonian sons talk!

Bringing Martha & Ben back ties the Smallville section of the movie back into the plot

Final Clois Exchange

SUPERMAN: Thank you, Lois.

Tears well in her eyes, struggling for something to say.

SUPERMAN (CONT’D): It’s alright.

It’s what she’s wanted and needed to hear for years.

It’s such a small thing, but gives Clois closure, and Clark more lines

OTHER CHANGES

Color-grade: Returns’ drab sepia look ruins beautiful cinematography. The original color-grade in the teaser trailer (which is like 70% deleted footage) is much better, as is this color-corrected shuttle sequence

A tighter edit to compensate for the action-light script. They went for a classic, unhurried edit, but you could shave multiple seconds off most shots without losing anything. The Superman Restored fanedit re-inserts 25 mins of deleted scenes and is still 8 mins shorter than the Theatrical Cut

Tldr;

Returns is inherently slow-paced. Even with a faster edit, adding all this would push it past 3 hours. Regardless, Singer shot his own film in the foot because his priorities were wrong: Outlined above is a more balanced, cohesive story with richer themes. The Lex and Krypton subplots are complete. Clark feels like the main character, & Lois is more sympathetic. 

Brandon deserved so much more.

#superman #superman returns #brandon routh #clark kent #lois lane #clois #cbm #richard donner #superman: the movie #superman ii #deleted scenes #krypton #lex luthor #martha kent #dc comics #dc movies

[thenuclearmallard]

Moscow’s Aggression Against Ukraine And Indigenous Peoples Deeply Interconnected – OpEd

October 26, 2022

By Paul Goble

Russia’s acts of genocide against Ukraine arose from its “centuries-long oppression of the indigenous peoples” on its own territory, the native peoples of the Republic of Sakha say. And because these actions remain both unrecognized, they are not only continuing but “spilling over into neighboring countries.”

In a new collective letter released by the Sakha Pacific Association, these peoples describe how Russia has acted toward the indigenous peoples within its current borders and how these actions have both shaped and been affected by its imperialist approach to other peoples beyond those borders.

“Historically, Russia expanded its borders by subjugating territories that were the homelands to many indigenous people,” the letter begins. “Ethnic cleansing, forced relocation, assimilation, russification, cultural erasure, and resource exploitation all went hand in hand with the conquering of these regions.”

“This dark side of Russian history has never been widely discussed or acknowledged, particularly within the country, where the forced hierarchy of cultures and ethnicities has long been normalized, portrayed as natural and reproduced through cultural products.”

Instead, “the idea of “people’s friendship,” proclaimed by the Soviet Union, still influences many people’s opinions. It helped to spread the illusion of homogeneity. Images depict the titular nation, “Russians,” as the center of the narrative, surrounded by minorities” who are presented as “’wild and uncivilized’” and on their way to becoming Russians.

Not surprisingly, these tensions came to a head with Moscow’s declaration of mobilization for its war in Ukraine. “Most of the people drafted from remote areas were either misinformed about the war or had no idea that the draft was happening.  Here, 4,883 km away from Moscow, 4,750 men were expected to be recruited.” 

This number does not “follow principles of proportionality and the consistency regarding the list of those who were not to be mobilized according to the law.” Moreover, “among then are people over 55 years old, full-time students, people with disabilities, and others off-list who are taken away by this totalitarian system.”

Indeed, “according to the Constitution, it is illegal to draft small-numbered indigenous peoples of the North. Nonetheless, helicopters land in remote, small Arctic communities, gathering people who are uninformed of their rights and can barely speak Russian, to wage war against Ukraine.”

This use of helicopters was especially disturbing and infuriating because the authorities had no trouble sending helicopters to remote villages to seize men even though for years people in Sakha have had to wait for days or weeks or even longer to get a helicopter to take them for medical treatment.

The mobilization order came at the time of seasonal change, a critical period for northern communities. “As the first snow meets the ground, the following questions arise: how will children, the elderly, and women get through the winter in the extreme climate conditions with the absence of essential community members?”

On September 25, Yakut women “organized a peaceful demonstration – hundreds of daughters, sisters and mothers gathered to protest, shouting “No to war!”, “No to mobilization!”, “No to genocide!”. State propaganda attempted to portray it as a rally in favor of mobilization. But all video evidencs, however, show that is a misinterpretation of what actually happened.”

“The widespread international response to this action – mostly among people with no experience of living in a totalitarian country for decades – has been that Yakutians have just woken up and are only against mobilization, not against the war [but] it is important to highlight that the prevailing majority of those who have access to information in the Sakha Republic have never supported the war: simply because it is not our war” (stress supplied). 

A week later, the people of Sakha tried to organized another protest, but it was suppressed by security forces brought in from outside the republic because in the view of Moscow “their local colleagues were not active enough” in reining in members of their own nations.

“Our rights are violated by the state we happen to be part of due to imperial gluttony. The illusion that a political regime is trying to immerse society in has no solid ground beneath it. Russia, the Soviet Union, and the Russian Empire have been continuously hostile towards the population of indigenous peoples residing within their territories” (stress supplied).

“The state has managed to take our names, eliminate our languages, exhaust our lands, and pollute our waters. Its long-running campaign involves the current ethnic cleansing as a well-planned move to eradicate indigenous peoples, many of whom no longer exist or have up until now survived in populations of fewer than ten.”

