#the inevitable force that draws them together and does not allow them to hold any other healthy relationship

[dimplecki]

I'm rewatching season 8 and I know the church scene is coming soon and I'm not ready for it

#season 8 traumatized me im not even sure why #the betrayel. the jealousy #the break up #the inevitable force that draws them together and does not allow them to hold any other healthy relationship #and then THE WEDDING #the fucking wedding mannnn

[martybaker]

Golden Hour

——————————————————

What’s this? I don’t know. Someone said Dream woodland creature and my brain latched onto it and this happened.

Post New Inn reunion getting-together

featuring

Dream’s struggles with relinquishing control and letting himself be governed by feelings rather than reason, with some flavor of fishbowl PTSD, but mostly it’s them making out and doing their weird flirting thing ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, writing from Dream’s POV is damn hard, lemme tell you.

————————————————————————

It’s an ordinary autumn day when their push and pull comes to a head.

It is not a conscious decision on Dream’s part, far from it. Though perhaps, he has to admit, it is a natural and inevitable pivotal point, a climax of what has been building between them, the breakage of the dam when the tension snaps, forcing a change, forcing a way. As such it was indeed foreseeable, and since Dream is not in the habit of lying to himself, he cannot claim it comes as a surprise to him.

Yet when it happens, it does bring with it many surprises. Such as the feeling of Hob’s light stubble against Dream’s lips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, which Dream declined to sample a glass of and yet is now sampling straight from Hob’s lips, the feeling of Hob’s calloused hands which he seems unable to stop from roaming all over Dream’s body; given a taste they hungrily travel from his hips to his chest, his back, down and up his arms, around his neck, cradling his jaw and burying in his hair.

Curiously, Dream lets them. He’s preoccupied with Hob’s tongue in his mouth, the knee between his legs, the smell of him, soaked in with the scents of The New Inn. Hob’s own musk and sweat, close and overwhelming.

Indeed even more surprising than these sensations are Dream’s own reactions, which seem to elude reason, as he lets Hob’s hands map the topography of this body of his, lets himself be pushed against a wall, lets Hob wring a desperate moan from his lips.

It is this sound, so unlike a sound Dream’s ever made, which snaps him from the haze.

It suddenly draws into focus the liberties this human is taking with him, the sway he has over Dream to be able to get him into this state without Dream’s conscious decision of allowing it.

The wall behind him cages him in, the artificial heart in his chest quickens not because of arousal but as a primal reaction to being trapped, and Dream growls. His eyes become black pits and he hisses at the fool who tried to trick the Lord of Dreams into complacency.

The human startles, pulls away, and brown honey warm eyes survey him, only for the human - Hob - to huff an exasperated sigh, cradle Dream’s face in his hands and murmur “Shh”. He pats his hair, soothing, caresses his cheek, and Dream does not manage to address the audacity of shushing King of Nightmares because he is leaning into the touch, the strung up tension leaking out of his limbs, foolish heart muscle ceasing its frightened gallop. It’s Hob, it’s just Hob, warm, comforting, familiar, drawing him back into a slow indulgent kiss, smiling against Dream’s lips.

“Lovely feral woodland creature,” he says, and Dream frowns at him.

“You would compare me to a doe? A boar? Or a hare?”

Hob huffs a laugh, the creases at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He pulls away, but only as much so they could look into each other’s eyes without going cross-eyed. He still holds Dream close, hands firm around his waist.

“I would compare you to the first sip of coffee after a long weary day, but this ain’t about me waxing poetic about you. I am sure you’ve heard countless sonnets and odes to your honor, from many a skilled craftsman, aside from the bard which shall not be named. Accolades with the likes of which no silly creation of mine could possibly compare.”

Perhaps. However, Dream’s attention attaches to the one just offered, offhandedly, without any expectations of blessings or boons.

First sip of coffee after a long rainy day.

Hmm.

Dream will have to ponder this one.

Leave it to Hob to choose something mundane, though presumably meaningful for creatures burdened with the everyday weariness of human existence. Something which Dream has no experience with, no frame of reference, as taste and smell work differently in the Dreaming than they do in the Waking world.

Hob runs his hands up and down Dream’s back, eliciting a shiver from the body. It’s a pleasant feeling, Dream decides. He places his hands on Hob’s chest. “Why, then, liken me to an animal which wanders the forests?”

“Truth be told, I had an elk in mind. You are otherworldly beautiful, untouchable, majestic, proud, and skittish. An untamable force. I am offering you an outstretched hand, approaching slowly, quietly, never knowing what’s gonna make you bolt. Or pounce, or bury your claws in me,” Hob adds with a crooked grin.

To demonstrate, he offers his forearm for inspection - beneath the downy hairs there are fresh red scratch marks. Dream is not aware when he’s made them.

He exhales, troubled. Yet another thing which has escaped his notice, his control, in Hob’s presence.

But Hob merely chuckles. “Don’t worry, darling, lucky for you I am into it.”

Dream raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you? What else are you into, Hob Gadling?”

Hob laughs. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dream would like to know very much, in fact, he is finding Hob more and more fascinating the closer he gets. He wants to get even closer, and so he lets Hob pull him flush against himself.

Hob noses along his neck, and Dream sighs, baring it to offer better access.

“I am not gonna push you where you don’t want to go,” Hob whispers against his pulse point. Like a secret. Like a promise.

“...I know,” Dream says, because he does. Perhaps his previous self-assessment was somewhat inaccurate. He is indeed not in the habit of lying to himself, but he is more tender, more easily bruised than he is willing to admit to himself.

He lets the pleasant-unpleasant terrifying wonderful feeling of having this known about him wash over him. He breathes it in.

He winds his arms around Hob’s neck.

“I shall like to try.”

“Try what? Us?” Hob asks, unable to conceal the hope in his voice.

Dream smiles. “A sip of coffee after a long weary day,” he says. “To assess your assessment of me. And after that, we’ll see.”

————————————————————————

#dreamling #dreamling fic #the sandman #sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #dream x hob #hob x dream #centennial boyfriends #i am very insecure about this one so any kind words will be much appreciated #potential tw there is some umm body disconnect going on as in Dreams not really fixedly attached to the form he is currently inhabiting #idk Endless things man #my ramblings #my writing

[antisocialxconstruct]

#maybe I gotta post that little snippet later 🤔

post it post it post it 👀

LOL well if you're gonna twist my arm about it......

It starts very abruptly because I had intended to drop it into a larger piece but that larger piece isn't coming together so for now.... 1k of angst-tinged tenderness 😔

---

Just as Ilya’s attention drifts down the hall and they turn away he reaches out, hand trailing down their forearm to linger around their wrist, and when they turn back to face him he throws his other arm around their shoulders and draws them in close. He can feel the ripple of tension that passes through them, for no more than the length of a heartbeat, before their body settles into the embrace.

“You didn’t have to do any of this,” he says, breathing the words into the warmth of their throat as he rests his head against their shoulder.

“You keep saying that,” they point out, lacing their fingers together at the small of his back. “Like it wasn’t the only choice that made any sense.”

None of this makes any sense, Maksim thinks, but he doesn’t argue as the moment stretches quietly into another second. Another. When he lifts his head away he can still feel the air stretched tight between them. A tether–or something more active. A magnetic pull as Ilya’s eyes lock with his, two opposing forces drawn back together into something natural and inevitable.

Then that moment bursts like a soap bubble as Ilya lets out the unmistakable snort of a poorly stifled laugh.

Maksim doesn’t lean any further back but he does narrow his eyes. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, sorry,” Ilya replies quickly. “I just remembered the last time I asked if you were about to kiss me and you nearly decked me for it.”

Maksim holds their gaze for another beat. Then he leans in, places a light kiss along their jaw, another against the soft skin just below their ear, and in his gentlest, most confidential tone, he tells them, “I still might if you’re going to make this weird.”

Ilya’s hands unclasp just to wander up the curve of his back and rest against his shoulders. Their grip is light but he can’t ignore the way they’re holding him in place, the fact that if he tried to step away it would be easy for them to stop him. Even without seeing it he can hear the grin plainly in their voice as they respond, “if you think threats are going to make me behave better then there’s been a serious miscommunication between us.” Maksim pulls back again, just enough to properly take in the pleased little smirk that they flash him to punctuate the comment.

There’s a shift then, something in the stream of his thoughts abruptly changing direction, catching on a hook in the midst of the natural current. It registers as an invitation- no. A challenge, like Ilya is daring him to…

He’s got the collar of their jacket in both fists before he can think about it and he shoves, just hard enough for them to hit the wall with a startled huff that turns into a muffled exclamation against his lips as he kisses them–deep, insistent bordering on aggressive. But there’s an underlying note of desperation to it that Maksim can feel in his own gut, a need for something he can’t name but is suddenly convinced, on some fundamental level, that he could finally have. Something Ilya could give him, that he could find in them–in the way they relax into the kiss just as quickly as they relaxed into the hug, the way they invited this and then surrendered to it so easily. He can feel their hands balled up in the fabric of his shirt and now they are holding him fast, telling him stay here, stay. There’s a stability, a realness to being held that he had allowed himself to forget. A feeling of certainty in being this close to another person, feeling the rise and fall of their breath and the warmth of their skin. Of course he would stay, he would dissolve into this moment, fall into Ilya’s orbit like a captured moon, let himself be pinned through the chest and held in place forever-

Then the rational part of his brain finally catches up only to bring the rest of it to a stuttering halt as it cries out you can’t, you can’t have this, you can’t want this. He breaks away with a sharp inhale, a breathless silence hanging between them as he leans back into Ilya’s arms still wrapped around him. They let their head tip back to thump softly against the wall, seemingly unaware of his sudden discomfort as they study him with an expression that’s difficult to read. Eyes a little wide, skin darkened by a subtle flush across their cheeks and the wry twist of a smile just barely tugging at the corner of their lips again. Maksim’s chest constricts with growing unease and he lets his gaze fall, grasping for something to settle on other than their eyes.

As they so often are, Ilya is the one to find the nerve to break that silence, though they still sound a little stunned. “Sure, that’s one way to shut me up I guess.”

“Sorry,” Maksim utters, and the contrition feels wrong on his tongue, feels like someone else speaking for him. He doesn’t want to apologize. There are so many things that he does want but he’s pushing them all back down below the surface where they’re quiet. Where it’s safe.

“I’m… not complaining.” There's a note of surprise in their tone… at hearing themself say it? Or just at the fact that Maksim needed to hear it? It doesn't matter, he doesn’t want to know what they’re thinking. He wills his hands to loosen, to let Ilya go, and is at once both relieved and disappointed when they take it as a signal to do the same and allow him to step away. It's for the best, he tells himself. Because what he wants won't be good enough, it won't be enough, it never is, and he can't bear the thought of facing that frustration and disappointment again. Not from Ilya, not after all this. Best to never let it come to that.

#ghost city #maksim girard #ilya kasharin #Maksim has some Trauma™ around being ace and not having his boundaries respected in the past #and his solution has mostly been to repress any impulse toward physical affection for fear of '''sending the wrong signals''' #so he's initially unsettled by the intensity of his feelings for Ilya bc another ~miscommunication~ like that could ruin everything :( #it never occurs to him to just ask otherwise he'd know Ilya's also ace LOL #rom fiction

[its-f4nf4n-again]

Into a Storm for @narutoocshipweek

The first time Takane meets Sakumo, he is a tempest.

Word Count:  1,500 Warnings:  canonical graphic violence, blood, death, injury

#

Takane is losing blood quickly; she can feel it in the way her temples throb in time with her heartbeat. She is still too far from her village, and the enemy shinobi her team engaged are so close she can hear their feet when they strike the branches of trees as they pursue her.

She isn’t going to make it, she realizes, and the finality of it tastes like ash in her mouth.  It’s been raining for days, and now the droplets sting her eyes, making her vision even less focused than it would otherwise be as she sprints through the canopy.  The bark is slick beneath her sandals and she stumbles, crying out as she feels her ankle twist angrily beneath her weight.

It’s over, she knows.  There is no escaping her fate.

When Takane turns to meet her assailants head-on, it is fully swathed in the knowledge that the stand she makes now is not one that will spare her life, but only one that will ensure she dies on her own terms, as a shinobi of the Leaf.

She can’t lift her left arm, the wound in her shoulder is too deep; the tendons there severed and useless. Instead, she draws a kunai from her thigh pouch with her right hand, even though it isn’t her dominant side, and holds it in front of her in challenge.

The three Kiri-nin stop, perching themselves in the trees like vile birds as thunder rolls overhead.

One of them tsks, “You really think that’s gonna stop us, Konoha scum?”

Takane says nothing; knows there is no point—they all can see how this is going to end, there’s no use prolonging the inevitable with inept speeches about the Will of Fire or retribution for past sins.

Her head throbs and the ashen taste in her mouth is replaced with iron as she wiggles a loose tooth with her tongue, relishing the sting of an exposed nerve at the root.  The pain keeps her more alert than the concussion she can feel pulling at her consciousness should allow.

When her opponents move, Takane takes a defensive stance instinctively, though she knows it’s a worthless show of force she no longer possesses.  She keeps her eyes open, unwilling to shy away from her own end. It will be a good death.

She only wishes she could have done more.

Suddenly, Takane is sheathed in blinding, white light and she wonders if she is already dead; if it happened so quickly she never even felt the sting of a blade or the burn of a jutsu.

It is the gentle warmth of the medic-nin’s healing chakra a moment later that finally convinces her she is still—impossibly—alive, her vision blurry as they work on her left shoulder.

“What happened?”

“Hatake-senpai saw your team’s distress signal.  He commanded us to respond immediately.”

She remembers the fireball shot into the sky—a last effort by a fallen comrade to alert any nearby Leaf-nin of their location.  She had still been healing then, hoping her efforts would be enough to save her teammates from a bloody and brutal end.

The clash of battle—metal singing against metal—pulls Takane from the memory.  It rings fiercely in her ears and makes her headache worse, but still, she turns her head and does her best to focus on what is happening. Two of the Kiri-nin remain standing, but what they battle cannot be a human; it cannot even be a beast.

It is a force of nature she sees—the storm she has been running through made corporeal.  Cloaked in sizzling energy, the sword that has cleaved the third enemy shinobi all but in half burns bright white like a bolt of lightning harvested from the night sky.

There is a vicious wave of killing intent, the snap and pop of ozone in her nose.

When she catches a glimpse of the storm’s face, she is surprised it looks so human.

Finally, just as she feels the tendons begin stitching themselves back together in her shoulder, Takane’s consciousness fades and she is swathed not in darkness, but in brilliant white light.

Voices swim around her in a dizzying haze.  She can discern the tone of the medic who healed her ask about the rest of her team, but her tongue feels like it is coated in thick mud, and she cannot make it work properly to answer.

“Retrace her path,” someone says, “see if you can find any survivors.  Bring back the bodies if you can.”

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll seal the enemy nin and return her to Konoha for further treatment.”

It feels like a dream—like she is floating.  The words could be the indiscriminate patter of raindrops against her hitai-ate, she thinks. Perhaps the warm arms she feels cradling her body are the branches of a great tree where her corpse will be draped in offering to the elements and the scavengers.

When Takane wakes, she is greeted by bright white light, but it is different than she remembers—neither vibrant nor sizzling, but dull and utilitarian.

The Konoha Hospital has always been too antiseptic for her tastes, though she supposes she is hardly in the minority in thinking so.

Her body feels as if it has been torn apart and sewn back together in the wrong order; every limb, every joint aches and pulses.  She feels for the loose tooth at the back of her mouth only to find it is missing entirely, her tongue slides easily against the raw gum and she gasps at the sharp snap of pain in her mouth.

“Could have been worse,” a voice says, “they almost had to take your arm, too.”

Takane turns to find a man seated beside her bed, elbows balanced against his thighs as he leans toward her, peering carefully into her face.  He looks as if he has not slept in weeks, judging from the bruises beneath his eyes.

His grey pupils look like storm clouds and she remembers finding them amidst the tempest in the woods, carved into the impossibly human face of a hurricane.

“You’re the White Fang,” she says, brain still too fuzzy to stall her tongue before it speaks without permission.  "Was it you who saved me?”

His face flushes pink and Takane wonders how a man who moved like a typhoon could be embarrassed by such a simple question.

He clears his throat. “I suppose I did, yes.  My name is Sakumo Hatake.”

“I know who you are,” Takane says, “What I don’t know is why you are here.”

His cheeks darken from pink to red and Takane can’t help but chuckle a little at his strange embarrassment.

"It’s just…” he says, standing and taking a few steps closer to her hospital bed, “when I brought you in and asked about your next of kin, the staff said you didn’t have any.”

Takane’s expression softens, the corners of her still-addled mind finally beginning to understand.

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

What a strange thing, to think Konoha’s White Fang, the tempest who wielded lightning against his enemies in her bewildered recollection of the fight, would be so soft-spoken and kind.

“What happened to my team?” Takane asks, jaw clenching as she awaits the answer, letting her tongue find that raw, frayed nerve again to distract herself from the inevitable.

“Two were killed,” Sakumo answers.  It appears that despite his kindness, the White Fang is not one to avoid difficult truths.  It is a good quality in anyone, but especially a man of his prowess, she thinks. “The third remains unconscious and in observation.”

