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deepperplexity · 3 years

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Prompt: 22. Trembling

A/N: So I'm not much for writing young Snape romantically - I much prefer the older one - but I got a little idea for a story and I wanted to try it out. I hope I managed to do the idea in my head some sort of justice and that you all enjoy it <3

Setting: Hogwarts, the day before leaving for the holidays

Pairing: Snape x Reader (both in their seventh year at Hogwarts)

ABBR.: │ (y/n) - Your Name │ (y/l/n) - Your Last Name │

Word count: 3248

Warnings: Harsh Language, Angst, Fluff, Bullying

Masterlist page // Masterlist post // SNAPEMAS POST

Prologue: You have been in love with Severus for nearly two years now, but he had seemed oblivious to you and each time you had tried to befriend him, or even talk to him, he had been nearly cruel in his words as he pushed you away in all manners possible. But you were resilient and would not quit bugging him in your efforts to catch his attention. But, even you had a limit to what you could take and you were balancing on it after such a long time of giving it your best effort to get him to allow you into his life; and hopefully heart.

He was soaked. You heard the laughter and the snickering as he stood absolutely still in pure shock while water drenched him, soaked his clothes and flattened his long black hair. Your heart skipped a beat as tears sprung to your eyes as you stood halfway up the stairs watching him below you. Those fucking Marauders! They're so damn cruel! As that thought ran through your head you heard the howling laughter of those exact people.

Your head whipped around, your eyes instantly locked on James, Sirius, Remus, Peter and Lily. They stood on the staircase just above Severus; Sirius and James each held a bucket each that had obviously been filled with the water that had been dumped over Severus. You were fuming, your fists clenched at your sides as you watched them laugh. Except for Lily, she just sneered at Severus with a tired look. How can she just fucking stand there? How cold can a person be? At least the other idiots claim their actions and their ugly sides... But she, you were fuming as your eyes shoot figurative bolts of lightning at the girl who was one of the reasons Severus had not accepted your requests at being friends - or even on speaking terms. You knew that. You knew how he looked at her, and damn it hurt.

"Oy, Snivellus, feeling a bit cleaner?" James laughed out with a high five from Sirius who howled with laughter. Remus chuckled, Peter looked happy and Lily seemed to care more about her nails than the scene that was unfurling in front of her. You clenched your jaw as your eyes switched view and landed on Severus who was still standing absolutely still as water pooled around his feet. Your heart clenched at the sight of him, your stomach twisted and you started to tremble with fuming, glowing, boiling rage. It coursed through your every fibre as your hand unclenched and reached for your wand.

It all happened so fast. Your actions fuelled by the dooming rage that pulsed through you as you directed the tip of your wand towards the idiots one floor up and in the next instant they were soaking wet as a fountain of water spewed from your wand. Fuelled by your raging emotions. Silence fell as the sound of water took over. It only took a single moment to drench them all - and a few bystanders. But they had laughed too so why the heck not?

"(y/l/n)! NO-!" Severus screamed and it pulled you out of the pounding emotions that that locked you in your stance as water finally stopped spewing from your wand. You were panting, your hand and wand trembled as you shook from your own shocking action. You had never done anything like that before. Seven years at Hogwarts and I, I lose control now-?! You thought as your hand lowered while the Marauders were still coughing and trying to get up of the floor as the water had truly flown out of your wand like a wave and crashed into them with force.

You turned your head towards Severus who gawked at you. Except for the sloshing of wet clothes and some coughing, the silence was as thick as morning fog. He looked at you, shocked and perhaps taken aback from your actions. For a moment you were just frozen in place as the realisation hit you. You had stooped to their level. You had retaliated - rather splendidly as well might you add.

But the look Severus gave you wasn't a happy one, it wasn't thankful or grateful. He looked horrified and it broke your heart. Tears sprung to your eyes and in an instant, your legs began moving. You hurled yourself down the stairs as students started to whisper and point. You passed Severus in a rush, unable to look at anyone as you tried to keep the tears from falling freely. As you tried to keep your heart in one piece in your chest.