The time has come “for us to speak up and start these complicated conversations, both locally and globally. We must acknowledge the ethnocide of indigenous peoples of Russia as well as the never-ending exploitation of fragile ecosystems that leads to the intensification of global warming processes and has long-lasting effects on a planetary scale.”

“By means of this letter, we seek solidarity with the indigenous communities and their allies worldwide. We would like to ask you to help spread our story and share what is happening to indigenous peoples in Russia.”

#indigenous #indigenous russian #culture #indigenous russia #russia #important #colonization #fypシ #fypage #landback #Sakha #Altai #indigenous people #indigenous rights #No to war #no to genocide #siberia #Indigenous Siberian #Ukraine war #russia ukraine war

[universalcas]

#endvverse-stuff #old drafts cleansing #dean #spn graphic #dean winchester #deanedit

[sarcastic--metaphor]

its avatar time

lol i was trapped on a commute that was like 2 hours longer than expected today and drafted up the start to an ATLA fic I've been wanting to write. There's definitely bits I want to expand on but I'm posting it now just to share for fun

the actual fic will be a very zuko-centric AU, but somehow I ended up writing a hearty prelude (featuring Ursa's POV as she has her first child)

Ig the only warning is that this does feature some old timey women-not-having-it-good themes. Like there's discussions of child bearing and bodily autonomy but it's not too heavy imo. But i absolutely loved writing from Ursa's POV and hope to do more with this AU soon

(also- if u have any idea what's up with baby zuko, i wanna hear what your guess is!)

+++

Excerpt:

The sages and midwives cleansed the babe and swaddled him, as well as dabbed Ursa’s own tear-streaked face with a cool cloth, before finally permitting her to hold her own child. 

Ozai already had a name picked out for him.

“Hello, Zuko.” Ursa said. After the day she had, her voice was little more than a hoarse rasp. 

Her son opened his eyes and cried. 

Ursa’s stomach plummeted. 

Her child was wrong.

+++

Word count: ~2,900

+++

Lady Ursa came into her new family with much fanfare, as was expected of a royal wedding. Her new husband insisted upon her superb beauty to all that would hear and lavished her with gifts of fine silk and golden adornments. Spoils of war, as well. Their marriage bed was crafted from highly polished dark wood, inlaid with pearls from the South Pole and abalone imported from the coasts of the Earth Kingdom. 

But what her nation did not know as well as she did, was that her husband was not a patient man. Not at all. 

Ozai was a man of great elegance, yes. He moved as though no man could best him, as though he were a greater being from another realm. But he possessed a terribly watchful eye. And what he wanted more than Ursa’s beauty or her love was her body. He wanted an heir. 

First, he wasted no time consummating their marriage. The man seemed determined to appease his father by getting Ursa pregnant before she could fully remove her wedding gown. 

The heat that came off his skin as he held her close was enough to suffocate her. 

Ursa did her damndest to satisfy him. She let herself be followed every moment of every day by a legion of medical experts, sages, and attendants who instructed her how to best have her first child. They dictated when she woke up, the temperature of her baths, her food, her dress, her exposure to sunlight, the bitter teas meant to influence her body’s moods, and when she went to bed every night. 

They were at their most insistent in the early months of her marriage. She didn’t even have both feet past the threshold of the palace, technically not even a wife yet, before she was whisked away to some private room, told to strip before all their eyes, and examined to a humiliating degree for any bodily deficiencies to be concerned over. They deemed her perfectly healthy and said that with the proper diet and tea, she’d be giving birth by next summer. 

But that precious early stage of her marriage, those cool and gentle months between summer and winter, came and went without her menstrual cycle ceasing. Autumn was the most auspicious time for women in the Fire Nation to become with child, as it meant their babies would be born in the hottest months of the year under Agni’s brilliant eye. 

But for all his determination, for all the efforts made, winter came in full and Ursa was still bleeding monthly. 

That was when she began to pray. She prayed every morning at sunrise and every evening at sunset. In her bedroom, at the royal family’s personal shrine, in the capital’s grandest temple. Sometimes for hours at a time without rest. The sages approved greatly of her devotion. The doctors disapproved, as she could not partake in food or drink while in prayer. 

Ursa begged Agni for a baby. She begged for Ozai’s furious advances to cease. Since her wedding night, she had crawled out of bed every morning sore and tender, made even more humiliating when her attendants slathered her most intimate parts with potent oils or creams to soothe the aching and chafe. 

Her body was no longer hers, she knew that. But please, was she not devoted to her new husband and her country? Was she not healthy? Why was she being tested so?

Above all else, Ursa asked for something to hope for. 

The new year came and went. The nation was alight with all sorts of colors in the sky and endless trails of beautiful lanterns, but it was a cold comfort for Ursa. 

Both she and Ozai grew rather distant and demoralized as winter gave way to spring. Or rather, she grew demoralized as her husband grew distant. They sometimes went days without speaking to each other. Yet they retired to the same bed without fail every night. They had no choice. 

Her husband began regarding her with this cruel tint to his eyes, as if she were to blame for his lack of progeny. Ursa was afraid of him. 

Then, in that delicate time early in the year between late winter and young spring, she found her cycle late. The sages and doctors ran their tests. Ursa felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She almost dared not believe it could be true. 

But it was. The palace was jubilant, ecstatic even. Lady Ursa was finally with child. 

The sages brought this wonderful news to the Fire Lord, presenting Ursa and Ozai as if they were mere trinkets, more spoils of war. It was a less ideal time of the year to have a baby, yes. This did not go unnoticed by Ozai or his father, the two of them so alike in their dispassionate eyes. But the sages spun a tale of how, as the new year emerges from the ashes of the past, much like the great phoenix, so did Fire Lord Azulon’s great and prosperous bloodline. 