Takane closes her eyes as her bottom lip quivers.  “I tried…” she says, voice hoarse and tight with unshed frustration, “I tried to heal them, but I…”

Sakumo’s warm palm touches the back of her hand and Takane remembers the feeling of warmth that enveloped her in the woods—the embrace she thought belonged to her death in the trees—and she realizes it was Sakumo’s warmth, his gentle guiding light, as he carried her home.

“You did all you could,” he says, “but sometimes that is not enough.”

Takane’s mouth pops open with a wet sound somewhere between an incredulous laugh and a heart-rending sob. She blinks her eyes open to look at Sakumo’s kind, exhausted face through the sheen of her grief.

“Thank you for bringing them home.”

Sakumo crouches at her bedside, his face level with the mattress.  He doesn’t say anything, but his hand remains on hers, thumb stroking over the dry skin slowly.  It is not the first time Takane has woken in the hospital to heartbreaking news and she does not know if it will be the last.

But it is the first time she has woken with Sakumo Hatake by her side, and she knows somewhere deep in her heart his the storm she has been waiting to her whole life to walk into.

#narutoocshipweek2022 #sakumo x oc #sakumo hatake #oc: takane #prompt elements #tw violence #tw blood #tw injury #tw death #f4nf4nwr1t3s

[perpetual-stories]

Story Structures for your Next WIP

hello, hello. this post will be mostly for my notes. this is something I need in to be reminded of for my business, but it can also be very useful and beneficial for you guys as well.

everything in life has structure and storytelling is no different, so let’s dive right in :)

First off let’s just review what a story structure is :

a story is the backbone of the story, the skeleton if you will. It hold the entire story together.

the structure in which you choose your story will effectively determine how you create drama and depending on the structure you choose it should help you align your story and sequence it with the conflict, climax, and resolution.

1. Freytag's Pyramid

this first story structure i will be talking about was named after 19th century German novelist and playwright.

it is a five point structure that is based off classical Greek tragedies such as Sophocles, Aeschylus and Euripedes.

Freytag's Pyramid structure consists of:

Introduction: the status quo has been established and an inciting incident occurs.

Rise or rising action: the protagonist will search and try to achieve their goal, heightening the stakes,

Climax: the protagonist can no longer go back, the point of no return if you will.

Return or fall: after the climax of the story, tension builds and the story inevitably heads towards...

Catastrophe: the main character has reached their lowest point and their greatest fears have come into fruition.

this structure is used less and less nowadays in modern storytelling mainly due to readers lack of appetite for tragic narratives.

2. The Hero's Journey

the hero's journey is a very well known and popular form of storytelling.

it is very popular in modern stories such as Star Wars, and movies in the MCU.

although the hero's journey was inspired by Joseph Campbell's concept, a Disney executive Christopher Vogler has created a simplified version:

The Ordinary World: The hero's everyday routine and life is established.

The Call of Adventure: the inciting incident.

Refusal of the Call: the hero / protagonist is hesitant or reluctant to take on the challenges.

Meeting the Mentor: the hero meets someone who will help them and prepare them for the dangers ahead.

Crossing the First Threshold: first steps out of the comfort zone are taken.

Tests, Allie, Enemies: new challenges occur, and maybe new friends or enemies.

Approach to the Inmost Cave: hero approaches goal.

The Ordeal: the hero faces their biggest challenge.

Reward (Seizing the Sword): the hero manages to get ahold of what they were after.

The Road Back: they realize that their goal was not the final hurdle, but may have actually caused a bigger problem than before.

Resurrection: a final challenge, testing them on everything they've learned.

Return with the Elixir: after succeeding they return to their old life.

the hero's journey can be applied to any genre of fiction.

3. Three Act Structure:

this structure splits the story into the 'beginning, middle and end' but with in-depth components for each act.

Act 1: Setup:

exposition: the status quo or the ordinary life is established.

inciting incident: an event sets the whole story into motion.

plot point one: the main character decided to take on the challenge head on and she crosses the threshold and the story is now progressing forward.

Act 2: Confrontation:

rising action: the stakes are clearer and the hero has started to become familiar with the new world and begins to encounter enemies, allies and tests.

midpoint: an event that derails the protagonists mission.

plot point two: the hero is tested and fails, and begins to doubt themselves.

Act 3: Resolution:

pre-climax: the hero must chose between acting or failing.

climax: they fights against the antagonist or danger one last time, but will they succeed?

Denouement: loose ends are tied up and the reader discovers the consequences of the climax, and return to ordinary life.

4. Dan Harmon's Story Circle

it surprised me to know the creator of Rick and Morty had their own variation of Campbell's hero's journey.

the benefit of Harmon's approach is that is focuses on the main character's arc.

it makes sense that he has such a successful structure, after all the show has multiple seasons, five or six seasons? i don't know not a fan of the show.

the character is in their comfort zone: also known as the status quo or ordinary life.

they want something: this is a longing and it can be brought forth by an inciting incident.

the character enters and unfamiliar situation: they must take action and do something new to pursue what they want.

adapt to it: of course there are challenges, there is struggle and begin to succeed.

they get what they want: often a false victory.

a heavy price is paid: a realization of what they wanted isn't what they needed.

back to the good old ways: they return to their familiar situation yet with a new truth.

having changed: was it for the better or worse?

i might actually make a operate post going more in depth about dan harmon's story circle.

5. Fichtean Curve:

the fichtean curve places the main character in a series of obstacles in order to achieve their goal.

this structure encourages writers to write a story packed with tension and mini-crises to keep the reader engaged.

The Rising Action

the story must start with an inciting indecent.

then a series of crisis arise.

there are often four crises.

2. The Climax:

3. Falling Action

this type of story telling structure goes very well with flash-back structured story as well as in theatre.

6. Save the Cat Beat Sheet:

this is another variation of a three act structure created by screenwriter Blake Snyder, and is praised widely by champion storytellers.

Structure for Save the Cat is as follows: (the numbers in the brackets are for the number of pages required, assuming you're writing a 110 page screenplay)

Opening Image [1]: The first shot of the film. If you’re starting a novel, this would be an opening paragraph or scene that sucks readers into the world of your story.

Set-up [1-10]. Establishing the ‘ordinary world’ of your protagonist. What does he want? What is he missing out on?

Theme Stated [5]. During the setup, hint at what your story is really about — the truth that your protagonist will discover by the end.

Catalyst [12]. The inciting incident!

Debate [12-25]. The hero refuses the call to adventure. He tries to avoid the conflict before they are forced into action.

Break into Two [25]. The protagonist makes an active choice and the journey begins in earnest.

B Story [30]. A subplot kicks in. Often romantic in nature, the protagonist’s subplot should serve to highlight the theme.

The Promise of the Premise [30-55]. Often called the ‘fun and games’ stage, this is usually a highly entertaining section where the writer delivers the goods. If you promised an exciting detective story, we’d see the detective in action. If you promised a goofy story of people falling in love, let’s go on some charmingly awkward dates.

Midpoint [55]. A plot twist occurs that ups the stakes and makes the hero’s goal harder to achieve — or makes them focus on a new, more important goal.

Bad Guys Close In [55-75]. The tension ratchets up. The hero’s obstacles become greater, his plan falls apart, and he is on the back foot.

All is Lost [75]. The hero hits rock bottom. He loses everything he’s gained so far, and things are looking bleak. The hero is overpowered by the villain; a mentor dies; our lovebirds have an argument and break up.

Dark Night of the Soul [75-85-ish]. Having just lost everything, the hero shambles around the city in a minor-key musical montage before discovering some “new information” that reveals exactly what he needs to do if he wants to take another crack at success. (This new information is often delivered through the B-Story)

Break into Three [85]. Armed with this new information, our protagonist decides to try once more!

Finale [85-110]. The hero confronts the antagonist or whatever the source of the primary conflict is. The truth that eluded him at the start of the story (established in step three and accentuated by the B Story) is now clear, allowing him to resolve their story.

Final Image [110]. A final moment or scene that crystallizes how the character has changed. It’s a reflection, in some way, of the opening image.

(all information regarding the save the cat beat sheet was copy and pasted directly from reedsy!)

7. Seven Point Story Structure:

this structure encourages writers to start with the at the end, with the resolution, and work their way back to the starting point.

this structure is about dramatic changes from beginning to end

The Hook. Draw readers in by explaining the protagonist’s current situation. Their state of being at the beginning of the novel should be in direct contrast to what it will be at the end of the novel.

Plot Point 1. Whether it’s a person, an idea, an inciting incident, or something else — there should be a "Call to Adventure" of sorts that sets the narrative and character development in motion.

Pinch Point 1. Things can’t be all sunshine and roses for your protagonist. Something should go wrong here that applies pressure to the main character, forcing them to step up and solve the problem.

Midpoint. A “Turning Point” wherein the main character changes from a passive force to an active force in the story. Whatever the narrative’s main conflict is, the protagonist decides to start meeting it head-on.

Pinch Point 2. The second pinch point involves another blow to the protagonist — things go even more awry than they did during the first pinch point. This might involve the passing of a mentor, the failure of a plan, the reveal of a traitor, etc.

Plot Point 2. After the calamity of Pinch Point 2, the protagonist learns that they’ve actually had the key to solving the conflict the whole time.

Resolution. The story’s primary conflict is resolved — and the character goes through the final bit of development necessary to transform them from who they were at the start of the novel.

(all information regarding the seven point story structure was copy and pasted directly from reedsy!)

i decided to fit all of them in one post instead of making it a two part post.

i hope you all enjoy this post and feel free to comment or reblog which structure you use the most, or if you have your own you prefer to use! please share with me!

if you find this useful feel free to reblog on instagram and tag me at perpetualstories

Follow my tumblr and instagram for more writing and grammar tips and more!

#writing #writing advice #writing tips #original writing #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writersconnection #writersofig #writersofinstagram #writings

[extasiswings]

"I exist in two places, here and where you are."

On ao3 here...

When Buck is sleeping on Eddie’s couch while Eddie is in the hospital, he doesn’t really think of it as moving in. He doesn’t allow himself to assign any sort of permanence to it, doesn’t take more than a single change of clothes or so at a time.

This is Eddie’s house, I’m not really a guest, he recalls telling Maddie a year ago and it’s true. It’s Eddie’s house. Eddie’s house where Buck has a key and an open invitation. Eddie’s house where Buck feels more comfortable than his own loft sometimes because Eddie is there and Christopher is there and the whole space is lived in and full of love and Buck fits, even though he knows, he does know, that he isn’t actually their family.

But when Eddie is shot…

It’s right that he should stay, that he should be the one to be with Christopher, but the space itself feels empty. Wrong. Buck feels wrong in it, wrong every time he steps through the door knowing that he doesn’t know when Eddie will wake up, when Eddie will be back, wrong every time he considers going into Eddie’s room even though he thinks vaguely that eventually Eddie will want something to wear that isn’t a hospital gown, even though he could sleep in Eddie’s bed instead of the couch if he wanted to.

He doesn’t. Want to.

He prefers sleeping on the couch, just like he prefers going back to his apartment to shower and change his clothes. It’s easier to pretend that way that everything is normal. That Eddie is at the store or picking up takeout and any minute he’ll walk through the door and roll up his sleeves and smile.

Maybe it’s silly to pretend when Buck can still see Eddie fall whenever he closes his eyes. When he can feel the phantom splash of Eddie’s blood across his face. When he can taste it on his tongue.

But he has to try. He has to. Because something happened to Buck in that moment, standing on the street and watching Eddie collapse as if in slow motion as the world fell away and his ears filled with white noise. He went numb and silent, couldn’t feel his own body, moved on pure instinct through everything that came after. He didn’t come back to himself until they reached the hospital, and even then—

Buck feels like he lost part of himself when he watched Eddie being rolled through the emergency doors and he hasn’t gotten it back. There’s a hollow space in his chest crowding out his lungs so he can’t draw a full breath, squeezing his heart so his blood isn’t circulating properly. He’s a shade. Half-alive. And the other half left on a city street, in an ambulance bay, in a hospital room.

It should have been me, it should have been me, it should have been me.

*

Eddie wakes up. Eddie comes home. Eddie heals.

Buck kisses Taylor. He goes back to his apartment. He moves forward. He’s happy.

He’s happy.

But the hollow space still exists. Any time Buck starts to think he’s finally moved past that time, starts to think he’s over it, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night with the taste of blood in his mouth and an empty ache inside of him. Inevitably, he stares at the ceiling and bites his tongue instead of calling Eddie in the middle of the night.

He knows Eddie is alive. He knows Eddie is fine. He knows. So he shouldn’t need reassurance at all hours. That’s ridiculous.

Eddie’s fine.

Buck’s fine.

He’s happy.

If he finds himself watching Eddie too often when they’re on shift, as if reminding himself that Eddie really is back, steady and solid and real, if he walks too close and brushes up next to him, if he panics a little when Eddie is out of sight for too long—

Well. That’s his business. He’ll get over it eventually.

Eddie’s fine.

Except—

The power goes out and Eddie goes stiff and quiet, like he’s trying to disappear into himself. The power goes out and Eddie nearly falls out of a helicopter before it falls several stories and crashes in a fiery heap. The power goes out and suddenly Buck’s looking around the hospital floor and Eddie isn’t anywhere to be seen.

And Buck can’t breathe. Can’t explain, feels crazy, but he knows that something is wrong.

He finds Eddie in an empty OR. Eddie is on the floor, his back against the wall, his head in his hands. The top buttons of his uniform shirt are open like Eddie is too warm or having trouble breathing, and as Buck watches, Eddie’s shoulders heave as he takes in air in gulping, shaky gasps.

“Eddie?”

Buck crouches down to Eddie’s level, alarm bells ringing in his head.

Eddie flinches and looks up. His eyes are liquid in the dark and his face is pale.

Buck holds up his hands, palms up like he’s trying not to spook a startled horse. He can’t be sure how aware Eddie is—he’s looking at Buck as if he’s looking right through him instead of actually seeing him, and that makes his throat get tight.

“Hey, Eddie, hey, it’s just me,” Buck says quietly. “It’s me. We’re on shift and the power is out, but everything’s fine, okay? We’re fine. You’re fine.”

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.

Except that it doesn’t seem like he is at all. And that’s terrifying. Because Eddie is the strong one of the two of them. Eddie is the one who has his life together, who almost never needs help, who doesn’t break. Eddie cracked jokes throughout his physical recovery, insisted on doing as much as he could on his own, made faces and complained about physical therapy and stubbornly refused to take his pain meds because he didn’t like the way they made him feel.

Eddie doesn’t break. But it seems like he’s breaking now, and that’s—

“Buck?” Eddie’s voice cracks on a whisper.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m right here.” Buck slowly reaches out, telegraphing his movements so Eddie can move away if he wants to, and takes Eddie’s hand. Eddie grips it so tightly it hurts, but Buck doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away.

Eddie swallows hard. He blinks slowly. A glint of awareness flickers in his eyes.

“Remind me where we are?” Buck asks, because even if he just said it, he’s not convinced Eddie heard him. Or that Eddie is fully...there.

Eddie blinks again, takes another long shuddering breath, stares at their hands where he’s still crushing Buck’s fingers in a death grip.

“We’re—there was a helicopter—” Yet another breath.

“The hospital,” Eddie says finally. “We’re in the hospital. There was—an attack on the city systems—the power keeps going out.”

“Right. Good, yeah, that’s exactly right.”

Eddie drags his free hand over his face as his shoulders slump.

“I—I’m okay,” he insists. “I’m—last time this only lasted a few minutes before I was back to normal. I can—I can handle this. Just give me a minute.”

Buck bites back a comment about how how far from okay any of this is and focuses on the more relevant part of that statement.

“Last time?”

Eddie looks away. His jaw tics. He sniffs.

“Eddie.” Buck squeezes his hand. “It’s me. You can tell me.”

Please. Tell me.

“It was nothing. I was out shopping. I was startled by an alarm and I...collapsed. But it was only for a few minutes.”

Buck can hear echoes of himself from two years prior. When he was telling himself his leg was sore because he pulled a muscle, so focused on getting back to work, getting back to where and who he felt he needed to be that he almost died from a blood clot. Not wanting to listen to Maddie or anyone else when they tried to tell him to slow down, to cut back, to give himself time.

To give himself space to not be okay.

He hadn’t listened. And that’s him.

Eddie hasn’t given himself space to not be okay for as long as Buck’s known him.

Fuck.

Buck’s stomach drops.

“That really doesn’t sound like nothing,” he says, trying to keep his voice gentle, nonjudgmental.

Eddie shakes his head and pulls his hand back as he pushes himself to his feet.

“It was,” he replies. “And I’m fine now—see? Just like I said. I just needed a minute.”

“Eddie—”

“I’m fine.” Eddie’s eyes meet his and Buck catches a flicker of fear.

That too is familiar. The insistence of being fine because even the thought of the alternative is terrifying.

Buck sits back on his heels and sighs.

“We’re talking about this later.”

“There’s nothing to—”

“We’re talking about this later or I’m not letting you leave this room and we can talk about it now—up to you,” Buck interrupts. Eddie opens his mouth, closes it.

“Okay. Later. But we should get back to the others.”

“Yeah.”

