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keelywolfe · 3 years

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FIC: A Lonely Impulse of Despair (standalone)

Summary: They knew about the anomaly and the resets, but forewarned is not always forearmed.

Notes: I got this idea into my head that what-if all the skeletons knew at least something about the anomaly and the resets and this is where it went. Read the tags!

Tags: Spicyhoney, References to Undertale Genocide Route, Dark, Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Rough Sex, Lemony

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

Snowdin always lived in darkness, broken only by the lighted lamps along the streets, powered by the core. There was no sun underground, no illusion of dawn and dusk. It was morning simply because the clocks stated it to be so, and that morning, Edge left his home to walk down the empty streets to the shops at the far end of town.

The other houses in town stood vacant. There was an occasional window lit, flickering light casting shadows out onto the snowdrifts, but their former inhabitants were gone.

There was no sign of any violence in those homes. None of those windows were broken, the doors undamaged. He’d gone into one where the door was standing open and found dishes in the sink, a pie sitting on the back of the counter for an upcoming dessert. Half-folded laundry sat in a basket, books and toys strewn about as if they were only waiting for their owners to return.

Edge touched nothing, only left and closed the door carefully behind him.

On this morning, snow was falling in a silent flurry. The flakes were piling up on streets that were no longer cleared daily by the Bun family. It was barely a hinderance. His boots cut easily through the loose drifts as he walked, alone, down to the other side of town.

There were children here once. Not so carefree as the ones he’d seen in the other Universes but even here on clear days they played in the snow until their parents called them back inside as the more dangerous night hours came.

A ridiculous notion. The illusion of safety during the day hours was just that, an illusion. There was no difference in the Underground and every minute of any day could bring treacherous events.

From a distance, Edge could see the lights were still on in the store. He’d left them on the day before when he’d come this same way. The store was the closest building to the edge of town that led into the woods surrounding it. If anyone were still out there, those lights could guide them into Snowdin.

The bell over the door rang as Edge pushed it open, a cheery warning to no one at all. The shop was as empty as the homes. The shelves had never been fully stocked at any time in Edge’s memory and the meagre offerings lining them were thinner than ever. There were no more fresh baked goods and only a handful of dried food remained. Most of the commodities left were canned, their lids coated with a thin layer of dust.

(dust, so much dust, how could it be)

Half of the remaining stock would have fit in Edge’s knapsack. It would make more sense to take all the food there and bring it home with him. Spare him the walk out in the open, keep him with necessary provisions for a time. Sensible.

Edge only took enough for the day and carefully noted what remained so he would know if anyone else came scavenging. Monster food would not rot or spoil, but eventually, he was going to run out of rations.

He gathered up the day’s supplies into his knapsack and went back outside into the swirling snow. He didn’t follow his half-buried tracks back home, instead going around the outskirts of town along the perimeter. None of his traps were disturbed, there was no indication that anyone had traveled this way. Just as it had been yesterday and the day before and the day before that. No signs, no people, no other Monsters.

There was nothing in the woods but hungry shadows that beckoned and cajoled for him to join them. Come to us, they said, there is nothing left for you in that town but emptiness and death. Come with us into the swirling snow and listen to secrets that only the mountain knows.

Edge ignored their call. He stopped at the borders of Waterfall where the snow began to melt into sludge and turned back, heading into town along the main road. He was nearly home when he caught sight of something that stopped him in his tracks. A figure in a familiar orange hoodie was sitting on his front porch steps, casually disregarding of the signs to ‘keep out’ and ‘beware’ that were strung on the barbed wire fence around it. There was a lit cigarette in his hand and Edge watched him lift it to his mouth and take a long drag, the exhaled smoke lost in the falling snow.

He hitched his knapsack higher on his shoulder and resumed his stride. Stretch didn’t look at him as he approached. “hey.”

Edge said nothing.

“you’re still here,” Stretch said. He tapped ash from his cigarette, exposing burning red at the tip. “thought maybe you’d’ve headed into new home.” He tipped his head back and looked up at what was not sky, but the high ceiling of a cave deep beneath the mountain that was both their prison and their home. “might be other refugees there keeping ahead of—” He hesitated, then added in a voice like hollow ice, “the anomaly.”

The anomaly, yes. The Human child whose soul offered no salvation, only death and dust.

A child, that was what Edge saw in that one brief instant when he came upon them on the road leading into Snowdin. An innocent child, and in his shock, he didn’t consider how they’d gotten past the Dogs or the traps. He didn’t notice the dust coating their clothes, didn’t even notice the knife in their hand. All he saw was the striped shirt, the round, cherubic face and in that instant, he was so taken aback that he paused. That moment of hesitation was all it took.

If Edge saw them again, he wouldn’t hesitate to strike them down, Edge told himself. He would cut that angelic head from their striped shoulders with a single cutting blow and leave them dead where they stood, even knowing he would never get the answer to his one question.

Why didn’t you kill me?

He told himself that was what he would do the next time and knew it wasn’t true.

It never was.

Stretch finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the snow. “doesn’t help much to know this,” Stretch sighed, “but what the hell. you’re gonna forget this all. one morning you’ll wake up and it’ll be an all-new day. you’ll forget everything, the kid, the pain.” His grimace twisted into a crooked smile. “you’ll even forget me, for a little while. silver linings, am i right?”

“Why are you here?” How many days had it been since he’d last spoken? Edge wasn’t certain, but to his hearing, his voice was harsh with disuse, painfully hoarse.

Stretch rolled his shoulders in an approximation of a hug. “checking in. no one’s heard from this ‘verse in a couple weeks. wasn’t too hard to figure out what was going down.”

Not a difficult guess at all, he was sure. They all knew about the resets, all of them. They knew an anomaly came and what it did, and the price Monsters paid for their hubris was death. He’d known what was coming, he’d been braced for it since his brother took him down to the basement and showed the machine, the path to the other worlds where skeletons with faces that resembled their own lived in towns that were not their home. Anomalies, they explained, resets where time flowed backwards and took memory with it.

He’d known and he’d still failed, failed, because he hadn’t expected death would come with the face of a child.

“Come inside.” Edge didn’t wait to see if Stretch followed.

Inside, Stretch paused on the doormat, glancing around the living room. “keeping the homestead clean, i see, i—whoa!”

His breath left him in a grunt as Edge took hold of his sweatshirt and swung him around, shoving him up against the closed door. The faces were inches apart as Edge gritted out, “Why are you here?”

There was no fear on Stretch’s face, only that same irritating smirk beneath a deadened gaze. “told you, wanted to check on you.” He shrugged again, this time tight and nervous. “no one else was gonna. no one’s real sure what’ll happen if the reset comes while someone from another ‘verse is in town. probably shouldn’t even be here, but, eh, guess i ain’t too bright.”

The question of what would happen if you were in a different universe when the reset occurred had been asked before and it was one without an answer. There was simply no way of knowing if anyone had already tested it. For all anyone knew, they might all once have had an elder brother who tested the theory and found the price was a high one. “You might be leaving your brother alone.”

“heh.” A soft laugh, but Stretch’s gaze shifted, moving to look past Edge at the wall on the other side. “ain’t like i’ve ever been able to save him, anyway.”

Edge didn’t step back, but he loosened his grip on Stretch’s sweatshirt, let him slide a little down until his feet were firm on the floor. “If you’re here to try to convince me to leave Underfell—"

“nah. wouldn’t do that to you. see, i’d ask and you’d say no but you’d feel bad about it.” Stretch shook his head. “nah, you already don’t want to travel, i’m not about to send you on a guilt trip. who’s to say it’s safer, anyway. maybe you’d come over to visit and when the reset hit here, it’d drag you back on home through time and space. not my idea of fun.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Edge demanded. “For fun? Come to see Underfell at its safest?” He stepped back enough to wave a hand towards the window as mockingly as Mettaton on their latest game show. “Please, feel free. Wander through the woods, stroll down main street. But I warn you, the scenery will disappoint. There’s nothing out there. I’ve looked. There’s no one, nothing.” His voice was rising, going shrill and Edge shut his mouth, teeth clicking together painfully.

Patiently, hinting at petulance, Stretch said, “i told you, came here to check on you. it’s hard to be the last one around, all you can do is sweep up, put the chairs on the table, and wait for them to turn the open sign on again.”

Edge searched his face. Their skulls were more malleable than simple bone, their magic gave them life and Stretch’s skull was creased from worry, wearing his exhaustion like a skin. Beneath his sockets were grey shadows that spoke of sleepless nights.

They’d never gotten along, he and Stretch. Something about the other skeleton grated on him past the fact that he despite his face, he was more like Red—

(don’t, don’t think about him, don’t)

--than Edge. Not his twin, but a reversal, a twisted mirror image come to visit from the other side of the looking glass.

Despite his smiles, right now he looked more like Edge than ever, blank and bone-weary.

There was nothing inside Edge. Even his soul was empty, its contents drained by loss, cold and bitter as the snow that danced as it fell.

Yet, deep in the dregs of soul’s ashes there was a single spark left, and Edge reached for it, desperate for any lingering warmth. He leaned up and kissed Stretch, their teeth grinding together almost painfully.

Between their mouths, Stretch made a startled sound, but he made no attempt to pull away. He stood there with his shoulders pressed to the door and let Edge take his mouth, their tongues meeting in a furious tangle. He tasted sweet and did not flinch from the jaggedness of Edge’s teeth, licking daringly at the points in a silent, mocking challenge.

The spark inside him flared, kindling caught, and Edge tore away, panting. Before Stretch could offer a word, taunting or otherwise, Edge took him by the wrist and dragged him stumblingly over to the sofa. He pushed Stretch down, bent him over the threadbare cushion of the arm. Tall as he was, if he’d chosen to struggle, it would have been difficult to pin him. Instead, he sagged willingly down against the sofa arm, let it angle his pelvis upward even as he shifted in a deliberate writhe of offering.

The gray that had haunted Edge’s vision for days receded, like a shroud pulled from over his sockets. He took hold of Stretch’s ridiculous, saggy pants and yanked them down to his ankles to rest on top of his dirty sneakers. Beneath them he was bare, his magic forming in his pelvis. The bright orange filled his sight to overflowing and the slit of his cunt glistened like a taunt.

Without warning, Edge pressed two careless fingers to the opening, slipping both inside and Stretch lurched under him, a strangled cry escaping him. He was merely damp, not nearly wet enough for what Edge intended.

He kept a hand at Stretch’s hip to hold him still and dropped to his knees to bury his face against those soft folds, pushing his tongue in alongside his fingers. A sudden buck nearly threw him off and Edge held him down more firmly, slicking his tongue up that cleft between his scissoring fingers, wetting him thoroughly. Stretch whimpered, shivering, his hips rocking back desperately against fingers and mouth both.

“oh, fuck,” Stretch whined. His breath came in ragged blurts, catching and resuming in a shattered cadence. “edge, your mouth…fuck!” His fingers were curled into the sofa cushion beneath his skull, gripping tightly as Edge pushed his tongue deeply inside, tasting a sudden blurt of honey-sweet wetness that allowed his fingers to move easier.

Slowly, Edge stood, letting his fingers slip free and wiping them on his pantleg. He stood there a moment, taking in the sight in front of him. The quiver in Stretch’s shoulders, the perfect arch of his spine beneath his rucked-up sweatshirt, his femurs spread as wide as his hobbling pants allowed. The shift of his hips was as eager as the wet pussy between them and wordlessly, Edge unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock. He spit in his hand and spread the wetness on his shaft before lining up. He held there a moment, pussy lips parted around the broad head and the slippery opening clenching around it as if trying to suck him inside.

Over his own unsteady breathing was a constant stream of obscenity and begging, words spilling endlessly from Stretch. With a long, slow thrust, Edge pressed inside, ignoring Stretch’s increasingly desperate pleading and the urgent rise of his hips. When he was hilted inside, their pelvic girdles grazing against each other, Edge was forced to pause, closing his sockets at the unbearable intimacy of it. Edge couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched someone else, but it was before the anomaly (child) ever came here. Even the person he was closest to, his brother, never touched him, not since he was small and they curled up together to sleep, less affection and more to share their body warmth.

The slick tight heat surrounding his shaft was an overload to his touch deprivation, the rippling clench dragging a ragged cry from him as he tried not to come in an instant. Edge took a steading breath, licked his teeth and tasted his own sweat mingled with the sweetness of cunt, and only then did he move.

“nnngg, god!” Stretch sobbed out, his limp body battered against the sofa as Edge found a rhythm, pounding into him with a metronome-steady pace. His scant ectoflesh offered little cushion, their pelvic bones clacking together achingly. Edge ignored the discomfort, thrusting harder still and listening for protests that did not come.

Beneath him, Stretch covered his mouth with a hand, stifling himself even as he pleaded for more, for harder, fuck me harder, you bastard. His other struggled to reach beneath him, his skinny fingers briefly jabbing where they were joined as he sought out his clit. Edge felt it from within as he found it, the strangling clench of his cunt around him, and choked on a curse as he fucked in hard, his driving rhythm faltering, breaking, as orgasm struck him. He was empty inside, but he filled Stretch with the heat of his come, spilled in thick, hot pulses as Stretch whined and quivered, accepting his offering.

Withdrawing was difficult, made harder by both the spasming clutch of cunt and his own reluctance. In the end, Edge snatched himself free with the haste of someone (a child) pulling off a band-aid from a barely healed wound. He watched the crimson spill of his magic as it followed, wet streaks dripping down to paint the inside of Stretch’s femurs. Stretch didn’t move, his breathing still coming in hitched gasps as he laid in a half-crumpled drape over the sofa arm, his long legs still splayed, leaving him used and exposed.

Edge tugged his pants closed, his zipper loud in the silence. “You need to go.”

“heh.” Stretch stirred, his sockets slitting opened as he shifted enough to look over his shoulder. “kicking me out already? your afterglow sucks.”

“Be that as it may, you can’t be here when it resets.”

Perhaps something of the kindled spark in Edge transferred to Stretch somehow, in his kiss, in his come, in his words, he didn’t know which. There was some emotion in the smirk Stretch offered him, his gaze less empty as he asked, “worried about me, edgelord?”

“Yes.” The raw honesty was all he could muster.

Stretch exhaled, long and slow, turning his face briefly into the cushions where they’d all sat once, crowded together on the cushions to watch silly movies that were scavenged from the dump. With a low grunt, he slowly pushed up to his feet. He staggered and Edge caught him by the arm, holding him up as Stretch reached awkwardly for his pants, hauling them up over his stained femurs.

“yeah, i should probably go,” Stretch said. He didn’t move, his hands fluttering nervously to his pockets as if to reach for his cigarettes then aborting, moving aimlessly before returning to his pockets before repeating (resetting) again. “listen, you won’t remember this after and my memory is gonna get all smudgy again, but.” For one moment, Stretch’s gaze was entirely unshielded. Edge couldn’t decipher what he saw in his eyelights before he took reached out, taking hold of Edge’s face between both hands as he leaned in to kiss him, softly. A brief, gentle meeting of mouths still sore from the brutality of earlier, then he pulled away. “maybe we can do this again sometimes.” Unguarded eye lights above a crooked smile, then Stretch turned away as he added, carelessly. “hell, could be we already did.”