His newest grandchild was a symbol of vitality, of hope.

Ursa straightened her back, as did her husband. 

And Fire Lord Azulon seemed pleased. He even gazed upon Ursa directly and congratulated her on her first child, implying he’d expect more in the future. 

A hand touched her belly and Ursa was surprised to find it wasn’t her own. Ozai caressed her gently, though there was no bump to be had. Not yet. He smiled at her and she could feel the heat from his palm seeping through her clothes and soaking into her skin. 

Her child would likely be born in the densest portion of winter, when the days were short and the nights were so very long. They would be a strong child, the sages said, as any creature must be to weather out those dark, bitter months. 

There was only one problem. Two, even.

One, Ursa went into labor the night before the winter solstice. For first time mothers, they sometimes went several days before properly giving birth. She almost hoped this would be the case, but Ursa was not so fortunate. Why would she be?

Amongst her tears and fervent screaming, her first child was born after sunset on the shortest day of the entire year. As if Agni himself deigned to fit her with as many ill omens as possible. At least the birth itself was without complications. 

Oh, and it was a boy. Not that female heirs were unheard of, nor would it be a travesty for Ozai, who was himself only second in line to inherit the throne. But who would want to disrupt the current dynasty’s male-dominated line of succession after so long? 

Ozai would be quite pleased to know his firstborn was male. 

The sages and midwives cleansed the babe and swaddled him, as well as dabbed Ursa’s own tear-streaked face with a cool cloth, before finally permitting her to hold her own child. 

Ozai already had a name picked out for him.

“Hello, Zuko.” Ursa said. After the day she had, her voice was little more than a hoarse rasp. 

Her son opened his eyes and cried. 

Ursa’s stomach plummeted. 

Her child was wrong. 

His skin was fair and pale, his downy baby hair dark and plentiful, his body healthy.

But his eyes…

They reminded Ursa of the beautiful gemstone pendant her mother once wore, a family heirloom from before the war. It was a precious stone more commonly found in the Earth Kingdom than the Fire Nation, a glowing and iridescent opal. 

Her child had opal eyes. Half his irises were the rich, bright amber yellow of the royal family. It was undeniably the hue of Ozai’s own eyes. But dispersed throughout the baby’s irises were shards of bright, cerulean blue. 

But there was nothing she could do or say. The midwife was letting her husband into the room to view his progeny. Everyone else was leaving to give them a brief moment of privacy, odd after the months of stealing every ounce of autonomy from her. Ursa prayed the baby would seal his eyes and hide his abnormality. 

Ozai came upon the side of her bed, footsteps light and a bright smile upon his face. He peeled back a bit of the blanket for a better look. 

“Wait-” Ursa said. 

Ozai faltered. Not at her request, no. But because he felt the need to recoil from the sight of his child. 

“Sages!” he called, not looking at her, “I want the head sage in here immediately!”

Ursa couldn’t say she remembered what happened after that. Only that she was afraid of the venom in Ozai’s voice. 

He wanted them to take the baby and ensure that it was indeed his. Ursa didn’t know what kind of rituals they could enact, which spirits they could call upon, to prove that the child was indeed Ozai’s. All Ursa knew was that Zuko could belong to no other man, not that her word held much weight. 

Ursa was kept isolated from the rest of the royal family, and her own child, with only a servant and her midwife for company and care. Half of her wanted her baby back. She needed the protection he offered her, where his living body would cease Ozai’s relentless assault upon her own. She could finally cease waking up throbbing every morning, cease the constant monitoring and control over her body, and enter the family as a proper princess. 

Half of her was terrified of the baby, of what it could mean for them both if the sages found his lineage inconclusive. 

Several days later, her husband entered her quarters with the head sage and the child. 

“It is my great honor,” the old man said, “to confirm that this child is indeed the legitimate offspring of Prince Ozai.”

He came to Ursa and allowed her to hold her baby for the first time since his birth. Zuko was no longer crying, instead making these soft sounds from behind closed lips. It seemed to her that he was wanting something. Her touch or milk, perhaps?

When the old man and her attendants all left, when it was just husband, wife, and child in the room, Ozai did not approach her. He just stared at the small mass in her arms swaddled in silk. 

“The sages could prove that boy might be mine, but we’ll be lucky if he lives to see his hundredth day.” Ozai said softly. He wrinkled his nose in displeasure, “I am no fool. All the omens indicate he will be weak. Cursed, even. If there is any fire in his blood, I know it will be weak and flickering.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have, but Ursa couldn’t help but snap. She said, “Zuko is still yours, Ozai. His blood is your blood, and his fire will be your fire.”

He scoffed at her, turned his back, and left Ursa to tend to their child. 

+++

Ursa knew most children weren’t able to bend until they were a few years old, or their bending was so weak that it was imperceivable. Sometimes it took even longer for them to realize their innate gift if both parents were nonbenders. Only rarely would very young children, tiny souls still mastering the art of walking and talking, display visible signs of bending. 

Zuko’s family, however, were very much expecting it. 

He really only got to be a baby for a few months before the weight of princely expectations were set upon him. 

Ursa would watch as Ozai would ignite a fire at the tip of his finger, no bigger than that of a candle flame, and hold it over their child’s soft, clammy palm. Every time, their baby would recoil from the heat and cry. Zuko refused to take the flame. Ozai would sneer or grit his teeth every time, but he continued to try day after day to get his son to take the flame. 

