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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 3 months

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Hello! Could you please write full headcanons on the M6 getting home one day to find MC dead? They're not actually dead, their body is just vacant after a spell went horribly wrong, but M6 have no way of knowing that.

Thank you!

The Arcana HCs: When M6 think MC is dead

~ @arson-the-ace oh, this. this is going to hurt, isn't it. ~

CW for descriptions of panic attacks, bodies that seem dead, references to past trauma, and your beloved in lots of pain

-- to set the scene --

It was supposed to be an experiment, to see if it was possible to put your body in a preserved or frozen state when you left it behind to visit the magical realms. You did not expect the result to be your body looking and acting like a fresh corpse, or for the spell to have a three hour cooldown time before you could reinhabit it. Your incorporeal self sighs and sits next to your body, resigned to the boredom of waiting it out.

Until, minutes later, the door opens and your beloved walks in, and you have no way of telling them what happened.

Julian

Already fears the worst as soon as he sees you sprawled on the floor - his plague doctor experience with visiting the sick has his instincts fine-tuned for recognizing an unrecoverable patient

Trips over himself in his scramble to get to you and gets a nasty bump on his knee, but doesn't register a thing because he's finally reached for you and he's looking for a sign of life

A pulse. An exhale. The twitch of your eyes moving below your eyelids, anything, anything to tell him that you can be saved

He rolls you onto your back and tries to give you CPR, but he's breaking down too much already for any of it to be effective

Chest compressions turn into him ripping his gloves off, trying to find any of the warmth you've shared with him

Mouth-to-mouth turns into a choked sob against your cold cheek

He can't bring himself to keep going. Each failed attempt at reviving you gets his hopes up only to rip them to shreds again

He doesn't want to move forward. He doesn't want to go ahead with laying you to rest. He doesn't want to leave this drafty wooden floor, without a blanket or a pillow to keep you comfortable

And he can't stand up

He sits cross-legged on the floor, lifting your head onto his lap and laying his coat over you in lieu of a quilt

You watch him droop over your body, shivering in the drafty room without his layers, voice catching and breaking on quiet sobs as he sings you the lullaby his parents sang him before the shipwreck

By the time your eyes flutter open, his voice is gone

He's happy to see you - he's so, so happy to see you, but he keeps hovering over you like he never knows if you're about to collapse for good next time

If you love him, you'll wait a long, long time to do any more magic

Asra

They thought you were playing some kind of game, at first

He walked into the upstairs apartment to see you sprawled on the floor and teasingly called out your name, playfully asking what new mischief you were up to as he hung up his coat

And then you didn't answer them

As soon as he felt that old dread seize his stomach, he was hurrying across the room and asking you what was wrong

They can feel their own body growing cold as they touch your frozen one, pressing a trembling hand to your chest in search of the heartbeat they moved heaven and hell to give you

He's panicking, breaths coming quick and short. The motions of his arms trying to pull you closer to him are far too similar to his frantic digging in the ash filled sands of the Lazaret

They don't know what's worse - the images flashing across their eyes of your charred bone fragments splintering in their bleeding fingers, or your lifeless face lying heavy against their knees

His heart can't take it. The tears give way to an ongoing numb tremor. He places a preservation spell on your body as his last conscious thought before he lies down next to you on the floor

They put their arm under your limp neck and cuddle up to you like it's just another day's end, just another snuggle before sleep while they lay their head down on your icy, silent chest

You watch him hold your body in shock. He seems like he's caught between worlds, alternating between staring at your unmoving stomach while his shaky tears land and pool on your shirt

And reflexively whispering apologies as they mop up their tears with their sleeve, asking if they're squeezing you too tightly

He's quick to check your memories when you wake up, but no matter how healthy you are, he can't leave your side for a week

Nadia

Her intuition is telling her something is wrong as soon as she's approaching her chambers. Seeing you on the ground is her worst nightmare coming true

You're cold to the touch. You don't respond to her voice. You don't respond ... at all. She needs help, you need help, you need help now, she's going to get you everything you need, just hang on

She lifts you into her bed, and the chilly deadweight of your body is more than she can take. When she throws open the door and yells for a doctor, every servant in earshot hears her panicked sobs

She hasn't had a panic attack like this in years

Servants rush in and out in a blur, hurried murmurs and muffled exclamations fading into the background. She feels like she's been plunged underwater, unable to scream as her lungs fill with salt

She sits by your side with your hand in both of hers, clinging to the only part of you she's allowed to touch while the closest physician pokes and prods at your lifeless body. She can't see you anymore

And everyone else? They can't see their Countess at all

They see a broken-hearted woman holding steadfast to her lover's limp hand, breaths jagged and unpredictable as she wails through her teeth. Mercifully, her hair comes undone and hides her wrenched face and streaming tears behind a curtain of purple

You woke her, first from her dreams, then from her apathy, and finally from her loneliness. Watching you succumb to a sleep far stronger than the one that trapped her is wretched beyond words

When you finally stir awake, she refuses to leave your side as the doctors work to ensure that your vitals are stable and to try to figure out what happened and if there are any repercussions

She's glad you're back, but she can't stop herself from waking you in the middle of the night to make sure you're just sleeping

Muriel

He's already convinced of the worst before he can prove it

He knows what a body collapsed in sudden death looks like. He's seen them countless times on the sand of the Coliseum floor, slaughtered at his own shackled hands, but now it's you

Now it's the only person he trusted to never leave his side

He can't register Inanna beginning to whine and pace, he can't register the sounds of the forest outside, he can't register the fire slowly burning down and out in the back of the hut

A lifetime of trained alertness, muted, because his subconscious has decided it can't take paying attention to a world that doesn't have you in it any more

He's finally able to move again when he takes his first shuddering breath in minutes, and he begins to walk and reach towards you in the vague hope that all is not as it seems

But that's when some small, sick part of his brain starts up its tiny chant that he deserves this, that this is the effect of giving in to your misguided desire for his touch, that this is somehow his doing

But the larger part of him, the part of him that loves you and aches for you and is dedicated to you, leans past the furious pain and lifts your head and shoulders off of the floor, enough so he can lower his head and listen for a heartbeat, feel for breath on his cheek

And there isn't any. Your body is as still and lifeless as his hope for something better, and he can't breathe. He can't breathe, and he's curled up in a ball with you in his arms, and he can't breathe

It takes a few hours before he can master his thoughts enough to think. This has happened before, and it was possible for you to come back. Asra, he has to bring you to Asra, he'll give anything

You wake up as he's carrying you through the woods, and it's the first time you've seen his body go so completely weak with relief

Portia

At first, she thinks you're feeling a little silly and sleeping on the floor just to mess with Pepi. Though the way you're lying, you almost look like you've collapsed. That can't be comfortable

It's when she crouches down to wake you up that she can tell something's wrong. Your shoulder is cold - way too cold

She's already got tears running down her face, but never in her life has she let her sadness stop her from caring for those she loves. She shakes you, back and forth, calling your name over and over

At some point she realizes that it's too late, there's nothing she can do, and that's when she starts wracking her brain for someone who can do something. Anything. She's not giving up on you

She's small, but she's strong and she's in pain. She lifts your body and begins to stumble through the Palace garden with you. She leans into the volume of her wails, using them to call for help

First through the gardens, then through the Palace halls, unable to recognize the blurry faces through her tears, but determinedly blubbering out what's happened and how she needs help for you

When someone who might have been the Countess informs her that the physician is out, she walks out the front gates of the Palace. Her ears are deaf to the offer of a carriage into town

Vesuvia still remembers its plague. It has never before heard cries as anguished as the ones Portia sent echoing down the canals as she ran and stumbled with your body to Mazelinka's house

Mazlinka will be there. Ilya will be there. They both know plenty about medicine, they should be able to help, just hang on. Hang on, she tells your cold body, hang on for me

You stir awake just as she crosses the threshold into the basement dwelling, and the emotions she feels are so overwhelming that she almost punches you for scaring her. She can't stop crying

Lucio

When he walks into the room in the inn after his trip to the outhouse, he avoids the sinking feeling in his gut by telling himself you're just napping. On the floor. Without moving

And then he can't take the way his conscience is nagging at him, so he snaps and (not unkindly, but brashly) tells you to get up and get moving already, we're wasting daylight!

But you don't move. You don't give him a disapproving look. You don't grumble when he shakes your shoulder, or open your eyes when he pats your cheek, or smile when you hear your name

He doesn't understand. You're brave, you're strong, you're loving, you're good, you're full of goodness and you're better than anything he ever deserved after what you suffered because of him

Because of ... him

This must be his fault. This must be his actions catching up with him. This must be the fallout of all those rash deals, some forgotten deity must have run out of patience and come to collect

Of course this would happen. It would take a hundred lifetimes to sift through the pile of selfish bargains, of course he missed one, of course he failed to make up for his past deeds, of course ...