“Stretch.” He paused at the door, browbones raised, and Edge blurted out, “Do you think they remember what they’ve done? After a reset, do they know?”

A brief silence, then Stretch said, slowly, “to be honest? i’m not even sure it’s the same kid every time.” Stretch shrugged, a loose roll of his shoulders as if his ligaments still weren’t too tight. “maybe somewhere out there someone is sharing a controller. anyway, your bro should be sending ‘em back to the start menu soon enough.”

“Yes.” His brother. If he was still alive and don’t, don’t, don’t.

Stretch left without another word, the door closing softly behind him, and Edge gathered up his knapsack from where he’d dropped it to get his supplies.

He ate directly from the cans and tasted nothing.

Afterward, Edge curled up on the sofa that smelled of their sex, his cheekbone resting on the faded fabric close to the still-damp stains as he waited for the world to end or to begin again.

Whichever came first.

-fin

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #standalone

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starkerintheparker · 4 years

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starker reclist - PWP

What better way to celebrate RDJ’s bday than spreading some pwp love, amirite :D I decided to just share these without the usual commentary because there are only so many ways to praise hot smut and I’m not that well versed in English lol. Some fics are plottier, some are porn with feels, others are unapologetic filth. Suffice to say they are all sublime and top notch wanking material, 10/10 recommend. Please mind the tags and stay safe. Happy meals! 😈

Last updated: April 25th, 2020. All new additions will be marked with ***

• a little bit scandalous by @paspleurer (3k, completed)

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“You could eat my ass,” says Peter. "After you've already come inside of it."

Tony sets the menu down on the table with jarring force.

• A Special Love by @darker-soft-starker (completed)

Summary: “You know - the thing where I tell you that I’m too old to be kissed on the lips,” Peter answers, reaching out linking their hands together over the gearstick. "Where I tell you none of the other fathers kiss their sons like we do and isn’t it weird?”

Author’s warning: Incest roleplay (no actual incest), semi-public sex, exhibitionism, public foreplay, armour kink, slight incidental daddy kink, nff.

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• Ballerina!Peter and Construction worker!Tony (AU) by @starkerforlife6969 (completed) Part 2 is winterironspider

Author’s warnings: mild dub con (super mild, Peter turns out to be a mega-slut and we love it), innocent peter, feminisation, multiple orgasms, rimming, mild cock warming, mild cock-slapping.

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• Breaking Character (AU) by @cagestark (8k, completed)

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“So, is it true?”

“Which thing? I presume you stood there, outside the door, eavesdropping on our entire conversation,” Peter said, miffed.

“That you can make yourself come without touching yourself even once during your… session?”’

• Context Clues (A/B/O) by Anonymous (8k, completed)

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• From Across the Bar by @readysetstarker (3k, completed)

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• Kinktober 2019 by @readysetstarker (38k, completed)

The whole list is amazing, my personal favorites are the glorious upskirt/semi public sex (ch 6). the breathtaking mirror sex (ch 7) and the sweet praise kink (ch 9).

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It wasn't weird.

"It's a little weird," Tony said.

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Summary: Tony buys Peter clothes because he likes Peter wearing what he bought him. Peter realizes this is not normal.

*** when the world has dealt its cards by thisismydesignn (3k, completed) underage

Summary: Tony Stark has never claimed to be a role model, let alone a good influence. Case in point...

• You Learn Something New Every Day by @sbiderslut (4k, completed)

Summary: This man looks right at them and remarks, happily unaware of the kiloliter can of worms he just RPG-ed wide open, “The bond between you and Mr. Parker is truly remarkable, Tony. You could practically be father and son.”

• Your Eyes Only by tuesday (4k, completed)

Summary: It was an accident. Tony did not, as a rule, check up on Peter these days, and while he had kept the monitoring programs, they were there in case of emergency.

#starker #reclist #peter parker x tony stark

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benevolentsam · 3 years

Text

Sick

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Rating: Teen and Up Warnings/Additional Tags: Hurt!Sam, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Brothers, 2x19 Folsom Prison Blues Summary: During their short stint in prison, Sam decides he can't eat the food there. He doesn't really want to eat after, either but Dean is more than certain that Sam has to eat. Also on Ao3 || find other parts in this verse here

He felt sick.

The prison smelled like sweat and damp and Sam felt a little like he was drowning in a swamp. There were prisoners who could have been bog people, mummified, like they’d been there for far too long. Everyone in there was only half alive. Sam included. Sam, sick to his stomach, empty since Gordon started chasing them, was probably the most dead of them all.

So when they stepped foot in the cafeteria, more damp and must, Sam wasn’t sure he could eat.

And it wasn’t the same as he had been. Not the same shit that Dean called anorexia. He just felt sick. And gross. And the prison didn’t serve food fit for human consumption anyway. The chicken dumped on his tray was like rubber. Bounced a little when it hit the plastic. Sam cringed, but Dean seemed happy enough with it.

They talked over the plan. Or Dean talked, Sam argued, only half paying attention. He couldn’t look at Dean, eyes on his food, fork sorting through it, cutting spaghetti into confetti, nothing he could really eat. Poked at the chicken and God, it couldn’t be real. He decided, not because he was anorexic but because he had standards, that he’d wait until they were on the road again for food. Maybe grab a roadside hot dog.

In the end, Sam agreed to the plan. The quicker they got the job done, the quicker he could eat.

“You know this chicken ain’t half bad,” Dean said.

Sam pushed his tray across the table. Was glad the acidic spaghetti sauce was away from him. He didn’t want to think about what it would do to his stomach if he ate it.

“You can have mine.”

And Dean smiled because the man was a bottomless pit. Could eat forever and never be full. Was halfway through scraping Sam’s leftovers to his own plate before his smile faltered.

“This isn’t your eating thing, is it?” He asked. Didn’t wait for an answer. “Because you know it’s okay to eat, right? You’re okay, you’re good, Sammy.”

“I’m just not hungry, Dean, probably just nerves from being here, okay?” And Sam tried to force a laugh. “You saw the size of my cellmate.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’ll eat tomorrow.”

And the subject was dropped, because it was an argument neither of them could win. Dean couldn’t force food down Sam’s throat, not when there were guards and cameras all over the joint. Couldn’t risk going to solitary. Not when they had a job. So Dean dropped it, would ask Sam about eating in the morning, and Sam would worry about new excuses then.

And when it came, Dean had been in solitary. Sam lied and said he ate. The oatmeal they served at breakfast was a lot nicer. And Dean believed him, thankfully, because Sam loved oatmeal – loved how light of a meal it was – so why would he lie?

Dean trusted Sam much more than he should.

By the time they left the prison, FBI most wanted, you’re a bad person Sam, he was starving. Stomach crawling up his throat. Needing something, anything.

They didn’t stop for food ‘til they were out of state. Sam felt so hollow that maybe he could float up to Heaven. Had been napping on and off since he sat down in the passenger seat. Head against cool glass. And Dean noticed how empty he was, waking him up gently at a gas station with the promise Sam could eat as much as he wanted.

And he didn’t think he wanted much until he set eyes on the snack aisle.

But he couldn’t, had to be good. Couldn’t pick at all the snacks he wanted. Felt sick as he stared out the candy selection because Dean was watching and Dean knew that he was bad and Sam’s head was spiralling. Could feel the ground wobbling below him, ears ringing. And Dean’s hand was on Sam’s shoulder. You okay man? And Sam couldn’t answer because he wasn’t, but he would never let Dean know it was getting bad again.

So he picked up the closest bar of chocolate, a Milky Way, thrust it in Dean’s hands.

“I’m gonna see if they have any sandwiches or whatever,” he said, fake smile.

They did, had a wide selection of limp bread stuffed with whatever. Wouldn’t be much healthier than the prison cafeteria. Wasted all that time fasting, waiting for something that wasn’t even good, wasn’t that fucking typical. He picked up a chicken salad sub that he hoped wouldn’t give him food poisoning. Or maybe it would be better if it did, could throw up without Dean noticing why. You’re sick.

And yeah, he really was.

Dean was already at the counter, wallet out. The counter that was stacked high with snack foods; chocolate bars, chips, jerky, trail mix, oh God there was a slushie. And Dean, Dean was handing over a wad of cash that Deacon had left them. That was theirs. All of it, just for Sam and Dean.

It was hard to hide the way his stomach lurched.

Skin crawling, they got back into the Impala are Dean handed Sam their bag full of junk food. He had an expectant look on his face, Sam didn’t know what Dean expected of him but it wasn’t good. When he picked out his sad little sandwich, Dean shook his head.

“Uh-uh, nope, you’re eating something with calories, Sammy,” Dean said. “I know you weren’t eating in the joint, you gotta eat something now, you promised me.”

And that was a lie, because Sam never promised anything but. “I can’t eat all this!”

“I’m not asking you to eat it all but,” Dean licked his lips. “We can’t have you starving yourself, not now we’re on FBI’s most wanted. So pick something and eat it, we’re not moving until you do.”

“Dean, I’m fine.”

“Fine my ass, you nearly passed out in there!” And Dean was slamming his hands on the steering wheel. So hard the car shook, and maybe Sam did too. “I know, I know what a relapse is. You’re relapsing, and I don’t know how to fix it.” How to fix you.

“I’m not- I’m not relapsing, I just feel sick,” Sam argued, because that’s the only way he could explain it. He could pretend that feeling sick and being sick were two different things.

“Then we gotta work out why you feel sick, don’t we?” Dean said. He was less angry, shoulders weren’t rigid like they had been. He pat Sam on the shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay, okay? Just- just eat something small for now and we’ll figure it out. But you’ll be okay.”

And Sam wanted to believe him so much that he popped open a bag of trail mix. Ate it all, M&Ms and all, tried not to think about the sticky blue residue on his palm.

#Supernatural #Sam Winchester #Sam Winchester Angst #tw eating disorders #TW ED #Spn #Sam #Sammy #Dean #Brothers #Sam and Mental Health #Sam and Food #My stuff #My writing

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404fmdhaon · 3 years

Text

creative claims verification — omen

summary: gyujeong writes this song inside bc’s dungeon, and he’s angry lol warnings: none wc: 1848, lyrics not included

it goes all like the cliches say — the brooding artist inside the depths of some studio, how ever many floors up chungdam’s heart. there’s packs of cigarettes sprawled, each one a witness to hours on end frustration and a bottle of empty hennessy that gives the allusion that he’s a begging drunk starved for a taste of inspiration.

except, he’s no brooding artist. fuck, if he’s had a say. not distressed by bits of artistic rage or stumped creativity. he’s a fucking sell out, a bitch of a sham. the end seat giving the moniker of some rapper who’s had his stomach full, throat quenched by the delicacies of what life has to offer.

hennessy, and he’s a liar to admit he’s grown accustomed to the taste of johnnie walker. but what’s he to say when alcohol all tastes like the droplets of acrid bitterness, and the drunken verge still comes within one and half glass.

it’s the same, he’s the same.

there’s a beat in his heart that rages on — the sounds of something easy, the sounds of kanye that sprawl out influences on him. he takes music like the gospel, holy and sacred to the notes of his heart. it’s a chord, a simple reverb of ‘omen’ high pitched, repeating the title he keeps closer to his heart. it’s always been an omen — a premonition that crawls low, underneath his skin. it’s the tingle in his spine that etches itself, forcing his knees to bend. succumb, on the floor as his eyes wander up to a light that no longer torches bright.

there’s a darkness inside the first few hits of the notes. all sullen, hidden heavy. muted in the background — nothing casual, just a loom that pries like a breach into his soul. if sanctuaries could talk, they’d speak nothing but the doomed echoes of dulled out chords of an organ.

but he’s crafted too many sins out a dead-end career, and the organ trades itself for manic ivories. he presses the keys in sync, a steadiness his hands hold. a chord? if he’s said much, it sounds more like two keys no harmonies. just the pure off-put, shamming itself to be a cacophony behind the reverb of voices, chopped and screwed. pulled low, distorted. maybe, he just wants to be haunted — feel the remains, and each word wielded together like weaponry, poised and aimed towards him.

been there done that, the scram of diss tracks aimed towards his title — the rapper of knight. a rapper? the word no longer holds validity, more like the satire that screeches on when he grimaces a bit in the tongue and cheek chuckle bursting open when he can barely manage to decipher his reflection in the mirror. hands clasped, this isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a full on warzone where he’s out in the open. publicity stand with fingers pointed, a full-on exposed target with no way to bite back, and a label that acts more as an oppressor than an ally.

his fingers gauge on the beat, finger taps against the wooden table that he’s carved his name into. dead pressed cigarettes, it’s simple. steadiness, nothing more than the shoddy backtrack of a barren base. the empty hollow vessel, shaping the outlines of a song — but when has he ever made it anything that needs sheer opulence to decorate the pews he’s built with his blood and bones? his chin dips, a crack of a smile. it’s restlessness riding on the echoes of a lonely studio. an ode to the notion that he’s never needed more than loose stares and the act of writing himself off. they wouldn’t understand, not the ones back home nor the ones here — a black sheep, at best. it’s his take at a one handed track where his voice takes reign on the words he’s never been able to entrance to the empty room.

it starts like it always has. the monotonous beat on loop, the continuation. his hands on the keyboard that pulls up an empty note page — what fills the empty blinking cursor is the distaste. the venom he wants to spew to poison the ears of underestimation.

eight years oppressed. eight years, a bitch inside a company. eight years, a sell out. bright eyes for a child inside the misfit basement of the underground scene, scribbling out the name for himself when he’s buried the moniker of ‘chung’ six feet under with no way out. haon — a rebirth, yet only becomes tainted by the image of frills with no thrills on stage. real recognize real? a fact that only becomes when they’re all lined by the same struggles, self-centered and self-occupied. too focused on a one-track road of success, but his lane’s been iced over — cold. frigid brush ins tacked with the sardonic laughs that spew when his title’s been stripped by the hands of bc.

hustlers only recognize hustlers but only gave each other the cold shoulder

a contract signed, and the string of malicious tracks. neutrality bc takes, bare in their response. and an even emptier hand on the public outcry — he’s only ever had himself through each maze of scandal. neutrality benefits the repressor, and he’s been a victim. diss tracks upon diss tracks, and his crew no longer has their back — silenced and omitted by a company that skews his history for what it is at face value. in this case, he takes it to the wise words of elie wiesel.

neutral benefits only the repressor, not the victim in all other words, all who are silent are the repressor quote elie wiesel

life’s always been this — he types away. the irony comes from a cursed life in a golden spoon, taught and mangled with the manners that never fall far from the tree. the only idiot that hasn’t had the decency to bite back, draw his poison in to drag the oppressors ten feet below. he’s been alone, managed his own tricks to mold out of what he has left. the last morsels of dignity fueling the deadly glares in how he spits to an empty target.