You barrelled your way through corridor after corridor until you got to the courtyard at the back. You flung yourself through the doors as the faint echo of your name being called reached you. But you ran. Ran and cried. Stumbled and sobbed. Somehow, you ended up at the Whomping Willow at the edge of the Forbidden Forrest. You stopped outside of its reach as you heaved for air. Your lungs burned as your cheeks turned wet from tears.

You tried to force air into your lungs, tried to confine the emotions that raged through you like the crashing of waves on a stormy sea seeking to devour all ships. To sink all things and snatch them from the light, clutch them in the deep dark of eternal night. Just, breath, breath, maybe he-, maybe he doesn't hate- no, that look... A sharp pain shot through you, it echoed through your soul as the look on Severus's face flashed before your inner eye.

You sobbed and snivelled as you tried to wipe away the salty tears. Your legs were shaking and your hands still trembled. Your chest felt too tight, yet it could have caved in on itself at the same time from the hollow feeling. How was that even possible? Could you break so badly you turned hollow?

A twig snapped, your head whipped around as Severus called out your name with a hoars voice. as if he had been screaming for a long time. Your eyes widened as he appeared at the top of the hill a little ways away from you. "Leave me alone!" you screamed at him with a broken voice as you were still crying. He started to run towards you on those long slender legs. "(y/n), you-" "Leave me alone!" you screamed again as you started to step backwards. As you tried to increase the distance he so hastily shortened.

"(Y/N), DON'T-" he screamed and you saw that horrible expression of horror again in his eyes and it hit you with such force you stumbled from the recent memory in the Entrance Hall. You were just about to fall when your breath was knocked out of you as something hard hit your back so harshly you landed face forward in the cold snow with a thud. You lost your bearing as your head had taken quite a hit against the ground. The tiny layer of snow did nothing to dampen the blow.

"(Y/N)! RUN!" Severus screamed as you tried to lift yourself up of the ground. What the- but you had no more time to think as a large tree branch slammed itself down right next to you. Missing you by merely the width of a wand. You tried to force air into your lungs after the previous harsh blow as your head spun and your back protested against any movement you tried to force your body to do. Severus shouted at you to move, run, get away - but you couldn't get up.

"MOVE!" he screamed and you rolled away just in time before another branch slammed down where you had laid a mere second earlier. You managed to get up in a crawling position and threw yourself forward with all your strength. You were nearly, nearly out of reach for the damn tree as it slammed its branches down again. The tip of one struck your foot and the force of the blow made you scream out in pain as Severus grabbed your hands and pulled you away from the tree with such force you landed on top of him.

You both laid panting on the wet, cold ground as the tree straightened and stopped flinging its branches around. You tried to catch your breath as Severus held onto you. You barely realized it at first but once your mind became aware of him beneath you, his arms around your waist, his face so close to your own... Your breath hitched, you tensed and you flung yourself off him so fast you had to scramble to find your own limbs in the flailing mess you were.

You managed to get up, somehow, as he rose elegantly despite his long limbs. Your heart hammered as he looked at you. Your mouth went dry as the memory of his horror-filled eyes from earlier flashed by as he still had a slight look of horror etched in those onyx galaxies that were his eyes. You couldn't bear to look at him when he wore that expression you knew came from anger at you, or perhaps even hatred at what you had done. It made no sense that he would be angry with you for defending him but you still saw it, felt it. It couldn't be anything else when his eyes wore such an expression.

You turned around as you hugged yourself. Your back ached, your body shook and you felt fresh tears as they leaked from your eyes. You sobbed as some form of reality hit you that you had fucked up and now, he would never allow you to be close to him. Perhaps now he wouldn't just dismiss you but effectively shut you out... You shivered as the thoughts of his hatred and rejection ran through you.

"Are you cold?" Severus asked and his voice frightened you so you jumped slightly as it came from such close proximity. You twisted your head at the same time only to find him mere inches from you. You froze. Never had he been so close before as he had been that day. Before it was unintentional but now, he had stood himself right by you.

"(y/n), are you cold?" he asked again as you couldn't make a sound. All you could think of, all you could feel, was your pounding heart and his beautiful eyes paired with the long black hair that screamed for you to reach out and run your fingers through it. But you didn't, of course, you didn't do that. But you wanted to, oh by Merlin how you wanted to touch those silky strands. but you merely looked at him as your body vibrated from the shivers as you were without any proper attire to be outside in such cold temperatures.