Of course an oversight like that would cost him you

But he's not going to let this go. You deserve better. He hauls you into his arms, ignoring the way he chokes at your dangling limbs, and rushes out of the inn and into the deep, deep woods beyond

He screams and cries and yells and threatens and pleads and begs until his voice falls silent and he can taste blood in his throat

He calls out to any angry being listening to tell him, tell him what this is in payment for, tell him what he can put on the bargaining table that would pay back the debt that demanded your soul

You wake up before he can do anything rash, but he squeezes you in his sleep now, as if to challenge any more soul thieves

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

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lea-andres · 28 days

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Oh also, hi, Harvey's my favorite bachelor which means I hit him with the angst stick as hard as I could. Let's get sad together, SDV fandom, shall we?

-Harvey's mom was really sick for most of her life. I haven't decided with what, exactly, something incurable and terminal that required her to receive a lot of medical care.

-Harvey's dad joined the air force so they could afford his mom's medical bills. He did not come home. Like "letter alerting the family he fell in combat and his body was unrecoverable" didn't come home.

-Harvey isn't listening to the radio to hear his dad anymore but he got into the hobby as a kid listening for him. 😭

-Without his dad around, Harvey ended up taking over the care for his mom that didn't require someone with a medical license. And so when being a pilot himself didn't pan out because of his eyesight and the fear of heights, he figured he might as well go into the medical field, he learned so much of it already just taking care of his mom.

-His mom passed away before he graduated. 😭

-Part of the reason why Harvey chose Pelican Town once he became a doctor and not some big city hospital was he was sick of seeing big city hospitals after all the times of taking his mom to them.

-I have notes about how he moved to Pelican Town shortly before Vincent was born and wound up being the doctor to deliver Vincent despite EVERYONE INVOLVED, HARVEY INCLUDED not wanting Harvey to be the one to do that, but this is the angsty headcanon post lmao.

#lea's a dumbass #stardew valley #sdv #sdv harvey

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unironicallycringe · 10 months

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your sksw sky islands world building hand them over

obsessed with the way this ask is worded like I'm being robbed, I find it very silly funny

ok but yes let's go gamers!!!!! I'm going to ramble though, it's ass in the morning for me and I'm up because of The Horrors (tummy hurts)

There Are More Islands. Obviously the ones we see in-game have the additional complication of "rendering a bunch of NPCs and buildings in a livable settlement is difficult actually", so I usually imagine that there's more in terms of habitable islands with people and resources. The bulk of those islands would be clustered near Skyloft, but there would be small scattered places farther off over Lanayru and Eldin.

But They Used Most Of Their Damn Trees. Groose makes a big deal out of there being trees on Grooseland The Surface, which of course makes sense because he's never seen like, uninterrupted forest. And while they do have a few trees in Skyloft, they have a lot more wooden structures and books. I like to think that over the years, they ended up over-harvesting, so this generation has the fewest trees on the main islands. You probably have to fly to more distant islands to get wood nowadays, and bamboo is proving more useful (s/o to Polaris for this last one)

The Graveyard Is Small For A Reason. Deaths from old age or disease are uncommon, whereas the most common cause of death is falling from the islands. In which case, the body has been unrecoverable up until the cloud barrier opened up.

The Sky Knights Aren't Fighters. Going off of the above, the biggest threat to life is falling, so it makes sense that becoming a knight is primarily focused on being an adept bird-rider. The use of a sword is secondary - sure it's for handling the small monsters that appear at night, but nothing intense. Really, it seems more culturally vestigial. "We do this because our ancestors did and it's part of our identity." Knights are seen more as helpful and honorable guardians.

The Small Town Gossip Is Off The Charts. Self-explanatory. Everybody is religious and in everybody else's business. They ain't got much else news, so they're talking about damn Birdathan from down the road who got into it with Chirphanie over her hedges creeping into his garden.

Newcomers Are Rare But They Happen. That would be folks from distant islands flying on Loftwings or straight up using flying machines (ex: Beedle). Practically unheard of is people coming from the Surface, because well, there shouldn't be anything down there.

That's all I can remember for now - my fic doesn't spend too much time in Skyloft because Link immediately fucks off to find out that there's way more civilization beyond the borders, but I have definitely Thought About Skyloft A Lot!!!

#thanks for the ask #shoots you with my skyward sword brain beams #loz headcanons #zelda headcanons #demon tribes au #mask maker musing #skyward sword

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ohthatstragic · 2 years

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I Loved Them, Goose - p.m

a/n: this was painful to write, i hate writing sad mav, it's so disheartening :( luv him too much. also ik this gif is from TG:M, but it's fitting for this one shot... it's a little short, but, i hope this was what you wanted anon, if not i'm happy to rework it for you!! < 3

also pls don’t repost or translate any of my work.. i don’t give you permission to do that.

pairings: young!maverick x gn!reader

warnings: angst, reader death, funeral

wc: 1,365

the request: 'can you do like a really angsty young maverick x reader where it is the reader instead of goose dying please I love your work 💜'

i listened to another love but the slowed version whilst writing this rip, that shit HURT

Droplets of rain pattered on the asphalt, the clear beads exploding against the hard ground like a million ballerinas dancing upon it. It was the day of your funeral, and they had laid your coffin to rest around thirty minutes ago. Most of the attendees had dissipated from the cemetary, but not Maverick. He stood straight with his head facing downward; his smart, black military cap tucked underneath his arm. The rain drenched his dark-cocoa coloured hair, flattening it against his forehead. Small droplets of rain dripped down his skin, it was like the weather had given him a way to hide his forthcoming tears. "I'm sorry, Mav," A choked, quiet voice came from behind the young pilot, making his ears twitch at the familiar voice he loved so dearly. Goose's voice was somewhat comforting to him, but it wasn't yours.

You had been Maverick's RIO to replace Goose as he had a family emergency to attend to. The two of you had been training for Top Gun, being Iceman's wingman for the lesson. Ice's jet-wash had sent your plane into an uncontrollable and unrecoverable flat spin as he pulled out from the shot he was going to take. Maverick's mind was haunted by your shouts of distress, his knees suddenly feeling weak as he reeled his mind back to the moment he watched your lifeless, limp body float down to the sea. Goose had learnt of your death after he returned to Top Gun to find Maverick absolutely broken. It was like he was a totally different man entirely. His cocky persona had completely melted away and it revealed his fragile and delicate side.

Maverick was fighting back strangling sobs beneath his emotionless façade as he stared down at your new, forever home, and it disturbed Goose at how 'calm' the naval aviator seemed. "They'd want you to be happy." Goose spoke again, his mouth hanging open as he squinted against the pelting rain, the outward-poking rim of his military cap not doing much to protect his face from the wet weather. Maverick didn't dare turn around to face Goose and expose his ailing will to keep going. Instead, he swallowed slowly, giving a single nod of his head.

"I know." Maverick whispered, almost to himself at how quiet he spoke. He could feel the protective wall he had built for today beginning to crumble like a sandcastle as he thought back to your screams of terror as the two of you plummeted to the ground, torturing himself with the guilt that was laden within his rigid body. Goose watched Maverick's shoulders begin to shake uncontrollably, his once silent sobs becoming audible.

"Mav!" You screamed, your heart beat was going ridiculously fast now and you were sure if this crash didn't kill you, the oncoming heart-attack would.

"Y/C/S, Y/C/S, I'm losing control, I'm losing control! I-I can't control it!" Maverick shouted, his hands gripping the centre joystick like it was the last thing on Earth.

"Altitude eight thousand," You choked out, your head pressed up against the canopy from the insane gravitational push from your unintentional free-fall. "Seven thousand!" You gasped, your terrified eyes never leaving the spiralling needle. "Shit, six thousand, Mav!"

"I've fallen forwards, Y/C/S, I can't reach the ejection handle!" Maverick shouted hoarsely and swallowed, trying to gain control of his compressing lungs. "Y/C/S! You've gotta punch us out! I can't reach the ejection handle, eject!" Maverick hopelessly shouted again, making you push yourself against the side of the canopy in a weak attempt to grasp onto the yellow rings above your head. Your arms and back burned as you forced your body to do the unimaginable, fighting against gravity itself to save your lives. "Eject, eject, eject!" He yelled. You missed once, then twice, and then you caught it, sparks surrounding you as the canopy was launched off the top of the jet. Your seat ejected first, a puff of smoke emitting from below it. Suddenly, a loud crack, and it was black.

Maverick's seat was next, and his arms crossed against his chest as he was shot up into the air, parachute deploying as soon as his chair was released. His breaths were ragged and heavy as he desperately glanced around to find your figure, and to his dismay, he found it. He felt his body go numb as his eyes lingered on your limp body, your arms hanging down like you were a puppet on strings. "Y/N?!" He called out hoarsely, his heart beginning to race for all the wrong reasons.