In those moments, it was hard to remember that this strange man was the boy’s father. 

Ursa’s small solace came in the form of the sages’ wisdom. They spoke of well documented cases where children metamorphosed early in life, their hair or eyes changing in color before taking on their true hue within a year or so. Ursa didn’t need the explanation, she’d seen it herself. Or heard about it from her mother, at least. She herself had been born with eyes nearly brown in color before they lightened into a dull honey hue by her second birthday. But the explanation did give her hope, however small, that her child would grow to more closely resemble Ozai in the coming years. They just needed a little more time. 

Which they would get, it seemed. Zuko lived to see his hundredth day, then first birthday. Ozai never said anything, but seemed to accept that Zuko was not only his child, but that he was also going to live. 

And something seemed to change in him.

The summer after Zuko’s first birthday, they went to Ember Island together. No attendants, no guards. Just them as a family. Ozai brought Ursa to his family’s estate on the island, took her shopping, and went with her two nights in a row to the theater. The show they were putting on was such a touching drama that Ursa just had to see it twice, her husband obliging with a kind of abnormally fond patience. He even got up to walk around the empty halls with their little boy whenever Zuko grew restless, all so that Ursa wouldn’t have to miss a minute of the climax. 

Baby Zuko, meanwhile, loved sitting in the sand beneath the sun. From morning to night, he relished soaking up the sunlight and the breeze coming off of the ocean. This seemed to please his father, who had a greater tolerance for the heat than Ursa ever could. The two of them would sit out in the sun while Ursa needed the shade provided by a lofty umbrella. 

While on a pleasant walk along the shore, Zuko kept wandering toward the water with increasing tenacity. Ursa tried to interest him in the beautiful shells that washed upon the shore, but to no avail. Her son wanted to splash in the water that, while only ankle-deep for her and Ozai, was much more formidable for him. Such a brave, little thing. He did not yet know the dangers of the world, but Ursa was a fool for letting her own guard down. 

A sudden swell crashed upon the shore and swept Zuko off his feet. In such a moment, his hand was ripped from hers. 

Ursa dove for him, but he was already being pulled by the waves and was out of her reach before she could even utter his name. 

She gasped, awestruck, as Ozai threw himself into the shallow water without a hint of grace. In hindsight, Zuko hadn’t really been pulled very far. But he was so small, so fragile. He could not swim. Ozai grabbed the boy and waded through the rough waves back to Ursa, using his body to shield their son from the spray. 

Ursa took Zuko and patted him on his back. He wasn’t crying or coughing, he didn’t even seem to understand what had happened to him, but she soothed him all the same. That was when she noticed her husband was bleeding. 

Ozai touched the scratch on his abdomen lined with tiny pearls of red blood. It must’ve been from a piece of broken shell, something not yet worn down by the relentless sea. He said it was hardly a cause for concern and in just a few minutes, it ceased bleeding. 

Zuko gave thanks to his father by immediately trying to return to the water as soon as Ursa set him down. Ozai snatched him up, but didn’t reprimand his child. Perhaps he knew it’d do little good for a boy so small and curious. Zuko’s feet did not touch the sand for the remainder of their walk. 

Thankfully, their vacation concluded without much fanfare.

On the boat ride home, as Ursa watched the clouds drift by with her son in her arms, she dared to believe that maybe, all would be well. That Ozai was merely a man under tremendous, inconceivable pressure to act as the ideal prince. After all, he’d been born into royalty and surely had to contend with things Ursa had not yet conceived of. Perhaps the first year of their marriage was only a rough start. That deep down, Ozai did care for her and Zuko not just as political power, but as his family. It’d just taken stepping away from his royal duties and endless obligations for his true nature to show. 

Then there came the day when everything changed. When Ursa knew her life was not in her hands, nor in the hands of her husband, and not even in the hands of her Fire Lord. When she knew her life was dictated by the will of the spirits and theirs alone. 

And that her son would never be safe in his father’s house.

#atla #zuko #atla ursa #atla ozai #some spirit chicanery afoot

[misswriteress]

[Begin Image Description: Two hands pressing against dark grey-green glass with faint smoke overlayed on top and the words Luna Paranormal Investigations.

End Image Description]

Title: Luna Paranormal Investigations

Genre: Adult Paranormal Horror

Setting: Calgary, Alberta and other various locations across Canada (and maybe outside of Canada as well?)

POV: Third Person, multiple

Themes/Tropes: Consequences of the past, forgiveness, healing, found family, fear of the unknown.

TWs: Gore, Abuse, Death

Status: Drafting

SUMMARY

In a world where psychics and supernatural entities are very real, yet not everyone believes, it's not easy for people to find help when one of those entities decides to stick around or when you suddenly start moving things around. That's where people like Luna Paranormal Investigations, founded by Dr. Javier Luna, come in: they'll come out and investigate to determine if what you're dealing with is really a ghost (or just a structural issue) and if it is the former, will help you and the spirit. But it's not always as simple as helping a ghost with unfinished business: sometimes the ghosts aren't so kind and they won't go without a fight, and sometimes it's not the ghosts you need to worry about...

Cast of Characters

Maren Holovko: A psychic who inherited her mediumship and clairvoyance powers from her father, she works as the receptionist for Luna Paranormal Investigations and is also Javier's wife. Her abilities have often been crucial to providing context for investigations, but they also can put a great strain on her especially since it makes her a magnet for not so nice entities.