Buck watches as Eddie walks out of the room. He can almost feel it like a physical thing, the tether between them—blood on his tongue and the numbing chill of panic and the piece of himself that he thinks he must have forced into Eddie’s body in the back of a fire truck when he was begging any god who would listen to keep the other man alive—it tugs at him to follow.

And he goes, because what else can he do?

They have a shift to finish.

If he sticks by Eddie’s side like glue for the rest of the night, that’s his business.

#chapel writes #prompt fill #buddie #buddie fic #evan buckley #911 ff

[mystic-sky]

One shot wherein the s/o of Gojo Satoru gets injured trying to protect him and brought to the hospital but doesnt die. With a mountain of angst pls. 🥺👉🏽👈🏽

Word Count: 1.6k

16-year old Satoru had never known much about compassion, or any crucial emotions that would’ve paved the way for him to be a brilliant jujutsu sorcerer, through and through.  He lived life as he went, nonchalant and never dispatching empathy in the moments it mattered most. You appeared like wildfire, ringing out so many emotions from him all at once. You were placed on his team without warning, and he felt like you were just another nuisance for him to have to pretend to worry about. You were undeniably cute though, which was the only reason he ever made conversation with you from time to time. But even though he flirted with you, he was always sure to remind you that he was always better, stronger and more talented. 

One day, to his surprise, you gave him a piece of your mind when he tried to pursue you. You told him to learn some manners, some compassion, and to come back when he wasn’t an asshole. You expressed that he was arrogant, and all but so many people would tolerate him the way some teachers and his so called “team mates” did.

“No ones going to fall in love with you for real if you keep being a jerk.”

That was when he first learned of rejection. He was so used to having everything he wanted. It didn’t register in his brain the first time that you didn’t like him. He picked on you more because of it, unfortunately. You were thick skulled, and headstrong. You were charming for someone who started out so weak. He watched as you worked hard, and never asked for help from him or Suguru, or Shoko unless it was for the sake of the mission at hand. You were extremely talented. Just a late bloomer.

He asked you why you became a sorcerer one day, much to your surprise. You explained it to him and from that day on, he wasn't so much of an asshole towards you. He’d learned of admiration, but considering he was so cocky, he never did tell you that. Instead, he went from saying things like “Leave this to us” to “I’ll leave this to you.”

Maybe you do or don’t realize that he finally acknowledges you as strong, but you do know talking to him was 40% more bearable when you reached your third year of high school.

That same year, you lose someone who was close to you. You had no control over it. The way it happened, the result was inevitable. It had nothing to do with weakness or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are some outcomes in life that are meant to happen- and no one is ready for it. All he knows is that he didn’t like how it made you feel. He couldn’t give you a rebuttal on how it was possibly yours or someone else’s shortcomings that fated such a thing to happen. Instead, you both sat on the steps of the school long past curfew, sharing ice cream while he watched you cry. Neither of you spoke. For the first time in his life, he had nothing to say. He also knew he shouldn’t leave you there. He hoped his silence and presence would convey something, along with the free ice cream. This was the night Satoru learned sympathy.

He never wanted you to feel that way ever again. He became a bubbly force, always in your face. He smothered you with activities, sweets, things that became memories to deter you from your loss, and somehow amongst it all, you forgot that you hated him.

Some years had gone by. You'd become a fine jujutsu sorcerer, with the help of Satoru and so many others. You’d acknowledged him as a friend and possibly something more due his flirtatious personality. He had became someone who filled the void of the person you lost, showing you that life does in fact go on.

“It took you way too long to kill that thing,” he rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you a special grade jujutsu sorcerer? Get it together (Name).” 

He playfully scolded you. “You literally stood there and watched me do all the work.” Your clothes were stained of blood, but you weren’t bothered entirely. You were looking for something to wipe your hands with, shaking them violently at the ground.

“What can I say, you’re truly a site to behold.” He winked, dwindling a handkerchief in front of you. The flutter in your chest was erratic. 

“Nonetheless, I knew you could do it. I was just here for moral support.” He grinned, patting you on the head.

“Satoru,” You say, turning towards him and sheathing your weapon. “You’re really important to me. You’ve had my back since we went to Jujutsu Tech and then some. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you for always being there for me.”

“So, thank you.” You say, offering him the warmest smile and making his heart skip a beat. He hadn’t known what to say. You hadn't ever put him on the spot like this before, which is what it made it so easy for him to be around you. You never praised him for anything, yet here you were thanking him, smiling at him like you loved him or something-

Did you? He wondered. He didn’t undertsand what it was he felt when he started to ponder the idea of you loving him. You never once complimented him on his looks, nor had you ever reciprocated his flirtations. And here he was, actively being your friend because he admired your character. He didn’t even know himself anymore.

“Stop staring at me like that and say you’re welcome.” You sass, breaking him out of his thoughts. “You’re freaking me out.”

“We’re friends. You don’t have to thank me for that.” He said cockily, getting right back in character. That night, he realized what it meant to love someone.

He got home and laid in bed, trying to draw the line in his head between how he loved you and how he loved kikufuku. Then he tried depicting the differences between his bromance with Geto Suguru and his friendship with you. He knew he liked being around you, and whatever goals in life he would eventually pursue- he wanted you to be there too.

You never once made it obvious that you liked him back in any sort of way, and it ticked him off. He would spend some days doing everything in his power to get a reaction out of you, even a kabedon, to which you burst out laughing in response. Satoru had never actually experienced true defeat until that moment. You had became one of the most precious things in the world to him, but he thought you were so dense and oblivious it pained him. He wanted to give up on pursuing you, but no one else in his entire life had ever made him feel anything. All these emotions he discovered were extensions and results of you allowing him to integrate himself into your life during your darkest moment. You had thanked him for being there; he wanted you to say so much more.

So when you leapt in front of him, coughing up blood in his direction and shielding his body, there wasn't a reason he could summon for it. What made him feel sick to his stomach is how you managed to smile whilst being impaled by the horns of the curse behind you. The rough taste of iron plagued your tongue and blood plopped from your lips and down your chin.

He caught your body with one arm, cradling you, before using his free hand to clutch the creature’s skull. He smashed it instantly, blood spattering all around your bodies. 

“Why did you do that?” He found himself panicking. He knelt down, stripping himself of his shirt and attempting to suppress the bleeding. “You’re not weak and you’re not stupid- why?!”

“Because, Satoru, I love you.” You say through blurry eyes. He’s petrified. Satoru Gojo did not know loss or grief. He was sure to feel it if you died right there in his arms. He already killed the curse that fatally attacked you. If you died, what would his purpose beyond that be? The only thing he hadn’t done yet was tell you he loved you. He knew in that moment that he loved you. But before the words could fall from his lips, your body went limp in his lap.

“No...” He took hold of you, immediately teleporting to the nearest hospital. If you died, he would blame it on his own incompetence. He’d flaw himself for this moment alone and take responsibility. He found himself praying to whatever God there might be, begging them to spare your short lived life. Not without him saying it back.

After multiple surgeries and blood transfusions, the doctors had informed him you were going to live, but recovery would take some time. Your cursed ability was able to delay the blood loss and neutralize a bit of the damage just before it became entirely fatal. He was thankful, the most he’s ever been for anything.

“I told you, you’re not weak,” he stared down at your comatose body. “You may make stupid decisions. But you’re not helpless.”

His voice cracked a bit whilst saying this, as he knelt beside you. He would stay with you endlessly through your recovery no matter how long it took. Nothing else mattered.

He was going to tell you that he loves you too.

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo sensei #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk fluff

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Mia Deserved Better: An Analysis of RE8's Themes/Symbolism

Foreword: I would like to thank @lepusrufus for posting about both Mia and Miranda, and at one point directly saying that Mia deserved better, which is a large part of what caused me to start examining her role in the canon story. Now, I will say that this post, like some of my previous explorations of Village (such as my attempt to determine Donna's age), will not be the best organized. My ADHD makes such things rather difficult for me. However, I have tried more than usual, and have broken up this "essay" into several distinct sections. Still, I am worried that my thoughts will not be as concise or coherent as they were inside my head.

Under read-more for length and spoilers for RE8: Village.

Introduction:

Village is, inarguably, about parenthood. Is it a horror game? Yes. Is it also science fiction? Also yes. But is it still, at its core, a story, and therefore contains imagery, symbolism, and themes? Yes. Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with Mia deserving better. My proposal is as follows: While Village is overall about parenthood, it is more about motherhood than fatherhood. Furthermore, Mia's background + actions from the previous game tie her story directly with Mother Miranda's, making their potential interactions massively important to the story... and could have served the theme beautifully. The missed potential in her involvement in the story is honestly a little bit absurd.

Now, let's examine each of the Four Lords + their sections, as the beginning of analyzing the game's theme.

Lady Dimitrescu + Castle:

Ah, perhaps the clearest (albeit unimportant) bits of theme within the whole game. We are immediately presented with another parent, with three daughters she loves very, very much. Initially they work as a team to capture Ethan, easily overpowering him. When they do split up, each still has dialogue regarding their family members. Each of the daughters expresses a desire to be like their mother/make their mother proud. Lady Dimitrescu herself gets very upset every time one of her daughters perishes, and delivers some important dialogue about this in her final confrontation with Ethan.

To paraphrase, Lady D says that Ethan has done something unforgiveable, caused damage that can never heal, and deserves to die before his daughter. That last part is interesting, in the sense that Lady D seems to believe that outlasting your own child is a fate so terrible that she would not wish it upon anyone, including the person who killed her daughters.

Throughout her dialogue and actions, Lady D serves as an important figure of a living mother. What do I mean by that? Well, the only other mothers we see in game are Mia and Miranda. The former doesn't show up until almost the end of the game (seeing as the "Mia" at the start is not actually the real Mia), while the latter does not have a living child, and her behavior has (presumably) changed quite a bit since that loss. As Ethan goes through Castle Dimitrescu, he watches (he causes) Lady D to go through what Miranda did all those decades ago. When we see her loss, when we experience her loss, it is something we connect with, even comparing it (as Lady D does) to Ethan's loss of Rose.

For the more visual side of symbolism, we can turn to Lady Dimitrescu herself. She is very tall, is visibly older than the majority of the Village cast, and has a fairly classic (old-school) motherly look. Everything about her reinforces her position as an example of a mother, especially when she's with her daughters and becomes such a strong figure of protection. Her height allows her to seem the caretaker for her children, even though they are scary/intimidating in their own right.

Donna Beneviento + Waterfall House:

Yes, the baby/fetus/monstrosity is part of this. No, it is not the only bit of thematic work in this section of the game.

To begin, you can find out that Donna is officially the adopted daughter of Mother Miranda. Her birth parents are dead, implied to be from especially tragic causes (more than is the norm when it comes to "orphan making"), and she has suffered greatly from it. We see that she has been seemingly neglected by Miranda, and is incredibly isolated. The tragedy of her loss, along with the consequences presented by it, are something to keep in mind further down the road, when we inevitably deal with Ethan's own death.

One of the consequences of the environment Donna was raised in is, arguably, her reliance on Angie. While interpretations of their exact relationship (aka how much control Donna actually has at any given point) vary, the two very clearly have something akin to a mother/daughter vibe. Alternatively an older sister/younger sister sort of thing. This shows in the way that Donna holds/carries Angie, as well as the contrast in their demeanors. Moreso, the fact that Donna gave a part of herself to create Angie is almost enough to make the symbolism nonnegotiable.

We also see that Donna has a strong understanding of family/family dynamics, through the way that she uses her powers to manipulate Ethan. She dissects his connections to Mia and Rose, taunts him with the lengths he's willing to go to save his child, then shows him a grotesque version of parenthood: The aforementioned fetus monster. Does the monster represent Ethan's fears, or Donna's?

What if the monster is how Donna sees herself, in some way, perhaps thinking that it's her fault her parents died? Bit of a stretch, but it's not a keystone of my theory, so I'm just throwing it out there. We could, however, go a step further and ask ourselves if Donna has noticed the way Miranda neglects her, and the fetus monster is how Donna thinks Miranda sees her. A baby, true, but grotesque, so terribly imperfect compared to her "real daughter" (Eva, obvs).

Regardless, the monster presents an ugly side of parenthood. It shows us the blood, the hunger (with the way it repeatedly attempts to swallow Ethan whole), the wailing. If Lady D shows us the love of parenthood, the bond, Donna in turn shows us the hate, the misery. Everything that one must endure to reap the rewards of family.

Lastly, we get one last bit of symbolism with Donna's death: We play a game with Angie. A childhood classic, hide and seek. Ethan chases her down repeatedly, stabbing away, seemingly only hurting the doll. But what happens when he kills Angie? It turns out that he killed Donna. You kill the child, you kill the parent. A reinforcement of the connection that comes with parenthood, along with another notch in Ethan's family-murdering belt (not saying that he's the "true antagonist" or anything, just keeping track for one of my later points).

Moreau + The Reservoir

Let's get the worst possibility out of the way: Moreau, weakest and sickest of the four lords, lives in a reservoir, where he is relatively safe. To defeat him, you have to drain the water, forcing him onto dry(ish) land. Paired with the main ideas of his section (which I will detail after this nightmare), one could theorize that he's meant to represent birth itself. Again, he's safe in his ("womb") water, and becomes vulnerable when he leaves (like a fragile newborn). Kinda gross, in my opinion, and also not a strong enough connection for me to care much about. It was merely an interesting (albeit horrifying) enough thought that I felt it warranted sharing.

Moving on to the big stuff with Moreau: He's a baby. Evidence: Whiny, has difficulty moving around, struggles to adapt to his growth, throws up a bunch, loves his mother very much, cries for his mother when he's in trouble, etc. Although Mother Miranda does not care for him, he clearly cares for her, and plays yet another role of an abandoned child (like Donna). Without Miranda there to protect him, he perishes terribly, crying out for someone who does not care to answer.

Hearing him cry out for Miranda, over and over, only for her to continue ignoring him is a key piece in the build-up to our confrontation between Ethan and Miranda. The game, in many ways, centers around the comparison between the two. In my humble opinion, Mia should have been involved in this comparison, as opposed to supplying the solution to the result of said comparison. Yes, I know that was a lot of words that don't mean much yet, but trust me, I'm getting there.

Heisenberg + The Factory

Ironically, of the four lords, Heisenberg is the most similar to Mother Miranda. In his massive factory, he is alone except for his numerous experiments, the results of decades of playing God. In comparison to Ethan + Mia, Heisenberg represents artificial parentage, or more accurately, the artificial creation of "life". While the others Lords also performed experiments, they used living subjects. Heisenberg instead chose to use corpses, which he then "brought back to life" with cybernetics + his powers, a somewhat futuristic version of Dr. Frankenstein.

Together, Miranda and him show a rotten side of parenthood (whereas Donna + Moreau showed us the uglier side of the children themselves). To put it simply, they are bad parents. They throw their "children"/experiments into the fray, uncaring, using them as pawns for their own greater gain. The most important part of this is that Heisenberg offers to "help" Ethan: By using Rose as a weapon. In his act of refusal, Ethan demonstrates one of several important distinctions between himself and Mother Miranda. Where she is willing to use her "children" (read: lives that she is responsible for) as tools, he is not.

Miscellaneous Symbolism/Imagery:

The old hag is one of my favorite parts of Village. She's seemingly nuts, has a crazy old lady laugh, wears bones that make soothing bone noises when she moves, and she draws lots of symbols in the dirt. If you look closely (I can provide screenshots if anyone desires, but it will take a bit of work to get them onto my computer), she's drawing one of the most iconic images in the titular village: The winged unborn. This symbol acts as the key you build up after every fight with a Lord, understandably called the Unborn Key (which turns into the Winged Unborn Key). Whether this counts as foreshadowing towards the hag's identity reveal is technically irrelevant, but I like to think it does.

In essence, you build up the key, this depiction of an infant, to progress in the game. The more wings it gains, the closer you are to your goal of rescuing your child.

The cadou itself is very clearly fetus-shaped. Furthermore, the only place within the human body that we know it ever gets implanted is in the "tummy" (thanks Moreau), aka roughly where someone's womb is/would be. Every infected person we see presumably had the Cadou implanted there (though I think it would be interesting if implanting it in different spots caused different mutations. of course, that is a discussion for another day). To become immortal, you have to "bear" a "child". Does it get more direct than that?

Mother Miranda gained her immortality in part for her grief at the loss of her child. She embodied the despair that Lady D spoke of, becoming an eternal source of anguish. Just as the loss of a child is a wound that lasts forever, so too would Miranda last forever (well, until Ethan comes along).

Mia is a loving mother, who puts up with the BSAA making her move across the world, deals with the complications of having a mold husband and mold baby, and has proved herself (see her section in RE7) to be an immense badass. Previously I had forgotten that, and even embarrassed myself in the comments of another person's post by implying she wasn't a tough, ass-kicking machine. Y'all remember feral Mia? People talk about "poor Ethan's arms", but sometimes we forget that Mia was one of the people who did a number on them. Furthermore, she's one of the only living people (from outside the village) to have any connections (pun intended) to Mother Miranda. They worked together, although possibly not directly, on Evelyn. If anyone in Village has a chance of really understanding Miranda's plight, or knowing the truth behind it, it would be Mia. Yet we don't see them interact a single time. Which leads me to the next section...