As the pair of your bodies hit the water, Maverick was on you like a rocket, his lips quivering as he screamed your name out, praying, begging for a reply. But he got nothing back. "Y/C/S!" Maverick screeched, his arms splashing against the water as he reached you, the self-deploying lifeboat raising your body up underneath the pile of soaking parachute. He clambered on top of the inflatable, his body aflame with unbearable pain and fatigue. Maverick's trembling fingers fisted the parachute, desperately digging through the nylon material to retrieve your body. He felt his chest explode as he saw patches of bright, red blood stain his fingers as he found your head, your helmet was broken in half; blood staining your once-white helmet. "No..." Maverick breathed out, his voice breaking as he realised what had happened. His reckless behaviour had killed you. A high-pitched ringing sounded through his ears. "Y/N!" He screamed once more, his jaw clenching in distress as he hopelessly stared down at you, blinking rapidly; tears dripping from his lashes. "Please, wake up, Y/N, please-" He cried out, his hands clutching your head against his chest, fingers brushing the bloodied and matted hair out of your lifeless eyes.

"Let them go!" A voice shouted out from beside Maverick and he whipped his head up to look at them, spotting 'US NAVY' scrawled across the side of the helicopter.

"It's my fault that they're dead, Goose." Maverick whispered.

The RIO felt his heart splinter as he witnessed Maverick's breakdown. "It wasn't your fault, Mav," Goose sucked in a shaky breath as he approached his best friend, his eyes beginning to flood with uncontrollable tears. Maverick lost it. He turned around, his head falling against Goose's sopping wet chest with a thud, his hoarse, desperate breaths and silent cries were the only thing - other than the torrential rain - that echoed through the grave yard. Maverick flailed his trembling arms around Goose, his wobbly hands fisting the back of his RIO's uniform. "I know," Goose bit down harshly on his bottom lip, moustache twitching as he hopelessly tried to stay strong for his best friend. Goose was hurting too, he was also your best friend and he'd made many memories with you over the past year, but he knew how Maverick felt about you. He loved you, deeply. Truly. More than a friend, and you'd never know that because he never told you. The pilot had buried his feelings for you deep down inside him and drowned his sorrows in floods of women and one night stands; the courage to tell you never arriving.

"I loved them, Goose," Maverick cried out with agony, making Goose squeeze his eyes shut as thunder rumbled above them, the rain beginning to pelt down twice as hard now. "I loved Y/N..." He whispered, his silent sobs scraping against his sore, throbbing throat. "And I never told.." Maverick trailed off, another series of miserable whimpers and strangled sobs leaving his juddering chest.

"I think they knew, Mav." Goose replied quietly, his red, teary eyes falling to your shining headstone. The bubbles of rain dripped down the white stone, making it look like it was weeping. The moustached-RIO read the headstone silently to himself, the words stabbing his chest like a knife.

IN MEMORY OF

Y/N L/N

US NAVY

Y/B/D 1965 - JUNE 5 1986

Goose shook his head vigorously in a pathetic attempt to forget what he had just so clearly read, the reality of it all becoming too much for him. Amongst Maverick's wretched and broken-hearted cries, Goose gazed up to the sky, his eyes flinching at the drops of rain that fell into them. The clouds above were grey and depressing, almost fitting for such an event. Despite the morbid reason him and Maverick were standing where they were, you would have loved the weather. Rainstorms were your favourite. It was almost as if the Universe was waving you off, too.

i hope this was okay, i wanted to do it from a flashback perspective :,(

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lorena12me · 9 months

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Timbern Week 2023 Day 3:

“My boyfriend has an identical scar here” | Fanfic Writer Bernard | Hurt / Comfort (comfort will come with the announcement of the 7th)

Title:

Five minutes to go

Summary:

If you only had 5 minutes to live, what would you do with them?

The world was so devastated after the latest apocalypse that the Justice League decided to send Flash back in time to prevent destruction. Tim and Bernard embrace as they watch the world they met in fade away. Aware that in this new timeline they may never be together again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Bear" Tim say softly, clinging to Bernard with all his might, ignoring the pain and wounds that filled his body after surviving the final fight to save the earth from invasion.

His Robin suit was in tatters, blood and tears splattering every part of his body where Bernard laid his eyes. It wasn't the first time Bernard had seen him hurt, limping and bleeding, but it was the first time he had seen him so scared. So vulnerable.

"You won, Tim, it's over" consoles the blond, but Tim denies and looks him in the eye, tears beginning to fall, a line of translucent glass wiping a small gap of grime on Tim's mangled face.

"No, we didn't" his voice cracks "we stopped him, but it's too late, everything is ruined."

"W-what?"

"The machines had already extracted a large amount of the earth's magma and it's predicted that there will be earthquakes and drastic climate changes over the next few years…billions of people will die Bern…we didn't win it in time"

Bernard's mouth goes dry, horror coursing through his veins like scarecrow poison, but it's worse because it's real. The world was spared the violent and swift destruction of the enemy, but doomed to perish slowly and agonizingly like a poisoned animal.

"What are we going to do?" he asks, the food stored in the safe houses and the various bat bases will last only so long and if the planet will take so many years to stabilize everything will become a repeat of no man's land globally.

"Bear… Bernard" Tim grits his teeth forcing himself to say the following words "The justice league decided that it's too much unrecoverable damage… they're going to send an agent back in time to prevent all this."

"But that's good, right?" Bernard smiles shakily and then is horrified when Tim nods and then shakes his head in despair.

"It'll prevent this whole mess, sure" he says finally "But… Bear, traveling back in time involves rewriting the whole timeline. There's… a lot of things that are going to change or cease to exist… it's a coin flip about what's going to stay the same"

"…" Bernard begins to understand and doesn't think he's liking what's being implied "What does that mean for us, Tim?" he exhales

"It means there's nothing to assure us that you or I…we, exist."

Bernard feels his heart stop for a moment, his breathing quickens and eyes water finally realizing how much they are about to lose.

"How much time do we have?"

"I don't know… Minutes?" Tim pulls his hair then lets go and takes three determined steps until he's beside Bernard, pulling him into another hug "I just heard they made the decision before I turned around and used the last of the Zeta-tube's energy to get back here."

Here… Tim left his family behind, the other bats to come back to Bernard… He squeezes his arms tightly around his Robin, crying, because Tim just chose him, as he has every time, even when Bernard has felt so unworthy of it. Every damn time Tim makes it clear to him that he doesn't have to fight for him, for his love. That he's chosen it because he loves him the same way Bernard loves him.

"I didn't want it all to end without being able to see you at least one more time, Bear…"

"I love you" Bernard cries through tears "I love you Tim, you're the best thing that ever happened to me."

"I love you Bear… I…"

Before Tim can finish whatever he was going to say, the horizon beyond Gotham begins to glow with an orange and white glow. They both turn around without releasing their embrace, to watch as the light grows bigger and bigger. It's not like an explosion, there's no sound or shockwave, the light approaches them silently and Bernard hasn't yet finished processing that there's a giant chance he's about to cease to exist, but, he thinks hysterically as the light reaches out and engulfs them, there's no other person he wants to fade into nothingness with, than Tim.

(reposted because I finished writing the drabble that accompanied the drawing)

#tim drake #timbern #timber #bernard dowd #red robin #tim x bernard #my art #robin tim drake #dc #tim drake x bernard dowd #timbern week 2023 #timbern week

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lephamquynhnhu · 4 months

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Panacea

Chapter 3: The last remnant of epics (First Half)

Dan Feng x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS/ TAGS: The reader has a default name, OOC, mentioned blood, violence. (This is a work of fanfiction, events are not aligned or relevant to the original work)

Word count: ~1k7

Summary: He met you on a drizzling day when hydrangea fully bloomed on its field. Amidst the sea of mild pastel petals, Dan Feng never thought the flowery domain that intertwined your fate was the precise thing withered with you. They said he was a dragon, a hero, a sinner, but never a person with love, hatred, sorrow, or joy like everyone else in this world. However, it was a demi-truth. He committed the cardinal sin because of you.

Note: Do you like...pain?

"The patient has been in a coma for 72 hours from being discovered. Hemoptysis with unknown cause and her condition refuse all drugs even cloudhymn does not meet the treat's purpose ."

Dawn breaks at the East horizon, shining fragile sunbeams on a nightingale at your window, where eglantine baths in the late-winter breezes. The bird tilts its head toward a man who closes the medical file to sit beside your headboard. Its black eyes shimmer at the sight of Dan Feng slowly stroking your hand to check the pulse in serene silence. He now understands why you wear gloves all the time, to conceal these wrinkles that dedicate the unrecoverable illness. His cloudhymn failed to cure because all your living circuits were damaged, and ADN is no longer to repair. Imbibitor Lunae always knows that mortals are frail and short-lived, including you, but he refuses to give up on you this early.