Javier Luna: The founder of Luna Paranormal Investigations and holds a doctorate in Parapsychology. Has always been interested in the paranormal and more importantly wanted to help people who wouldn't have anyone else to turn to. While he can get very eager when it comes to paranormal phenomenon, he is very protective of his team and will not hesitate to protect them at the expense of himself (which exasperates Maren).

Beatriz Aguilar: Childhood friend of Luna and Felix, she's more of a skeptic when it comes to the paranormal (though she's certainly seen some things that have shaken her skepticism). Her background in historical research make her perfect for looking through archives to find information about the places and people they're investigating.

Felix Estrada: The third member of the trio, Felix is more like Luna when it comes to the paranormal though he also tends to get more freaked out when actually witnessing the events. Is the guy in charge of the tech, including both the cameras and the gadgets and despairs whenever his "babies" get broken because of a ghost. Is also happily married to his childhood sweetheart Leticia.

Phoebe Winters: One of Luna's grad students he chose to work as an intern for LPI, she is very enthusiastic when it comes to the position (sometimes too enthusiastic) and is eager to help. She comes from an old money family she's estranged from due to their disapproval about her chosen line of work along with other reasons.

Victor Baptiste: Luna's other grad student he chose as an intern, he's more of a skeptic than Phoebe who prefers to rely on the scientific evidence rather than merely gut feeling. Has no idea what he's gotten himself into.

Noel Martin: Not officially a part of LPI, but rather a freelancer the team calls on when required, they are a powerful pyrokinetic who can use their ability for protection and cleansing.

Callan Turner: A former exorcist who left the church after an event left him disillusioned and works freelance. He's known Noel for a long time and is the last resort for the team when a case gets lethally dangerous.

luna paranormal investigations playlist

More Info

So I'm not dead (well, that might be debatable-), real life just sucks but I've been working on another WIP as you can see, this one was actually planned to be a spin-off of my With a Spark of Magic WIP but I liked the characters and idea so much I re-worked it to make it into its own world.

#writeblr #wtwcommunity #wip: luna paranormal investigations #wip introduction #very much inspired by Ghost Hunt #And also maybe a bit of Buzzfeed Unsolved/Ghost Files #I just really wanted to write a paranormal investigation story okay

[sisterdragonwithfeathers]

TW blood I guess?

anyway I had a thought during communion about how the old covenant was blood-spattered from sacrifice and cleansing but in the new covenant we are fully covered in His blood and the flow washes us white

with the symbology of which is the full and better covenant heavier/more valuable is heavier on a weighted scale/images of “justice” holding/being a scale

very rough draft and I have other ideas of how to depict the idea but there it is

#zlart #christianity #I guess? #semi-related I really need to go through my notes and warmups layers and fish out all the good sketches #worst thing about digital #stuff gets lost #hi I’m back! #was gone on a study for the weekend

[notwiselybuttoowell]

The world has just seen an end to centuries of Armenian existence in Nagorno-Karabakh. All ethnic Armenians have left the disputed region, travelling in a caravan of cars over the border to Armenia. The Armenian children now displaced will hate the Azerbaijanis, just as I once hated the Armenians for what they did to me. I was a victim of the first Nagorno-Karabakh war in the 1990s, when it was Armenia that was victorious, and it ethnically cleansed all Azerbaijanis from its lands. I am speaking out, hoping to be a small pebble, lodged in this endless cycle of violence.

Before the first war, inside Azerbaijan’s borders there existed the “Nagorno-Karabakh autonomous oblast”, a majority-Armenian island, so to speak, of mountainous land, with the culturally significant, majority-Azerbaijani citadel Shusha right in the middle. Concentric circles of alternating ethnicities radiated outward from Shusha; Azerbaijanis surrounded by Armenians surrounded by Azerbaijanis and Azerbaijani Kurds and so on – a great inconvenience for emerging nationalist narratives. Being Armenian and Azerbaijani became oppositional and mutually exclusive. Neighbour went against neighbour, and eventually state against state, with their armies wreaking havoc on the other.

During that war my first childhood memories were formed. I remember walking down a dirt road in my father’s village at dusk when the sky suddenly turned bright as day – bullets flying above my head. I remember attending the burial of my 18-year-old uncle, and being scared of the graveyard, where the eyes of the dead stared at me from pictures on their gravestones. He had been drafted into the war and had died there. I came to understand from the adults’ conversations that he had stepped on a landmine and had his legs blown off. He had then shot himself in the temple before his friends could get to him to stop him.

My mother’s family, Azerbaijani Kurds, hailed from the mountainous district of Lachin. I was told we had a big, beautiful house there, with many windows. My mother fondly remembered how my great-grandmother would take her on horseback up the rugged cliffs. It felt like flying, she would say. Armenian forces ended our ancestral existence there, ethnically cleansing everyone who was not Armenian. I never saw our house, never got to fly on horseback, and never saw Lachin, except in the news with its new Armenian name, “Berdzor”.

In school, I learned that the Armenians were villains responsible for all our tragedies; this was not hard to believe given what my family had been through. The Russian empire, we were taught, had transported them into our country as a loyal Christian population from Iran after the conclusion of the Russo-Persian wars in 1828. We learned that the Armenians were conniving tricksters never to be trusted. On TV, I heard Armenians described as “the abominable enemy” and “vandals”. The horrifying pogroms Azerbaijanis committed against the Armenians in our major cities were denied, minimised or explained away as being organised by the Armenians to make themselves look like victims, garner international sympathy and justify starting a war of occupation. The ethnic cleansing of Armenians by Azerbaijani and Soviet troops during the infamous events of 1991 was never even mentioned. Nor did we ever hear about the wilful and systematic destruction of Armenian heritage in Azerbaijan.