Conclusion On Theme + Missed Potential:

Okay, okay, so it's pretty obvious at this point that, as previously stated, the game's theme is parenthood. Every section has its symbolism, the story is very obviously about a man trying to rescue his daughter, etc, etc, but what's the point? Is there a lesson, or a more focused interpretation of the central theme? Let's take one last step back, and focus on something I've mentioned a few times now: The comparison between Ethan and Mother Miranda.

Recurring dialogue from Ethan, Alcina, and Mother Miranda all point towards the developers acknowledging that the characters are similar, but there's nowhere near as much conversation about it as I would like. Several times we have the antagonists ask Ethan how he's so willing to kill someone else's child, or prevent them from (essentially) doing what he's doing (aka saving his daughter). While Ethan responds with a mix of "well you started it" and "aghhh fuck-a-you, bitch", there's a much more solid, unspoken difference: Mother Miranda sends her underlings to kill, so that she may revive her daughter. Ethan kills (read: does the work himself) to get his daughter. The difference is much bigger, and more important, at the end of the game, when we realize just how far it goes. Ethan dies to save his daughter. Time and time again Mother Miranda has killed others for her work, but in the end she is stopped when someone willingly dies to stop her.

Where does Mia come in? Mia, the badass mother, the one who once worked alongside Mother Miranda, should have been the nail in the coffin. She is the one who survives, who lives on to raise Rose, she is the silent solution to Ethan's sacrifice. Miranda, you fool, what could you have accomplished if you had held onto your makeshift family? Through Mia (and Chris, to a lesser degree), his "loss" becomes a victory. There's a certain poetic justice that comes with Rose's full family being instrumental in saving her, when Miranda so readily spurned her own family.

Mia could have had an actual conversation with Miranda, their history giving the latter a reason to actually listen. I'm not saying that Miranda would have changed her mind/plans, but the conversation would have been a well-needed contrast to Ethan's "arggg what the fuck is happening, I only have two reactions to things. agg fuck you". Additionally, I feel that Mia (who was captured and had to endure who-knows-what) deserves the opportunity to be the one who points out Miranda's mistakes, who delivers the final "fuck you" to her. More than that, she's the one at the end who can say that hey, maybe she can understand some of what Miranda did. Was there anything her and Ethan wouldn't have done to save Rose? As much as Ethan is a foil to Miranda, Mia could (and should) have played a similar role.

When so much of the story and symbolism revolves around Miranda's experience as a mother, it only would have been fair to shine a light on her equivalent. Her better.

There's more I wanted to say/feel like I didn't properly get across, and I might add more to this at some point, but it's 5:40 AM right now, and I'm starting to feel like my brain is slowing down, so... Feel free to reblog/comment and add your own thoughts!

#mother miranda #mia winters #ethan winters #rosemary winters #resident evil: village #re8 village #god what do I tag this as

[azucanela]

chapter ii

pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

warnings: cursing. mentions of a bomb.

word count: 3k

summary: the internet is enamored with the idea of y/n l/n and bakugou katsuki, two renowned pro heroes, dating. the first issue? the pair rarely interacts. the second issue? apparently, they hate each other, not that anyone knows about that bit. of course, after one night of many mistakes, the whole world knows.

series masterlist

THE MEETING WAS NOT SUCCESSFUL. AT ALL. Or at least, that’s how it seemed in Y/N’s eyes. Seeing as the only thing that had come out of it was… spending more time with Bakugou. Which was the opposite of what she wanted to do at the moment seeing as she despised him. Y/N actually had a feeling that any further interactions with Bakugou would only end in more chaos. So, Y/N decided she would set to work, as she would any other day. 

Ignore the problem until it goes away, right?

Slipping on her hero costume feels like a chore, pulling the gloves of her suit on with a grimace. They only served as a reminder of her inability to fully control her ability— though Y/N was known as someone with some of the most impressive quirk control. There was always that underlying feeling, of course that feeling never belonged to her. It had always been hard, shutting out the emotions of others, Y/N had found that those who feel the most strongly were the ones she would avoid.

Clearly she had failed.

Regardless, those emotions tended to be distracting as she went about her day. Y/N had learnt to ignore them, to block them out for periods of time, but in a career like hers it was unavoidable. The pain, the rage, the panic, the pure feeling of fear. It could get overwhelming and that often put her at a disadvantage. Emotions were viewed as a weakness, and oftentimes allowing your emotions to get the best of you resulted in unnecessary deaths. But allowing the emotions of others to do so? 

It got even worse when she actually activated her quirk to its fullest extent.  With a single touch, she could utilize the abilities of a person— all their abilities. When it came to quirks, if you controlled your quirk well, so could she. Otherwise, she would adapt the skills of a person, their intelligence, their athleticism, even their hobbies. Y/N could even the fact that she’d made it through UA to this ability. After all, she’d never been athletic, but her classmates had been. 

But her setback had always been a pain, especially in battle, Y/N felt the pain of whoever’s quirk she mimicked. If they were shot, Y/N felt it as if she had been shot as well. She’d never experienced someone dying on her. Nor did she want to. But Y/N was capable of holding as many quirks and capabilities as she could handle— and pain added up very quickly. 

It had been worse when she was younger, but Y/N had grown during her time at UA, and now she was capable of ignoring the emotions of others to an extent, and her pain tolerance had grown exponentially. 

Y/N was grateful for her success, for the agency she’d been working at. She was not grateful for the looks she got on the way there, Y/N could feel the whispers of those who watched her enter as they walked past. Though she could only hope her own staff had more respect for her. 

Her lips pressed together into a tight lipped smile as she entered, and Y/N found herself bracing for whatever could greet her. And to her delight, it appeared that everything was normal. Save for Lorelai’s presence by the entrance, her phone in hand. As though she had known Y/N had entered, the girl in question looks up from her phone before Y/N even has the chance to speak.

“We need to go over our plan, Y/N.”

In response, Y/N waves her off, continuing down the corridor. She smiles to those who greet her, mumbling back to them as Lorelai follows her. “Actually, I need to plan my first patrol of the morning.” She says, looking back to her friend momentarily.

“Then I’ll plan. And my plan includes a real nice fake dating scheme, kinda like those movies.”

Almost instantly Y/N turns around, glaring at Lorelai— who simply offers her a smile in response, clearly pleased with herself as she begins to move alongside Y/N rather than behind her. Y/N had no doubt that they would plan a fake dating scheme if it came down to it, unless she got involved that is. “So?”

“Well, the fake dating scheme was an actual option but you clearly don't like that.” Lorelai mumbles out in response, now holding a tablet as she guides them into a room. “Aside from that, basic press events together,” Lorelai looks up from her tablet pointedly, “where you actually look like you’re enjoying yourself, should amend the situation easily enough.”

Y/N raised a brow, taking a step around the long meeting table where those who worked at Hawk’s agency would soon congregate for their weekly assignments, “a little too easy if you ask me.” She looks to Lorelai, “Bakugou agreed to this?”

“I’m sure his PR team will convince him.” Came her response, shrugging as she took a seat on the table and crossed her legs. “We can do a public statement but there’s no real reason for making this a bigger thing than it already is. It would only end badly.” 

With a frown, Y/N’s eyes drift back towards the window. They’re still on the first floor so it’s not like she’s seeing much, but it’s almost astonishing, how there are people just… going about their days without a single fear in the world. All Might’s downfall had eradicated the mindset but on days like these it felt as though not a single thing had changed. As though there weren’t still dozens of underground organizations planning horrid things, and there weren’t hero agencies like her own devising ways to stop them.

Hero Society was a fragile, and corrupt thing. 

Y/N had watched as they threw children into every battle, she remembered when she’d been forced to do such things herself. She had watched her comrades, her friends, nearly die for a cause they were too young to comprehend. And she watched as civilians criticized them for not doing enough. Why did her publicity even matter? Shouldn’t that be the least of her concerns? Y/N found it funny that she needed to do well in polls to do her job well. It was the only real way to guarantee access to certain information that low ranked heroes didn’t get. 

With a sigh,Y/N turns back, brows furrowed, “so when does this start?”

Placing the tablet beside her on the table, Lorelai rests her palms against it and leans back against them, “next week probably. Haru still needs to work out the details with the rest of the PR team and Bakugou.” 

A small laugh escapes Y/N as she mumbles out, “it takes a whole team to keep that man from ruining himself.”

“Most Pro Heroes have a PR team, Y/N. You’re one of few exceptions.” Lorelai corrects, looking to her. It was true, Y/N was aware that more popular heroes often had teams of people coordinating their social media, schedules, public outings, and more. 

Y/N tilts her head at Lorelai, “why is that?” 

Lorelai raises a brow at her friend’s words, “what, you want to get rid of me?”

Y/N laughs once more, shaking her head, “no… it’s just—” She turns to face her friend, “when I hired you I couldn’t really afford anyone else. Now I can. But you do all the work by yourself.” Biting her lip, Y/N asks, “why is that? I could get you an assistant or something, easily.”

“Well you aren’t exactly the most problematic,” Lorelai responds, offering her a small smile.

Nodding, Y/N pulls out a chair at the head of the table, taking a seat, “but you also have plenty of other clients—”

The door opens, drawing their attention to the person who stands there, one of many heroes who worked at the agency., Pro Hero Telen, a simple hero name with an equally simple quirk. But his ability had saved them numerous times in battle. He pauses as he enters, “is it— is it not time for the briefing? Have I interrupted something? I apologize I can—” 

He moves to shut the door but Lorelai simply hops off the table, collecting her tablet as she heads to the door and rests a hand on his shoulder, “don’t worry— we’re done here, right Y/N?” Y/N simply nods, and Lorelai offers her a smile, “be careful today.” She mumbles out, before turning back to Telen. Y/N doesn’t know what she says, but he pales and nods before entering. Shortly after, everyone else seems to file inside, and Y/N finds herself sighing as she spins around in her chair as she waits. 

It would be a long day. A very, very, long day. 

BAKUGOU WAS TIRED. He really was. Working at Endeavor’s Agency meant long hours, endless paperwork, constant cases. And right now he was assigned to the current big thing; the Stain copycat that had yet to be caught. Unfortunately, this guy didn’t seem to be an amateur like the rest. Of course, whoever it was, they’d primarily been attacking minor Pro Heroes, until recently. 

Slowly working their way up the food chain of heroes until they ended up coming across someone who was relevant. It was inevitable, at one point whoever it was, they’d bite more than they can chew. Trying to take on a hero that surpassed their skills, whatever those skills may be— or they would slip up. Leaving behind some sort of evidence that would result in their capture. 

The only issue was, there was no telling where or when this would be. How many would have to die before they were caught? Bakugou didn’t necessarily want to know, and it was his job to make sure no one ever knew how many. 

A job he was failing. Alongside Deku, who had also been assigned to the case, it was a curious partnership but he had no choice to make it work. And his publicist had insisted that any presence with a hero like him would be good publicity. After all, most of the public knew about their little rivalry so it would make him seem diplomatic in a way. But Deku was…

“So… the gala, huh.”

Well, he was Deku.

“Shut up.” 

Thankfully, they hadn’t run into any reporters, though he was sure someone had caught pictures of them on duty together. Which was bound to end either ridiculously well for him, or incredibly poorly. It was always hit or miss with the press and Bakugou despised the entire aspect of the job. It was the one thing he could admit he was bad at. He wasn’t the most approachable, meaning it was rare for reporters to approach him in the first place due to his renowned temper.

The pair was making their way through the streets of the city, patrol was normal but they were currently on their way to the police station. They were supposed to be collaborating with the police to handle this copycat, and for some reason Deku was… panicked. It was subtle but the guy had been practically sweating bullets since Endeavor told them they’d need to work with the police. 

If Bakugou was honest this whole job was busy work. Why else would Endeavor’s agency be working on it? The Number One hero had to have better things to do. Maybe this was a punishment for what happened on the last mission they went on.

Bakugou frowns at the thought, electing to push those thoughts to the back of his mind as they come to stand in front of the Police Station. He finds himself bringing a hand to rub his temple. It was definitely going to be a long day. And he hadn’t even spoken to Haru about how the meeting with Lorelai went yet. Not that he wanted to know at this point, Bakugou had a feeling he wouldn’t be satisfied with any solution they proposed.

He really didn’t feel like dealing with any of this. So, Bakugou finds himself thinking that it might be time to use all those vacation days he’d been holding onto since he’d started working with Endeavor. They were piling up after all.

With a huff, he and Deku make their way up the steps up the police station, and Bakugou pushes the door open. It’s busy inside, as expected. A bustling atmosphere that reeks of blood, sweat, and tears, literally. There are some people seated, likely waiting to be processed, they’re handcuffed and Bakugou is fairly sure he recognizes one of them. Not that he has the time to dwell on it as they move through the police station.

One of the officers makes their way towards them, “you’re the heroes Endeavor’s agency sent?” He asks, looking to Deku, brow raised. “Welcome back.” 

Bakugou looks at Izuku incredulously as they begin to follow the man through the mess of a building, “the hell is that supposed to mean?” He hisses, but Izuku’s face has already flushed as he covers it with his hands, shaking his head.

“It was one time, how do all of you know about it!” Izuku cried out, and Bakugou finds himself glaring at his partner for the day, even without context.

The officer simply laughs, waving him off as they make their way into a room. There stands the police chief, Kenji Tsuragamae, and a few others seated at some of the many seats in the room, in front of white board that seems to be more of a mess than those around them. They look tired, exhausted even. 

Tsuragamae seems to notice their presence, clapping to garner the attention of the few inside the room, “everyone, please welcome the Pro Heroes from Endeavor’s agency. They’ll be assisting us with this case moving forwards.”

The officers seem rather unimpressed, and since Izuku still seems rather embarrassed for some reason, Bakugou finds himself stepping forwards, “what’s going on?”

With a sigh, he goes to answer. But he doesn’t get the chance as an explosion sounds and the building shakes. A siren goes off above them and suddenly the sprinklers began shooting out water as a woman entered, “sir! There’s been an explosion.”

Bakugou fights the urge to say, no shit, as he and Izuku exchange looks, “is it an attack?”

“On the police? That’s bold.” The officer from earlier comments as they all rise from their seats. But the fear in the room is abundantly evident as they all await her response, anticipation amongst them all. Because who would do such a thing, and so strategically placed on the day

The woman only shakes her head, and this time a man appears beside her, based on the way he’s dressed— Bakugou would have to guess he’s a plumber of some sort, but the man simply explains, “we think it’s an issue with the boiler room.” 

Bakugou finds himself rolling his eyes, “then why are you still here?” He turns to the rest of the room, “get on with the briefing and get the damn plumber down there.” He grumbles out, before taking a seat once more and redirecting his attention back to the chief, gesturing for him to carry on with his presentation. All the while Izuku is apologizing rather profusely for his attitude.

Now, crime had worsened exponentially after All Might’s downfall. It’s not that other heroes were suddenly less capable, although some were discouraged by the fall of the greatest hero. It’s just that All Might was a symbol. Even years after the fact, Bakugou could still see it. Things had changed. Although in recent times, crime had lessened thanks to the work of today’s Pro Heroes, there were still… issues.

Many had gone the vigilante route as a result of the League of Villains and Stain— and speaking of Stain, there had been several copycats over the years, people who agreed with his ideals and his actions. Which is what brought them here. The issue at hand was this most recent copycat was… decent. Most of the time it was amateurs who didn’t plan that far ahead, quick and easy to catch with minimal casualties, if any. 

Essentially, the police had nothing on him. Just a list of his victims and what they had in common. They were underground heroes, like that of his own teacher from UA, but something about them seemed off, different from what they’d seen in other copycats in the past. They weren’t like the flashy heroes you would find, the ones who seemed… fake. The ones most targeted because they fit Stain’s idea of a false hero.

And even then, there was no being sure which were the victims of this copycat and which were that of others. As the anniversary of Stain’s capture grew closer, more attacks were popping up. 

Shaking away these thoughts, Bakugou grimaces. All he had gotten from that briefing was that they knew nothing, had done nothing, and were going nowhere. Which wasn’t necessarily encouraging. So far, there were four confirmed victims of the copycat, and three additional deaths that were viewed as possible victims of the copycat. Technically, one of the copycats, but that wasn’t something he necessarily wanted to think about. 

Yeah, he would definitely be taking those vacation days.

#this is not the end series #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x you #bakugou x you #katsuki x you #katsuki bakugo x you #bakugou katsuki x you #katsuki bakugou x you #bakugo katsuki x you #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha x you #mha x you

[hurting-fictional-people]

Betrayal story - part 4

Look, the story has a name (hopefully I’ll come up with a better one later)! And the characters do too!

Anyways, if someone hasn’t seen the picrews (it’s here if you want to), Whumpee is now Liam Beaumont, Caretaker is Chase Raymond and Whumper is Jonah Sharpe. If you have trouble remembering: Caretaker still starts with a C no I totally didn’t give him a name that starts with a C on purpose what are you talking about and I think you’ll get very different vibes from Liam and Jonah haha

CW: electric torture, forced to watch, whumpee held hostage, hurt no comfort (for now), restraints

tagging  @thelazywitchphotographer @swift-perseides @whump-it-like-its-hot  @sunflower1000  @msrandonstuff @fromtheo-withlove  @boxofsilence  @lionhxartx @sometouchofmadness @paleassprince

Part one here, continued from here

-

Twelve messages wait for Chase when he picks up his phone. All from Jonah, all demanding him to work quicker, to give in new information faster. He purses his lips and takes a deep breath, clutching the new drive he was given to fill. 