Therefore, he gambles his last hope in this brewing dose. A thin stream of smoke from your china cup leisurely dissolves into the air that swirls off his mind as the High Elder found your limp body sprawled onto the garden with blood had already dried and a pale complexion. His immovable spirit wavered for the first time when he realized none of the treatments adapted to your status. Initially, the Long Scion intended to hospitalize you at the Alchemistry Commission, yet a mysterious veil shrouded your identity, causing him to change his mind since Dan Feng attempted to search for records or used medicine as a reference to develop an appropriate method. He spotted a polaroid dyed in time hue and a small glass jar that lay neatly in the last drawer, which led to another surprising event after analyzing those items.

The stagnated content in that container was an inhibitor serum that does not register in any medical history. As for your polaroid, five people stand at an old ruin, and four of them wear cheerful smiles on their vague faces when a center girl gives two peace signs with her indifferent look. Dan Feng could not tell if she was you since a sandy filter tainted the photo's plane, and most of her broken features were faint. Besides, the line "Memento mori" was written in sea penmanship on the verso, which intrigued his curiosity no less because it means "Remember that you [have to] die" in the Latin language.

However, Imbibitor Lunae takes a respite temporarily from his unbelievable hypothesis to prioritize your current problem. He only simulates 70 percent from the unclear formula in two days since your condition is on edge. Judging at purple veins spread over your face like a spider web indicates that the High Elder's acupuncture is about not sustaining the ebbing circumstance. Just as Dan Feng distraughtly caresses your wilt hand, the convulsion symptom breakthroughs the limit and takes control of your body. Ignoring the heat that overwhelms his mind and burns down his tongue, the Long Scion immediately drinks the brewing herbs to drench you. No words can describe his elated expression when your eyelids flutter open, and all the dreadful symptoms withdraw promptly as the medicine kicks in, restoring your ruddy complexion.

Winter passed, Spring came, and another circular cycle of linear time started as your pear blossoms halo underneath the silver moonlight. All corners of the Shangri-La immerse into argent moonlit, which creates a luxuriant spectacle as you and Dan Feng sit on the terrace together for flower viewing. The ambiance brims with the sweet aroma of Spring's breath while ethereal petals litter the ground densely, woven like a florid rug. Looking at his space-out figure with the sheen liquid that gleamed beneath those green eyes, you cannot help but inquire about his tangled thoughts. The High Elder merely inhales a long exhalation and shakes his head to gulp down the mild spice of apricot wine.

"Nothing, I will bottom it up even if it is poisonous." - Unchanging his visage, Dan Feng's chiseled Adam's apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed it, earning your joyful giggle. Undeniably, the High Elder possesses an awful sense of humor.

Fireflies start lighting their green phosphor glims in the epiphyllum bush to attract your concentration. It is rare to see them at this time because fireflies usually appear in the Summer season, and no exception to the Shangri-La. As a result, you want to catch some and contemplate your new moon cactus at a close distance. Imbibitor Lunae still nonchalantly refills his cup with his eyes fixed on your animated silhouette before a dark cloud flies through, obscuring the shining moon.

Three deafening sounds reverberate through the house that seethes the vicinity as soon as the surroundings drown in darkness. In brief seconds, an unreversed upheaval occurs to change everything upside down. After the noise of his broken cup was the metal collision, and the sound of sharp tool stabbing in the wood followed up.

"So, is it you? Bai Lin the tyranny?" - Dan Feng is the first person to raise his voice, arousing the sedate blank. Combined with the silken peary light engraving dark and bright contrasting plates on the Long Scion's face, the cyan orbs glow like cat eyes under his shadowy bangs. However, there is no sliver of hostility in his gaze. A shallow cut on his cheekbone gradually emerges in a thin scarlet line when the black cloud leaves, rendering the full moon.

On the opposite side, a glimpse of the familiar figure materializes from a cyclone made of thousands of heavenly petals who points her sword toward him with a decisive look. Gripping the conceptual blade manifested by winds is Wrath of Mandala, which was once a replica of Three Grand Divine Weapons that is eligible to kill immortals. You eventually discard the camouflage to reveal your true identity and vigilantly stand still.

Even though answering his question is the smoothing melody of your wind chime hanging on the porch, Imbibitor Lunae knows his hypothesis is correct. In millions of possibilities, the Long Scion never expected or believed that he would meet a phantom from the past who attempted to assassinate him like this. In brief moments, you took advantage of the darkness to fly daggers at his position, but Dan Feng neutralized the first one by throwing the cup and summoning his spear to counter the second one. Nevertheless, he failed to completely evade the last dagger due to the poison that affected his body. The High Elder wonders if you orchestrate this scheme from the beginning because this atropin agent originates from Datura Metel. Maybe he was the worm in your garden that you mentioned. Nonetheless, your apricot wine is innocent, but not his ceramic cup.

"I ask of you, all of our memories are fake?" - Dan Feng exhales as blood cascades to his chin like a tear, feeling the paralysis sensation strike through to depress his central nervous system.

"Whoever aware of Devourers of abominations...MUST DIE!"

Avoiding to give him a direct answer, you hiss your carved motto and dash forward with the windy blade. Under the rousing battle of you and Imbibitor Lunae, pear blossom falling frenziedly as a downpour, those petals whirl around you two akin to a mad maelstrom when your masterful swordsmanship keeps tearing the air to pierce his defense. Like a death choreography under the flowery rain, sparklets flicker at your weapons crash underneath the bright moonlit, and the ground gets plowed every time your slashing form sweeps through. Staring into each other fiery eyes, you know the High Elder has reached his limit and is struggling to measure your intangible sword. Even in a weakened state, Dan Feng is still one of the most capable warriors, proving that the title Imbibitor Lunae is not a vainglory. Nevertheless, he cannot swing his spear as usual as the action slows down precisely 0.2 seconds due to the poison. Even with a small amount of poison, that condensed extraction is far enough to work well.

In finality, the balance battle skews to your side when you seize the opportunity to cast out his spear, causing it to fly aloft and implant into the mangled soil afterward. Imbibitor Lunae's irises squeeze to the limit when your sword tip awaits with the moon background.

"Those memories are real, and I rejoice to stay with the person named Dan Feng." - Your mind screams while darting forward, ready to bore a hole in his heart. Upon the force of the unparalleled wind that drives the High Elder's long locks thrown back when receiving a lethal strike with scattering petals disassociate.

Amidst the poetic colonnade of pear blossom, time seems to stop flowing, and two people stand motionless as a long sword means to saber through the man's body, intending to strip him of permanent life. However, her sword tip barely grazes his chest.

"Why...why you didn't dodge it when you were capable of?" - The voice nearly inaudible under your breath with the gaze downcast while Imbibitor Lunae remains silent with his solemn expression.

"If you dare not, I will lend you my strength." - Dan Feng abruptly grabs the conceptual weapon to stab it through. Flabbergasting at his decision, you pull back the blade instinctively, making the dripping blood from his hand follow the line to stagnate at your hilt. Finally, you unsummon the sword when you see a scarlet circle blooms on his attire.

Kneeling on the ground, you blankly stare into the hollow voidness, and so does the High Elder, but he crunches down to pull you into an embrace. Biting your lips to prevent the honest desires from cascading like a waterfall, you want to resume staying by his side, and you also want to continue waking up by his side.

"Your mission has ended for a long time, Bai Lin." - Dan Feng softly whispers behind and pats your head, his voice soothing the aching heart. It is a mystery why his hugging feels so gentle even after your death match. Although you are soon aware that this moment will come, tears compete to fall out of your eyes corners. An igniting sensation besieges the bridge nose when you helplessly cry on his shoulder.

"Feng...please kill me or hand me over to the Yaoqing." - You weakly vocalize after a long serenity. Because life is sometimes tragic, we decide to sacrifice for something better. However, there are still shortcomings among his paragon virtues, and stubbornness is honorably one of them.

"...You will die if you don't."

"A double coffin doesn't sound that bad."

"Fool."

Ah, life is sometimes tragic.

#honkai star rail fanfic #honkai star rail x reader #hsr fanfic #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #dan feng x reader #dan feng x you #hsr dan feng #hsr dan feng x reader #dan feng fanfic

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pocketramblr · 2 days

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5 headcanons for an AU where:

All for One realizes the sheer amount of quirks he has actually makes him dumber

1- so, while AfO-The-Quirk does grant the user the ability to safely hold more quirks than other people can without straining the body and mind, it's far from capable of allowing the user to have an infinite number of quirks with no strain at all. You could probably stretch the initial limit of about twenty or so quirks, if you did it slowly over time to let the quirk get stronger... But AfO the Guy does not do slow and steady.