I have since come to learn that the Armenians were fed the same types of messages about the Azerbaijanis. We were labelled “Turks”, with obvious traumatic associations with the Armenian genocide, which made us guilty for a crime in another land by another people. The cultural, religious and linguistic differences between the Caucasian Azerbaijanis and Anatolian Turks, who had in fact fought wars with each other, did not concern the Armenian nationalists. We were nothing but barbarian invaders from central Asia with no history and no culture.

After our horrible fate in the 1990s, hatred seized Azerbaijan, and destroyed us. The current president, Ilham Aliyev, took power in 2003 and curtailed free speech, with the notable exception of hate speech against the Armenians. An Azerbaijani is always welcome to hate the Armenians a little more and to blame them for all our problems. The first family has been accused of benefiting from state contracts and business deals; Aliyev has even benefited from the plight of those in Karabakh, using our suffering to legitimise his endless repressions.

Aliyev would have you believe that the Armenians are leaving Nagorno-Karabakh of their own free will – a lie. The Armenians know well what sorry destiny awaits them if they stay. This process is, of course, ethnic cleansing.

I left Azerbaijan 15 years ago, displaced this time not by the Armenians but by the cruelty of those who were supposed to love me and protect me. I fled domestic violence after my father tried to kill me for being gay, and there was no person or institution in Azerbaijan that could protect me. I am as displaced as a person could be, and, through my words here, I may never be able to visit Azerbaijan again for fear of persecution. But I am compelled by my conscience.

I want Armenian children being forcefully displaced from their homes to hear the words that would have once meant everything to me: I am sorry we failed you. One day, when you understand what happened to you, hatred will start to drip into your heart, and you will want to seek vengeance. In that moment, take my outstretched hand and let me guide you back to our shared humanity. For the only true “us” and “them” lies between the perpetrators of violence, and those who reject it.

#armenia #azerbaijan #nagorno karabakh #tw suicide #tw homophobia

[archangelmacaron]

YES, I HAVE UPDATED! It's been almost a full year, which is wild. I had accidentally deleted the entire ending I had drafted out, which really put a damper on wanting to finish this. But I got over it, and we should be on track to complete this soon enough! HOWEVER, since it HAS been so long, I have created a summary so you don't have to re-read everything (unless you'd like to!) Spoilers under cut!

19 year old college student Noel Cerquetti is starting her first year at Lhaplus College of the Arts… again. 

The semester is coming to a close, and all first year music students are competing for not just the best grade in finals, but the position of pianist at the city’s yearly devil cleansing ceremony. Noel is certain she’s going to win when she realizes that her finals recording has been switched with another student. When she goes to complain to Dean Burrows, she’s instead told to withdraw from the music program entirely by Monday, or be expelled and blacklisted.

Noel decides to drink her woes away for the night. Unfortunately, Jillian has a date, so she heads back to the apartment they share with the volatile artist Spica alone. Spica warns Noel about her art project on the floor before going to her boyfriend’s for the night. Noel thinks nothing of the painted red runic circle as she sips vodka on the couch until, just before midnight, Spica’s stereo clicks on at max volume. Stumbling to get the remote to silence it, something falls off the end table and shatters—and Noel is no longer alone.

The Great Devil Caron has appeared, and is not too pleased at the first ever accidental summoning. He tells Noel he’ll let the insult slide if she’s also able to give him a reason to be there. Noel is too wary to make a demonic contract, but she explains the issue she’s having to him. When she stands up to fetch evidence of Spica’s set-up, she falls and lands directly on him—and he realizes that she doesn’t have legs.

Noel explains that she was hit by a drunk driver the previous year and ended up losing both legs. Caron immediately suspects that the accident is linked to what Noel is currently going through. He points out that Spica was almost certainly expecting that he would kill her, and thus Noel’s life is currently in danger once more. He offers to protect her and work with her to solve the mystery, but Jillian’s homecoming interrupts the discussion.

Noel wakes up the next day to Caron sitting in her bed, reading her diary. He smugly informs her that she agreed to a contract while black out drunk after having more wine with Jillian. Noel has the strange impression that he’s lying, but decides to take him at face value and work with him to find out who wants her dead, and why.

They hide in the attic in hopes of convincing Spica that she might have been successful after all. While there, they discover old yearbooks that show a pattern of dying students all in the first year piano class who had been predicted to be the next ceremonial pianist. Noel suspects that the ceremony itself is the key, and agrees to take Caron to the college library that night to search for more information.

They head over in the unusual, bitter cold at nightfall. Caron goes to break in the building when Noel is caught by her friend Fugo Dressel, who is helping his brother Oscar out by taking a security shift. Caron knocks him out and is prepared to leave him there, but Noel begs him not to, so he carries him into the library as well. 

The pair is searching for a key to the basement archives when Fugo wakes up and attacks, revealing that he’s a demon who has made a devil’s contract. He warns Noel that devils always lie and that she’s in danger—but provides a great deal of that danger himself by angrily hurling fire around the room. Oscar Dressel appears and brings an end to the fight, sending Noel and Caron to meet up with them at his house later as he prepares to hide the cause of the fires.