my cursed life that resonated with that quote i’m the only idiot that doesn’t litter cigarettes so i spat and glared to survive the dumbasses, peer pressured

anger goes the more he lets on, the more his thoughts process and align into coherencies. a line he draws in a pure division of them versus me — a motherfucker be it, he’ll call himself. trampled on, a motherfucker he’ll remain with nothing to assess — they’ll call him what they want, a sell out. he’ll give them his worth in the flow even they know they won’t match.

minuscule presence in the grand scheme of nothings, a baseless stage with fingers pointed. on camera as a ddandara of knight, he realizes how fucking stupid he looks when he’s dwindled down to nothing more than chokers and black leather. still to those that give him the doubt that comes from his bones — he salutes the middle finger. a self-proclaimed napoleon — after all, they’re the same bitches pegging him as a hero, war-crazy set forth on a pedestal. denial’s pathetic, he deems them worthless.

yeah, i’m changed motherfucker not like them motherfucker i’m still a motherfucker you nagging ass motherfuckers

they’re all phonies playing on the grr-kaws, and pews. the sounds where the words don’t make up the brunt of the fight — skills ablated. bang for buck, they can’t seize him in a corner with the centered life of hip-hop rhymes and flows. and inside bc? becomes a haywire empire of money and calculated movements, music that knows only the boundaries they settle in the dusk. and he’s tired of running his mouth, saving case for something far off like an omnipresent omen. the cut corners, he craves the dead-center words spoken straight to his face.

the fucks your problem, tell me all of it my tongue is exhausted

it’s all fucking politics by the end, and the song writes itself. it’s the lyrics that give way to the praised seat at the end of radio star — a seat he’s held himself. a fucking sham, sell-out disgrace. maybe public outcries in the right, and what he’s left to do is drop it at face value and retire from the scene. underground or in high spotlight — there’s one thing that lingers: he’ll eat them all up, dead or alive before he leaves. a hungry monster that reaches out, he’s never been set for the pews of a church. hell is a warm place, and perhaps — it’s his calling for a home.

complain like a bitch, but you all can’t make music for shit

it’s the last go, when he looks through the lyrics written.

a steady rhyme in each verse, music still on loop. it’s here he mixes and matches the punch of flows, rapping along in tandem with the beat strung out. shit beats him, and he’ll make his own grave with a one-way ticket to hell if he doesn’t finish here.

and what becomes is the next string of auto pilot: the movement of headphones pressed straight to his head, an omission for the recording booth in lieu of the mic he pulls forward. a 70,000 mic — a gift that comes from the first scope into the underground seeds sown. if this was the start of mockery, now it becomes a full-on war of direct hits.

he hits the red button that follows the clicks of a metronome holding him steady. there’s alcohol lingering on his tongue, and a face tinged with red that alludes to the reverie of anguish that lodges itself deep in his throat. void of nicotine, he’s restless the way his fingers tap against his knees and the way his toes hit the ground below. a one take, and he rolls with the punches where the beginning of the track comes as screams pulled soul heavy. lung deep.

the grittiness of his voice bleeds desperation, the lowlife shadows sunk, and he blames the innocent nostalgia that plagues the souls around him and before him. hell lets loose when he spits the first verse, inspired? no. fueled by the rage that he unclaws for the sake of his sanity.

it doesn’t stop, nonetheless pause when he’s hit the mic. suddenly, home becomes him and the emptiness of the beat, where his words flow louder than the punch of any bass. no snarls or drums, he wants the flow to carry the tides and rage a natural disaster of a hurricane to take the speakers in.

it’s the vision he has in mind of the track to take the hearts of every person who’s ever questioned. doubted. pointed fingers into the background he’s left in the past. and to the poor souls of his past who continuously paint him as a disgrace to their home. a question into the world he lives, he tells them to fuck off — a motherfucker he’ll always be despite any step that comes forward or trips him back. it’s his ode and one-two take of cutting goodbyes, and raising the only thing he’s never known — middle finger in the air, he gives them a fuck you.

“fuck all of you” is his last farewell to the end. half caught on a record, half end by the time the mouse click signifies the complete end.

another track buried in the hard drive of his own makeshift graveyard, and he’s realized he’s never been in the empty church. he was in hell all along.

#fmdverification #속마음 — 셀프

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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 4 years

Note

17 with domestic starker

Don’t Shadow the Light

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Mature (M) Word Count: ~4k Notes: Mm, domestic Starker immediately made me think of the Counting Airplanes verse - so I hope you don’t mind that I went in that direction. Warnings: Tony has PTSD, so that’s mentioned. A bit of none descriptive phone sex. Summary:

Uncle Ben’s is doing great, so Peter signs up to attend a conference in hopes of networking and expanding the coffee shop. Tony, the anxious little bean, struggles with the separation.

do the thing, send in all the prompts

For the first time in 3 years of marriage, Tony had to survive a couple nights without Peter. Uncle Ben’s was doing insanely well and, in an effort to expand a little bit, Peter signed up to attend a business conference. If it weren’t for the huge Boeing deal they were trying to close up, Tony would have gone with him – but duty called for the both of them.

A part of him felt irrational – he was a very grown, very mature man that lived on his own for a long time before Peter came around. He went through basic training without anyone to write to and survived the confines of a cell with nothing on the horizon other than the sweet release of freedom. Self-sufficiency was a thing for such a long time, yet – he still felt anxious about the whole thing; Peter’s presence brought him peace.

Forcing himself to get over it, Tony made the most of the night before Peter left – they had a good dinner and spent a little bit of time talking about Peter’s adventure over the next couple of days. His husband could sense his hesitation and anxiety about the whole thing and promised to FaceTime and call as often as he could. Tony loved him for it but expected the smarty pants he loved more than anything to take advantage of the resources available to him while he was there.

They finished off the night with a couple of fantastic rounds of sex – Tony always appreciated when he could get his old, beat-up body to cooperate and perform like he was Peter’s age again. Satisfaction lulled him to sleep with Peter in his arms and the thought of his husband leaving early the next morning far from his mind – at least for a little while.

True to form, Tony’s nightmares dragged him under that night – they’d been getting better, but the build-up of feelings he’d been trying to hold back was too much. Like most things that fed off a victim, his fears ate up the negativity and weighed him down, the struggle to get back to the surface a little harder than normal. When he did come back around, Peter was looking at him with an unreadable expression.

Tony didn’t have the brain bytes to think too deeply about what it meant, he simply dug his face into the crook of Peter’s neck and clung to him. It felt like no time at all passed before Peter’s alarm was going off and both men were stumbling out of bed. Still a little shaken from his episode, Tony sat on the toilet seat while Peter got in the shower, the warmth of the bathroom grounding – the severe need for the closeness to his husband he got sitting there something he wouldn’t admit, no matter how obvious it was.

Peter didn’t say anything when Tony followed him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom – until he walked out of the house, he knew that he’d have a Tony sized shadow following him around; that coping mechanisms one of the harder ones for Peter to adjust to. No one was prepared to have a person follow them around, but Peter took it in stride. Instead of shunning him away, Peter accepted Tony’s need and embraced it. Tony figured Peter had no idea how much that truly meant to him.

The inevitability of saying goodbye came before Tony could stop it – Peter pulled him into a tight hug and held him close for what felt like several long minutes, his hand moving rhythmically up and down Tony’s back. It was reassuring and torturous all at the same time; Tony never wanted the gentle caress to ever stop. Giving Peter a tight squeeze, Tony pulled back just enough to let his lips linger against his husband’s – the kiss on the verge of becoming desperate quickly.

“I have to go. I know you don’t want me to, but it’ll be okay. I’ll call you when I get in, okay? I’ll call you,” Peter mumbled, the man pulling away out of necessity. His hands framed Tony’s face, the grip not letting him do much other than look right into Peter’s eyes. “I’ll miss you just as much, Tony.”

Pressing forward, Tony slotted their lips together, his eyes clenching tightly together. “I know. It’s just a couple of days. I’ll be fine, Pete. I’m just going to miss your wet towels on the floor of the bathroom, that’s all.” Tony wiped at his eye and took a step back. “I love you,” he whispered, the words finishing with a watery smile.

A soft look moved across Peter’s face, his own wet eyes widening with affection. “I love you, too.” Peter replied without hesitation. He shot Tony a smile, then quickly turned and got into his car. Any hesitation would’ve dragged the already excruciating situation out more than necessary – Peter was leaving for 3 days, not a lifetime.

Though Tony knew that, it felt like one. The dream from the night before clung to him in a way that made it hard to want to do anything, let alone go to work. He called Steve and didn’t even have to explain the situation, his friend reassured him things were taken care of for the afternoon and let Tony get off the phone. With that done, he walked back into the bedroom and crawled into Peter’s side of the bed.

Sleep didn’t claim him again for a while – Tony laid in the sheets that smelled so much like his person and attempted to relax but couldn’t find the way. He rolled around for a while, then flipped the covers back and climbed out of his cocoon just long enough to get the TV on and playing some show he wasn’t going to pay attention to, anyway. He just needed some background noise – anything to drown out the weirdly desolate hollowness in the recesses of his mind.

Thankfully, exhaustion overtook him and allowed for a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep – his eyes blinked open for the first time when he heard the familiar ringtone sounding from his phone. His heart rate picked up, the flash of “Husband” on the front of his screen an easy way to wake him up as quickly as possible. Clearing his throat, Tony answered the call, a smile slipping across his lips as he did.

“Petey,” Tony said in greeting. The remark pulled a laugh from Peter across the line, the sound of it making his chest warm with happiness for the first time all day.

“Hey Tones. From the sounds of it, I woke you up. I hope you were able to get some rest,” Peter replied, his voice soft, the tone of it meant to be tender and reassuring. Each word worked magic on him and made him feel calm – any type of presence from Peter at all a proven magical remedy.

Rolling a bit, Tony shifted until he was sitting up. Laying the way he was made him want to fall back to sleep, the heaviness of it trying to cling to him. “I’ve been sacked out for a couple of hours,” Tony admitted, a yawn overtaking him. “Did you get in okay? Is New York everything you remembered it to be?”

“I did – I got through the airport, into a cap, and checked into the conference, then spent a little time at the welcome banquet. New York is exactly how I remember it – busy and a little gray. Can’t touch Colorado,” Peter remarked wistfully. “I miss you.”

The simplicity of the words rang in Tony’s ears, the way they made him feel still so intense – like every time Peter said them was the first time. He gripped the phone in his hands a little tighter, his traitorous eyes watering. “There’s not a lot that can touch Colorado, Pete.” He let the cookie cutter remark come from his mouth first and then – “I miss you. A lot. More than 12 hours of separation should call for.” He laughed at himself, the absurdity of his words not lost on him.

Peter was quick to negate him, however. “It’s okay that we miss each other, Tony. I’ve spent every day falling asleep next to you for the past 4 years. The idea of not doing it tonight is crippling.” He adjusted then; the movement apparent in the rustle on the line. “You’re my husband, Tones. I’m obsessed with you and don’t want to fathom that I don’t have your warm chest to cling to.”

Blushing, Tony forced himself to take in a long breath – he knew Peter’s words were the truth, he heard them often enough. The vulnerability of them, however, never ceased to stop him in his tracks. “You are kind of obsessed with me.”

The two of them talked for another hour before the call of fatigue was too much for Tony – he fell asleep with the sound of Peter’s voice in his ear.

----

The next couple of days went by at a snail’s pace. Knowing that Steve and Rhodey couldn’t take on all of the work sitting in the garage, Tony got up and went in the next day. Waking up to a dead phone and a 5 hour long call on his log when he got it powered again, Tony felt a little bit better. Peter’s words from the night before stuck with him – his husband missed him just as much and it was okay to feel the clingy feeling of discomfort and irritation.

For a second, Tony let himself remember the reason why he never connected with someone else – the exact feeling bubbling within him. That thought was short lived, however, his brain supplied him with every reason Peter meant what he did to him; their connection was the only exception.

Getting through the workday provided a good distraction – the hours in the shop were packed with enough engine replacements and upgrades that thinking about anything other than the science wasn’t viable. The second he walked into the empty house, however, Tony felt loneliness creep over him. It took him a while to get further than the kitchen and then even longer to get out of his clothes and in the shower to clean off the day’s grime.

Not in the least bit hungry, Tony turned the TV on in the bedroom and let his body drop into Peter’s normal space again – the sheets smelt a little less like him than the day before, but the scent lingered regardless. Digging his nose into Peter’s pillow, Tony took comfort in the familiarity of it. The memory of their shopping trip to buy the fluffy thing flashed across his mind and eased the vice grip on his anxiety.

Like the previous night, Tony fell asleep with Peter on the other side of the phone. He opted out on the FaceTime calls – seeing Peter’s face might make the whole situation harder. Instead, he let Peter talk about his day and all of the different things he learned and wanted to apply to Uncle Ben’s. The passionate way he spoke made Tony’s heart ache and relaxed him further. Falling asleep mid-sentence, Tony missed the softly muttered ‘I love you’ and affectionate sigh that followed.

Steve and Rhodey took pity on him the next day, the two of them forcing Tony to sit in the small hangar kitchen and eat the admittedly delicious pizza from the parlor down the road. Apart from necessary stuff around the shop the last couple of days, Tony hadn’t talked to either of his closest friends – shutting down was the easiest and still took a lot of effort to not let that be his default reaction.

After spending a couple of hours trading stories and actually getting his head out of his ass, Tony went home feeling okay – he only needed to make it through 20 more hours before Peter came home. Between the effort of his friends and that knowledge, he felt determined to not fall into a lump of nothing the second he walked into the door.

Tony managed to get a few things around the house done before getting into the shower and settling down for the night. Still a little wired, he wondered if Peter was alone and in his room getting ready for bed, too. It felt like too long of a time since he heard his husband in the throes of passion – in that moment, Tony felt desperate to change that.

As if he were reading his mind, Peter called him, the sight of his name sending a rush through him. They didn’t partake in phone sex often, there wasn’t ever much distance between them – yet, he craved it; the need for that connection more important than the usual nerves he felt about talking, let alone saying anything about the way he felt.

“Hey, baby,” Tony mumbled, the nickname he reserved for times just like this one tumbling from his mouth. Clenching his eyes shut, he shifted a little and waited for Peter’s reply.

“Baby, huh?” Peter started; a chuckle apparent in his tone.

The echo Tony could hear next made him realized he’d been put on speaker – his nervousness lessened a little. Hands-free meant having the ability to use said hands that were free. Keeping his eyes closed, Tony let Peter continue.

“I like that. Hey yourself. What are you doing right now, Tony?” Peter asked, the tone of his voice dropping a little. Without much of an exchange, Peter understood him immediately.

Switching his own phone to speaker, Tony shifted a bit and got himself comfortable in the middle of the bed. His skin was still a little damp from the shower, so he was only covered in a pair of grey boxer briefs and nothing else. The rush of heat he couldn’t help danced across his limbs, gooseflesh following in its wake.