In the next moment, it was like you realised he spoke to you, realised he was so close, realised he had followed you - called for you and basically saved you from the deadly tree. You took a step back from him as uncertainty crawled through you. How angry was he with you? Did he hate you now? Was that what his eyes were screaming at you? You hadn't a clue and it freaked you out immensely. You felt your face turn pale - from the thoughts, the worry, but also the physical pain you were in as the tree had landed two harsh blows on you.

"Why did you do that?" he asked and his words surprised you, he sounded angry, or perhaps exasperated - you couldn't quite tell as his voice was so damn deep it thundered out of his mouth no matter what he said. "I-, I-" But you found no words. You had never confessed your feelings to him, you had only ever dared hope to perhaps befriend him. Why would he, excellent as he was, be interested in you? You weren't anything special or fancy, nor were you excellent as he was. You were, quite frankly, just you.

He raised a brow slightly at you and a blush crept in as you folded your eyes towards the ground. His was just too deep, too wide, to hexing to look into any longer. You feared you would drown if you kept staring into them as they swirled with black stardust. "You shouldn't have done that," he murmured on a small sigh and you lowered your head as your shoulders shot up towards your ears. "I'm sorry, I, I just wanted to- I couldn't just stand by and watch. They're, they're horrendous..." Your voice was low yet you managed to squeeze out the words through the lump that had formed in your throat.

"They are, you shouldn't have butted in (y/n), you should have just let it-" You whipped up your head with a glare towards him. Suddenly quite angry with him instead. "You shouldn't be treated like that! You shouldn't have to deal with shit like that!" you shouted as he stared at you, "It's not fair! They treat you worse than garbage! I can't- I can't stand it! I can't just look, I can't just stand by and let them torment the one I love-" Your hand covered your mouth instantly without even finishing your sentence.

You stared at him with wide eyes as he did the same at you. Your words felt heavy in the air as your body stiffened, prepared to run for the hills if need be. "You- you what?" Severus stuttered out and your face turned scarlet as he gawked at you. His eyes impossibly large and the usual pale skin a tad flushed. You couldn't help how your heart pounded, how your body trembled and shook - how your entire being screamed at you to run as if your life depended on it. But you were utterly frozen. Your boots stuck to the ground. Your shoulders stiff while your legs felt like jelly.

Well, that's one way to fucking do it, you thought as reality started to entwine with that fantasy world of yours. Just, perhaps not in the way you had wanted it to as Severus yet again looked horrified, or maybe disgusted, you couldn't quite be sure. It was difficult to tell what went on inside of him but it appeared to be negative, whatever it was.

You let your hand fall away from your mouth, it limply landed beside your body as if something just left you, some will or power perhaps. Something, hope or perhaps a dream. "I love you," you whispered as tears once again welled in your eyes, "I love you and I'm sorry to disgust you like that." You exhaled as the tears started to fall. It was over. Your fantasy world where you were by his side, loved by him, came crashing down as if it were an avalanche set on tumbling down a mountainside. You crumbled along with it. As good as buried beneath its weight, as good as dead as your hollow chest felt as if it had truly caved in on itself.

You turned from him, your body felt as if it were not your own. You felt naked in reality; stripped of that one piece of a dream you had held on to for dear life for such a long time. You started to walk away from him only to be held back by slim fingers wrapped around your wrist. You looked over your shoulder, your eyes landed right at his swirling galaxies of onyx and black stardust that looked intently yet harshly on you.

"I told you to stay away," he growled, you nodded, "I told you to ignore me," he continued and you nodded once more. He sighed, deeply. "I told you, over and over, not to butt in." You nodded once more as you wiped away tears from your cheeks with your free hand. The wind swiped over you and tossed about his black hair as you shivered from its frozen fangs that nibbled at you through the thin clothes you wore.

He tugged on your arm, you stumbled a step towards him. When you looked up he glared down at you. "I told you," he hissed, "to stay, away." In the next instant, his lips smashed against yours. Harshly. It took you a moment to realise what happened and then his lips were gone as you gawked at him. "I told you, to stay, away. I told you so many damn times (y/n). So, many, times," he hissed as his arms snaked around you. You looked at him, confused. Yet your body, it seemed to know what to do. As if it were second nature to be close to him. As if the stars had aligned and the world was righted when he was in your embrace and you in his.