While waiting for the brothers to return, Noel and Caron talk. Noel realizes he was injured trying to put out the fires because she’d said she didn’t want to cause any destruction. She’s confused as to why he would do that for her, and he’s confused as to why she starts crying over it. Through this discussion, they begin to understand each other a bit better. Jillian’s phone call interrupts them, and Noel tells her where they are without thinking. Jillian declares that she’s heading over as Caron groans at more people getting involved. 

The Dressel brothers arrive on a short break in their now extended security shift. Noel explains what’s going on. Oscar tells her that the books they were looking for aren’t even in the library anymore, but had been taken to the performance hall. Fugo is less calm about the situation, and asks Noel if she actually remembers making a contract with Caron. She admits that she doesn’t, but before she can ask him what he means, he and Oscar need to return to work. 

While waiting for Jillian to arrive next, Caron admits that he is lying to Noel, but won’t explain what or why just yet. Despite this, he asks her to trust him. She says that she can’t just yet, but that she will choose to believe in him.

Jillian arrives, and Noel begins to explain what’s happening once more. Upon hearing that Noel is involved with a devil, Jillian begins to have a panic attack, which worsens when Caron appears. She faints after taking medication, and they carry her to the guest room upstairs. Noel is exhausted and knows Caron must be as well, but there’s only one guest room left. She suggests they share it, and he agrees.

While preparing for bed, Caron offers Noel his shirt to sleep in. At that moment, she realizes that she is extremely attracted to him, and that’s at least part of why she feels strangely around him. While in bed, without her prosthetic legs, she admits out loud that clearly, she does trust him. He thanks her, and after a sly comment, she realizes that he’s flirting with her. She confesses to flirting back, and the two laugh and begin to cuddle. As she falls asleep, Noel realizes she’s very happy to be with him, even though the relationship is moving so quickly.

Jillian awakens the next morning and learns that Fugo also wants to get Caron away from Noel. They decide to work together, and plan to go to the Performance Hall to find a book on devil exorcism. Jillian goes to speak to Noel and walks in on her wearing only Caron’s shirt. After an awkward conversation, Jillian leaves, and Noel heads back to bed for a little more sleep while Caron does research on her smartphone.

Jillian and Fugo head through an unusual morning fog to the Performance Hall, which is empty and in the midst of a power outage. Fugo takes a brief moment to confront Jillian about her devotion to Noel, telling her that she needs to live her own life. At first, Jillian is angry, but she starts to realize that he really cares about her as a friend and wants her to be happy. They easily find the devil tomes from the library, but Jillian realizes that she won’t be able to read any of them—they’re all written in infernal script. Fugo leaves her there to meet up with Oscar briefly and return the campus keys he’s stolen. Jillian is distracted by a strange blue and white book, but before she can touch it, Dean Burrows appears.

The Dean calmly explains to Jillian that Noel is lying to her, and that the story of an accidental summoning is nonsense. He tells her that Noel is in great danger from Caron, but that he considers it his duty as Dean to help save Noel. Jillian is convinced, and sends text messages to Noel asking her to take a certain path to the Performance Hall. Once done, Dean Burrows takes her phone and smugly admits that he’s lied about everything. He tells Jillian he needs her to perform a ceremony for him that night, and that he’s taking Noel as a hostage to be sure she behaves before he locks her in the room.

Jillian panics again, but this time faints from hyperventilating rather than her medication. She has a strange dream of resting on a large man’s lap as he strokes her hair and reassures her that her mistakes are not insurmountable. When she wakes up, the door has mysteriously opened and Fugo is there. She tells him of Burrow’s plan to attack Noel, and they hurry out to try and find her before it’s too late.

Noel and Caron are heading to the Performance Hall when Noel is grazed by a bullet and Caron is injured. They manage to mislead their attacker, and end up in the Performance Hall as a sudden thunderstorm hits. Without thinking, Noel kisses Caron. He heals Noel, but as payment, he bites her, leaving an affectionate mark. They hear piano playing upstairs, and head to the ballroom where they meet with Professor Becker.

Professor Becker explains to Noel that Caron was responsible for her accident. He had made a contract with the driver that made him unable to make his own choices, and Professor Becker had ordered him to hit Noel with his car. Noel denies Professor Becker’s reading of the situation and scolds her for using Caron’s devil’s morals to dodge her own responsibility in the man’s death. Professor Becker then explains her own contract with Caron that had removed her emotions, but Noel is still able to declare that she trusts Caron regardless of what he’s done in his past. The professor goes on to explain that the pair don’t even have a contract, and that Caron has been using her to find the tomes with his summoning circle inside. He confesses that it’s true, but denies her allegations that he is planning on destroying and discarding Noel. Noel once again makes the choice to trust him.

Spica appears with a mind controlled Ribelio and an electric weapon that is able to knock Caron out. They take Noel’s phone, and Professor Becker leaves, telling Spica to do whatever she wants with them as long as Noel stays alive. Spica tortures them for a while, and admits to Noel that she’s jealous of her because she doesn’t understand who she is or where she came from. She continues to shock Caron, and orders Ribelio to tear out Noel’s eye. At her second order, to pull off an arm, Ribelio is able to break the mind control briefly, and while Spica is dealing with him, Caron moves to cover Noel with his own body. He apologizes for not being able to get them out of the situation, and she tells him that she loves him. He says he doesn’t understand why, everything is moving so quickly, but she is everything to him.