“I just got out of the shower. I had a little energy when I got home, so I finally moved the stuff in the garage and changed all the air conditioning filters.” Tony tried to sound casual, though he’d already given himself away. It felt good just to hear Peter’s voice – he wanted his husband to know that first and foremost.

Yet, Peter was his other half for a reason – where Tony wanted to beat around the bush, Peter stepped right through it and took Tony by the back of the neck. “Thanks for doing that. Now why don’t you tell me about what you’re wearing.”

The mix of praise and command didn’t foster anything but compliance, that thought making Tony answer without thinking. “I’m wearing those Calvin Klein’s you got me for Christmas last year,” Tony muttered, his fingers moving to the waistband to trace the letters. He remembered the nervous look on Peter’s face – they were a different brand than Tony’s usual; change didn’t always go over well. When he saw them however, he immediately felt sexy – if Peter wanted to see him in the expensive underwear, he’d gladly do it.

A drawn out ‘mmm’ brought him out of the memory’s haze, the noise shooting a direct line of heat right to his groin. Peter hadn’t said to yet, but Tony couldn’t help it – he reached down and cupped himself, the feelings coursing through him on the cusp of overwhelming.

“You look great in those. Especially the gray ones. Are you wearing the gray ones, Tony?”

For a while, Peter asked him questions that progressively got more sexual. ‘Do you think your underwear would look better on the floor?’, ‘Are you thinking about my hands on you or your hands on me?’, or the best one – ‘How bad do you want to cum?’ Tony answered each of them truthfully, his coherency diminishing, but need to please Peter in the forefront of his mind the entire time.

Peter’s ability to pull him out of his own head and actually enjoy the things he liked became more apparent over the phone. He catered his responses to the things Tony said and when he finally let him cum, Peter was right there with him. Coming down, Tony listened to Peter’s breaths across the line like he would if they were tangled up with each other in person. The only thing that was missing was the thump of Peter’s heart against his ear, but he’d have that back soon enough.

“Are you feeling better now?” Peter asked after a while, his voice light and sleepy, the ultimate post-orgasmic tone. There wouldn’t be too much more conversation for either of them.

“Much. I miss you, Pete. I’m ready to touch you again – you calling every night has been nice, but I’m so ready for a hug,” Tony admitted, his own sleepiness making his lips a little looser than usual.

The light laugh he heard pulled his lips up into a smile, his spirit still high from the admittedly good day and the even better ending to it. Peter’s melty tones and chest deep noises were just icing on the cake.

“Fuck – I miss you, too. Especially when you’re being all soft like this. I can’t wait to have you in my arms again, Tony. Just a few more hours – I’ll be home before you get off of work tomorrow afternoon,” Peter replied, the obvious attempt to reassure not missed. The way Peter loved him, with so much incredible depth, made his heart race.

“Don’t tell me that. I’ll be watching the clock the whole day,” Tony joked, his lips still taut in a grin. “In all seriousness, though – I’m ready to see you. Please make time speed up a little.”

Like the last few nights, Tony let himself be lulled to sleep by the sound of Peter on the other side of the line. He got up out of bed to clean himself off and get into a clean pair of shorts, then got comfortable. Peter told him a little more about the conference and the stupid keynote speaker who didn’t bring the right presentation to an auditorium filled to capacity.

After a little while of Tony not replying, Peter stopped talking, his breathing getting heavier with each passing minute. Right before Tony passed out for real, he blinked awake to hear the soft snuffle of Peter’s kind-of snore. Grinning, he nuzzled back into the pillow and promptly fell asleep – the nightmares finally far, far away.

----

Knowing that Peter was going to be home when he got through the door the next day gave him a motivation he hadn’t had since the man left. If he immersed himself in the work, the time between him and getting to see Peter wouldn’t feel so long. It wasn’t sound science, but it seemed to work – he got lost in the remainder of the Boeing customization and didn’t look up until 10 minutes before quitting time.

He went about getting out of his coveralls and his hands clean – the process taking the remainder of the open hours for the garage. Both Rhodey and Steve knew that Peter was back, so they didn’t bat an eye when he raced out without saying much of anything. He turned and opened the door with his back, a soft smile on his lips – Tony sending them a wink. Feeling good wasn’t overrated – he appreciated all the moments that made his blood course through his veins like it was right that second.

His impatience made the drive home seem twenty minutes longer than it actually was – Tony tapped on the steering wheel irritably the entire time. Seeing Peter’s car in the driveway made his eyes light up, he hadn’t even seen the man yet and he already felt a billion times better just knowing Peter was there, waiting for him.

Fine motor skills took way more focus than usual – his excitement making it hard to think about anything other than getting out of his car and into the house where his beautiful husband was. He left his workbag on the front seat and made his way hastily across the grass and into the house; the door blessedly unlocked.

Peter peeked his head out of the kitchen door at the sound of footsteps, his eyes widening when he noticed Tony. The peanut butter sandwich that was about a quarter of the way to Peter’s mouth dropped on the plate Peter was holding that went to the corner of the counter, his hands dropping to his sides to wipe the crumbs off on his pants before taking quick strides and closing the distance between them.

Tony let out a long sigh as Peter’s arms wrapped around him. His husband smelt like recycled air and sweat – a lovely traveler’s concoction that shouldn’t have been as appealing as it was. Ducking his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, Tony clung to him, his body completely relaxing for the first time since he heard about the trip. “I’m so glad you’re home,” he said, the desperation disguised by the glorious muffle of words against skin.

Lips on his seemed like a good enough response, Tony leaned into the kiss and let himself melt a little further – words weren’t ever his forte, anyway. Peter put a lot into the kiss, his hands clenching first at Tony’s shoulders, then down his flank to settle at the edge of his shirt. So lost in the kiss, he didn’t notice fingers starting to creep under the thin t-shirt he threw on before walking out of the hangar’s locker room.

Gasping, Tony pulled back from the deep kiss, his skin prickled from the cold hands that were now flat against the planes of his back. “Holy shit, Pete,” Tony exclaimed, his hands batting Peter’s out of his shirt to stop the overabundance of cascading stimulus. They shared a smile, his husband’s eyes glazed over and overtaken by rogue pupils – the sight beautiful.

Those same cold hands cupped his cheeks, Peter’s fingertips running around the line of his lips to trace the shape of them – the touch was still tingly cold, but he got used to it as the seconds passed. Glad to simply be back in his presence, Tony soaked up as much as he could.

Peter had a lot of good things coming for him – this wouldn’t be the only time he left to better himself. Loving him meant being there to support him, which meant not falling apart at the seams. In all the bogged down feeling he experienced while Peter was gone, Tony realized that it was worth it – finding a way to enjoy life together from afar.

There wasn’t anything quite like that ‘good to see you’ feeling.

#starker #ironspider #bobbie writes #counting airplanes #nonnie #anonymous #don't shadow the light

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prettywordsyouleft · 4 years

Text

Mistletoe Manor - Part 3

Summary: Christmas is the most important time of year for all those who live within Mistletoe Manor. From the staff to the Hawthorne family themselves, everyone works hard to ensure that the festive season is a success every year! We invite you to see if everyone can pull off another magical Christmas at the manor this year.

Pairing: Park Seo Joon, Bang Yongguk, Brian Kang, Jung Daehyun, Jung Jaehyun, Lee Taeyong and OCs.

Genre: regency au / romance / christmas au

A/N: Becky ( @noona-clock ) and I wanted to create a magical Christmas for everyone and what better way to do that than at Mistletoe Manor! Because of the nature of having several idols, we chose to work with OCs and we hope you love them as much as we do.

Mistletoe Manor will be posted daily at 10am NZST / 4pm EST daily.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Activity within the manor had increased with the countdown to the opening of the Winter Festival. It was rather chaotic at times and as Cassie made her way downstairs, she almost knocked into Anna carrying a large pile of linen up them.

“Careful, Anna!” she exclaimed and the housemaid sidestepped immediately, balancing the load within her arms precariously. Cassie held out a prepared hand in case the pile began to fall. “Do you need a hand?”

“I’ve got two to spare,” a voice called and Cassie grinned as Taeyong jogged up the stairs to take half of the pile away from the maid.

“What would we do without you, Taeyong?”

“I was doing just fine, My Lady,” Anna mentioned gruffly, shooting the footman a brief glare that made Cassie chuckle as she continued down the stairs. Tensions were heightened because of the flurry in events, though today Cassie’s mood was rather jubilant. Even if she had to step around a stack of deliveries in the foyer, Percy promptly informing her that the back entry was entirely full.

“And you have another letter from the Earl,” the old butler announced, pulling it out from within his breast pocket and handing it over.

“Thank you, Percy. I’ll see to it when I have some time. Is the car ready for our trip to the market setup?”

“It is, My Lady.”

“I’m coming also, sister!” Josephine called from the other end of the foyer, placing on a hat along with her gloves. She came to a hasty stop at Cassie’s side before she grinned. “You cannot leave without me.”

“Why, I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing! What of Evie?”

“Something about a critical moment in a book. I swear, she will never see much of the world if she keeps searching for it within the pages written by others!”

“Perhaps she’s well-versed more than we are, cousin,” Grace mentioned, appearing from the library with a warm smile, reaching out fondly to take Cassie’s hand. “You needn’t worry. Evie has been working on the final touches to the lineup for the festival opening.”

“I never worry when it comes to Evie.”

“Just me?!” Joey concluded and the other two laughed, stepping out into the brisk morning. Winter felt as if it would come early this year, and as Cassie looked to the skies, she was certain it wouldn’t be long until snow was upon the ground.

It made her grip at the letter within her gloved hand more tightly.

“Good morning,” Seo Joon, the family’s chauffeur greeted, opening the back door to the car. Joey got in first and Cassie hesitated, her eyes returning to the front door of the house.

“Is Lydia coming as well?”

“She is just finishing up on a task asked of her, she told me to send her apologies for making our journey to the town delayed,” Seo Joon mentioned and Cassie smiled at him.

“It is no problem to wait. Grace, why don’t you get in next?”

“I have another ride of my own.”

“You do?”

Seo Joon nodded, gesturing to down the drive. “Jaehyun has the cart hooked up with supplies and is waiting not far from here. Safe travels, Miss Grace.”

As Cassie watched her cousin almost run down the driveway to where Jaehyun had indeed been waiting, she couldn’t help but let out a hollow laugh. Directing her gaze back to their chauffeur, she raised an eyebrow at him.

“Why, I feel you know a great more than I do right now.”

“I am not privy to all knowledge but I do feel Miss Grace enjoys sitting up front in that cart with Jaehyun these days.”

Joey laughed, shaking her head. “It would be such a bumpy ride compared to your smooth driving, Seo Joon.”

“I’ll accept your compliment,” Seo Joon answered with a grin and then gestured for Cassie to climb into the car. She did, and before she could ponder in wonderment over the progression of Grace and Jaehyun’s budding romance, Lydia came rushing through the front door, out of breath.

“I am truly sorry I was so late.”

“Shut the door, Seo Joon,” Cassie instructed and he frowned, looking at Lydia waiting to get in.

“Cassie! Lydia has to get in and with Grace not riding with us she can sit in the back.”

“Nonsense, I need this space here for my uh – my gloves.”

Taking them off immediately, everyone stared at her irrational movement.

“Shall I travel in the front with Seo Joon, My Lady?” Lydia implored, clicking onto Cassie’s mannerisms. Her cheeks were still flushed, though Cassie was certain it was now because of her generous offer.

It wasn’t just Jaehyun and Grace who were feeling things that hadn’t quite been spoken into public knowledge as of yet.

With Lydia in the front and Cassie’s gloves safely on the seat beside her, they started off to the village, both sisters discussing plans in the back seat whilst subtle advances happened in the front. Everyone seemed to be full of spirit once they arrived at the market site, and there was much to go through. Cassie checked the layout of the stalls, the setup up of the lanterns and even spoke with the labourer who had built the stage for the Christmas carollers to stand upon.

“Are you certain it is stable enough? It will hold thirty people most nights,” Lydia, who had spent the majority of her time at Cassie’s side, inquired, her brows knitting together with doubt.

“It does look rather thin in the base, you are right.”

“My Lady, do not fear. The wood I have sourced is incredibly sturdy!” And to make his point, the man climbed onto the stage, welcoming others to join him. Several workers stopped to assist him in his plight and Grace and Jaehyun came over to where they stood.

“I fear it’s not safe wood, if I may speak up about it,” Jaehyun murmured and Cassie glanced up at him, her eyes widening.

“Are you certain? It seems to be holding them well.”

“If we get snow or rain before the cover is erected, it will soften. It’s been cut against the grain.”

“You can tell that from one look?” Seo Joon asked and the gardener nodded. Cassie grew concerned; they had already paid for these materials weeks ago.

“My Lady, it is holding up,” Lydia attempted to console her right when there was a deafening crack. There were several gasps and shrieks as the stage collapsed into its base, cries of pain emanating from several of those within it.

Racing forward, Cassie helped a man out and then looked at the disaster before her. “The festival starts in five days. What will we do?”

It was a nightmare no one had expected so close to the big day. And with the accident, several of the workers were injured, mostly the man who was behind it all.

“I got a good deal on these supplies,” he exclaimed woefully and Josephine patted his lower arm gently before looking to her sister.

“Cassie, I’ll go with the injured to the physician. I know you’ll find a solution whilst I am gone.”

“We have one already,” Seo Joon announced when Cassie moved back to the group from the manor house, pointing at Jaehyun working with a sheet of paper from Grace’s journal. He was sketching out a new stage, and as Cassie looked at his design, she was amazed.

“Are you a carpenter?” Jaehyun glanced up at her and then shook his head. “No, My Lady, but my father is. I learned a lot of his trade when I was still at home.”

“Is there anything you cannot do?” Grace breathed and Cassie smiled momentarily.

Only for her hopes to fall short. “This is wonderful but where will we source materials from and have everything done within five days?”

“Now stop your worrying, My Lady,” Lydia replied firmly, taking Cassie’s hand in hers. “If there’s one thing I know about the staff at Mistletoe Manor is that we rise to the challenge. It will be done.”

Seo Joon had already loosened off a few buttons to his shirt and rolled up his sleeves once his coat was off, conversing with Jaehyun over how to start the structure first. Even Grace had begun helping with the planning; pointing out where she felt the stage would need extra reinforcement. Sharing a somewhat troubled smile with Lydia, Cassie stepped forward to assist as much as she could as well.

By the time they returned home, everyone was exhausted and hungry. Dinner was sombre, Lord Hawthorne making new arrangements to assist Jaehyun and Seo Joon with the project. Their mother had retired early over concerns that the festival may not start on time and Cassie was subdued, forgoing the evening meeting with her sisters and Grace in the drawing room.

It was when she was removing her clothing that she felt the letter she had carried around all day, hesitating to sit down and open it. She craved promising news and with Daehyun’s last letter, Cassie feared it would only bring forth more troubles for her to make her way through.