2- he steals more and more quirks, and his brain is so busy running all of those, it really makes it harder to think rationally or long term, especially in the aftermath of adjusting to a new glut of quirks. He stole a lot of the rebellion's quirks before killing Yoichi. But the pattern of his thoughts and behavior changing with more quirks stolen, and the lack of that when he's giving out or exchanging them, is noticed by both AfO and the Doctor, though it takes them nearly until the end of Shinomori's life to do so.

3- AfO is actually the one to accept that the more quirks makes him less smart, because then he can blame actions like Yoichi's death on the treacherous quirk ghosts in his head slowing down his brilliance and killing his brother. Still, it takes a while for the Doctor to convince him that giving up quirks would help him think clearly- and it doesn't need to be permanent, he can just store his quirks outside of his body and take the ones he needs when he needs them- at this point, with so much strain and overuse, he can only hold about ten quirks without it affecting his mind, and since he's got to keep the longevity, that means he only has nine slots. Huh wonder if nine is going to turn out to be an important number.

4- the Doctor still has to work to make nomu as functional quirk storage units, and AfO has to train to rely on a small number of different quirks. This becomes difficult as AfO wants very specific quirks then, so the doctor has to figure out how to edit them in such a way. And of course, this whole time they're trying to capture OfA users- to limited effect. AfO did manage a plan to take En alive in their third encounter, but he'd already passed on the quirk at that time, so OfA still isn't his. But this means Nana was killed far less spectacularly than getting nuked, since that would have taken a lot of quirks. Toshinori is trained for many, many contingencies.

5- AfO is distracted working to edit nine specific quirks to what he wants them to be, and on testing to see if he could edit OfA in a user, to change it genetically so it can be stolen, and using the kidnapped Shimura relatives as lab rats to do so, when All Might finds him and breaks his face. Only the doctor and All Might make it out of that one alive, barely. AfO's body is unrecoverable like many others, but Ujiko hopes that with his gene and quirk editing technology, he can make a clone.

#so uh. cloneafo v Izuku i guess #where it's a lot of strategy and Izuku's quirk set is already decided and known while cloneafo gets to be a little pickier #but only a little #pocket talks to people #dgshoe #ask game

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cybertron-after-dark · 9 months

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Tfa lore headcanon dump

Mostly spurred by bits of existing lore in the comics and the Allspark Almanac

-The Autobots don't have visual arts, but they do have music. Unfortunately the only really accepted form of music they have is propaganda songs, and only through a few state sanctioned musicians (Windy and Rosanna being the big ones). There's a pretty big emphasis on their voices being crafted specifically for singing, whereas the layman shouldn't bother trying, stigmatized as "nobody wanting to hear that."

-Conversely, the Decepticons don't really have music, the closest thing they have being spoken word poetry. They do have some degree of visual arts, the most prominent being statues, though most of those are specifically as memorials. After the war, especially after the attacks from the omega sentinels, a lot of the bodies of the fallen were unrecoverable, and a pretty big part of cybertronian funerals (especially military) involves showing the empty shell before it's recycled into more living metal, so rather than try to hold the funeral without being able to see who's being honored, or, in really bad cases, without even having a body to recycle, a statue would be erected by someone close to the deceased as a proxy of sorts for the real body. Originally they'd be recycled as the bodies they mimic were, but for particularly notable figures, it became common practice to leave the statue up so the mech it honors may live on through its image.

-Blitzwing singing is a result of being brought online in a colony world that innovated on the more common practice of spoken word poetry with wild tones and pitches for emphasis. It sorta evolved into singing naturally, but it didn't catch on back on Cybertron proper until later, during the war, long after Decepticon culture split from Autobot, and it didn't evolve to add instrumentals until even later (which is why Megatron is unfamiliar with music as a concept until he gets to earth, even though Blitzwing sings all the time.)

-energon and oil usually come in different forms and blends with different tastes, but the military grade stuff is usually all the same cubes and barrels. The horde of it in the crashed Decepticon warship Optimus lost Elita-1 in wasnt military grade, it was what war mechs pooling their resources could afford on a less-than-affluent budget. Pretty much all the cheap stuff Megatron bought out early on in the war before it got to be in shorter supply. It was basically an abandoned Costco full of cup ramen.

-Empurata and other reformatting based punishments used to be commonplace before the war, but phased out when the higher ups caught wind that tensions were rising and the Decepticons were gaining traction. The last thing they needed was to seem more brutal or unfair than they were already being accused of. That being said, it was still in practice when the Decepticons had just started. Shockwave and Lugnut were both sentenced to empurata for the same incident, when they were both caught loudly shouting over each other at a protest about who's a bigger heretic in Megatron's honor, which eventually turned into a fistfight, and ended with a crater in the ground when Lugnut accidentally set off an early model of his Punch of Kill Everything. Next thing they knew, they were both cyclopses with claws where their hands used to be. They've hated each other ever since and learned nothing. At least Lugnut got an updated POKE after the beta version was confiscated.

-Warframes were not paid fairly, usually treated as disposable, and their only choices for work were usually low paying manual labor, law enforcement, gladiator matches, or getting shipped off to fight and die so wealthy Autobots could have a new vacation spot after they've cleaned up the corpses they had to make to get it. The Decepticons honestly had every reason to revolt. Its also the direct reason Decepticons in general seem to be an army of freaks and weirdos; The Autobots really ingrained the whole "nameless, faceless cog in the machine" thing into warframes, so the cons started a culture that leaned into the parts of them that may be considered deviant, undesirable or "defective" in a drone.

-Nonspeaking beastformers are still sentient, and sparkless drones aren't really considered "alive," so the concept of nonsapient animals is a little foreign to most cybertronians, though not completely unprecedented. It took team prime a good while before they realized animals couldnt really grasp what they were saying. Even more foreign is living beings eating each other, because the drones and beastformers only really fuel up on straight energon, same as everyone else. The first time Prowl saw a dog eat a squirrel completely uprooted his worldview, but as much as it shook him, it didn't break his love of nature.

-The sapience of beastformers seriously complicates the ethics of Autobots keeping pets (which is commonplace among Cybertron's wealthy). For a bot with a beast mode and no voice synthesizer, your only real job prospects are exceedingly simple gruntwork, farm work, scavenging, or getting to hang around some rich douchebot's estate all day at the cost of your dignity and what few rights you had.

-Cybertronians don't really feel sleepy on a regular cycle the way humans do, but dedicating a solid chunk of time to powering down and giving their systems a rest is generally considered necessary for the sake of conserving fuel. Failing to do so usually ends in overheating and sometimes system crashing, which feels more like being way too hyper until you hit the wall and pass out than slowly nodding off, but it can be staved off with coolant and refueling.

-the constructions are not the only mechs to be weirdly attracted to random earth vehicles, they're just the only ones who can't keep it behind their panels, so to speak. Every transformer who has set foot in earth, whether they be Autobot or Decepticon, mech or fem, young or old, has had a big stupid crush on at least ONE earth vehicle. Whether they want to admit it or not.

#tfa #transformers animated #maccadam

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tongue-like-a-razor · 2 years

Text

Tailspin | Chapter 10

Maverick x Fem!Reader

Summary: Pete “Maverick” Mitchell falls in love with his number one rival’s girlfriend.

CW: love triangle, angst, elements of infidelity, slow burn, you're going to feel so bad for Ice, I apologize in advance <3

Start from the beginning: Chapter 1

"Cut the crap, Maverick," Tom says, shaking his head.

Goose makes a face at Tom as if he's offended him rather than Maverick.

"What would you do, Kazansky? Pray the ground away?" Maverick eyes him moodily and takes a swig of his drink.

"I would punch out obviously." Tom sneers, looking over at Ron who nods in agreement.

"And there goes your plane." Maverick holds up his glass and then brings it down slowly to demonstrate a crash landing.

"It's the plane or us, asshat," Ron retorts. "Hypothetically."

"But it isn't!" Maverick exclaims passionately, leaning into the table. "That's what I'm trying to tell you!"

Tom watches him irritably; it's obvious that Maverick infuriates him with his mere presence. He moves forward so that he's facing Maverick directly. "It's called an unrecoverable flat spin for a reason."

You sigh, bringing your hand up to your face and rubbing your forehead. They've been going at it for nearly two hours and you're about ready to get up and leave. You see Goose watching you sympathetically from across the table.

"You're not walking away from that," Tom snarls, shaking his head. "You eject, or you die."

Maverick leans back into his seat and smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. "Have you heard of the plane that brought itself out of a spin after the pilots ejected?"