After so many betrayals, he should be used to the sting that comes along with lying and deceiving. He’s done it before, felt that guilt, drowned in it – and yet he can’t help but hesitate. Liam’s pale lips, creased brows, shallow breaths, sparkle to life in his mind, a painful reminder of what is at stake if he annoys Jonah too much. Right beside Liam’s face, though, are the ones of Chase’s team, his friends, his family, all trusting smiles and loving gazes he cannot ignore. It’s enough for him to type a message and turn off the phone.

Working on it, Chase sends and hopes it is enough to keep the man quiet for at least another day as he turns his computer on and starts erasing from the drive the most meaningful information he’s stolen.

-

When Jonah bursts into his room, Liam is almost happy to see him. Five days have passed since he’s woken up in a room instead of the cell, and all he’s had since then is loneliness and echoing silence. With the only human interaction he was given being the occasional visit from a nurse who gave him a clinical once-over and refused to so much as look him in the eye, it was no real surprise when his thoughts spiraled out of control, swirling around and sinking down between Chase’s inevitable and yet somehow unexpected betrayal, and his new status as a hostage. 

“Doing better?” Jonah asks, leaning against the doorframe. Liam’s heart pounds both in relief and terror at the sound of a voice that isn’t his own.

“Do you care?”

“Getting some rest got your tongue loose, I see.”

“Why are you keeping me here?” That’s the question that’s been eating him alive, disrupting his sleep, watering his fear into a blossoming flower of dread that grows and suffocates any hope that tries to bloom beside it. Each answer Liam’s imagined sounds worst than the last, but if there is truth in any of them, he has to know. To prepare. 

“We talked about this already, didn’t we?”

Jonah’s eyes are as cold as he remembers from their few encounters, but this time something lurking there whispers stories of anger and pain to come, and that alone is enough to raise goosebumps along his entire body. 

“What do you want to let me go?” What could he have to give a man who is already filthy rich, when Liam has nothing to offer but a cramped apartment and a lot of resentment?

“Nothing you can offer, lovely,” Jonah chuckles. “Fair try, though.”

But nothing about this is fair, in any possible way. “So you are just going to keep me here because you don’t like Chase? I have nothing to do with him, please just let me the fuck go and I won’t even tell anyone, you–“

“Liam, honey, let us clear something up. There is nothing you can do to convince me to let you go. All you can do is comply, and maybe I’ll be merciful if you do, but you are mine for the time being, and there is no one here to help you but me.”

Liam’s reply dies on his tongue, killed by the unrestricted horror the words wash him over with. It doesn’t sound real. Sounds like something he’d watch in a movie, read in a book, hear about on the news. To hear them directed at him and feel the pulsating response from the healing stab wound in his gut, makes him hold his breath and pray to just wake up from this nightmare. When did his life turn into this? Was it when he met Chase? Was it before? 

“Now that that’s out of the way, come on, we have somewhere to go today.”

Liam’s stomach drops to the ground, farther, falling and falling to the center of the Earth as he clenches the sheets in his fists and hisses, “Last time you said that, you locked me up until I got an infection.”

“Ha, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Jonah says, raising a brow. Liam doesn’t even blink at the grin playing on his lips. “Don’t worry, love, I don’t make the same mistake twice. We’re having a different kind of fun today. Up now, or I’ll call my men to do it for you.”

Gritting his teeth, Liam pushes the sheets away and slowly stands up, holding his side and fighting a groan, but on his feet without help.

They walk in silence, and neither Jonah nor the guards say anything about how slow he is, or how terribly pitiful he looks stumbling through the hallways. A thousand words speed through his brain, pleading to be heard, but he doesn’t voice any of his questions. Doesn’t think he’d get an answer if he did, anyway.

He is led into a nearly barren room, with only a camera over a tripod standing in front of a wooden chair. A wooden chair surrounded by restraints.

He takes a step back before his brain catches up with the movement, straight against a guards’ chest. Jonah giggles and tuts softly. 

Two men grab his arms and drag him to the chair, and the panic suddenly becomes so deep, so all-encompassing, it swallows down his fight. He is pushed down on the chair, the restraints are buckled around him until all Liam can move is his head, and all the while he just sits there, hyperventilating and near to tears, as still as a statue. Watching but never moving, terrified but frozen in place, petrified, and he hates himself for it, even if he knows the feeling should be directed at Jonah and Jonah alone.

“Well, I didn’t know you’d be so pliable, sweetheart,” Jonah mocks, setting the camera up. “I would’ve played with you sooner had I known.”

He parts his lips, but the words refuse to form. Fear envelops each of them before Liam can push them through gritted teeth, and all he does is stare at the guards surrounding him, at the cold stickers being placed on his arms, his shoulders, his hands. Liam shivers, but there’s no air current here.

“Why, why, why are you doing this?” he chokes out. He knows what’s about to happen, has seen it on television enough times to recognize the electrodes, the box placed next to the chair. 

“Because Chase pissed me off today,” he shrugs, and a red light blinks to life in front of the camera. Jonah walks toward him, stops in front of the chair, and smiles. Liam’s eyes are blown wide as he stares up at the man. “Has Chase ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?”

The weight on his stomach is so huge that Liam can’t even find energy enough to feel outraged.

Jonah pulls out a linen scarf from his pocket as the guards plug wires to each sticker and wiggles it in front of Liam’s face. “Here, I’d bite down on this if I were you.” When he fails to open his mouth, the man rolls his eyes and grabs his cheeks, squeezing so suddenly and cruelly his mouth opens without command and the scarf is shoved inside, making him gag. “Not that well behaved, huh. No problem, we have time to get you obeying.”

When the guards take a step away, Liam finds himself wishing they didn’t. 

“Smile at the camera, love,” Jonah says, stepping to the side so Liam is the only one being recorded. He stares straight at the lens and tries to draw in a deep breath.

He knows it is coming. He prepares for it. And then Jonah flips a switch, and there’s no preparing for pain so big, for agony so deep.

The world shatters around him as electricity lights up his body, turns him inside out, upside down, and no breath could’ve ever made this any better. There’s no air to breathe, no room to writhe, no place to escape. There is only pain, boundless and searing, here and now, splitting him into thousands of shards he can never hope to piece back together.

And then it stops, and his throat is raw but he doesn’t remember screaming and his chest heaves as he fights for air and tears fall from his eyes to his chin to his chest but he doesn’t remember crying either.

“Beautiful,” Jonah sighs somewhere close. Liam coughs and chokes on his own tears, trying to beg or maybe cry out, but whatever his mouth forms gets caught on the gag before it reaches anyone’s ears.

Please please please stop, it hurts, hurts so much, so, so much, please, please–

“Let’s go again.”

Liam doesn’t have time to even be scared before his world dissolves into burning agony once more. All he can do is scream and silently plead for help he knows isn’t coming.

-

When Chase turns on the phone, his heart nearly stops at the video awaiting him.

Two hours have passed. After five days of trying to convince that despicable man to let him see Liam and failing miserably, barely sleeping, worry and guilt eating at his insides, he fell asleep. He forgot. For one hundred and twenty minutes he allowed himself to rest, and now he is paid with Liam’s frozen image staring at him, waiting on Jonah’s chat, along with one single line of text that chills him to the bone.

This is for turning off the phone.

He clicks and feels a chasm opening in his gut when Liam fills the screen, strapped to a chair, scared eyes darting around a room Chase can’t see through the video, searching for an escape that is nowhere to be found, stopping on each electrode that is stuck to his body. The fear is clear as crystal on his face. It makes Chase’s heart squeeze until his chest is so tight he places a hand there, afraid to find it as hollow as he feels. Liam doesn’t talk, doesn’t scream, doesn’t beg. He simply blinks at the men towering over him and doesn’t ask for help, and that might be what truly undoes Chase.

And then Jonah turns on the switch, and Liam’s head snaps back, body contorting against restraints so tight there’s no room for him the thrash. Even through the gag, he screams, and Chase would scream as well if he wasn’t too busy gripping the phone as if his life depended on it, trying to steady his trembling hands.

When the shock stops, Liam’s face is tear-stained and exhausted, sobs wracking his body and ripping apart Chase’s soul. 

His fault.

It is his fault. After everything, after betraying Liam into not trusting anyone, after losing the boy who might’ve been the love of his life, after being responsible for his stabbing, his kidnapping, after everything–

The switch is turned on again, and this time when Liam screams, Chase’s eyes well up with tears he has no right to cry. A kind of rotten helplessness takes over his body, its clawed fingers wrapping around his arms, his legs, his heart and squeezing, whispering and shouting his failure, his guilt, his powerlessness. His eyes plead to close, but he needs to see this. It is his fault, his burden, and if Liam was forced through it, he has to at least watch it to the end. If anything, to know he’s still alive.

It lasts longer the second time. A life. His useless life. Liam convulses and cries and howls, and if Chase could only take the pain to himself, he would. He would switch places with Liam in the blink of an eye. He is the one who deserves that pain. He is the one who betrays and hurts and destroys anything he touches, and it should be him, not the boy who smiles at the sunrise and cries over books and dreams about changing the world. 

He stares unblinking at the screen and watches in silence as electricity courses again and again through that body he had once held and thought about spending a life beside, fogging those eyes that used to engulf him in love, twisting that face he once kissed and touched and loved into one of raw despair. Each time it stops, neither of them has time to catch their breath before it starts again. After the third time, Liam doesn’t cry out anymore. His voice breaks in a ragged wail until it dies down and all that’s left are silent sobs.

When the video ends, Chase is nearly numb. The last image shows Liam’s head hanging forward as he struggles to breathe, Jonah’s fingers casually carding through his sweaty hair.

Chase is out of his house before his brain even processes what he’s doing, inside his car, driving to Jonah’s building in a blur of hatred and desperation. When he parks in front of the tower, the phone buzzes and he doesn’t hesitate to read it. Not anymore. Never again.

You lost visit privileges. Leave the drive with the guard at the door and keep in touch. 

With Liam’s screams still ringing inside his mind, forever trapped there, he doesn’t dare do anything other than what he is told. He gives the guard the flash drive, and for the first time in years, he prays. Because if anyone notices the most important files missing… he can’t bear the thought of what could be done to Liam in retribution. 

(next)

#spoiler alert: ofc jonah's gonna notice there are files missing >:) #whump #whump writing #creepy whumper #betrayal whump #held hostage #electrocution #electric torture #freeze response #angst #forced to watch #hurt no comfort #i'm not sure how much i like this one y'all but i needed an excuse for what's happening next part :') #and i spent way too long staring at this so i'm just gonna post it already #i'm also starting to regret stabbing liam in the gut cuz now it's hard to find tortures that won't kill him lol

[my-writings-and-musings]

Could you do Drift and Ravage for the oxygen loss prompt?

I absolutely can do Ravage, our dear kitty deserves the love! Drift can be found in part six below!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Part Thirteen: You're Here!

Ravage

·The tale of how you even became friends with the reclusive and understandably untrusting felicon is as long as it is convoluted, but a good synopsis is that the two of you simply get one another. It doesn't hurt that you always gave him ample personal space and respected his boundaries, and the fact you don't mind meeting up in the vents is a plus for him. Bots are absolutely baffled by your relationship, so avoiding public spaces has become his preferred activity to enjoy with you, if only to be free of the gossip. Equally eager to have peace and quiet, you'd long since found ways to make his favorite spots in the vents into ideal hangouts.

·Unfortunately, today is one of the rare days he has to be away from your side and amongst the crew. On the Bridge there's some kind of trouble, requiring all the commanding officers to be present while it's sorted out, and he refuses to leave Megatron there alone. Primus knows his old friend gets blamed for everything that goes wrong eventually... Yet he's far from focused as the diagnostic scans reveal a confounding bug in the ship's programming. As worrying as it should be, his thoughts drift repeatedly to you, and how much he'd rather be somewhere far less open and bright. Hopefully this will all end soon, and the two of you can curl up somewhere to relax, with his larger body naturally fitting around yours as if made to do so...

·A teasing look from Megatron makes him realize he had allowed his dreamy thoughts to color his face with a ridiculous expression of lovestruck bliss. Pinning back his ears and flushing hot as a star, he can only be grateful no one else seemed to notice. Just as he's debating whether or not to sneak away, there's a commotion amongst the more tech savvy bots. They claim to have found the source of the programming bug; which isn't a bug at all, but a virus. Claws fully unsheathing in preparation for combat, his sense of dread grows exponentially as he puts together what is being said, realizing that something very bad is moments away. Lights flicker in confirmation of his fear. In moments the ship is flashing out a hundred or so alarms, signaling that it is more or less helpless against whatever may happen next.

·You're the first thing he thinks about as countless terrible scenarios begin to play in his mind. Between his hypersensitive hearing and smell he's nearly choked on the panic and fear growing through the Lost Light, but all he wants to focus on is you. A human has precious little in the way of defense, and with every system keeping the ship stable, there's nothing to protect you. The solution is obvious; he has to find you before something else does. When the ground quakes and an incoming transmission threatens the crew he doesn't stick around to hear the enemy gloat. A brief explanation to Megatron is all he offers before taking off, and though he doesn't stick around to see it, his old friend gives him a nod of understanding.

·Distant sounds of metallic warping and the scent of soldering tell him the ship is being breached, but also make it incredibly difficult to pinpoint your location. He's memorized every identifiable feature of yours for moments like this, but the chaos turns the air into a smog of panic, so that it's only the uniqueness of your scent that allows him to find a trail. Faster than most vehicle modes and far more limber, he's an unstoppable blur through the hallways. A path to your shared quarters forms effortlessly in his mind as he passes down the levels.

·Far from your partner, you're still recovering from the bang that shook the entire room you'd been so comfortably set up in. Dazed on the ground, you get your feet beneath you before thoughts return, and the first one is for Ravage. Unfamiliar with space travel, you feel compelled to fear the worst; what if he was too close to whatever just went wrong? Capable as he is, the Felicon isn't immortal. Dead communication lines cement the need for worry in your dizzy head. Careless to the considerable tumble you just endured, you try to think of the best possible response for both your sakes. If he's able to so much as crawl, Ravage will be headed for you, so the best thing to do is make yourself as easy to find as possible. Shallow as that plan may be, it's at least a starting point, and you won't have to go far.

·A trail of claw marks through the hallways marks a tireless and acrobatic flight of barely disguised panic. Ravage takes every possible vent into his olfactory receptors for even the tiniest whiff of you. It's a scent he falls asleep with every night, the familiar yet so unusual mammalian musk soothing him as he curled about your tiny body... Now he's panicking over every tiny whiff, if only because he can't tell if you're really okay. Foreign smells tell of an encroaching enemy spilling into the Lost Light, and from the overpowering rush it appears their numbers are considerable. Some even appear to be moving through the lower levels just a floor or two below... Hulking footsteps that are not Cybertronian register in his sensitive ears, moving with such little grace he can feel them through the floor in his perceptive paws. Anger helps him swallow down some fear. If they want to get between him and his partner, then it's their death wish.

·Finding little to be working reliably, you open the door to your room just wide enough to let you through only after multiple attempts prove unsuccessful. A lifeless but somehow noisy hallway greets you. The sounds of combat are close, or at least, you presume what you're hearing to be combat. Perhaps you hit your head harder than you thought, because thinking through what's going on is far more difficult than it should be. Holding onto the wall for support, you try desperately to think of a plan. Ravage could be anywhere, and with no way to reach him, it's impossible to plan a meet up or even attempt to learn of his status. Yet... these dire thoughts don't invoke the panic they should. It's growing impossible to even stand on your own, and without meaning to you start to lean more of your body against the wall...

·Ravage inevitably is faced with a foe he cannot evade, and for your sake, he charges forward. There's a group of them, all gathered in the only hallway that will take him quickly to your location. He can feel the heat of energy weapons simmering in the air by the time he's upon them. With the element of surprise he's able to unleash incredible damage in his first attack, claws and fangs tearing through protective armor to kill one and severely wound another before they even realize they're being attacked. Bounding between their hulking forms, he faces the one disadvantage he's always endured through combat; his enemies far outscale him. Though his need to protect as well as survive turns him into a living blender, a well placed and simply lucky strike makes painful contact with his back, cracking the armor and bringing forth a spattering of energon.

·Recovering with the aid of his own anger to fuel the final attacks, he fights on with the wound agonizing him all the while, sinking his fangs in deep to take care of the final enemy. It isn't until the last body thunders to the floor that his legs temporarily give way. He's in need of medical attention, but he doesn't dare slow down, or even get a moment of rest. Shaking legs push defiantly to get him upright, and for once he's able to be grateful to have four. The ragged pace he resumes with is only as fast as it is because he knows he's close, as your scent is now clear despite the warring smells of blood and a million other unpleasant odors. Even if all he can do is collapse by your side and keep you company, it will be enough...

·Time seems to stand still when he sees you slumped over by the doorway to the room you two share. Though you're without injuries and the iron rich smell of human blood is undetectable, he knows something is very wrong, and though every motion hurts he bounds to your side. Crying out your name, he gently nudges you with a careful muzzle. Warmth and the rythym of your heart quell his greatest fears just before you open your eyes. Not quite awake, you can only be relieved to see him again, far too out of it to be afraid. At his insistence to move you express a desire to rest instead. No amount of encouragement can seem to make you realize the danger, and thus he's forced to make the decision to move you himself, even if he's in bad shape himself. Clearly, you need more help than he can give.