Still, she needed comfort right now and Daehyun’s letters had become an incredible source of that for her. Just seeing her name scrawled at the top of the letter made her feel some ease from the familiarity of his handwriting. She read through the first two pages that documented his journey of late, and of his questions for her, laughing when he told a tale of how the King had fallen into a mud patch and he hadn’t been able to hold his tongue conservatively. She had discovered her husband was easily amused and could just imagine Daehyun’s improper conduct and his sleepless night before meeting with the King the following day to apologise.

There was no news whether his schedule had changed yet, though he did speak of another Earl, one she had heard of when researching Daehyun. It appeared Yongguk had no plans after the expedition and would accompany him back to the manor.

Still, Cassie didn’t know when that would be and her smile soon faded with his final words.

I do not know when I will see you next but know my heart is with you this season. As it always will be,

Daehyun.

The tears soon began to fall, Cassie overcome with the emotions of everything lately. She had held it together for as long as she could, knowing so many relied on her to be strong and lead the way. It was a curse; she had always been headstrong in a way that made even Josephine turn to her for the right direction whenever she was lost.

But she had no idea which direction she was meant to be going in and it was maddening. Cassie needed someone who would just come in and support her, to allow her to be weak for once. She knew Grace would be there, and yet with her relationship with Jaehyun forming, Cassie didn’t wish to burden her cousin when she was experiencing such joy. And she didn’t want to turn to her parents either. Her father had already been disappointed tonight and he had tasked Cassie with this to do herself. She was prideful, wanting to be successful even if she was exhausted from trying so hard.

Cassie didn’t hear the door open; however, she felt the arms that wrapped around her, gazing through her tears at Lydia before burying herself into the woman. If there was anyone who had seen Cassie at her absolute worst, it was her. They were close and the lines often blurred between their roles and friendship. Breaking down further, Cassie didn’t wish to imagine life when she left the manor.

Even if she was eager to start her married life with Daehyun now, she didn’t wish to lose the strongest ally she had at her side either.

“Let us get up from the floor, hm?” Lydia coaxed, helping Cassie to her feet and over to her bed. She remained in a daze and Lydia removed her stockings, patting her knees gently when she was done. “Is it not good news with your husband?”

“I…” Cassie started, knowing there had been so much she had kept within. She had spoken of her concerns with Daehyun’s delay to Grace and felt much better after doing so. There was so much more troubling her though and Lydia’s gentle encouragement opened the floodgates. It took her some time to explain all her worries, with some breaks needed as the fresh tears fell and soaked into her nightgown. Lydia hadn’t said much; in fact, the only constant was her hand in Cassie’s, prompting her words out until there were no more to give.

Hugging her, Lydia finally took in a breath before speaking. “For this moment in time, I will speak to you as a friend and not someone who serves this family, okay? Cassie, you are placing too much onto your shoulders. We are all here for you and this festival will go off without a hitch. You have worked too hard for it not to. I know the setback startled you but you are surrounded by so many people who wish to help you. And they will if you just ask that of them.”

“I feel so lost, I-I don’t even know who to talk to or who to ask what of.”

Lydia smiled, brushing the remnants of her tears away. “So tell them. Tomorrow at the meeting, tell everyone. Allow others to lead until you are ready to do so again.”

“Oh, I couldn’t burden-”

“When is it ever a burden when it comes to you, Cassandra Hawthorne? You have given up so much of yourself for everyone else. Let us carry you just this once.”

_________________

[Christmas 2019 Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [Request Guidelines]

#kwritersworldnet #pwyl; mistletoe manor #pwyl; christmas #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fiction #kpop fanfic #kpop fluff #kpop angst #daehyun fiction #park seo joon fiction #taeyong fiction #jaehyun fiction #yongguk fiction #young k fiction

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ofravensandgenesis · 4 years

Text

The Investment of an Antagonist - Part One

Entry 04. [Trigger warning content: post contains discussion of Far Cry 5 details including cannibalism, graphic violence, brainwashing, torture, child abuse mention, neglect, mentioned fatalistic/suicidal character pov, dark backstories, etc. Spoilers naturally. Part 01 of 03.] [Link to part two here.] [Link to part three here.] I was cooking dinner and had the sudden EUREKA moment of trying to figure out what exactly I want with regards to an antagonist for an original fic setting. Originally I was going to have a general state of conflict between two nations/city-states/etc on a larger, more impersonal scale, but that didn’t do anything to really interest me in that level of conflict. So I was thinking on why Far Cry 5′s villains and the conflict interests me so, and the eureka moment was realizing that they as villains have a personal stake in all this, and go about it in ways that are reflective of their stories. Specifically for the Seeds, it has me realizing it’s more interesting to me when the villain is acting due to personal motivations of an emotional nature and/or relating to their belief system, and in ways that compliment those internal motivations that can build out into or off of their backstories and other areas of the tale.

Like, it’s more than just a universally formulaic method of brainwashing for all of the people they kidnap during the Reaping (and before it, since it’s a cult and that means there’s a process of indoctrination, ie brainwashing.) All of the Heralds have their specific manner of doing so, and said methods are tailored to the particulars of each Herald’s backstory as is revealed to us.

— Jacob —

Jacob starves the Deputy and other “recruits,” exposes them to the elements, doesn’t give them enough water, keeps them near hungry and dangerous animals (pre-Judge wolves and Judges it seems.) He then gives them a bowl of raw meat that one can read as implied to be human flesh, particularly if Pratt’s anecdote about going hunting in what ends up being not-a-dream from online sources is taken into consideration, as mentioned in a previous writing-about-writing post. Link here to the audio, (credit and thanks to hopecountyradio,) transcription below: “I had a dream once that Jacob took me on a hunt. We shot some deer and he asked me to skin 'em. As I was cuttin’ ‘em open they changed. It wasn’t deer. I...I don’t think it was a dream.”

Obviously one can make some assumptions of Whitetail Militia imagery being used here, particularly given that one of the slides on the projector screens during the Trials includes a picture of Eli with antlers iirc (that may be only during the later trials or the last one, I am uncertain.) Ties right into the whole “the weak must be culled,” and “you are meat,” slogans Jacob’s got all over the place. The “only you” slogans and graffiti could also serve to foster the loneliness and isolation aspect of making the choice “to make the sacrifice” ie, the symbolic choice of killing Miller, or his surrogate equivalent in the case of everyone else that Jacob puts through his trials. I haven’t seen a lot regarding Miller’s ties to Jacob from in-game content but I could have missed something easily. The wiki labels Miller as Jacob’s friend, though I wish we had more detail on that. Most certainly, Miller was a member of Jacob’s unit, which based off of some reading and browsing on the internet, should still be a pretty close tie whether or not they were friends. The following speculation is based on my own interpretations of the matter and I have no history of serving in the Armed Forces, so if I’m mistaken or such feel free to drop me a line to let me know. Continuing: even if they theoretically hated each other’s guts, they were still a part of the unit, a part of the Army. That means they and their other brothers-in-arms lived together and fought together. They ate as a group, slept as a group, watched each others’ backs while on watch or during a firefight, fought along side each other, and did their best to keep each other alive while fulfilling the mission objective, working together as individuals brought together in a cohesive unit that also was a part of the whole. They all knew they had each others’ backs and that the others did the same for them in turn. Shifting between life-or-death situations and more peaceful times, it creates a bond and social structure that is very unlike most common, modern civilian social structures. There certainly at least seems to be a bit of culture shock in the US between the two environs, and Jacob seems to have experienced that, based on what we hear of his backstory in The Book of Joseph of having little to no support once back in civilian life (ie: deeply traumatized and staying in veteran hospitals until he ran out of money and ended up in homeless shelters) after being discharged from the Army. In the Armed Forces it’s about the group, rather than the individual. Imagine having that, knowing that, after being through all that Jacob has potentially been through. To have brothers in arms if not by blood by his side who he protects, who also protect him against the hostility of the world they’re fighting against. This is not to ding Joseph or John as characters by the way, all three of them were children at that point and shouldn’t have had to deal with any of that. Jacob loses what ties of family he holds dear with his blood brothers once he’s put into Juvie, perhaps makes friends there but is likely on his own once he’s out again, with very poor prospects given his history, and then he enlists. He’s alone and without support before he joins the military, and then suddenly he’s in an environment where there IS a form of support, and it’s predictable and structured down to the last bootlace (note: that’s a very broad statement and does not include variance and personal experiences, nor possible issues with potential power abuse or other flaws that might arise in such group structures.) Imagine Jacob being in the Army long enough to get used to that, to enjoy that aspect of it all, to share the camaraderie of bitching about the heat of the sun, sand in their socks, and getting yet another package of their least favorite MRE while trying to wheedle a trade with someone else for something better. Imagine him doing that with Miller, knowing how the other man likes the sugar cookie desserts in one MRE package and hates how the chocolate bars melt from the desert heat in another. Knowing what each others’ tells and bluffs are from playing poker on their down time while on a tour. Swapping stories about home...and noticing who doesn’t want to talk about the life they had before enlisting. Talking about the things they miss, the people they miss. Knowing who snores, who’s a light sleeper, all those things you learn when you’re in close proximity to a person for perhaps up to two years or so depending on deployment length. It could also be they’ve been deployed together more than once, as Jacob certainly went out on multiple tours per The Book of Joseph once again. Imagine Jacob knowing all of that and more about Miller. Then, day after day after day of being lost in the desert, with starvation eating away at their rationality, that hollow pain in their guts as their bodies start burning through their own cells and reserves to try to stay alive, running out of water and having to take chances with any drinking source they can find in the environment and having to expend precious energy to try or die early from dehydration, probably not sleeping well from the hunger, exhaustion, stress, possible enemy presence, dangerous wildlife... The brain starts shutting down real quick once we don’t have the resources it needs to run optimally. Some faster than others, but in Jacob and Miller’s case, their ordeal is definitely long enough to put them into that mindset of feeling that primal fear of a slow death by famine, weakness, scarcity. The psychological toll would have been heavy without a doubt, and that might’ve been compounded by experiences in Jacob’s childhood if his parents were not dutiful in buying food more regularly, which easily could be the case. Old Mad Seed needs more whiskey this month to fuel his raging, drunken fits of spewing biblical verses in a tyrannical fashion? There goes the money for the last few days of food. Easily could be how Jacob got into stealing candy (and likely also food in that case) for himself and his brothers. So Jacob would have a good idea of some of what’s coming down the pipe in that case. He knows how long the trip is, can reckon how fast the two can travel. Maybe he starts out hopeful in a grim way to start... ...but over time as things get more and more desperate (and it could be a familiar desperation he’s felt before as a kid going hungry, only worse,) “And I looked at Miller and I could tell we were as good as dead. And I accepted that. And in that acceptance...came clarity.” That clarity could very well be that Jacob decided that morality was futile if it meant you didn’t survive, which could very well be a very world-breaking revelation for him, since he is mentioned in his backstory to have had a praiseworthy sense of honor among other things. Certainly is potentially spirit breaking to go from being the older brother, the brother-in-arms who relied on and was relied on, who was trusted, to being a betrayer of that trust. A Judas, one could say, as he calls Pratt in his video after Pratt has helped the Deputy escape. And what does Jacob make the Deputy become, in relation to Eli? Eli, the man the Deputy was rescued by, was aided by, has been working alongside this entire time. Eli, who trusts and relies on the Deputy. Eli, who it could be said betrayed Jacob’s friendship with him by choosing not to hand over the Whitetail Militia and join Eden’s Gate (from Jacob’s perspective, based on his final fight dialogue.) “Hey. Only you could have gotten this close. Only you could have earned his trust. It was always only ever you. Good work. You did it. You passed your test. You made your sacrifice. But now...you’re alone. And you’re weak. And we know what happens to the weak.” That might seem contradictory at first, since in theory making the sacrifice should make one “strong” by Jacob’s line of reasoning, one might think. But the Deputy is a “traitor” now—to the Whitetail Militia by brainwashing (temporarily as we the audience know, pending Jacob’s death,) and to Jacob by choice, if one takes the following lines from Jacob into consideration: “You’ve forgotten your purpose, Deputy. You were on the path of the Chosen but now you’ve strayed. Fear did this to you, but don’t worry, I can help with that. I can remove your fear and give you strength. It’s not too late. Come back to me. Remember your purpose.” ”Deputy, know that I still have hope for you, but if you continue to support Eli and his merry band of cowards, that hope will cease to exist. Your judgement is cloudy because your mind is weak, but I have confidence you’ll make the right choice in the end. If not—you’ll all pay in blood.” Link to the audio for the above two lines here (credit and appreciation to hopecountyradio once more.) As with the other Seeds, Jacob starts out trying to persuade the Deputy to “see the light” and join the Project, but as with all of them, as the resistance meter rises and we draw closer to the final confrontation with him, he and the others abandon that idea in favor of trying to end the Deputy instead. So in this possible interpretation, it could be that Jacob views both the Deputy and Eli as traitors both. However...the two situations while both likely quite weighty with the Deputy being “the chosen one” to kick off the Collapse (or a herald of the Collapse if one wants to be cute with wording,) and Eli being an ex-good-friend or perhaps even ex-best-friend of Jacob’s, are potentially vastly different in emotional weight to Jacob. The Deputy is all tied up with this Collapse business, and while Jacob isn’t sure if Joseph talks to God, he does support him, what with being a Herald in the cult and all that. It involves the fate of the family, and in particular, Jacob’s family—his brothers and sister. Eli, however, Jacob has known for a while, likely years, back during the construction of the bunkers which Eli helped with, possibly and likely before then. I personally lean towards interpreting that as they struck up the beginning of a friendship, and Jacob hired Eli and his crew to help with the construction of the cult’s bunkers. Where they had their falling out is less clear as far as I’m aware. It could be it was during or after construction that Eli got a bad feeling about all of this Eden’s Gate business, or perhaps even as late as the beginning of the Reaping if that’s when Jacob gave Eli the “chance” to hand over his Whitetail Militia members, as mentioned in his final boss battle red-bliss section. That could’ve been the breaking point for Jacob and Eli, and if Jacob was expecting Eli to side with him due to friendship and perhaps some shared beliefs...perhaps Jacob took that...poorly. And by poorly I mean went full out on revenge of having Eli killed by betrayal of someone he’d chosen to trust—someone that Jacob had already gotten his hooks into. Someone Eli needed, in this fight against Jacob. Someone like the Deputy. The Deputy, who’s been put through starvation, exposure, and ingrained through conditioning and likely a liberal use of Bliss to facilitate said conditioning, to hunt. To train. To kill. To sacrifice. “You take away a man’s basic needs, and he will revert to his primordial instinct in just ten days.” [Chuckles.] “Ah, that’s a difficult thing to understand unless you’ve lived it...” This is what Jacob is putting the “recruits” and the Deputy through—his revelation. His experience. His choice. In the end as Jacob succumbs to his injuries, he is weak, he is dying, and he knows it, looking at the Deputy in his final scene. This time, he is the one who is sacrificed, by the Deputy, and in Jacob’s eyes by Joseph, to either try to end the chaos spread across the county, or to break a seal respectively. Jacob’s death is a means to an end—as Miller’s was. And Jacob “accepts that,” as he puts it. Does he accept it because now he’s betrayed the trust and faith of potentially two people he might’ve been close to? Miller, and then Eli? Is Jacob conditioning the Deputy during that red-bliss sequence of his boss fight to kill Jacob, based on how there are bliss-hallucinations of Jacob to shoot while destroying the beacons? There’s the generic Whitetail fighter, Judges, and Jacob himself scattered across the landscape before ending that sequence as far as I’m aware. Both Jacob and the Whitetail fighter present could be interpreted in this line of thinking as echoing the supposed betrayal of both sides and being “alone” against the world in a nightmarish fashion while Jacob potentially tries to break the Deputy through talking and said nightmare. The way Jacob talks though...is he strictly speaking to us, or is the Deputy actually a mirror as it were, with the things Jacob says being applicable to himself? “Don’t you find it ironic that everyone you try to help ends up worse off? Eli...Pratt...Tragedy just follows you. If you really wanted to keep people safe, be a hero...you’d just off yourself. Safer for everyone that way.” Is Jacob REALLY talking to us, or to himself through a medium? Through a glass darkly, as it were. He “tried” to “help” Eli and Pratt, in his twisted fashion, by trying to get Eli previously to join the Project and to make Pratt strong enough via brainwashing to also join the Project, which in Jacob’s perspective if he’s following his and Joseph’s dogma, is the only way to survive the Collapse. But Jacob has failed, repeatedly, to protect the people he held dear—his family. His friends. He’s become the threat they need protecting from. He has irrevocably perhaps proven to himself that under the right circumstances? He’s willing to betray people he holds dear for his own survival. Would he betray his family? That is the question, isn’t it. Perhaps Jacob fears finding out. Maybe he fears, that under the right circumstances, he would. Maybe that’s why he goes so willingly to be Joseph’s sacrifice, in part. Maybe having orchestrated Eli’s death, the death of yet one more person whom he was once friends with, yet one more person Jacob himself has betrayed, maybe Jacob doesn’t want to continue either. Maybe that’s the last straw, the nail in the coffin of underlying beliefs that Jacob is inherently not someone who can be fully trusted. Maybe he genuinely thought Eli would join him if given the chance. Maybe Jacob was still hollow and brittle as hell from the first time he’d killed a friend, when he killed Miller. All the Seeds bear the weight of their pasts heavily, and Jacob’s no exception. Jacob survived the first time, barely. He survived the second time, but not by long. He starts talking about his potential death at the Deputy’s hands quite early on during the red-bliss segment. Neither John nor Faith nor Joseph to my knowledge do so. Maybe he was waiting for the Deputy to be strong enough to finish what no one else could. Maybe that was what he wanted. “There’s no “win” for you here. It all ends bloody. For everyone. You die now, or you die later. It’s up to you. But either way? You won’t die a hero.” Perhaps that line from Jacob also is one of the things he fears most—dying without purpose. Dying being not a hero, a person who’s done good for others, but rather the opposite. Ironically so, given that he and his family are all in the torture and brainwashing business, but Jacob in particular gave up on being a good person a long time ago, I think, even by the cult’s standards. [Link to part two here.] [Link to part three here.]