His lips pressed against yours again and this time your fingers snared themselves in his hair as you kissed him back. It felt as if life were breathed into you. As if some of the endless universe that swirled inside of him filled the hollow in your chest and leaked out to fill your entire being. "I told you," he grumbled against your lips, "because I knew you couldn't stay out of it if you knew..." He left your lips at the last word as you were both panting. You just stared at him, all your thoughts were trying to make sense of what was happening. Have I been killed by that damn tree and gone to heaven?

His cold fingers stroked away some hairs from your forehead before his lips landed softly where his fingers had just touched you gently. "I knew you couldn't stay out of it, so I needed you to stay away from me. Then, you'd be safe," he whispered as his voice vibrated over you. A darkness curled around the sound, claws stroked your soul as gently as any feather could have.

"What, do you mean?" you breathed out as it was hard to get air down in your lungs when you were so close to him. He looked down at you. The onyx eyes, the hooked nose, the thin lips and the defined jaw. The black curtains of hair that framed his thin face - it was all pure perfection for you. "I mean, you would be in the line of fire if you were with me. And that," he said with a kiss between your eyebrows, "is unacceptable. As, I love you."

Your heart nearly stopped. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you. Your lungs barely remembered how to function. But your lips, they functioned properly as they were slammed on top of his as you pressed yourself into the caring young man who enveloped you in the warmest of embraces. Your fingers snaked between the strands of his hair as his hands held your hips gently yet firmly. I must have died and gone to heaven, you thought as the taste and smell of him overtook you. As you both trembled from cold and heat, from fear and passion - from joy.

Masterlist page // Masterlist post // SNAPEMAS POST

Tags: @lizlil @snapefiction @morphineisouthoney @setsuna-meiou31 @snapefiction @monstreviolet @meteoritewolf69

Want to be tagged? 💚 You can tag yourself HERE! Or tell me and I’ll gladly tag you! 😍

[Dec:2020]

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ahopelessromanticwritersworld · 3 years

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This is my extremely late fic for the Secret Santa exchange for @flightlessangelwings!!!

I’m excited for you to read this, and I really hope you like it!! I have a second part planned for this, so that is in the works!

This was inspired by @softpedropascal’s own pirate!Pero! AU, and I highly recommend everyone go check it and all of her work out! Everything she writes is *chef’s kiss* magnificent!!

Thank you so much for your patience! 💙💙💙

Pairing: Pero Tovar x Fem!Reader

Warnings: blood, violence, maritime action, lack of maritime knowledge, lots of Spanish in places

Ángel de la Muerte

As Pero felt the warm blood of his blade’s latest victim, he closed his eyes for a brief second. In that time, he prayed that perhaps today, of all days, would be the day that he finds the answers he was searching for. The man that he had just struck down had also been the last man that had taken part in taking you aboard a rival captain’s ship.

Pero had discovered your kidnapping when he stopped at your home city’s harbor and went to call upon you. When he arrived, what he found was utter destruction. Your door had marks in it as though someone had tried to axe their way through. All your furniture was overturned and thrown about the room. It was obvious that someone had either broken in recently, and you hadn’t had a chance to clean up yet, or…

Pero still shudders when he remembers his reaction to the second, more likely scenario as to why your home was in such disarray. He roared with a primal rage so unlike anything he had ever felt; not even the overwhelming adrenaline of a raging battle upon the sea got him this worked up.

After quickly interrogating your neighbors and learning some of the men’s names who had stolen you away as well as the name of the capitán they served under and the ship they had sailed away upon. He also learned that at least a week had passed since you had been taken, which felt as though someone had driven their sword through Pero’s chest, making his heart stutter and his breathing falter.

Now knowing that he was already working with a disadvantage for catching up to you and the dead men currently awaiting their visit from La Parca, Pero quickly made his way back to the docks and his ship, Ángel de la Muerte.