Tom watches him coldly but doesn't respond.

"It's true," Maverick says with conviction. "And do you know why it's true?"

"I have a feeling we're about to," Ron says flatly.

"Look at that, you got one right, Slider!" Goose pipes in.

Ron gives Goose a cross look.

Tom is glaring at Maverick. Neither one of them has looked at you all evening and you're starting to wonder if perhaps it's better this way. Let them argue about planes, as long as they leave you out of it.

"Ejecting out of the cockpit tipped the plane's center of gravity, you see," Maverick says with a smile.

"Rockets will do that," Tom says sourly.

Maverick ignores him and continues, "Disrupting the gyroscope effect and bringing it out of the spin."

"Of course, the plane crashed anyway," Tom says. "Pilot was gone."

Maverick nods. "But," he says excitedly. "Think about what this means, Ice." He's smiling widely and you can't help admiring how handsome he looks when he's trying to prove a point.

Tom sighs skeptically. "What does it mean, Mav?"

"It means," Maverick says with a broad grin. "That all you have to do to bring the plane out of a flat spin is shift its center of gravity."

"Oh, is that all?" Ron quips.

Tom gives Ron an approving smirk, then turns back to Maverick. "How would you do that without ejecting, genius?"

Maverick tightens his mouth, pausing for effect. "I'd climb onto the glare shield."

Tom stares at him like he's crazy. "You would fucking not."

"If that doesn't work, maybe shimmy down the nose until it drops," Maverick adds.

Ron is watching him in disgust. "You're full of shit."

Maverick laughs. "It would work!"

Tom shakes his head. "Your recommendation to a pilot who's lost control of his aircraft is to unstrap and leave the cockpit in midair?"

Maverick shrugs. "You're dead anyway."

"No, I'm not!" Ron yells. "I'm ejecting! I've already ejected!"

Maverick rolls his eyes at him. He looks back at Tom. "You know as well as I do what ejecting can do to your body. Twelve, fourteen G's in milliseconds. Months of rehab. Possible spinal cord damage. You may never fly a Tomcat again."

Tom runs a hand over his mouth. "You're insane." He rubs his eyes tiredly. "For the love of god, Maverick, don't test this theory."

Maverick looks at him with a grin. "Ejecting isn't always foolproof, Kazansky."

"I can attest to that," Goose mutters. Then, he stands. "Amelia," he says, "walk with me. I think we might have another couple of hours before they decide to call it a night."

You chuckle, rising to follow Goose to the bar. You glance back to see both Tom and Maverick watching you go, and Ron glancing between the two of them with a puzzled expression.

"How are they not tired of arguing?" you say, shaking your head.

Goose laughs. "That right there is progress," he notes, pointing at the two men and giving them a nod when they look back at him in confusion. "They barely spoke to each other before you showed up. This," he adds, giving the two of them a thumbs up, "this is a budding friendship. Friendly rivalry. All in good fun."

You make a face. "You call this fun?"

Goose shrugs. "Not so much for you and me." He turns toward the bar and taps on the counter. Then he calls over the bartender. "What'll you have?" he asks.

"Vodka," you respond without a second thought.

Goose widens his eyes and then nods at the bartender. "Two, please," he requests.

You sigh, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

He looks over at you. "Rough day?"

You glance up at him, wondering how much he knows. By the gentle smile he gives you, you assume that it's probably everything. "I ran into Maverick today," you say.

"Oh?" he replies, his eyebrows quirking upward as though he's surprised. "Where?"

You narrow your eyes at him just as the shots arrive. "You haven't heard?" you ask.

Goose grins widely. "Oh, I heard, alright."

You giggle. "Your enthusiasm worries me."

He laughs, lifting his shot glass. "I can see why he likes you," he says.

You hold up your glass. "Other than the fact that he can't have me?"

Goose clinks his glass with yours, watching you carefully. "You're a cynic just like he is." After a moment, he adds, "Do me a favor. Don't break his heart."

You glance up at him guiltily. Then, you look over at the heated discourse still in progress at the table. "Somebody's heart is going to break."

"Well," Goose says. "I may be biased but –" he stops talking and you look over to see him take his shot.

You follow suit, cringing as the alcohol burns your throat. "I should never have come," you say quietly.

"You really think so?" Goose swivels in his barstool and waves over the bartender. "Two more," he says, holding up two fingers.

"I think that, if I stay, I'm going to ruin their budding friendship."

Goose turns to look at you. "Wait, you're not thinking of leaving, are you?"

You hesitate, not sure how to respond. "I don't know what to do, Goose," you whisper.

The bartender brings another set of shots and Goose holds one out for you. "Can I make a suggestion?" he says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes. "You're biased, remember?"

He nods. "He's really into you," he says. "Like, he won't stop talking about you, I'm tired of hearing about you, kind of into you."

You laugh.

"It's true, I think I know more about you than your own mother does."

You put your hand to your face because you're turning red, but you can't stop smiling.

"But if he knew I was telling you this, he'd kill me. So, I'm swearing you to secrecy."

You look at him in surprise. "You're betraying his trust."

Goose shrugs. "It's for his own good. I feel like perhaps you think he might have an ulterior motive."

You eye him skeptically. "How do I know you're not lying?"

He furrows his eyebrows. "Why would I lie? Besides, I'd say it's more than evident," he says, nodding toward Maverick, who's still demonstrating a series of rolls and dives with his exaggerated hand movements. "Even Ice sees it."

You sigh, bringing your glass over to Goose's to clink them together. "That's the problem," you mutter before downing your shot.

"Yeah," Goose agrees. "Ice is a problem, alright."

You shake your head, making a face. "I like my boyfriend, Goose. He's a really great guy."

"Wait, I thought Iceman was your boyfriend."

You give him a flat look. "Very funny. Listen, he might be a dick to the rest of you, but deep down, he's very sweet."

Goose grimaces. "How deep are we talking?"

You roll your eyes. "My parents love him. He's extremely polite and proper. He's a gentleman."

Goose furrows his eyebrows. "Iceman?"

You laugh. "He's actually perfect in every way."

Goose nods unenthusiastically. "Except in one," he says.

You raise your eyebrows questioningly. The bartender brings you another couple of drinks and you wonder when Goose had the chance to order more.

"Well," he says. "You're not in love with him. That much is obvious."

You shrug. "It doesn't happen instantly."

Goose eyes you knowingly. "Doesn't it?" he asks.

You let your gaze slip back to the table and smile as Maverick's graceful hand motions provoke cries of outrage from both Tom and Ron. Whenever you look at Maverick, everything else in the room blurs into the background and, with a jolt, you realize that it's been that way from the moment you saw him. You sigh. "Only in fairy tales," you respond finally, giving Goose a forced smile.

...

You shut your eyes, cringing after your fifth shot.

"Are we drinking?" You hear Maverick's voice nearby and your eyes fly open.

You place your empty shot glass on the counter. "We are drinking," you say, indicating yourself and Goose. "You" – you point at Maverick, Tom, and Ron, who have just approached the bar – "are not invited unless you find another topic of conversation. Any other topic of conversation." You feel the room start to drift slightly and realize that the last shot of alcohol might have been one too many.

"How about we get you home?" Tom walks up to you with a smirk and places his hands on your hips, pulling you toward him off the stool.

You stand up, putting your hands on his chest for support. "Sure," you say.

Maverick gives you a tight smile as the two of you say goodbye and head for the door. As soon as you step outside, however, Goose comes hurtling after you.

"Hey, Ice!" he exclaims.

Tom looks over at him with a cocked eyebrow.

"Look!" he points up to the sky. "A shooting star!"

"What?" Tom's expression is a healthy mix of confusion and aversion.

"No." Goose shakes his head. "No, that's not what I wanted to say."

Tom puts an arm around you and pulls you closer. "We'll see you tomorrow, Bradshaw." He turns to walk away.

"No!" Goose yells, making Tom turn back. "I mean, yes, you will. But also, I have something for you."

Tom narrows his eyes. "What are you on about?"

Goose takes a step forward and pulls on Tom's arm. "It's in my car."

"Bradshaw, what the fuck?" Tom jerks his arm out of Goose's grasp.

"You'll like it!" Goose insists, ushering him across the parking lot, leaving you standing alone outside the bar.

A moment later, you feel a subtle touch on the small of your back that begins to travel slowly upward as you rotate.

You see Maverick's sheepish grin and shake your head. "Poor Goose," you say.

He chuckles. "I agree."

You look down. "We can't keep doing this," you say quietly.

"I agree," he responds.

You glance up at him, disappointed in his answer even though it was your idea.

Then, he adds, "We can stop tomorrow."

You let out a small laugh.

Maverick holds your gaze for a long moment, as if he means to communicate something he can't quite speak aloud. Finally, he says, "What are you doing tonight?"