#writing about writing #Far Cry 5 #FC5 #antagonists #villains #Jacob Seed #long post is long #character study #trigger warning content #tw content is listed at the top of the post #hopecountyradio

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sunbentsky-archived · 3 years

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When I think of and write in the Red Dead world, I like to consider all the supernatural elements in earnest, instead of treating them like fun little easter eggs that don’t have too much of an impact on the world. The ghosts, vampires, giants, and whatever else-- it’s all there and it’s real. Not everyone has to interpret it the same way, but personally I don’t think of it as a 1:1 historical replica of our world. Everything magical and mysterious is way more potent and more... out in the open, I suppose.

This is to say that I was thinking about Oles and monster hunters, specifically those targeting werewolves, and what they might look like. What means they might employ in their hunt.

The general idea I’m going with is that Oles is very careful about the kind of ‘paw prints’ he leaves behind. When he’s out and about, he uses potions to mask his scent, primarily from animals like cats or dogs or horses-- normally, they get nervous or aggressive around him and that’s a dead giveaway that something is not as it seems. This is not failproof, of course, and another of his kind-- or some other magical creature with a sensitive nose-- can tell his human form is a disguise.

Then there’s the magical trace he leaves behind, which is more of a disruption in the natural patterns of ambient magic. A by-product of wearing a disguise. I think of it as... a gust of wind passing through and sending particles of dust flying. You don’t see the air current itself, but you can deduce where it came from, where it went, and how strong it was. This is more difficult to cover up, though Oles tries.

I’m also thinking about these monster hunters and how they might employ help from other werewolves. Some would help willingly-- they’re complex people, motives vary, not everyone will be on the same side of this conflict. But I wonder if some of them are forced to sniff out other werewolves.

If that’s the case, Oles would want to try to help and free them, but keep up with the life he carved for himself among humans as well. Which is a difficult balance to sustain. This is in line with his Witcher verse, too. And similarly, his parents both died while fighting these hunters, and while he tells himself he won’t repeat their mistakes and throw away his life in a fight he can’t win.... he just might end up doing exactly that.

#OLES ABOUT: i’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own #OLES VERSE: rdr2 #this is a lot of rambling idk

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alchimie · 4 years

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Besides Oles' main verse, there's another one that takes place in the Witcher universe but. On another planet, Zydrava. A moon to be precise, in the same solar system as whatever planet the Continent is on. The laws of physics and magic and nature are largely the same, but it’s significantly smaller (which, of course, affects gravity and stuff but I'll leave the technical details for another post). Another significant difference is that this world is.... inside out. The outer surface of the planet is largely uninhabited (and refered to as Tirasdina -- the barren place) the core is hollow, and most people live on the inside layer. Like this!

The people inhabiting this world refer to themselves as Visos (roughly translates as ‘those of the fertile / fruitful lands’ in opposition to Tirasdina which is a barren, cold desert). Zydrava is looked after by seven deities-- whether they're gods / timeless beings or simply very powerful mages is not known and it wouldn't matter to the people who revere them anyway. What is known is the fact that they are the ones who quite literally keep everyone from flying into the sky and generally maintain the viability of their home world.

Amongst these seven, Bendis is regarded as the oldest and the wisest, and she fullfills many roles, but most importantly that of the guardian of the world. She is known by many names and titles, including Maladrigas (The Wild River), Staigsla (The Guide), and Gensla (The Hunter). More about Bendis here.

Problems arise when the ambient magic of Zydrava begins decaying to the point where it threatens basic aspects of survival like the air, water, and even gravity itself, as everything on Zydrava is carefully controlled and tailored by magic. However, every magical act leaves some residue behind and it needs to be discharged somewhere else. The greater the magical feat, the more residue it creates. More on the events that cause the sudden spike in magical residue later.

Bendis was in charge of protecting the world and thus stopping this imminent disaster too. The thing is, she knew it was coming and needed to make she would survive the decay of Zydrava so she could protect the people. And thus, the Vulkodlaki were created, their official role being finding and mending magical anomalies across the world. But, there was a secret role they fullfiled too: by being Bendis’ chosen, one would transcend their mortal condition and become an aspect of the goddess herself, as well as a reinforcer of her divine will among the mortals. The part that nobody but Bendis knew of was that she could take complete control over any of the Vulkodlaki at will. More on the Vulkodlaki here.

The magical cataclysm that hits Zydrava is, in fact, the Conjuction of Spheres. When it happens, many people are torn apart from their homeworld, and only the Vulkodlaki (and another species I'll talk about later) caught in managed to ‘survive’, although that’s a generous term, as they end up on the Continent being only a fragment of what they were back home. Bendis’ blessing and the connection to her turns into a volatile and powerful curse, causing a form of lycanthropy. After this, Bendis, still on Zydrava, must find a way to rebuild what has been destroyed and bring the Vulkodlaki back home.

All of this is to say that, in this verse, Oles is the Crown Prince of Perdava, one of the nations on Zydrava, famed for their scholarly pursuits and housing the sole Academy on the planet. After the cataclysm, he joins Bendis’ efforts and becomes one of her Vulkodlaki, which in turns means that he has to renounce his status as heir to the throne and all privilages that come with it-- which he doesn’t mind at all, but his parents do. The times, Oles proves himself and helps Zydrava greatly, and eventually becomes First Knight (officially), and colloquially known as Lord of the Hounds. He is pretty much the same as in his Witcher verse, except now he has a sword, armor, and a horse lmao

#⚗ about: i’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own #⚗ verse: falling from high places; falling through lost spaces [vulkodlak]#⚗ bendis: wild eyed moon goddess whose kiss is death #⚗ vulkodlaki: insane ones who die kissing her image in lakes #i wrote this in a daze at like 3 am and im too tired to proofread now so fsdjkhj #you're on your own #but!!!!!! i have a TON more about zydrava and bendis and everything so feel free to ask me anything at all about them #and also join me in this verse 🥺#long post #i didnt even talk about why the moon matters so much re: bendis !!!!#also a cookie to anyone who can tell what dead language i'm basing all these names on 😉

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lassluna · 5 years

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CSJJ Day 27: Because of the Cat Part 2

We’re sleeping together but you got kidnapped? Guess I gotta save you.

AN: My second contribution to @csjanuaryjoy this year, it's been an absolute blast taking part in this event once again. Thank you so much @ultraluckycatnd for taking a look at this in my time of need.

Ao3 FFn

“Are you alright Emma?” Elsa says, gently pushing the door open.

Her quarters are neat and grand, bright blue bedding; a perfect image of the horizon from her bedroom. It even feels cool despite the horrible heatwave.

But she isn’t alright. Not even a bit. How can she be when her heart is actually breaking?

“Did they hurt you?” Elsa asks. She can tell her friend is worried. Emma has barely spoken since she arrived. She just said the bare minimum, and refused to let go of Henry. She can’t bear to lose the cat right now, not after already losing something so important to her.

Someone.

“No.” she says eventually, but that’s a lie. Her wrists had been red and swollen from the ropes, and her head had had a deep cut on it. The people who took her had hurt her, taken her to Oz, stuck her in a dungeon and when they thought she was ‘desperate’ enough, brought her to Walsh.

Walsh who wanted to make a deal with her, who wanted to marry her, wanted to try to bully her into it. Make her seem like a slut for abandoning her people so that no one would ever respect her rule or marry him; those were her choices.

Emma was glad she got those hits in to the sniveling little man. Emma was glad someone else was there, someone who knew her enough to know that was never like her.

“Did the pirates hurt you? Did Captain Hook hurt you?” Elsa repeated, touching her still healing wrists, making her flinch slightly.

No, he saved me.

“No,” she repeats, trying to regain her composure, trying to heal her heart break. She wasn’t supposed to be broken hearted about the man that had supposedly kidnapped her. Emma gives Henry a small pat on the head. He mews happily rubbing against her, settled happily in her lap. “I just want to go home,” she says slowly. “I need to go home as soon as possible.”

‘She’s been through a trauma’ they say. ‘She’s gone mad’ others whisper.

It hurts to know they speak about her, think her mad to be turning down Walsh’s marriage proposal time and time again. But it makes sense. That’s what Emma needs: something that makes sense.

Her mother gives her all the time she needs, and promises that it doesn’t matter what happened. As long as she’s safe and happy Oz can be as annoyed as they want.

“You never explained about the cat,” her mother says one evening during tea, Henry rubbing against her legs. He’s grown quite comfortable in the palace, keeping the kitchen free of mice, and her bedroom free of loneliness.

He introduced me to Captain Hook one evening when I thought he was too skinny. I kept visiting him and his captain any chance I could. I feel in love with Captain Hook; Killian. When I had to say good bye, he gave me Henry so I could believe I would see him again.

“He helped me escape,” she says simply, reading her book. “Is Dad still trying to find him?”

“You mean the pirates who kidnapped you sweetie?” Snow asks. She nods. Her father has been in an outrage since she returned. He’s been mad about her ‘secret love’ and about the kidnapping.

“Of course. Your father is devastated that this happened right under his nose, possibly ruined your love, which I wish you told me about might I add.” Emma nods. “But I did have my suspicion.”

That catches Emma’s attention. “Your suspicion?” Emma repeats.

“You were always disappearing, coming back looking happier than I’ve ever seen you. I tried inviting anyone visiting anywhere close to the ball and your father told me you danced with Walsh and after the ball you seemed so happy…and then when he left, you got very sad…” she trails off.

It wasn’t Walsh, it was Killian she wants to scream. But she doesn’t. That would just make everything worse.

“I could never hide anything from you Mom.” she says, but her voice sounds hollow to her ears.

Emma is having a really bad day. Like seriously, she was a mess. She’d messed up at the war meeting, not that they actually were in a war; her father just likes to be prepared.

She’d called one of the advisor’s plans dumb, because it was dumb. It was a stupid use of resources and it showed how much they didn’t care about their people. Her father had been so proud of her. For once, Emma thought she could do this. For once, Emma didn’t think she would screw up the entire kingdom when she became queen. But then the advisor had pushed back at her, asking for a better idea which she fumbled at. Apparently it was rude to shoot down someone’s plan without having a better idea.

To make matters worse, she overheard them talking after the meeting, calling her a foolish child. They thought she was reckless and loose. They thought she would never ever amount to anything more than a frigid royal. They laughed at the idea of her ever marrying anyone.

Emma doesn’t care about their opinions, really she doesn’t. Her father always calls them old fuddy-duddies, always so behind on the times, but it still hurt. Hearing the words still hurt.

So maybe she doesn’t have the best head space going down to the docks, she feels like she ruins everything she touches. She always feels inferior and she can never figure out why.

She was never as graceful as her mother, never as noble as her father. So what if she’s had flings with some of the castle guards. She is human and shouldn’t be judged like that by her own court.

Emma isn’t frigid, she isn’t loose. She’s a princess. Emma’s more than a princess. She knows that really. Her parents always tell her so. She was supposed to be The Savior if the Queen had cast her curse. She was supposed to save everyone.

So why can’t she do any of this right?

Then she hears a small sound. It grabs her attention away from the horizon, and her problems. It takes Emma a moment to realize what it is.

It’s a cat. It’s a small, skinny grey cat. It looked hungry and sad. It wasn’t one of the ships she recognized, so she didn’t directly board and tend to it. She knew ship captains didn’t treat their animals right. Emma wanted to fix that. Usually she wasn’t a big animal lover, but seeing that pitiful thing made her want to help it. More than wanting to, she needed to. It was one thing she could fix; maybe she just wanted to fix one damn thing.

Then she saw the captain, disguised as a deckhand for some odd reason, but she knew instantly with those piercing blue eyes and curious smile that he was a man in charge.

Emma did board the ship to help the cat. She did, truly, but she did get a little distracted along the way.

“You have a letter,” Ruby announces, walking right into her room without knocking. Usually she appreciates her Godmother’s actions, not treating her like she’s damaged.