·You go along as best you can when he insists you ride on his back, and it's only your considerable experience doing so in the past that makes it possible now. He tries to think through the pain, but has little luck imagining what could possibly have done this to you, and his efforts to do so are hampered further as he begins to limp forward. Between energon loss and exhaustion and fear he knows things are looking grim. It tears at him more aggressively than any wound ever could, particularly as he feels you growing weaker against him, and all he can do is beg for you to hold on. You want to, but with his body so close and the rocking of his steps, how can you resist the urge to sleep? Surely everything will be fine when you wake... It's too much for him to endure when you slip into unconsciousness, and his legs give out beneath him. Failure burns in his spark as he tries in vain to keep going, his inability to save you haunting his exhausted body as footsteps draw near.

·It's by fortune he has rarely experienced that you're happened upon by a group of bots led by Megatron. He forces himself to stay awake for your sake, refusing to let anyone separate you so long as you need care. The blur of the medical bay brings comfort only briefly, as when he's informed of the reason behind your struggle he's nearly torn apart by guilt. Seeing you with your oxygen mask confirms his failure to protect the one he holds dearest to his spark. Withdrawing from the world, he allows himself to be patched up before curling himself around your tiny body, all but shielding you from the universe so intent on hurting you both.

·The warmth of his frame so frequently is your first sensation upon waking that you don't realize something is off at first. It isn't until you feel the mask on your face that you remember what happened, but by then Ravage is gently tapping his muzzle against you to confirm everything feels alright. Without promoting, he gives a quick rundown of what led up to this moment. You're wide eyed as he explains the ship's atmospheric shutdown, particularly when he gets to the part where he tried to carry you to safety... The apathy as he recounts it all, however, is far from fitting. Laying a gentle hand on a paw, you ask if something happened that bothered him, and receive confirmation from his silent expression of sadness.

·Initially, he can't bring himself to say what's wrong. On the surface he knows his actions were reasonable, but in his spark... he's so afraid of how his own inability to save you nearly resulted in tragedy. Just the thought of losing you is terrifying enough, but having nearly faced it has rocked him to his core, and he sits in silence under the weight of those emotions. Mercifully, you can read him well enough to not need words. Ravage has always withdrawn when upset, and few things agonize him more than failure.

·Gently as you can, you encourage him to come close, pulling his helm as near to your lap as possible. The sadness in his optics nearly breaks your heart, but you're confident as you speak, thanking him for what he did to save you and insisting you wouldn't be here without him. When he briefly tries to protest, you point out that he likely wouldn't be injured had it not been for you, and he quickly replies that you're worth any scars. When you retort that you feel the same way about him, a small amount of weight appears to leave his shoulders. He recalls that the best part of loving you has always been the freedom to exist as he is, free of pressure, and that he can't be a failure in your eyes so long as he tries. It's simply easy to forget that sometimes... Allowing himself a purr, he uses his tail to most effectively wrap you in his protective body, intent on keeping the both of you safe and warm for some much needed rest. So long as you have each other, there's nothing that can't be overcome.

#transformers #maccadam #mtmte #more than meets the eye #lostlight #lost light #ll #idw #tf #my writing #my asks #anon #requests #human reader #self insert #ravage #ravage x reader #prompts #headcannons #transformers imagine

[belit0]

@heavensbabygirl​

I just found out your blog and I'm in love with it 🥺💞 your writing is really good. If it's not much of a trouble I'd like to ask for a headcanon or scenario about the uchihas (whoever you'd like to choose but pls do Madara 🙏🙏) finding out that their uchiha lover is more powerful than them.

Sorry for my english and thank you so much 🥰🥰

Welcome to my little spot ✨🖤 all my love to you!! Thank you so much, you made my day saying that my writing is really good 😭 here you go beautiful soul, Uchiha shower 4 u✨

Indra

This man would be angry, really fuming at the situation. Whoever it is, no one can dare to be stronger than him, unless they are looking to risk their lives.

He goes away for days without explanation after discovering the power of his beloved, and is consumed with indignation and anger. Just because someone has a minimal place in his life does not give that person the right to humiliate him.

When he returns he is surrounded by a terribly dark aura, something frightening and terrifying. The man who dominated his lover on the floor during their training to end up getting one’ s mouth on an intimate kiss… no longer exists.

His countenance is apprehensive, hard and cold.“ We’ll fight, right now. ”

During the battle, it is clear from the first moment that Indra does not hold back one bit. His intentions are in fact murderous. Even if he is confronting his lover, the fact that the latter has disrespected him in this way… he will not tolerate it.

He is clearly stronger than before his departure, and it is obvious that his absence was to improve and overcome his partner.

He did indeed succeed. Without remorse he strikes his lover one last time, leaving one on the verge of death on the floor. “Never dare to believe that you can be on top of me. Know your place or die before me.”

He hovers over his beloved and kisses with possessiveness.

Madara

Unlike the previous man, Madara finds the situation stimulating. A new challenge? Of course he will face it.

After his lover has imposed itself on him, when normally one would have given in to his overwhelming force, he gets up from the floor and shakes the dust off his clothes with a measured calm.

This Uchiha has a plan for everything. He knows it, and his partner knows it.

He knows how to recognize power when he sees it or experiences it, Madara is no fool. In his heart he is excited to find someone to defeat other than Hashirama.

The latter makes things go out of control…

Uchiha’s honour is above all else, and while he knows how to recognise a good opponent, let it be his partner who knocks him down, it makes him conflict. He dominates and manages, roles must be re-established.

Madara will not allow the fight to end until he succeeds in regaining superiority. Never.

His mate ends up letting themselves be defeated only so that the man stops trying to hit them.

Izuna

To be defeated? By whom should admire and love him? That just doesn’t add up. The only one who can be stronger than him is his big brother.

This Uchiha is… an immature child. If someone managed to beat him and by chance it is not Madara, it is because that person is probably cheating, using some trick. He doesn’t fail, least of all his skills. He will never admit it. (Questions about the incident with Tobirama? He let himself be beaten out of pity 😉)

For days, any minimal activity with his lover becomes a challenge. Walking in the woods? Let’s see who reaches that tree first. Lift the dishes from the table? Whoever picks up the most is the winner. Swim in the river? Whoever touches the other bank first beats the other.

He will do what he deems necessary to show that he is better than his partner, playing dirty is in his plans.When he finds that his lover is training alone, he bothers them, talking to them while they meditate and distracting them when they want to concentrate. That won’t happen.

Izuna knows that it’s difficult to reach his partner’s level, so he turns to Madara for help. His skill level easily increases when it comes to fighting his brother.

Finally, he challenges his partner to fight again. When things end in a draw, he can’t say he’s happy, but he’s… calm.

Obito

He is immediately surprised by the strength of his lover. He feels proud. How was it possible for him to get someone capable of surpassing him?

A tear of pain at the blows he received escapes his eyes. He does not feel the need to keep his guard up when he is with the person he loves. “I’m fine… that was… wow.”

He feels disappointed with himself for not being attentive enough to detect his partner’s true potential. He mentally notes that he must be more observant in the future.

He gets up from where he landed because of the beating he received and waits for his beloved partner to wrap up in a hug. “You sure are strong, huh?”

He allows his loving one to heal his wounds, and expresses the admiration he feels growing inside his chest at the power he has witnessed.

“… I’m just… I’m happy that you’re the one to help me continue the Uchiha legacy, you know?”

Shisui

He bursts into a nervous laugh when he realizes that he almost didn’t avoid his partner’s death blow. He have never been so grateful for his body flicker.

Shisui is absent-minded when it comes to things that have nothing to do with his work, but… he never believed that so much that he did not notice the overwhelming power of his lover.

His agility makes it impossible for punches or catches, but the Uchiha is aware that, if he drops the pace at which he is teleporting, he will be caught by one of those terrifying blows. He is impressed and makes the most of the situation to investigate the new skill his lover shows.

He is really enjoying himself. Teasing others is part of his being and… seeing his partner get frustrated at not being able to reach him, laughter is inevitable.

Until a blow hits him in one of his carelessness and his mocking is history. The only person who laughs now is the one who loves him, watching him grunt in pain.

Itachi

This man… this man always knew. Who are we kidding?

The Uchiha was waiting for the moment his partner thought it was time to reveal their true power. He was always aware that the other person was holding back when they were fighting together.

He feels vaguely insulted by his partner’s hidden ability. Does this person think that he is weak? Does this person think that he will not be able to bear it? He is determined.

Itachi strikes even harder until his lover has no choice but to give everything. He is truly overwhelmed by the person next to him when he is defeated.

"There’s no need to hold back on me… please.”

From that phrase, his partner fights with their full power, and Itachi learns from each encounter something new. Not only in the context of the confrontations, but also of the personality and mannerisms of his beloved.

With each beating he receives, he falls even more deeply in love with the person next to him.

#uchiha clan #uchiha madara #uchiha izuna #uchiha obito #uchiha shisui #uchiha itachi #otsutsuki indra #uchiha headcanons #madara #izuna #obito #shisui #itachi #indra otsutsuki #naruto shippuden #naruto imagines

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

I Know (Rewrite)

Javi Peña x F!Reader

Warnings: Smut, Angstttt more angst than the smut i’m sorry peeps, Language

Word Count: 2.3K+

Summary: The end was always inevitable. 

A/N: So in case anyone missed it I decided to delete my old Javi fics (which was only three) and rewrite them. I apologize if this upsets anyone. I will also try to do part two to this like before if y’all would like!

Javier Peña is a walking contradiction sometimes. 

Like now, with the way he fucks you. Rough and yet gentle, crude words as he pounds into you followed by a soft praise. 

“Fuck look at your pussy, taking my cock like a good girl.”

You respond to it like you do every time, even when you know that this will be it; you knew it the moment he walked through that door, giving you one look before clashing his lips to yours. 

“Javi,” you gasp through another powerful thrust. “Javi.”

Javier grips your hips tighter and maneuvers you closer to his hips, panting just as you are; a sheen of sweat covers his chest and his hair is tousled from your fingers, pouty lips pulled back in a snarl, he is one of the most beautiful thing you have ever seen in this world. 

Which makes this so much harder. So fucking hard. Tears start to sting at the back of your throat but you swallow them down; you will not ruin this. 

“Hey,” Javier slows his thrust to a languid stop, keeping himself deep inside your weeping pussy. 

The scrunched lines on his forehead tell you he’s worried—funny, because he knows exactly what he’s doing. So, what is he exactly worried about?  

You finally think it’s hitting him. What he’s doing. Coming to terms with the decisions he’s made. Sees right through your façade and realizes just how hurt you are; it’s more than that, much more and if that doesn’t tear him apart too then what was the point of any of this? 

It’s not just the sex you’re talking about, either. That’s always a given with the infamous DEA agent Javier Peña and you knew that from the start. It’s how he checks in on you throughout the day, making sure that the dangers that plague him aren’t passed on to you, going farther by making sure your doors and windows are always locked and secured, giving your door handle a jiggle after he leaves and locks it. How one time, when you got sick and tried taking an extra shift at your job, he fought to keep you in bed so you could rest. Or when he would just sit with you in your tiny apartment; comfortable silence, small talk here and there, shoulders brushing against each other in a nervous, unspoken dance. 

It’s all the things that make up the definition of love. A sensitive topic for someone like him, so afraid of letting anyone see his true colors, all the love he has stored in him—when he shows even the slightest of it, he runs. You knew that from the beginning, too. 

“Let me ride you,” you whimper. 

He nods and leans down to press a chaste kiss to your lips. It’s not enough for you, so you wrap your arms around his neck to bring him back; he lets his body slant perfectly atop yours, cupping your jaw with one hand while steadying your trembling thigh with the other, allowing your tongue to trace gently around the seam of his slightly chapped lips and opening his mouth to your eager tongue. 

This may be the last time you’ll ever get to taste him. 

The thought makes you whimper, but he takes that as a sound of pleasure and grinds his stiff, thick cock into you, breaking the kiss to let out a low groan. The curls of his pubic hair scrapes against your clit, making your pussy jolt with the much needed attention. 

“I got you,” he assures in a soft coo. 

You wish that were true for more than this night. 

“I got you,” he repeats as he carefully turns the two of you over so he’s lying on his back, keeping your hips connected. 

For now. 

Looking at him from this angle makes the ache in your chest pulse wildly. Those dark chocolate eyes of his peering up at you like you’re the most beautiful thing yourself, a goddess in the making, the light in his darkness—this is going to destroy you.   

“Please,” he begs in a whisper. “Baby. Please?”

He knows. 

Placing your hands on his hairless chest for balance, you lift your hips as far up as they can go until his slick red tip hovers just below your puffy folds, and slide back down hard. 

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth, throwing his head back. 

He keeps his fingers on your hips, digging blunt nails deeper into your flesh with every harsh thrust you give him; he isn’t hitting your g-spot and the drag of his cock against your velvety walls is only enough to teeter you on the edge of an orgasm he’s chasing, but that doesn’t matter to you right now. 

What matters is the mewls he lets escape through closed lips, a rumble in his throat that vibrates through you. The intimacy in how close you’re pressed against each other, not an inch of you untouched or unmarked from his hands, or mouth; they’ll be reminders in the coming days. 

Then suddenly, as if he was reading your thoughts, he sits up and wraps his arm around your lower back to keep you close, thrusting up into you as you go down, finally hitting that soft spot inside you that curls your toes.

“So fucking beautiful,” he breathes against your mouth. “Always so wet for me, so good to me mgh—” He chokes when you move faster, tugging on the small strands of hair on the nape of his neck. “Shit, princess.”

Javi attaches his mouth to your breast, latching on to your perk nipple and hollows his cheeks; his mustaches scratches your skin and you want to take back any time you ever complained about it. You whine and hold him to your chest, angling your legs to stretch out; the action brings him deeper inside you, bumping against your cervix so hard that there’s definitely tears now. 

“Oh fuck,” you cry out, feeling your whole body shiver along with your cunt. 

He lets go of your breast with a pop. “Close?” He moans. 

You nod. He pulls you down with him, holding the back of your head so that you’re angled with his face—sharing the same breath, noses brushing against each other, tongues flicking out for another quick taste of the other.   

The claps of skin against skin echo louder in your bedroom, along with the obscene squelches of his cock slamming into your pussy. The bedframe slams against the wall with every push and pull, and you know that in the morning you’re going to hear it from your very pissed off neighbors; you’ll tell them they won’t have to deal with it anymore. 

Javi plants his feet on the bed and starts drilling into you, holding you down so that you have no choice but to take what he gives you. Pointless babbles fill the air, begging for more, give me more than this, more of this. 

“Fuck!” You cry out, feeling your pussy spasm around him. “O-o fuck keep going, baby don’t stop.” 

Your moans spur him on. “I won’t. Gonna cum deep inside this gorgeous pussy, f-fill you up so that you’re dripping for me.”

Your pussy clenches at the words, earning a strangled gasp as you feel his cock throb. You bury your face in his neck, nipping and sucking at all the spots you know turns him to mush. 

“Princess I’m gonna—” Clapclapclapclapclap. “T-touch yourself, let me feel you soak my cock.”

Your eyes squeeze tightly shut and you follow his order, bringing your hand down between your desperate bodies to circle your aching clit. 

“Javi,” you preen in his ear. “I’m—”

The rest of your sentence gets stuck in your throat. The coil in your lower stomach is too much to keep a hold of, eliciting a blazing tightness in your core that just snaps under the pressure of his onslaught but you want this to last, fuck you don’t wanna cum now but he’s—shit you can’t breathe, you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t feel anything other than the warmth radiating off him and the clenching of your cunt—

“Yes,” Javier gasps. “That’s it, that’s it baby, just like that.”

Your moans get louder and louder until they turn into screams, and you can no longer hold back and your pussy explodes around him, gushing him in your juices. 

“Fuuuuck,” a growl resonates deeply from his chest and hot ropes of cum spurt into you after, and yet he still moves inside you, pushing through the persistent fluttering and the combined fluids of your releases until the sensitivity gets to the both of you. 

Your moans mix together into a chorus, dying down with the pace of your thrusts, drawing every bit of your orgasms out as you can. You collapse on his chest, panting heavily; his chest moves quickly, heart beating rapidly and steadily under your ear. He continues to hold your head, lightly scratching your scalp and rubbing your back—if you didn’t know any better, it’d feel like he was staying. 

Your eyes start to droop under exhaustion that seeps from more than the physical workout of the night. His fingers slow and curl until they gently rest, holding you—the way he does is comforting, and real.   

This. This is what you’re going to keep precious. This is how you’ll choose to remember him after all that anger subsides. The real Javier Peña you know and love.

A few moments and he sighs and pats your hip. You flinch as you lift your hips off him, his cum leaking out of you, some even dripping onto his soft, glistening cock; you ignore it. 

You pull the sheet over your naked body as you watch him quickly pull his pants up, forgoing boxers. He reaches across from you where his cigarettes rest on your nightstand, not looking you in the eyes and turning his back to you once he straightens. You expected it, but it doesn’t ease the sting. 