You raise your eyebrows. "I'm going home," you say. "With Tom."

He nods impatiently. "And after that?" he asks.

You blink. "After that, I'm sleeping."

He shakes his head. "Not tonight, you're not."

"Excuse me?"

He lifts his eyes to look over your shoulder and you have a feeling that Goose and Tom are already on their way back. "Meet me at the hangar at midnight," he says.

You stare at him, speechless for several seconds. Then, you say, "Absolutely not."

The left side of his mouth curls upward. "See you there," he mutters just before turning to head back inside.

"Maverick, no!" you call after him, grabbing his arm as he's about to pull open the door. "I'm not coming. I can't."

He looks down at your hand on his bicep and then he lifts his eyes to look at you. "It'll be like nothing you've ever experienced," he says in a low voice.

Of that you have no doubt; with him, that tends to be the case. "We can't," you breathe.

You feel the muscles in his arm contract under your grasp as he tugs on the door, and you let your hand fall away. "I'll be there if you change your mind," he says. Then he disappears into the crowd.

Read Chapter 11

Tag List:

I am starting a tag list for this fic! If anybody would like to be added, please comment here or send me a message!

@babyspiderling

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swampstew · 2 years

Text

Day 21 ~ Fire Fist Ace X M! Reader X Lap Warming

Title: Ace X M! Reader X Cock warming CW: 18+ only, Spicy, consent very much implied, MxM relationship, cock warming, anal sex, penetration, m!n0rs DNI you will be blocked

Last DNI/Content Warning

Ace lived a pretty lax lifestyle, even as the 2nd Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. And yet, he had found himself missing his companion - not spending as much time together, intimately.

He liked to think that he had a pretty average sex drive and that seemed to be enough for his boyfriend, but as of late they had not joined together in bed for two weeks. Ace didn't even necessarily want to bone, he just really missed his partner.

Seeing him walk across the deck, a grin appeared on Ace's face and he bounded to his boyfriend. No explanation, just grabbing his hand and dragging him inside the ship.

"You don't want to have sex?" furrowed brows on his boyfriend's face as they sat in bed together. Nodding his head, Ace kissed his knuckles. "Ok then babe, do your thing."

Ace was a gentleman so he wasn't going to just shove his dick up boyfriend's ass. No, first he'd kiss down his neck and down his spine. Massage his body while he tenderly kisses him, wanting to transfer the love he had for him through each press of his lips on skin.

Cock firm and erect, Ace squirts a drop of lube to oil his cock before slowly pushing inside his partner. Inching his length into the tight hole, Ace sighs contently as he bottoms out, stilling his hips and wrapping his arms around his boyfriend's waist as they laid bare skin against each other. Gently placing lazy kisses on his shoulders and neck.

His boyfriend intertwined his fingers with Ace's. He moaned and sighed at Ace's loving attention, feeling full for the first time in weeks. He subconsciously clenched himself, eliciting a choked gasp from Ace.

"Are you sure you don't want to fuck, babe?" his boyfriend giggled.

"We can, can we spoon and hang out afterwards?"

"Of course, babe!"

*Sorry if this isn't as juicy as expected! My original draft was unrecoverable and I couldn't recreate it exactly :(

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#raven's bingo board #one piece fanfiction #creative writing #swampstew stories #swampstew #fanfic #one piece #kinktober 2022 #raven's halloween party #fire fist ace #one piece ace #portgas d. ace #portgas ace smut #ace one piece #portgas d ace #portgas d ace x m! reader

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shuttershocky · 2 years

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Fiametta and Folinic should bond over their unrestrained but also unresolved thirst for vengeance, that no one else understands, and also bang

See the reason why i don't find them very compatible is because Fia's anger issues are really fucking funny while Folinic's are depressing and meant to be taken seriously.

Fia is the designated bully target of the story. She's the victim of unhinged bureaucracy giving her increasingly stupid nicknames, has to watch over someone who can literally alter time, is left out of the loop all the time (for the much less funny reason of being a Liberi in a Sankta ethnostate), and generally is made out to be a normal though temperamental person trying to get by in an increasingly unhinged world. Her very first appearance in Code of Brawl had a moment where she saw Emperor get killed and the rest of Penguin Logistics (except Sora, who wished people wouldn't trample on his body) be relatively unfazed, only to be told "Yes well you see this is a monthly habit of Emperor's, we are all used to it by now." "....Dying?" "Yeah." because haha the literal phoenix character doesn't know what reincarnation / immortality is.

Folinic's anger issues on the other hand are portrayed as deep-seated psychological problems, and the legacy of her mother. Lillia was a brilliant scientist but a vengeful woman, throwing her whole life away for a murder-suicide of Ursus government officials for the assassination of her husband. She gave Louisa (Folinic) to Kal'tsit specifically because she knew her actions would have her hunted down and killed, and planned to die attacking Count Boris' home. Were it not for Kal'tsit being strong enough to rip out the throat of an Emperor's Blade and tell it to fuck off back to Ursus, Louisa would probably have been killed as well by Lillia's actions, as the Blades began their hunt as soon as Duke Vanya had been assassinated.

When Folinic burns down half a city block of Wolumonde for the death of her friend Atro, she becomes a dark mirror of her mother. Suzuran is terrified of Folinic and the ugly smile she has on her face as she starts laying waste to her enemies. The Wolumonde government pleads for mercy because the whole reason they hid Atro's death is because they were a poor city and were sure that Rhodes Island would demand compensation for the death of one of their employees by a citizen, but they never imagined a visiting doctor would exact vengeance on them. Were it not for Suzuran holding her back and Mudrock's agreement to withdraw her infected group from Wolumonde to ease tensions between the citizens and the wandering infected, there might have been unrecoverable damage done to the starving city.

That is to say, Fiammetta and Folinic actually have fundamentally different emotions. Fia is so done with everyone's shit that she goes into a seance and begins channeling Latinized Donald Duck, Folinic welcomes genuine, cold hatred into her heart and relishes in grudges just like her mother. The report on Wolumonde was definitely heartbreaking for Kal'tsit to read.

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numerousbees1106 · 18 days

Text

I Wanna See Why The Birds Are Silent At Night

Angstpril Day 13 - Learning The Truth

Read on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/55184803

I Wanna See Why The Birds Are Silent At Night

It haunted him, the knowledge he held, the shared, collective, horrid truth that infiltrated his mind and the minds of his brothers. It circled him as worked and as he breathed, hovering just out of reach but still far too close. It stalked around him as he ate, as he talked, as he breathed, digging claws deep into his chest where he had long ago shoved all the broken things inside him, down until they were safely hidden out of sight, out of mind, a graveyard living in his soul. It drew close as he slept or lay awake at night, baring its teeth. Sometimes Kix could swear he saw his own reflection in its eyes, the night-gleam of an animal flashing and in the darkness Kix could make out his own face.

It haunted him, the knowledge. It haunted him to know the fate of all the Jedi who had been on Coruscant during the purge. If they were lucky, they had been killed, as horrid as that was to say. If they were unlucky…

Kix had heard the stories, had seen the broken corpses and the far-off look in their ex-commander’s eyes. He knew that the Inquisitors rarely Fell on purpose, knew that they were broken down and tortured until they snapped, like a bone finally cracking under a ceaseless, building pressure, that same cracking that happened to his brothers caught under tanks or rubble, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and stuck there until death.

Or, alternatively until their General found them and dug them out, pulling away metric tons of rock and steel to save lives considered expendable to anyone but him. His resolute kindness and courage had always been their saving grace in the face of certain death, of unavoidable disaster and unrecoverable tragedy. It pained him to think of that kindness being snuffed out, either through death or through a fate much worse, and so he hoped, despite the hopelessness of the situation, he hoped that somehow, some way, his fears were unfounded.

His hopes crumbled to dust with three short words.

“Kix,” Rex breathed, his voice taught and fraught with tension. “They found him. The General, they found him.”

Kix froze, pausing his current task to consider. It hardly seemed real, after having been searching and hoping and dreading for so long.

“And?” He said cautiously, his soul fraught with tension as his desperate hope warred with his logical side, and he finally turned around to face Rex head-on. “What’s his status?”

Rex’s face was pinched, his brown eyes bright with distress. Kix’s heart sank.

“He was on Coruscant when the Purge happened, Kix,” he murmured, and that was all he needed to say for Kix to get the memo.

After all, it was a well-known fact what happened to the Jedi on Coruscant. If they weren’t killed…

How? He wanted to ask, how could our sweet and caring General possibly become like them?

Except, Kix already knew the answer to that - he had seen the tortured bodies of the Inquisitors, their mutilated corpses and haggard forms a sure sign that they hadn’t Fallen easily.