Jillian and Fugo arrive back at the Performance Hall due to another sudden, intense storm. They’re able to charge Fugo’s phone at a battery stand. He has received a message from Noel’s phone. They’re both immediately suspicious, and when they hear a loud crash, Fugo heads to investigate while telling Jillian to call Oscar as soon as the phone has enough battery.

Fugo arrives in the ballroom and is quickly attacked by Ribelio and Spica. His opinion on Caron flips completely as he realizes he’s using his own badly hurt body to protect Noel. Jillian appears and is able to hit Spica with Fugo’s phone. Oscar appears, knocking Ribelio out, and orders Jillian, Noel and Caron escape.

The trio head to the local hotel, which is in the off-season, and set up in an empty room on the top floor. Jillian and Caron argue over him needing a price to heal Noel, and she suggests he take it from her, instead. Caron refuses, stating that Jillian belongs to someone else, and asks her if she’s aware of who stands behind her. Unsure what he means, Jillian leaves to get supplies.

Caron heals Noel, but is unable to save her eye. He tells her that she can pay in installments, and hints that he’d like her to kiss him again. She scolds him that it’s unfair as she wanted to do that anyway. They’re able to discuss Caron’s reasons for searching for the tomes to find a new kind of person to summon him instead of the same boring requests. He admits what actually happened their first night together, and how her first offhand comment of “I need help” and wariness to make an actual contract, followed by a later drunken ‘thank you,’ showed that she wasn’t like his usual contractors—exactly what he was looking for. They bond for a bit before taking a romantic bath together.

Meanwhile, Oscar and Fugo interview a now-conscious Ribelio. He explains how he came to be under Spica’s mind control, and that the woman isn’t a devil, but isn’t quite human, either, having strange powers and growing up to an adult in a terrifyingly short amount of time. He informs them that Spica and Burrows have some kind of relationship, and that he’s the reason they’re now both college students, but that he has no idea what they have planned.

Jillian is engaged in some serious self loathing during her supply run in the cold rain, finally admitting to herself that Caron really does love Noel, and that her feelings towards her will never be requited. She’s drowning in misery when the mysterious stranger from her dream appears again, gently chiding her to warm up. She obediently gets coffee and hands him some as well, which he drinks, revealing that he truly is there and is not a dream. He begins to escort her back to the hotel as she asks him questions, and unexpectedly says his name; revealing him as the Eternal Devil Caesar, who says he is there to save her life as Head Security Officer Jino and others approach.

At the hotel, Noel has a vivid nightmare that she has committed a devil summoning, and her limbs are ripped off. She realizes that in her dream, Caron was the one to do it, and decides not to tell him the details as he comforts her. The Dressel brothers have arrived. Oscar discusses the strange weather and points out that his radio is no longer working, but Fugo interrupts, pointing out that Jillian has now been gone for three hours. At that moment, there’s a knock, and they open the door to reveal Jillian and Caesar.

Jillian helps Noel get dressed as she quickly explains how she ran into Caesar, and how, despite him being a devil who knows far more than he should, she’s completely unafraid of him. They join everyone in the main room and begin to discuss what has happened so far.

Caesar explains what he knows of Dean Burrow’s plans. He tells them that Jillian and Noel are being targeted specifically because of an innate talent they have that gives their piano playing the power to summon or cleanse devils. He offers Noel sheet music that can expel all devils in Lhaplus, which she adamantly refuses, and says that she won’t lose Caron again. Everyone is confused by her phrasing, but when she tries to deny it as having simply misspoke, Caesar explains that it is not the case, and that Noel is beginning to remember things that she should not.

He tells them that this is not their first meeting, and that, in another world, Noel had summoned Caron when tricked into a contract, and that Caron had removed her limbs as payment. Noel begins to flash back to her nightmare, and starts to have a panic attack as she loses feeling in her hands. Caesar is able to stop her panic attack as he had for Jillian and continues to explain their first meeting. Noel had been seeking vengeance on Burrows in that world, and to stop her, Jillian had summoned Caesar. He explains how curious he had found Jillian’s choice to give up her five senses to save Noel, and how strong Noel and Caron, who had been the one to mutilate her, had become together. He tells them he had abandoned his contract with Jillian because of that, and should have been destroyed for it.

Instead, Caesar found himself wandering from world to world, always observing Jillian. In one world, Jillian called out his name as she was dying, despite having no reason to know of him in it. He is unexpectedly moved by her death, and decides to begin interfering in the next worlds to prevent it. He explains that he is not all powerful, and that in using too much power at times, he’s almost been destroyed. He warns Noel, who casually wonders aloud what a peaceful life with Caron would look like, to stop, because she is in danger of causing her mind to overload with memories that aren’t truly hers. Fugo interrupts, and that’s where chapter 36 begins!

#fanfic

[asteriskheart]

This blog and its interactions has been refreshed!

I've cleaned up across my blogs and a majority of my posts have been deleted here aside from some old threads and headcanons ( which will be redone eventually ). My carrd and muses has also been reworked. If we don't have an established thing between our muses/talked about it and/or we've only had like one interaction then consider it your chance to start fresh ( unless you want to continue in which case just run it by me )!

I'm keeping a handful of threads and asks and some starters I've yet to respond to, but most of my inbox and drafts have been removed. I just really needed that cleanse before I could get real activity back here. I hope to write with you all in the future!

#➥ blank card. ┊ psa #( maybe graphics down the road but right now i just want to focus on writing )