“If it’s from Walsh, just chuck it into the fire with the others,” she says sharply. It’s been months since she’s seen Killian and it hurts. She hears of all the places he’s going, running from the Misthaven and the Oz navies.

He’s in danger because he’s trying to protect her. Emma’s tried to fix it, tried to convince her father that she doesn’t want vengeance or justice; she wants to move past it. It doesn’t work.

“It’s from Prince Charles,” Ruby says, raising her brows into a wolfish grin.

Emma practically drops the book. “What?” she exclaims. Ruby’s grin widens.

“I knew it! This was the guy you danced with at least three times! Why in the world did you want to marry Walsh then?” she exclaims.

“Give me the letter Ruby,” she demands. She hands over the letter, leaving the room with a smirk that screams that it wasn’t over.

Dear Princess,

Having met you at the ball, I couldn’t stop thinking about you darling.

I hope I made an impression. I hope you have fond memories of that night.

I heard about your ordeal, I wish you a swift recovery.

Currently, I am traveling the realm, versing myself on the world before I settle down.

I hope to you see you soon.

Prince Charles.

Emma nearly broke into tears seeing his fancy script. She’d seen his writing on corners of books or on random scraps of papers. She never realized how soothing it could be until now.

Emma turns to Henry, who was fast asleep on her pillow. She presses a kiss into his sleek fur, causing him to roll onto his back and purr.

“It’s all going to be ok Henry.” For once she actually believes it.

It felt amazing to know he was ok. Better yet, it gave her a chance to write back to him.

I think of you fondly Prince. Perhaps you can come back to Misthaven someday. Currently, we have a pirate problem my father is trying hard to eradicate. I hear he suspects the scourge to be in Camelot. Is that close to where you are?

Camelot is a fascinating place. Full of rich history and even richer people, definitely a place a dashing pirate would hide. I, however, am residing with the fishes, or at least chatting up some mermaids. However, beautiful as they may be, none are as beautiful as you.

You’re such a charmer; I’m sure at least one mermaid caught your eye.

Only when they disguised themselves as you darling. I did manage to pick up a knickknack for you, though; a seashell. It’s supposed to let you communicate with your True Love every full moon.

Didn’t think you were one to believe in such things. Did you pick up one for yourself, hoping you’ll get lucky? Perhaps hoping little ol’ me will be on the other end? Maybe a handsome prince will be on the other end. You’ll just be introducing me to my soulmate.

I don’t think any prince could handle you, love. There’s a little pirate in you that’s for sure.

The letters come like clockwork and Ruby becomes more insistent with what was going on with her.

“Ever since the letters started, you’ve become more and more like your old self,” she presses, holding the next letter away from her reach. “But the funny thing is that Prince Charles had his invitation stolen for the ball.” Emma groans.

“It doesn’t matter, I know what I’m doing Ruby!” she exclaims impatiently, snatching the note away from her.

“Do you?” she responds. “You never even mentioned Walsh, and then I find out you ran away causing an international incident? How do I know you won’t do it again?”

Emma levels Ruby a glare. “Because I’m not a child Ruby; I learn from my mistakes,” she snaps.

“You’re lying about something,” Ruby scolds. “And I’m going to get to the bottom of it,” she declares, marching away seconds before Emma can slam the door on her face.

I’m on my way to Agrabah, currently, so I’ll be unable to get any messages from you for a bit darling. Messenger birds tend to get distracted by the smells of spices and herbs around these parts, but I’ll be thinking of you.

She smiles at it, and formulates her response.

“Emma!” her father announces at breakfast. He seems livelier than ever, and she smiles at his excitement. She hopes it means he’s found something better to occupy his time than catching Killian. Really, she’s just waiting for him to lose interest to just let it go.

She’s told him over and over again that she wants it dropped, that she wants to move on with her life.

With Killian.

She has no idea how to go about doing that, but getting her dad to drop the grudge would be a fantastic start.

“They caught him!” he exclaims. “The pirate, Captain Hook. Oz’s navy caught him leaving Agrabah!”

Emma swears she’s stopped breathing.

“You don’t have to say anything Emma,” her father says, his hands on her shoulders. “But we’ve got him. I promised you I’d get justice for you for him ruining your wedding.”

Emma is not someone who breaks easily. She’s tough as nails, her mother’s daughter. But just hearing her father say this, this lie? She just can’t.

Emma absolutely breaks into a sob. Her father pulls her into his embrace and she feels safe for a minute; in her father’s arms she feels safe and protected. “They’re hanging him for his crimes Emma. You’re safe. I promise. You’re safe.

She breaks away from her father with eyes wide. “E-Executing?” she realizes. She absolutely can’t breathe.

“He kidnapped you on top of all his other crimes of piracy,” her father explains, wiping away her tears, just like he always does. But he can’t.

“No!” she shouts. “Father, please you can’t let them do this.” It catches him completely off guard.

“Sweetie…I know executing is not how we do things in Misthaven, but in Oz it’s a just punishment, especially after-” she doesn’t let him finish, she can’t. She can’t hear it.

“Daddy please, tell them to stop this, to wait. Don’t let this happen. If you love me, you won’t let this happen!” she practically yells. By then her mother moves, trying to comfort her.

“Sweetie-” But Emma can’t. She doesn’t want comforting, she wants to fix this. She wants everything to stop spiraling out of control.

“I can’t do this!” she says, brushing off both their attempts to help and rushes out of the room.

She doesn’t let her parents in, nor Hopper with his claims that she was having an emotional connection with her kidnapper. Emma didn’t want to hear it. She wasn’t a basket case, she wasn’t a victim, but Emma couldn’t tell them that. She didn’t know what to tell them.

The only thing she wants to do is be here with Henry. He’s calmly sitting on her bed, playing with her as she taps her fingers on the bed.

“Emma let me in,” Ruby demands outside her door. “I’m not above breaking this door down, you know,” she adds.

Emma doesn’t care. Let her Emma thinks.

“I have a letter Emma,” she says softly. “Let me in.”

That gets her attention. She moves from her bed and from her position by Henry. He mews in displeasure from having her stop playing. She goes to the door opening it a bit.

“A letter?” she repeats dumbfounded.

“Oh honey,” Ruby says, but she holds out the parchment. It causes Emma to gasp. “I heard what happened.” she says as she hands it over. Emma can’t believe what she’s holding. She walks back into the room. Her name’s on it, but the ink looks older than they usually seem.

Emma,

I instructed Smee to send this to you in the event that I got captured. I’m sorry Swan, so sorry I couldn’t keep my promise to you. But it’s worth it knowing you’re safe and happy. You should know our time together has meant the world to me.

Before you, I was obsessed with what I lost, with avenging those I loved. I didn’t care if that meant my death. You saved me darling. You brought me back.

Don’t worry about me Swan. Don’t come for me Swan. I have no regrets, not a bloody one. Find someone worthy love, find someone who thinks you’re beautiful, and admires your fire. Never settle for anything less.

I love you Swan.

And not because of the cat.

Quickly Emma folds up the note, desperate to get it away from her before her tears ruin the ink, and blurs his words.

Emma needs to fix this and she has no idea how. Ruby’s behind her and pulls her into a hug and she lets her. She holds onto her friend.

“It’s him isn’t it?” Ruby says as she strokes her hair. “The pirate, he’s the guy you’ve been seeing for all these months.”

She nods. It doesn’t matter anymore.

“He never took me Ruby, never. He would never hurt me. Walsh. He took me. I snubbed him at my party. He was rude and so he had his people grab me.”

She hears Ruby intake a sharp breath.

“He was trying to trap me, trying to ruin my reputation. But Killian came to get me. We came up with this plan to avoid a war. You know Dad, he would have demanded Walsh be punished. It was the only way Ruby. It was the only way.”

She feels Ruby nod against her.

“But I don’t want him to die. I-I can’t be responsible for k-killing him.” Ruby pulls away from her, hands on her shoulders.

“I get it Emma. Trust me, if anyone understands it’s me. But it’s not over yet. Your father already wrote to the King. He’s asking them not to execute him. It might buy us some time.”

“Us?”

“So Emma, I think it’s time you met my girlfriend.”

It’s not that Emma never knew about Ruby’s girlfriend it was just that Mulan was busy. She was a free spirit, a true soldier. She came and went wherever she was needed, from small towns being overrun by outlaws, to infiltrating corrupt kingdoms and exposing their evil.

She is a warrior, which is why they had to go all the way down to the docks to meet with her. She was in one of the pubs that even Killian avoided. It was too full of drunks egging for a fight.

“Mulan’s been in town for these last few days,” Ruby introduces, placing a kiss on her cheek. “And I think she’s the one thing that can help fix this.”

Emma smiles at her. “Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says and Mulan smiles back, but Emma could tell she was uncomfortable. She was dressed to a T in armor, a blade at her hip.

“Ruby tells me you need to save a prisoner?” she asks, getting right down to business. That was perfectly fine with Emma.

“Yes. His name is Killian Jones,” she says. “He’s been captured by the Oz Navy.”

Mulan hesitates. “Do you mean the pirate?” she asks. “I heard they captured a ruthless pirate.” Now it’s Emma’s turn to hesitate.

“He’s changed,” she admits. “He’s a pirate, but he also saved my life; risked his own to help me protect my people, and avoid a needless war,” she expresses. “I can’t let him die.”

Mulan nods. “I understand. Now what exactly do you want me to do?” She asks simply.

What did Emma want her to do Emma thinks. She wants to fix this, she wants to save Killian; she wants things to go back to normal. No. Emma wants more than just normal.

“I want you to get me into Oz, and help me take down anyone in my way to save my pirate.”

Mulan, true to her word, gets her to Oz in the back of a supply ship. It was far less comfortable than the Jolly Roger.

She doesn’t tell Mulan that.

Ruby stays behind and pretends to be her, locking her door and refusing entrance as she’s done. It’s just a little bit of time. That’s all she needs.

The castle is massive; she knows this, plated in emerald with many heartless guards ensuring no one enters. Emma can tell that it’s far more secure this time around.

But Mulan is a professional. When she can’t sneak or fight her way inside, she buys her way with a stack of gold. She tells a guard a simple story about wanting to catch her cheating husband at work with a maid. It takes a bit of convincing but it works and they’re inside.

From there, it’s easy to get down to the dungeon. After all, she knows the way.

She finds him eventually, in the depth of the dungeon with barely any light to see. She uses the sound of his voice to find him. Emma can hear him muttering in between rasps. Complaining really about anything he could think of.

She nearly gasps in relief when she nears his cell.

When she finds him, the first thing Emma realizes is he’s immobilized. His arm is shackled above his head, forcing him into a kneeling V position. His blunted arm is shackled in a way that he can’t maneuver out of and his head is hanging limply, yet he’s still making low sounds.

“Hook?” she calls softly. It makes him stir, but he isn’t able to lift his head to look at her. She falls to her knees in front of him, talking in a mere whisper as she places a hand on his cheek lifting him up to look at her. “Killian?”

The whole right side of his face is badly bruised, eye swelled shut, the other looking glazed over and distant. “Swan?” he says, his good eye narrowed in question. He looks like he doesn’t believe she was actually there.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” she teases, giving him a peck on the cheek. “First me, now you.” Killian rolls his eye.

“The lengths I’ll go to for a second date.”

“That was not a first date.” she insists. Mulan quickly unshackles his arm, causing his entire side to drop and Killian to groan.

“Let me guess, Henry missed me?” he teases as Emma goes to support him.

“Yeah, I’m totally here for the cat,” she says sarcastically.

“Knew it.”

“Will you two stop it? We need to get out of here,” Mulan snaps, undoing the final chain releasing Killian. But he’s obviously too sore to move.

“You really shouldn’t have come here,” he says seriously as she struggles to carry his body weight. He’s trying to stand, but she can feel his muscles strain and see his eyes skew shut.

“I have to agree with you there.” says a voice. Mulan moves instantly, getting in between them and the presence, drawing her blade.

Walsh steps into the light, guards at either side of him. “Emma darling, here I was trying to avenge you; trying to get justice on this menace for ruining our wedding,” he sneers.

Emma glares back.

“Don’t you want that darling?” he insists, getting closer. Mulan steps in front, glaring at him.

“Not another step,” she demands. He does stop, not even looking at the warrior in front of him.

“You don’t do you?” he says confidently. “I thought he looked rather familiar that day in my room, when he took you from me.” Emma feels Killian tense in her grasp. “All it took me was a while to realize, a while down here for him to admit where I knew him from,” he says with a laugh.

“Sadist,” Killian spits out. Walsh ignores him.

“He’s that prince who ruined our dance don’t you remember darling?” Emma doesn’t say a thing. She tries to hide how everything was unraveling and she was helpless to stop it. “Prince Charles I recall, except I know the real prince and he assured me he was nowhere near the palace that day. He masqueraded as a prince to deceive you darling.” Emma doesn’t even blink.

“And you think if he hadn’t I’d ever want to dance with you?” she asks. “Seriously? You are a piece of work Walsh. An egotistical fool that thinks being royal means you’re entitled to anything. News flash, but that’s not how things work in the real world.”

His grin widens. “You already knew that he wasn’t a prince.” He laughs. “This keeps getting better and better. You are going to marry me, or you’ll be ruined, Princess. Ruined. Screwing a pirate? No one will ever touch you.”

Killian jolts in her grip. “You leave her alone,” he snarls going for him despite his weakened state. “I swear I’ll bloody kill you if you even think about slandering her name.”

Walsh is laughing, cackling with glee. “Did you hear that guards? The prisoner is threatening me. Kill him and the warrior. Keep the princess alive.”

Emma doesn’t wait for the guards to move, grabbing Killian as Mulan deals with the approaching guards. “Run!” the warrior orders.

They do exactly that. She takes Killian, him staggering next to her, towards the back of the dungeon, the same way they entered. It leads to an exit that is supposed to be unguarded for a little while longer.

“Swan-” Killian starts, but she shakes her head.

“She’ll be fine,” Emma insists.

“We can’t let him tarnish you love,” he says. “Leave me here, get to safety, they’ll never know you were even here.”

Emma blinks at his insistence. She doesn’t understand. “If I die here Swan, it’ll be his word against yours. No one will believe him. Your reputation-”

“I don’t care!” she snaps. “I don’t care about any of that. Not if you’re dead. I don’t care about any other man wanting me as long as I have you.” Emma hesitates. “You do want me right?”

He kisses her, a gentle thing, his hand coming up to her cheek. His forehead presses against hers.

“Til the ends of the earth Emma, my love.” he vows with a grin. “Now, let’s get out of this bloody place.”

“Emma?!” Emma turns suddenly, forcing Killian behind her. Her eyes widen.

“Bloody hell,” Killian curses and he’s entirely right, because her parents were staring back at her, wide eyed and in shock.

“I can explain?”

She does explain, but not fully until after the death of Captain Hook; he dies in that Oz dungeon from his injuries sustained in captivity.

On their way back home, they do come across a sailor escaped from Neverland. Long thought dead Lieutenant Killian Jones returns from the dead, and to Misthaven of course.