General Kenobi had once said that someone can be tortured into Falling, and more recently Tano had confirmed that was what was happening to the Inquisitors.

Kix wondered whether that was happening - or more likely had already happened - to their General, whether he was in agony as he wilted under the Empire’s cruel claws. When had it happened? How had it happened? Had he been scared, in those final moments? Had he wished for them, had he been wishing for them?

“There’s more,” Rex murmured quietly.

Kix closed his eyes as a wave of grief crashed over him, raising his hand up to Rex, silently asking for a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Okay,” he sighed, pushing down the anticipatory despair he felt. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Rex licked his lips, glancing around the empty room quickly before pulling Kix in even closer.

“He’s Vader,” the other clone whispered, his voice hollowed out with a thousand emotions Kix couldn’t even begin to decipher.

“What?” Kix choked out, a jolt of horrid horror piercing through him like a blaster wound.

“Vader,” Rex hissed.

Vader. Vader, with the four mechanical limbs, with the awful respirator mask, with the life-support suit? Vader, the so-called ‘mechanical monstrosity’?

What had the Emperor done to him?

He and Rex held each other for a long time, offering silent comfort to each other, both feeling the sharp sting of grief. Even if they could somehow, some way save their General, what would be left? If his body was in such a poor condition - a body that, Kix mused, was probably even more fucked up than anyone knew about - what condition would his mind be in? His General wouldn’t have Fallen easily, he knew that. Would he even recognize them?

The truth was a bitter poison, Kix thought. The truth was a toxin that was hard to swallow and harder to digest. It would have hurt even if there was some way to change the past, to fix what had happened.

But there wasn’t.

And they would just have to learn to live with it.

#angstpril2024 #star wars #fanfiction #day13 #learning the truth #ao3 #ao3 author #star wars anakin #anakin skywalker #read on ao3 #darth vader #clone trooper kix #clone medic kix #tcw kix #kix #captain rex

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 21 days

Text

"Let us now consider another trait of the average ex-convict which is of great significance. Without his knowledge or volition (except in extremely rare cases), he has the tendency to revert to previous states of living, or of development. In this connection it must be borne in mind that in prison the social, mental and emotional development of the criminal has been sharply arrested. As previously stated, the paucity of social, mental, sexual and emotional contacts prevents the young prisoner from achieving maturity, and prevents the further growth of even the older one. (The average prisoner of to-day is so young that it is wise, for the moment, to consider the problem from this point of view.) He comes out of prison, therefore, pretty much the same callow, immature person he was when he entered, with the additional handicap of having suffered a partial or total incapacitation or at least a weakening of his powers of adequate response to stimuli. Not only that, but in his raging hunger for the woman, he has inevitably raised her to a place of exaggerated importance in life: so much so that in the initial grip of his lust he is almost ready to grovel at her feet, helpless in the face of her power to appease his wild desire. Unable to face her unself-consciously, he is obliged to hide his passion behind a smirking mask of hypocrisy.

Worse yet, although he thinks of life and people as they were in the pre-prison years, the world and the persons in it have greatly changed. He finds, too, that he himself has greatly changed. For although he feels the same youthful needs and hungers, he finds himself unable to feel the same responses. He is overwhelmed by a sense of futility, of loss, of being out of touch with persons, events, life. It is partly a poignant nostalgia for the old days and an overwhelming regret for the lost years, the wasted mind and the unrecoverable wastes and losses of the prison years. He finds himself enswathed in layers of numbness caused by malnutrition and prison stupor.

He cannot feel anything except the most violent and exciting emotions or events or people. In his unconscious efforts to free his body and spirit of this coating of numbness (anhedonia, as Doctor Myerson calls it in his splendid paper on that subject), he will plunge himself and his friends into the most outrageously impossible situations (so strong is the unconscious urge to make his presence felt, to convince himself and his friends that he is actually alive). All of which helps to explain why it is that the average ex-convict, still in the clutch of prison stupor, seeks to pierce the anhedonic fog with artificial stimulations: drugs, fiery liquors, passionate women, the noisy, glittering gaiety of night clubs and speak-easies. To do this, of course, requires money. Usually penniless, but usually determined also to have the fling for which he has lusted so long, the average ex-convict may react in some of the following ways.

He may feel so cheated of the joys to which looked forward, so angry at the failure of life to compensate him for the ordeal of imprisonment, that he will turn like a hounded fox upon the environment which frustrates and badgers him and seek revenge at the point of a gun. I have heard any number of ex-convicts say (and they so nearly use the same words that it is practically a pattern):

"Listen! You know what prison is. You've been in the can yourself. You know what a man's up against when he comes out. I don't have to tell you. Well, here's the way it is. I went through hell for seven years. I hardly drew a comfortable breath the whole time I was there. I got lousy food, a stuffy cell, a rotten job where I couldn't even learn a trade, and had to take a lot of cheap crap from a lot of half-witted screws (guards) who wouldn't even dare to speak to me on the street, let alone try to bully me not out here, where it'd be man to man. All right. I went through all that torture. For what? For stealing a few lousy bucks from some rich bastard that's got as many dimes as Rockefeller. Even if it's wrong to steal everybody does it, judges and all; and what about guys like Sin- clair, who had Martin Littleton and a few million bucks to keep him from going to prison even if it's wrong to steal, that doesn't give the dirty bastards the right to keep me cooped up like a dog for seven years, half starved, never seeing a woman, never having a chance to live. Well, by Christ, I'm going to live now! And I don't give a good goddam where I get the money to pay for my fun only, somebody's going to pay, believe me. If any of them lousy screws had anything worth stealing, I'd certainly love to make them pay for it. But anyhow, I'm going to make up for those seven years. They ain't going to use me like a yellow dog for seven years and get away with it. No sir. They've had their laugh. Now I'll have mine at their expense and we'll see who laughs the loudest, or the longest, or the last."

He may break down completely out of sheer disappointment and a sense of the futility of all effort, and fall prey to a most fearful inferiority-martyr complex, taking flight into the prison stupor in which (consciously or unconsciously) he sought refuge during the prison years. I have seen such men: puling, whining, altogether weak and inadequate, their spirits broken by imprisonment and the inability to achieve readjustment. I have heard them say, "Jeeze, what can a guy do? They's no work, and a guy can't take a chance gettin' pinched under the Baumes Laws. If he's an ex-con they'll throw the whole book at him and bury him for life." Beaten, defeated by circumstances, these men are likely to become derelicts and drifters, eventually to land in institutions for habitual drunks, drug addicts, and other misfits who have to be supported by the long-suffering taxpayers.

Or he may become so egregiously dissatisfied with the new environment (which is uncomforting and embarrassing, which frustrates his desire for sexual pleasure and rich living) that he will commit crimes, even when he has a very sincere desire to reform, which are unconsciously motivated by a desire to return to the prison environment. This, at first glance, may seem incredible; but I am sure that a more careful consideration of it will reveal its fundamental truth. The ex-convict, let us say, finds himself unable to get work; he will not hit the bread lines; without money, he cannot keep up even the pretence of respectability which is necessary if he is to delude his immediate associates, who know nothing about his prison record.

This makes life dissatisfying, incomplete, humiliating. In the new world he has no place, no security, no reputation. What he seeks when unconsciously desiring to return to the prison environment is, not the hateful cell, not the stuffy shop, but the feeling of security, of safety, of freedom from the stress and strain of a life he finds too difficult. He seeks the old world to which he had become stuporously accustomed, in which he had a meager but definite place, a reputation, friends of his own kind, and those other things in life which help to bolster up the drooping ego.

The ex-convict, thus, is essentially the convalescent. Prison stupor, as I have tried to show in another chapter, is a very real and dangerous disease. Its deplorable after-effects - bodily and spiritual anemia and atrophy, anhedonia are not to be thrown off in a few weeks or months. In fact, I doubt if any man who has served even five years in prison will ever succeed in fully getting free of its griping clutch. The newly liberated prisoner, therefore, is like any patient just out of a hospital: he is weak and ineffectual a convalescent. He is able to go through the less complicated motions and gestures of living, but there is actually very little life and strength in his devitalized, desire-torn body. He is a hollow shell, a fuel-less engine. To revert to the original metaphor: the animal suddenly freed after long captivity will need a great deal of time and exercise before it recovers anything like the full use of its various faculties."

- Victor F. Nelson, Prison Days and Nights. Second edition. With an introduction by Abraham Myerson, M.D. Garden City: Garden City Publishing Co., 1936. p. 257-262.

#words from the inside #prisoner autobiography #prison days and nights #victor nelson #history of crime and punishment #reading 2024 #causes of crime #ex-convicts #released from prison #research quote #rehabilitation #failure of rehabilitation #jailbirds #prison stupor #effects of incarceration #penal reform #american prison system #repeat offenders

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