The muscles of his back curls deliciously as he curls his hand around the cigarette. The orange gleam of the burning stick glows as he sucks the smoke in, inhaling deeply before exhaling away from you. The smoke curls around his head, slowly disappearing just like he will. You can’t take this anymore. 

“Javi,” you finally sit up, struggling to keep your voice from cracking. 

“I know,” he interrupts; his voice sounds forced, like he’s struggling himself. “I—I… you know…”

It brings a sudden ignite of fury in you. Now that he’s acknowledging it out in the open, it’s not only the heartbreak that’s been clouding your life, there’s now rage boiling inside you. 

How dare he? How dare he take your heart and stomp on it right in front of you and not even have the grace to say sorry? Or make this any less painful for you when it’s his fault. Hisfaulthisfaulthisfault—

“Yeah.” Your voice is, surprisingly, steady. “Just take care of yourself, Javier.”

You see it. The way his face crumbles. You don’t know what he expected.

He says your name, hesitates, then finally makes up his mind. 

“Is it okay—fuck never mind.” He waves it off.

You don’t want to ask him what he was going to say—you’re too afraid to, if you’re being honest. 

“I’ll always love you, Javi,” your voice trembles with tears. “But if you can’t love me back, if you can’t work with me on this… Javi I can’t let you hurt me like this anymore. It’s not healthy, for either one of us.”

He watches the tears stream down your cheeks with glistening eyes of his own. It creates a stir in your chest, tying your stomach in knots, tightening your throat, knocking all the air out of your lungs; you wouldn’t wish this kind of pain on anyone. 

It seems like an eternity of staring at each other. Committing the other’s features to memory, remembering the good that isn’t tainted, shadowed by the agonizing reality he’s created for himself, bled onto you by your own free will. 

Silently he gathers the rest of his clothes scattered across your room. He dresses leisurely, and as angry as you are with him you’re grateful for the extra few minutes before he walks out your door for the last time. 

When he finishes fastening the last button of his shirt and slides his shoes on you can’t help it. You throw your legs over the bed, not bothering to throw your shirt on and throw yourself in his arms. 

“Hmph,” he grunts, nearly doubling over from the unsuspected force. 

You wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck. He hesitates again, but when his arms do wrap themselves around you it’s crushing; you feel the muscles in his arms bulge from how hard he’s hugging you, making it a little hard to breathe but you don’t care. You inhale his cologne, the smell of smoke on his clothes, the shampoo he uses for his hair, the different soap for his body; he’s doing the same, burying his face in your neck as well. You hold each other until it reaches a point that if you don’t let go now, you never will.

Javier’s the first to pull back. Calloused hands cup your cheeks, gives you a glimpse of the torture behind his eyes, and he leans in and presses a final kiss to your forehead; he holds it, keeping his lips still, and something hot and wet trickles down over your eyebrow. 

When he walks away he doesn’t look back. His footsteps toe quietly away, followed eventually by the soft thump of your door.

The door handle jiggles and the sob you’ve been holding back breaks free.   

 Tags: @talesfromtheguild​, @absurdthirst​, @chews-erotically​, @hiwelcometochillys​, @legally-a-bastard​, @bluengrayfox, @pascaliprincess​, @oloreaa​, @thisis-theway​, @jaynoellef​, @ben-is-a-hoe, @hayley-the-comet​, @pascalisthepunkest​, @kenedyybrooklin​, @paintballkid711​

#javier peña #javier peña x reader #javi peña x reader #javier peña x you #narcos #pedro pascal #fanfic #mcfreakin-bxtch #javier peña imagines #narcos netflix

[spencers-renaissance]

Still Left With the River

Summary: Derek wakes up to find his boyfriend crying on the sofa. Cue the hurt, the comfort, and the fluff.

Tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, hurt!spencer, caretaker!derek, domesticity

Pairing: Morgan x Reid

Word Count: 1.6k

Read on AO3

"A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river, but he's still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away, but he's still left with his hands." - Richard Siken, Boot Theory 

After all these years, it’s almost like a little bit of Spencer has embedded itself in Derek: he feels when he’s happy, when he’s sad, when he’s scared so much more viscerally than he’s ever done with anybody before. It must be the reason that he stirs awake at 3am - an irregular occurrence for a deep sleeper like him - knowing even before he’s opened his eyes that something’s wrong. 

The other side of the bed is empty, but it’s still warm. He can see the light from the living room creeping in through the crack under the door, soft shuffling sounds accompanying the gentle glow and it doesn’t take long for the urgency of the situation to get him going. He pulls himself from the warm comfort of the bed and hurries out into the living room where he finds Spencer curled up in a tiny ball on the sofa with Clooney at his feet, a blanket pulled over both of them.

More importantly, he finds Spencer crying. 

“Baby?” he asks, concern obvious in his voice as he rushes over to the sofa and crouches down in front of it, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

Spencer’s eyes stay screwed shut, and he curls himself into a tighter ball, even if he can’t stop himself sniffling as tears leak down his cheeks. 

“You don’t want to talk about it?” Derek asks, understanding his reaction. Spencer frequently goes non-verbal when he’s sad or overwhelmed with any emotion, really. It had frightened him at the start of their relationship, but after years of finding his boyfriend in these sorts of situations he’s learned the best ways to deal with them. 

Spencer shakes his head, curling even further in on himself.

“Okay, pretty boy, you don’t have to, you know that,” he says soothingly, caressing his cheek gently as he catches a wandering tear with his thumb. “Do you want a cuddle? Or maybe a hot chocolate, a snack, a glass of water?”

Spencer opens his eyes for the first time at that, blinking up at him with big, glossy brown eyes that make him melt every time he looks into them. He uncurls himself slightly and makes room on the sofa for Derek. 

“My baby wants a cuddle?” he asks warmly, following orders and getting situated on the couch so that Spencer is wedged in between him and the back of the sofa, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder as he allows an arm to snake around his waist and hold him closely. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Spencer. I’m right here.” 

They lie like that for a while, Spencer still crying softly, this time into his boyfriend’s shoulder while Derek just cuddles him as close as possible, drawing patterns lightly with his finger over his face and arms and hands in a way that he knows calms Spencer down. He knows better than to try and force him to talk, he knows that he’ll calm down in time, especially with close physical contact as reassurance, and he’ll speak to Derek when he’s ready. 

It’s one of those moments that Derek could not have imagined happening six or seven years ago. His twenties and early thirties had been defined by one night stands, short flings, and commitment issues. It had taken until he was thirty-two to come to terms with the fact that he liked men, too, and he never would have guessed that the person he actually settled down with would be Spencer.

Domesticity looks good on him, everyone always says, cooing and teasing when he kisses Spencer on the forehead before leaving, or declines an invitation out in favour of watching a nerdy documentary, eating takeout and having a cuddle on the sofa. And he’d have to agree. Settling down with the love of his life was one of the most emotionally thrilling experiences he’s ever had. He didn’t know he could ever love someone so much.

Eventually, Spencer’s soft cries subdue slightly, and he stirs a little in Derek’s hold, nestling his face further into his shoulder.

“You alright there, pretty boy?” he smiles, running a hand through his curls. 

“You smell nice,” he admits, slinging his arm around Derek’s middle, cuddling him back properly. 

“That’s very kind of you, baby,” he chuckles. “How are you doing?”

“Better,” Spencer says, voice a little muffled by the t-shirt Derek had thrown on before coming into the living room. “Thank you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have nothing to thank me for,” he scoffs, twirling a curl around his finger and tugging at it affectionately. 

Spencer just hums, clearly sleepy from the tears and the late night. 

“Do you want to talk about it, baby boy?” Derek murmurs, not wanting to pressure him. 

Spencer sighs heavily, extracting his head from his boyfriend’s shoulder. “I woke up feeling really sad,” he whispers, making Derek smile slightly in spite of the situation. Spencer always finds it easier to talk about emotions or heavier topics if he whispers and it’s one of Derek’s favourite quirks of his, “and I couldn’t shake it. I don’t know why. Sometimes all the bad thoughts build up and then they unleash themselves all at once. Like I never think about my dad or my childhood really, but then on a night like this I can’t stop thinking about it and I don’t know why.” 

Derek knows this, of course. Spencer’s had many of these nights over the years, but he always likes to explain it, to put his emotions into words, into a medium he can process them in, so he listens diligently as his boyfriend works it over in his mind.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says, running his hand comfortingly up and down Spencer’s side. “You should have woken me up, I would’ve come and cuddled you from the start.”

“Sorry,” Spencer says in a small voice. 

“Hey, you don’t need to apologise for a thing, alright?” Derek says. “I’m just saying that in the future, you can always wake me straight away, even if I do usually wake up pretty quickly. I need to be here for my boy if he’s sad, don’t I?”

Spencer blushes a little at that, still flattered and overwhelmed by the intensity of Derek’s love even if it’s been lavished on him for over three years now. “Thank you, Derek,” he whispers, placing an endearing kiss to his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Derek smiles gently. “Now, how about we get you a hot chocolate and a slice of toast, maybe some paracetamol for the inevitable post-cry headache and get you back to bed. We can leave a light on and we’ll put a TV show on in the background for some mindless noise, okay?”

Years of experience had cultivated a very strict aftercare routine for nights like these. Spencer’s far too overwhelmed with emotion and thoughts to go to sleep immediately after an experience like this no matter how sleepy he is, so familiarity and distraction are the best routes to getting him back to dreamland. 

They drink their hot chocolates on the sofa together while Derek distracts him with pointless stories from his college days that Spencer could probably tell with better accuracy than him, but tonight he appreciates the slightly monotonous conversation, the rhythm of it soothing him, bringing him down from the emotional rollercoaster he’s just been on.

He doesn’t even complain when Derek butters a slice of toast for him, knowing that it will be futile, but he ends up enjoying it anyway, the warmth of the hot chocolate and toast sitting nicely in his belly, soothing him from the inside. 

Derek ushers him around to get them ready for bed again, forcing him to brush his teeth before insisting on a kiss. “Minty,” he grins.

“Well, I should hope so,” Spencer smiles back, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Come on, you,” Derek says, rolling his eyes as he leads him back to the bedroom with a warm, firm hand in his. 

“Wait, Derek,” Spencer protests as Derek tries to get him back in bed, looking suddenly shy again. “Can I wear one of your shirts to bed?”

“Of course, baby boy,” Derek says gently, sensing that teasing would not be appreciated right now. “You know I’d never say no to such a polite request from such a beautiful boy.” 

“I just… I like the smell, it’s comforting and I want extra Derek tonight,” he says, a little bashfully, despite feeling reassured by his boyfriend’s reaction.

Derek’s heart melts at that as he rustles through his drawer to find the most comfortable t-shirt - only the best for his boy - and like he’s done so many times over the last three years, he wonders what on earth he did to get the karma that landed such a wonderful person right in his lap. 

“I understand, Spencer, it’s all good,” he says softly as he hands it over watching him slip out of his old PJ top and into Derek’s oversized shirt. “You look beautiful.” 

Spencer flushes at the compliment, nestling himself into Derek’s body as he wraps him in a tight hug, pressing his face into his neck as he always does in a cuddle like this one. “Love you so much,” he murmurs.

“Oh, Spencer,” he says. “I love you even more.”

“Not possible,” he smiles, pulling away and kissing him gently before turning to climb under the covers. 

“Oh, baby you have no idea,” Derek teases, but really he knows they both love each other astronomical amounts, there’s no genuine competition at all. 

He pulls Spencer against his chest while he switches on the bedside lamp and the TV, finding a sitcom and turning it on low volume so Spencer won’t be tempted to comment on it. “You try and relax now, sweetheart. Sleep will come, and I’ll be right here.”

“Love you,” Spencer mumbles for the third time that night. 

“I love you too, gorgeous boy,” Derek murmurs back, but he’s not sure Spencer’s awake long enough to hear him.

@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez

#criminal minds #criminal minds writing #criminal minds fic #moreid fic #moreid #derek #spencer #derek morgan #spencer reid #moreid fluff #criminal minds fluff #my writing

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Destiny (RotJ AU oneshot)

“Thank the Force, you’re safe!”

Leia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she flung herself into Luke’s open arms, his face concealed by the darkness as the soft full moon rose like a halo behind his head. She breathed out a sigh, holding him close as she let the tension that had been bearing down on her go. The gnawing ball of anxiety at the pit of belly faded, as relief flooded her senses.

“We won,” she added in a rushed tone, barely able to believe her own words as she realized the freedom they had fought for was now within their grasp.

“We did,” said Luke, soft spoken as he returned his sister’s embrace; his prosthetic hand coming up to gently envelope the back of her thin neck. “But there is more that needs to be done.”

Leia shook her head, knowing he was right but refusing to let the long road still ahead of them spoil this moment of euphoria in the wake of their victory. With eyes closed, she smiled softly.

“Let’s not think of the future. The Death Star is destroyed. The Emperor is destroyed.”

Luke didn’t need to tell her, for her to know he had fulfilled the task of ridding the Galaxy of its dictator. She could feel the responsibility of the act weighing heavy on his conscience.

“He is,” her brother said either way, but Leia was surprised to find the words didn’t bring her the calm she had expected.

Instead, Luke’s tone seemed flat, solemn. It seemed uncanny, unnatural for him. Leia decided to dismiss it as nonsense. Instead, she focused on Luke’s arms around her, and the tender kiss he placed against her forehead. She had always known they belonged together, that there was a connection between them. 

It had taken some time for her to realize what exactly the bond was, but as soon as she realized she had fallen in love with Han, she knew Luke was the brother she’d always been missing. The brother she’d sometimes see in her dreams, a twin she’d never known. She had assumed her possible lost brother had died in the womb, that the ghost was a figment of her imagination. Now, she knew better.

Still, another question was begging to be answered. She felt the hatred and disgust well up inside her, before she even uttered the name on her mind. She sensed Luke’s reluctance to discuss it, knowing he heard her inquiry before she said it. Its taste bitter on her tongue.

“Is… where is Vader?”

“Our fath--”

“Your father,” Leia interrupted sharply, and she swore she could have heard Luke snort in annoyance if it weren’t so out of character for him to be intemperate. “Your father, my sire.”

“Father has changed. When we first spoke, I was afraid of his words. I was afraid of his intentions, of what he might do to me - and to you. But I’m not afraid anymore,” Luke said after a moment, but this time Leia didn’t imagine the cutting edge to his voice. “He asked me to relay a message. To you.”

“I want no part of his last wishes.”

“I know.”

Leia hated the tension that had formed between them, tainting the air and making it almost oppressive. She had no intentions of forgiving the man who had fathered her, who had stood dumbly by as her home planet and her adoptive - her real - parents were murdered. Her people turned to dust in the blink of an eye. Vader was nothing to her, and much as she knew Luke had been entertaining the idea of forming a bond with Vader as a parent, she had no such notions.

Biting her lip, Leia clung to Luke. For a moment, she feared he would back away. She feared he may be upset, despite the fact that she had never seen Luke be anything but calm and serene since he first became a Jedi Knight. She stroked his back, the rough fabric of his robes a familiar presence. Hiding her face against Luke’s chest, she shut any thoughts of Vader out but she was still hyper aware that Luke hadn’t confirmed whether the Dark Lord was dead or alive. 

In the distance, she could hear the chattering of ewoks mingling with Chewbacca’s cheerful yowls, and if she strained her ears she could make out Han’s gruff tone as he conversed with Lando over a glass of whatever the Ewok equivalent to liquor was called. They would be alright.

But when Luke spoke again, interrupting the pleasant background noises of celebration, the mournful aura he was emanating could not be ignored.

“That’s why I must be the one to do his bidding.”

“What are you talking about?” Leia said, tilting her head slightly upwards to attempt to catch his eyes.

Before she had the chance, the hand at the back of her neck guided her confounded face away as he pressed her tightly to her chest.

“I didn’t understand before, but now I do. The Emperor was seduced by the darkness inside of himself, not by the Force itself. The Force is neither light nor dark, you cannot know it if you do not walk the line between the contradictions.”

“I don’t understand.”

Leia wasn’t lying, Luke’s words made little sense but she couldn’t keep the tension from pouring back into her weary bones ever so slightly. Something was amiss, but she allowed Luke to squeeze her as she returned the embrace with the same fervour. It seemed desperate, as if Luke was stalling something inevitable, something momentous. Perhaps, she already knew where he was going. Perhaps they were both buying themselves more time.

“Father knows. About you,” Luke finally breathed, the admission of guilt filling Leia’s heart with dread and fear. “I tried, but I couldn’t keep it from him.” 

“You let him live.”

It wasn’t a question, and when Luke offered no reply, Leia knew it to be true. She dug her fingers into his back, but forced herself not to lash out. She wanted Vader dead, she wanted to see him suffer as a punishment for all the atrocities he had committed. As she struggled with the battle between her love for her brother and her disdain for her biological father, she could sense Luke’s sorrow growing in magnitude. It became palpable, until it overpowered even her vivacious, volatile emotional turmoil.

“You are too good, Luke,” she finally murmured, relenting for now despite the simmering disappointment and anger beneath the surface.

“Yes. I have been. And I remain to be, but it can be remedied.”

Leia flinched as the durasteel fingertips of her brother’s cybernetic hand dug into the side of her neck - a neck she became ever so aware of, reminded of its frailty. She reached out with that unknown, premonitory, invisible hand to search his feelings. She sensed no malice, only grief. She simply couldn’t grasp what he was mourning, or who, if Vader was still alive.