He brings with him news of The King of Oz’s long sought cure to actually be a deadly poison. They all agree it was just a tragic mistake of course.

She does explain of course, that while treating the brave Lieutenant’s injuries she falls hard and fast for him.

It’s only a coincidence of course that he spills a good deal of wine on Prince Walsh at Ruby and Mulan’s wedding.

It’s not a coincidence at all that Walsh doesn’t even show up for their wedding; nor that they name their first child Henry because of the cat.

#csjj 2019 #csjj #captain swan january joy #Because of the cat #Captain Swan

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gingerling · 5 years

Text

JUST ANOTHER GANGSTER

THEY PAINT THE PAVEMENT WITH OUR BLOOD AND CALL IT JUSTICE. THEY CALL ME SLURS AS IF IT WAS MY OWN NAME. THEY GUN US DOWN BECAUSE IT'S LAW. AND THEY TAKE OUR RIGHTS TO FUND THEIR PRIVILEGE. OH AMERICA! YOU LEAVE THESE STREETS IN SIN TO FEED YOUR STARVED STAR-SPANGLED STOMACH WITH US MELANIN MARTYRS. ALL WE CAN ASK IS: WHERE IS THE LAND OF THE FREE?

your justice is just another word for murder. but i'm just another gangster to you, eh? the type of boys to slang cocaine in the hollow jowls of alleyways, slippin' crystal rocks to junkies, tote guns through the loops of our pants, treat the peaceful streets like a battlefield—yet a another war we weren't drafted for by the wrinkled hand of our dear uncle sam: shooting whoever's dressed blood-red and veined-blue, except the white that bleached out our culture.

we're the type of boys to sag the jaws of their pants, wrap their black heads in the embrace of a durag, slur their words and drip their tongues inside the sea of african-vernacular and waves of cusses, and who worship the words of an unraveling madman instead of a passionate poet on the radio.

you called it: rap. i called it: poetry. you called: violence. i called it: news. you called it: trash. i called it: art. you called it: the problem of america. i called it: this is america.

but i guess it doesn't matter since i'm just another gangster to you, eh? like that black boy you shot in the convenience store on that monday night? what a thug he was! slithering his dark-chocolate hands onto that milk-chocolate bar, and inside the maw of his baggy coat pockets. he was committing a crime, you say? he was a young boy. a tired boy. a hungry boy. a thieving boy. a black boy. a negro boy. you just couldn't wait till he turned around, your milk-ivory hands caressing, itching to pull the black trigger on the poor nigger.

like a young buck, frightened and scared, he ran. and you could've grabbed him by the hand, he was there, in your grasp, you could tell him to put it back—but that would've been too good for a black boy him. a thief like him. a pickpocket like him. boys like him never learn you said. that's why you had to pull the trigger. the steel claws of your bullet ripped through my brother like a unheard crescendo, as if moses had ruptured clean through the threads of his tendons, the tongues of his tissue, and the twine of his tender flesh—splattering his beating heart on the cold isle floors, a red gory sea enveloped a boy of ten as he was declared dead and dismissed as nothing more than another criminal

"clean up on aisle 1! there's a dead boy in my store! he's sinning up these aisles with his innocence!"

"clean up on aisle 10! there's a boy crying his heart out to a world that won't listen. he's staining my tile floors with his tears!"

and on the contrary to your belief he bled red. not black. but red. i could tell that you were surprised—from the warmth of his pure blood poisoning your peach-palmed hands. he bled scarlet-red, ruby-red, crimson-red, rose-petal red. it was as if you were surprised his blood was the color of yours. something living and human. but he's just dead and doe-eyed now. nothing more than just a dead black boy to mark off your check-list—just so you could feed your fallen melody with his heartbeat as your drum.

i called this: murder. you called this: justice. i called this: pain. you called this: beauty. I called this: death. you called this: art.

but i'm just another gangster to you, eh? and i find it funny. my attire, my clothes, you deemed ghetto, and uncolonialized, and uncivilized—fits those cotton-fed kids so well. what a style they say! they're making such a statement! it suits them so well! can't you see? how those cornrows crown their aristocratic-kingly heads so prettily? how those braids—the same braids they cut off my sister's skull—look so cute on little becky and her friends? it's trend! it's a fashion, haven't you heard? the fashion—fashioned from their lack of compassion for the boys and girls in the ghettos who die wearing the same thing sends a certain passion in my throat, and keeps on thrashing, till i can't speak no more—

the buried poet beneath my lungs and the passage of my ribs begins to scream—

EVERYBODY WANTS: to be black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to see black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to act black. BUT DON'T NOBODY WANT: to be black.

EVERYBODY WANTS: the power to say 'nigga' but as soon a cop pulls the trigger, they scatter! as they all watch a black man's blood spatter—seeping onto the floor, no one keeps score, as nobody says anything any more. always. they keep their silence. as nobody wants a black man's violence.

BUT EVERYBODY WANTS: to speak black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to see black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to act black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to move black. BUT DON'T NOBODY WANTS: to be black.

EVERYBODY WANTS: the chocolate complexion, the flesh of confection, fetishized in all ivory directions, but they pull off the brown when they go outta town, cause nobody wants to get pulled over for a beat-down, yet you dare wear my color as your gown. as nobody wants to carry my fate—as nobody want's to carry ebony's burdening weight.

SO PUT ON YOUR COSTUME AND WEAR THE WHIPPED FLESH OF A SLAVE! HIS VEINS AS YOUR SLEEVES! HIS PAINED LEGS OVER YOUR PANTS BUCKLE! HIS INSIDES AS A DECOR AND HIS SOUL AS YOUR CROWN—AS I WATCH IT ALL GO DOWN!

EVERYBODY WANTS: to dance like negros feet, but they don't know the rhythm of defeat, they don't hear black thunder recoiling against the streets, that's why their legs struggle against the roaring beat, their fingers wriggle like rancid meat, their torso's harden like expired sweets, their feet falter as if swimming in concrete, everybody wants to mimic negro's tone but they don't know words that come from bones, and since they don't have a culture of their own, they'd rather wear mine over their rusted throne.

BUT EVERYBODY WANTS: to be black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to feel black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to act black. EVERYBODY WANTS: to move black. BUT DON'T NOBODY WANTS: to be black.

AND YOU'RE WELCOMED TO BE BLACK AS LONG AS YOUR READY: to seethe black, as long as you're ready to rage black, as long as you're ready to fear black, as long as you're ready to hold back, as long as you're ready to cry black, as long as you're ready to fight black, as long as you're ready to die black

OR DO YOU PREFER TO GO BACK? as lightness never fades—but darkness never cracks

but i imagine i'm still another gangster to you, eh? the type of boys who're violent by nature, ruled by the laws of the streets and savagery—the type of boys who destroy things until there's nothing left, the type of boys to leave destruction in their wake with the talk of retribution in their mouths. and if i am a force of nature, i imagine myself to be a storm. a storm with tempest for teeth, with fingers wreaking havoc like heaven's wrath. a storm louder than a heartbeat rattling against zeus' skull, louder than thunder clamoring in the awning sky—a storm that captured calm and put it to death because a storm lives once more. but boys like me aren't storms, i suppose. boys like me are nothing more than a dark reckoning of sudden executions and false accusations

and i guess you're right. i am nothing more than a gangster. i am nothing more than a gangster with gangly black arms. i am nothing more than a hoodlum with hooded-eyes and hungry heart craving true justice. i am nothing more a ruffian with rough earth for flesh. i am nothing more than a thug with thick skin and thin vows. i am nothing than what you paint me to be. so i guess i am nothing more than a fallen poet who bleeds sickly sweet sonnets, burning ballads, empty elegies, weathered worthless words, gospels of vicious verses, lying lines of lyrics, and unholy ominous odes—as i am nothing more than a pile of bare blood and bones

as i ask myself was it worth speaking to you as you pulled the trigger—a bullet right in my back stopping me cold in my tracks—(i forgot i had stolen something as well)—lying in the puddle of my blood i say your wrong. i am now nothing more than a statistic. a dead boy. a black boy. a dead boy. a black boy. a dead boy. a black boy. a dead boy. a black boy. it all adds up the same. it all ends leads up to the same: a dead black boy.

but tell me was it out of wickedness or weakness that you killed me? tally up your numbers, and tell me, how many of us are dead? is it the birth of a nation that sets the land and boys like me free? am i just another melanin martyr with darkness in my skin but with dying light in my soul? please tell me as the streams of blood is reaching my throat, making it hard to speak—

i know you feel me staring as i watch you file out the police report: a failed robbery (a failed boy, a failed system, a failed child, a failed future)—you forgot to fill out those white lines and pages of blank paper; the bleak future of our america. i hope that you'll tell them how i screamed for you to stop and how your bullets pulled me apart—

but i guess it doesn't really matter in the end because i'm just another gangster to you, huh?

~art~

"in another life your death had mattered. although i can't promise to give you justice i can try to make your death an art."

(6)

#poetry #prose #poem #poetic #blacklivesmatter #poc #thisisamerica #alliteration #repitition

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thesinglesjukebox · 5 years

Video

youtube

MUNA - NUMBER ONE FAN

[6.20]

We have no choice but to (checks score) ...give a [6]?

Leah Isobel: About U's ability to make gay adolescence seem poetic instead of, like, thoroughly humiliating made it one of my favorite records of 2017, but any more elegiac lyrical evocations of the past would feel like too much navel-gazing. So for their new single, MUNA turn their eyes toward the present; the protagonist from their debut is a little older, much better at dancing, and officially Online. The vocoder turns Katie Gavin's already-brittle intonation into sheet metal, and the hollowness around the synth and guitar tones suggests one of those extremely '90s Internet PSAs. The lyrics, meanwhile, do something so completely obvious I can't believe it hasn't happened yet: They filter self-love through the purposefully exaggerated language of stan Twitter. Depending on my mood, this either reads as a brilliant evocation of the struggle to love oneself by just trying harder (borne out by the prechorus, which is the best part of the song), or as cheap pandering. The meta-implications of getting their audience to sing "I'm your number one fan!" back at them are too good for me to resist, but this particular strain of slang doesn't feel entirely suited to their brand of suburban emo. [7]

Will Adams: MUNA's mastery of imbuing sincerity into otherwise cheesy mantras (see also: "don't you be afraid of love and affection") is what lets them get away with a song that's about loving yourself, free of any of the subtext that usually comes with it, that even includes words like "stan" and "iconic" in its chorus. As with "I Know a Place," the mood is celebratory -- a grooving, Technotronic bassline, guitar licks peppered in judiciously, synth chords that burst like confetti -- only stopping to reveal its doubt in the bridge ("in the thick of it, will you stick up for me?"). For a Pride month particularly marked with dead-eyed corporate lip service and certain other pop stars fumbling with allyship, having something as earnest as "Number One Fan" is a damn triumph. [8]

Stephen Eisermann: This song makes no effort to hide its pandering, but with such a peppy production, it's almost forgivable. Almost. The disinterested vocal prevents this from being great, but man, was it close. [5]

Vikram Joseph: A song about self-belief that doesn't seem to believe in itself; the tightly-wound verses accumulate a potential energy that needs to find release, but instead spills away in the pre-chorus and evaporates entirely in the flaccid, anticlimactic chorus. The vocal melody bears much of the blame, flatlining around a few mid-range notes and exposing Katie Gavin's weaknesses as a vocalist. The brash synth that serves as a post-chorus drop is fun, but I'm not sure MUNA are very good at middle eights -- a slow, soupy 30 seconds also derailed "Winterbreak," a far better song than this. [4]

Katherine St Asaph: Yet another song that starts seething and knife-poised but immediately abandons all tension for major-key blahs. The only difference is "Number One Fan" doesn't even wait the whole verse to drop it. What it has instead is a chorus of stan shit. And given that for the past decade of my life, and probably for the rest of it, stans have shown me how many thousands of people think I'm an awful person, up to and including sending me death threats, echoes of that are not remotely assuring in any context. Nor is the overarching premise much better. I await the day pop culture and pop psychology stop haranguing people about how they should ignore the tides of people calling them shit, and instead direct those efforts at stopping the tides. [3]

Iris Xie: It has a hilarious intro that's a sure attention-grabber, but it settles back and becomes really muddled after the initial verse is over. Still, the screwy zipper of a synth throughout, combined with that delivery, makes me score it a [6] instead of a [5]. [6]

Katie Gill: It's interesting how this song simultaneously has a darker sound than the classic overlook-your-flaws, self-love songs of Alessia Cara, Pink, and Christina Aguilera, and yet is more upbeat and peppy than all three of those. The chorus is overproduced in such a way that I doubt "Number One Fan" will ever reach the sing-along status of some of MUNA's other work. But as weird and uneven and oddly constructed as "Number One Fan" is, I still love it a lot. [7]

Alex Clifton: "Number One Fan" has made me think about the all the time I spent loving various idols and hating myself. I've latched onto obsessions just to remind myself that there's something good in this world worth loving--my Jason Mraz years, that time I listened to only Arcade Fire for three months straight, the summer I could only focus on One Direction content, the whole year I spent focusing on BTS so I could ignore the trashfire of 2017. During those years I'd look at myself in the mirror and feel so unworthy of love for myself that I felt I had to pour it into something else. I never considered the concept of "being your own stan," but it's like all the stuff I've worked through in therapy--reworking your brain so it's not beating itself up, telling all those voices saying you're unlovable and evil and alone that they're wrong, taking all the bad thoughts and forcing them into something better and more productive. Rather than holing up and listening to Bon Iver in the dark for six hours, it's okay to love yourself and be your own biggest fan. "Number One Fan" is a much-needed reminder for me, and also probably one of my favourite songs this year. [8]

Jonathan Bradley: The diagnosis is better and more terrible than the cure. "I heard the bad news/nobody likes me and I'm gonna die alone" is delivered over forceful chunks of synth bass with declarative finality. It's bitter, perhaps because it's cruel or perhaps because it could be true. But when, for the chorus of "Number One Fan," Katie Gavin turns stan culture inward, it doesn't make it more uplifting; it subsumes her own esteem into that hungry emptiness. Nonetheless, the repetition of slang and filler words -- "like, oh my god, like," "so iconic, like big, like stan" -- in that hook builds up its own rhythmic sense, one that is more affirmative than the resolution itself. But it's the cold dread of the opening that is this song's best moment. Add that to "I knew, when you told me you don't want to go home tonight..." and "I saw a beautiful girl on the street/she looked nothing like me..." as evidence of this band's arresting ability to conjure scene-setting openers. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Of all the recent tracks to turn the dialect of stan twitter back onto itself, this is the only one to really work. That's partially because MUNA is a very good at the basic functionalities of being a band-- just listen to the little contours of the guitar track, or how self-assured the drum groove is. But "Number One Fan" really works because it understands that fandom is deeply self-centered yet never narcissistic. Obsessing in fandom is the abandonment of the self and the taking on of something greater than you as replacement. MUNA short circuits that equation: for better or for worse, the only thing to stan is yourself. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#MUNA #pop #music #music review #writing

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