“There is so much more that I don’t yet understand, but I can learn. But so can you,” he continued, and shivers of unease ran down Leia’s spine at the spiteful way in which he brought her into the equation - so unlike the Luke she knew.

“I don’t want to learn about the Force,” she said, in an effort to reassure herself as much as Luke.

“No. Not now. But you will, eventually. It can’t be helped. Your potential will draw you towards it, as it did me. You can fight it, or embrace it as I have. It won’t matter, it takes you either way. You have no choice.”

“I don’t believe that,” Leia scoffed, the sinking feeling in her belly foreboding.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, nor does it matter what I believe. It’s the truth.”

The conviction of those words was irrefutable, and for a second Leia feared Luke could actually foresee the future and was speaking with an unearned wisdom regarding what was to pass. She found herself dreading the fact that there may be a predestined path for her.

“You sense it too, don’t you? You have felt its call, you have felt it beckoning to you. The Force.”

Leia wavered, about to reply when she remembered something she had overheard in the past. Luke communicating with an unseen figure, its voice eerily similar to the late Obi-Wan’s - its warning prodding at her subconscious until she had no choice but to reiterate it aloud.

“The Force doesn’t beckon. The Dark Side does.”

“But it has called you, hasn’t it?”

Luke didn’t falter, and Leia didn’t deny him. Her silence was all the compliance he needed, and she felt another chaste kiss pressed to the top of her head. Again, the durasteel prickle of his cold, harsh fingers buried themselves a little farther into the tender flesh of her nape.

“Then it has already been decided. Father was right. You are too much like him.”

Leia jerked back, trying to rear away as hurt, rage and disgust rushed to the surface in a flurry. Instead, she found herself trapped by Luke’s powerful hold. Heart sinking, she realized the dread she had been feeling wasn’t merely caused by Vader’s survival. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sounds came forth. She tried to yank her arms free, but the unseen hands keeping her firmly put were too strong. She wanted to scream, wanted to kick, and writhe, and punch, and claw her way out. Instead, she stood paralyzed as Luke’s fingers grew painfully tight around the back of her nape; tips pressing against her hammering pulse point.

“There can be only two; one master and one apprentice. You have an inherent rage. You would make the perfect Sith, but if you become Father’s apprentice…” Luke trailed off, and the meaning behind the unspoken intent was enough to suck the air out of Leia’s lungs.

Swallowing had, she found it difficult to breathe; and the vice closing around her neck was getting ever tighter. She could feel the sharp sting as unforgiving durasteel pierced her skin, and the rush of warmth that could only be blood spilling down the front of her dress. As her mind grew foggy, Leia realizing the welcoming darkness was likely of Luke’s doing to ease her into the eternal sleep, she picked up on his voice close to her ear. Despite the haze as life faded, her brother’s words were crisp and clear and haunting.

“This is the only way. It is my destiny,” he said, with an evident choked tremor to the delivery. “I’m sorry.”

Head tipping backwards, the last thing Leia noted was the irony in the lone tear that slid down Luke’s pale cheek juxtaposed with the predatory, greedy glow of his now bloodshot golden eyes.

***

Because there aren’t enough Dark!Luke AUs out there, so have my take on an alternate ending to RotJ where Luke falls and Vader lives. Enjoy!

#luke skywalker #leia organa #luke and leia #luke #skywalker #leia #princess leia #princess leia organa #organa #leia solo #leia skywalker #space twins #skywalker twins #anakin skywalker #darth vader #star wars #sw #ot #original trilogy #originals #rotj #return of the jedi #episode 6 #episode VI #au #alternate universe #alternate ending #mark hamill #carrie fisher #sith

[thevioletcaptain]

Coals Aglow

11.4k | Explicit | DeanCas 

A years-delayed 13.21 coda, in which Cas uses his grace in ways that it is probably not supposed to be used, and gentle-doms Dean into asking for what he wants.

{i}

It’s been several hours since the rebels split off into groups—half retiring to their sleeping quarters while the others walked with purpose to keep sentry around the camp’s perimeter—and Castiel has made a point to visit every one, speaking with each of them until he understands as much of this place as he possibly can. Just in case.

Castiel supposes that he could have just asked Jack, but despite Sam’s unexpected return he’s been quiet all evening. Almost withdrawn. It makes sense, considering how Sam came to be here and who he’d been forced to bring with him, but it still makes Castiel uneasy. Even after all these years, after his slip-slide into feeling, the emotional discomfort is something he’s not quite accustomed to.

Close to one in the morning, he spots Dean sitting on a log by the remains of a fire at the center of camp, picking idly at the bag of Skittles he’d packed for the trip and referred to as “trail mix” to irritate his brother. Sam is nowhere to be seen now. Dean appears to be doing little more than quietly passing the time.

After what happened this afternoon, Sam’s absence from Dean’s side is noteworthy enough to make Castiel apprehensive about joining him, but he pushes past his reservations and powers ahead. He’d rather sit with Dean in silence than go anywhere else, and though Dean has never said so, he knows that he’s not alone in his preference for spending what little downtime they have together.

Up close, he can see that the fire has burned down to little more than coals and ash. Dean prods at the sole remaining log with a stick, disrupting sparks and dark plumes of smoke that curl up into the night.

As Castiel sits beside him, the log shifts, pressing down into the loamy earth. Dean glances over to look at him. The weak light of the embers casts him in its deep orange glow, reflecting in his eyes, bright as the long-gone sunset. Something in Castiel’s chest settles at the sight.

“You doing okay?” Dean asks, offering the bag of Skittles. Castiel can only shrug as he takes a few and pops them into his mouth.

Almost as soon as he starts chewing, they dissolve into their component parts—citric acid splitting into carbon and hydrogen and oxygen; sucrose molecules breaking down into fructose and glucose. With effort, he focuses on all of them at once and captures a glimpse of the intended taste, just for a moment, before an unfathomable number of branched chain starch molecules unravel on his tongue, overwhelming the bright flavor he’d briefly enjoyed.

He’s been working on this. Testing things, training himself to taste the sum and not the parts. It’s a work in progress, but it’s one that he’s resolved to see through until it’s an automatic process.

“Relatively,” he says, and swallows the candy before he has to taste it any longer. “How are you?”

“Relatively,” Dean parrots, folding the bag up and poking it into his jacket pocket. “What a day, huh?”

“Mm.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“With Mom and Jack. Sleeping. Don’t think he wanted to be alone while he’s in the camp.”

Dean doesn’t gesture toward the place they designated to hold Lucifer overnight, but Castiel looks toward it anyway. He imagines he can feel his brother’s cold, prickling energy down to the tips of his fingers. Like frostbite. He frowns and turns back to Dean; tries to soak in his warmth instead.

“You should get some rest, too,” he says.

“Yeah, probably. Tomorrow’s gonna be a bitch.”

“Even by our standards,” Castiel agrees.

Dean huffs, his mouth ticking up to the right, and scuffs his heel in the dirt. Castiel watches as he picks idly at the log they sit upon; the twitch in his cheek as he hisses and inspects his index finger before raising it to his mouth. The shape of his lips as he tries to suck a splinter loose from where it's buried itself beneath his fingernail.

“Damnit,” Dean mutters, pulling his hand back to look at it with a frown.

“Here.”

Reaching out, Castiel catches Dean’s wrist in one hand and his fingers in the other, expending a shimmering wisp of grace to work the splinter free. He’s not sure what compels him to make such a show of it — he could have healed the minuscule injury from where he’s sitting without touching Dean at all — but he can’t help himself.

At some point, years ago, his duty to help Dean and his desire to be close to him got all tangled up. He can no longer recall when he’d started healing him through unnecessary touch, but it’s the singular selfish thing that he does, and he’s not planning on stopping unless Dean tells him to.

The splinter falls silently to the dirt at their feet. Castiel curls the tip of his index finger against the tiny puncture in Dean’s skin, directing his grace as it knits back together.

Beside him, Dean lets out an unsteady breath, and a pulse of love stretches out from his soul to brush against Castiel’s true form. If he’s being truly honest with himself, this is another major reason why Castiel allows himself to touch him in moments like this; he knows that Dean enjoys it as much as he does.

Despite all his half-hearted blustering about personal space, Dean is a tactile person, and the moments when Castiel heals him are the moments when his heart is the most open. When he lets himself feel the way he feels without holding back, just for a breath or two. It’s enough. It’s always been enough.

But now—the feeling draws out longer than usual, shifting to something closer to hunger, to desire, and Dean’s fingers flex a little in Castiel’s hand. When Castiel starts to pull away they turn to gently grip him back. And this…

This is new.

Not the feeling—that has been there for years, poorly concealed and just below the surface—but the action that echoes it. Dean has never done something like this, and Castiel has never been brave enough to try it himself. He’s still not, he realizes as he looks down at their hands tangled together and tries to strategize a safe response.

He’s got no ideas, so he doesn’t move. Couldn’t move if he tried.

“Y’know,” Dean says, interrupting his thoughts with his voice pitched low, and Castiel glances back up to see that his pupils are blown wide. Apprehensive. Tense. Aroused, Castiel’s mind supplies, and he pushes the thought away just in time for Dean to make him wonder if he’d been too hasty in rejecting it. “I don’t think I can stand to be alone tonight, either.”

There’s a clear, deliberate weight to Dean’s words, and although Castiel recognizes it for what it is almost immediately, he hasn’t got the slightest clue how he’s expected to address it. How could he? They’ve kept such a delicate balance for so long that even this one sentence feels monumental. It’s as though Dean has casually dropped an anchor onto a scale that would have been thrown off kilter by a feather, and now he’s just sitting here, acting as though he hasn’t just thrown out the entire rule book of their relationship.

Castiel is afraid to respond at all. He wishes he wasn’t, but fear compounded by habit is hard to shake.

“I could watch over you,” he offers eventually, hating himself for taking the easy way out even as he says it, and waiting for the inevitable refusal. Dean exhales as he slowly pulls his hand away and shifts his gaze back to the glowing embers.

“Aren’t you tired, Cas?”

“I’m running a little low on grace, but—”

“No, I mean—aren’t you tired of… of this.” He waves between them with an open hand, the movement far too casual to be anything but calculated, and glances back to meet Castiel’s eyes. “We could die tomorrow.”

“You could say that about every day, for us.”

“Yeah, but,” Dean huffs. “Look, can we just—”

Pushing to his feet, Dean takes a few steps away before turning back to look at Castiel, his hands tense at his sides, clenching into fists and releasing, over and over as though he needs the movement to keep from… something. Castiel isn’t sure what. But his eyes are pleading. Begging Castiel to meet him halfway.

Castiel wants to. He’s just trying to figure out how.

“Can we skip this part?” Dean asks.

“What do you—”

“The—” Dean briefly lifts his hands, then lets them fall helplessly back to his sides. “The… I don’t know, man. The freakin’ confessions. The discussion. The… the whole what now thing. All that bullshit.” He looks up at Castiel. “Can we just skip it?”

Castiel blinks, slow.

“You mean—”

“I mean I’ve had enough, Cas. I’m tired, and I don’t— I don’t see the point in ignoring this anymore. I haven’t really seen the point in a while. Didn’t want to rock the boat, I guess, but now…”

“But now you’re tired.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re rocking the boat.”

Dean doesn’t respond to the question directly; just looks at Castiel with a determination in his eyes that leaves no room for misunderstanding, and says, “I’m going to bed. You should come with me.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Doesn’t even pause to see if his assumption that Castiel understands his meaning is correct.

Castiel is surprised at his confidence. Not because he’s wrong to have it, but because even though this thing that’s been growing between them for near on a decade has been more difficult to deny with every passing year, even though Castiel has been able to feel Dean’s longing for him as sharply as he’s been able to feel his own, Dean has still never acknowledged it in any concrete way.

For his own part, Castiel has given him more openings than his pride would like him to admit, but Dean’s played things so close to his chest the entire time that Castiel has always assumed he didn’t want to deal with it at all.

He just didn’t think they’d ever get here.

There’s always been something in the way. An apocalypse, a near death, an actual death. Something. When he came back from the Empty, miraculously alive again against all odds, he’d thought to himself, it’s now or never, and Dean had barreled into him, fingers pressed to the back of his neck as they’d embraced in a dimly lit alleyway, and Castiel had felt love radiating from him like light from a star, and still nothing had changed.

So, never, he’d thought. He’d made his peace with it. Being near Dean was enough, if being with Dean was not an option.

But now—

Dean is already nearing the dilapidated mess hall he’s been set up in for the night—the camp only has so much space for sleeping quarters—and Castiel hurries to catch up. He slips through the door behind him and into the dark.

Inside, the main room is cluttered and overfull with folding tables.

A dozen or so chairs are stacked along the walls, and the faint scent of instant coffee lingers in the air. Ahead, Dean maneuvers through a tight gap between tables toward a dark red door. When they make their way inside, it’s to find a cramped storeroom, where a thin bedroll and blanket has been set out for Dean on the floor alongside several unlabelled boxes and a shelf of cleaning supplies. His backpack sits at one end like a makeshift pillow.

Near the ceiling, there’s a single narrow window, and the moonlight that filters through its dusty pane catches on the buttons on Dean’s jacket, reflects bright in his eyes as he turns to look back at Castiel.

Years ago, in a similarly cramped storeroom in the Rexford Gas n Sip, Castiel had knelt on the floor to gather his things while Dean waited outside in the Impala, and wondered if perhaps one of them would be brave enough to ask for a single room at the motel they were headed toward.

He’d known already, even then, that what they felt for each other was far beyond the limits of friendship. Had felt it for a long time before that night, too, though it had taken an abrupt fall from Heaven and a brand new soul grown under the worst possible circumstances for him to truly understand what it meant.

But just for a few minutes, kneeling in that storeroom, he’d thought that perhaps this was the night. That Dean would make his move. That he’d summon the courage to make a move himself.

The way Dean had looked at him earlier that night had him feeling recklessly hopeful, and he’d been halfway convinced that they’d arrive at the Rexford Motor Inn, and their hands would touch as they walked to the room, and some understanding would pass between them.

That they’d fall into one another before they even managed to get through the door.

He’d thought about it in sharp detail. Imagined confessing to Dean, telling him how the first thing he’d felt when the angels stopped falling was the overwhelming desire to hear Dean’s voice. To see him. To hold him. To breathe him in.

How his fledgling soul ached every day that they’d been apart; how he’d realized, finally, that this thing between them was love.

He’d imagined it countless different ways as he pushed to his feet with a plastic bag in his hand, as he left the building and locked the door behind him, as he’d gripped the cool metal of the Impala’s door handle. As Dean’s hand had settled on the back of his seat while they reversed out of the parking space, fingers brushing carelessly against the back of Castiel’s neck.

He’s lost in the memory, still trying to wrap his head around what they’re doing here when Dean laughs aloud. Castiel meets his eyes, and feels the soul tangled up with his grace sing at the sight.

“Sorry,” Dean says, and there’s a touch of wild hysteria in his voice. “Just…” He gestures loosely around them. “Kinda hilarious that this is… we’re basically in a goddamn closet.”

Castiel can’t help but huff out a laugh himself, and Dean’s gaze drops to his mouth. It’s not the first time that’s happened. It’s not even the first time Castiel has noticed. It’s different now, though.

Because this time, Dean doesn’t immediately look away. He doesn’t step back or crack a joke or lash out or deflect. He looks at Castiel’s mouth, and he keeps on looking. And looking. And looking. Castiel feels as though he might buzz right out of his body if he doesn’t just—

“Dean.”

Dean’s eyes lift to meet Castiel’s, and there’s a shade of reckless humor in them. Something devious and endlessly irritating that makes Castiel want to throttle him for making him wait, even now, when they’re supposedly not doing that anymore.

“Yeah?”

“What are you waiting for?”

The answer, as it turns out, is nothing. Dean grins, and crowds into his space, and kisses him. Just like that.

As though it’s always been this easy. Maybe it has been.

Raising one palm to rest against Castiel’s chest, Dean slides the other into his hair, thumb dragging soft against the back of his ear as he moves him into place, and Castiel lets himself be directed. Lets Dean push him back until he’s pressed firmly against the door. Lets Dean tilt his chin just so, and deepen their kiss.

The memory of Dean’s fingers accidentally brushing against his neck that night in the Impala comes rushing back full force now that Dean is holding him there so purposefully. Kissing him with a hunger that Castiel had resigned himself to thinking would never be sated.

Even now, he’s still not sure it will be. Dean is kissing him, but Castiel still longs for him as though they aren’t pressed flush together.

Castiel isn’t sure if his perception is skewed by love, but as Dean’s lips part, he decides that despite the molecules, Skittles taste better on Dean’s tongue, and it suddenly feels incredibly important that Dean knows. Not about the Skittles, but the rest. Everything.

Can we skip it? Dean had asked, but now that they’re here, Castiel realizes that doesn’t want to.

They’ve avoided talking for years, and as Dean put it—Castiel is tired.

With his hands on Dean’s waist, working under his jacket to pull him closer still even as he breaks their kiss, Castiel does what he hadn’t been brave enough to do in Rexford. He tells Dean the truth.

[keep reading on ao3]

#deancas fic #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #cass writes fic #here have some smut