Pero was proud of his crew that they were able to mobilize so quickly; he couldn’t care less if it was because they feared him and his reputation, or if it was due to the fact that you took such good care of their capitán and they feared for what might happen to them if you were not around him any more. He was able to quickly set a course based on reports given to him by other seamen he trusted in the harbor who saw the rival pirates set off with you.

Pero was loath to admit it, but this rival capitán knew how to make it difficult to track himself down. Pero and his men were still searching for you, and it had been about two months since you had been taken.

At each port they stopped in, they gleaned another vital clue, whether it was a direction of travel or the name of one the men that had taken you. But it seemed as though each clue was smoke in the air: helpful right when he got it, but utterly useless when he began tracking again. The longer they searched, the more desperate Pero became because he refused to consider a world without you in it.

So whenever he or his men tracked down a lead, Pero had his second in command, William, write it down in a book to return to when plotting the next leg of their journey. That way, La Parca would have a ledger of all the men that had had any part to play in daring to steal away his tesoro and strike them down.

Finally, after four months of searching, he and his men were able to catch up to this rival’s ship. Pero was unable to stop the crooked smile emerging on his lips as he thought with glee of how he would cut these men down before coming to you with the blood from the dead men still warm on his face.

He was able to send a cabin boy to deliver his personal message to the capitán.

It read: “You have something that I want. You may think you have an idea of what you have in your possession aboard your ship, but I assure you that you do not. She will soon be back with me. She means more to me than you will ever know. You will not live long enough to rue the day that you crossed La Parca because I will kill you and every single man who touched a hair on her head. You may think you can flee, but know this: no man can escape La Parca.”

At first, Pero was sure that his reputation would ensure that the crew surrendered to him, but the longer they took to respond, the more his hackles rose. Then, the man on lookout called out because he saw them preparing to sail off as well as preparing their cannons. This made Pero and William share a quick glance. They both had no doubts that Ángel de la Muerte would emerge triumphant, but if they were forced to engage in cannonfire, there was no way to ensure your safety.

And this made the two men extremely uneasy.

Pero barked out the order to go after the ship, with his blood beginning to boil the longer he gave chase with you so close yet so far away from him. However, before Pero could engage in battle with this cobarde, the ship was pulled into a scuffle with a British Navy vessel.

Pero could only watch in horror as his rival’s ship was battered beyond belief by cannonfire, and his hope that you would escape unscathed dwindled to a quiet flame burning in his chest. Before his eyes, he watched as the ship was scuttled, and the victors began to sail away.

As Ángel de la Muerte made its way to the wreckage, Pero scanned his eyes among the flotsam for any signs of you. The longer he searched, the more he realized that you might not be alive. That didn’t stop him from desperately calling out for you as he and his crew continued searching for any sign of you. But when he came to that wrenching conclusion, Pero began to feel desperation and disbelief warring within himself.

There couldn’t exist a world where you did not live. Absolutely not! If you, his tesoro, had passed into the next realm without La Parca at your side, he would drag himself to the depths of el infierno and demand that you be returned to his side. And if he couldn’t bring you back to the living, he would demand from whatever immortal being he had to to strike him down. If only so that he could then join you in the after life.

Then, he could once again pull you into his arms, breathe in your sweet scent that was ambrosia to him, and reassure his sweet princesa and himself that you were really there, that you were safe and that there was nothing that he wouldn’t do to ensure your safety.

But right now, as William gave him a look and a subtle shake of his head, he had to come to terms with the fact that all souls were lost on this ship.

Now Pero gasped for air as his grief drove into him and made him feel as though his worst enemy had driven their sword through his chest. How was he to go on without his tesoro? You were the best thing that had ever happened to him, and now he was to accept that you were gone? NEVER!! He would never, in a hundred years, accept that you were gone.

Pero Tovar, capitán of Ángel de la Muerte vowed to all the gods listening that he would scour the ends of the earth and all the seas to find anything to bring you back to him, or he would die trying. And at the moment, he didn’t have a preference for either outcome. All he knew was both ways would eventually lead him to be reunited with you. Whether in this realm or the next, he didn’t care.

Pero glared up at the heavens, where he knew that his tesoro would be temporarily residing, if you had indeed left this mortal coil. He knew what he now had to do. He would track down a relic that he had heard only whispers about, a stone that was said to return the dead to life. And if it worked as it was rumored to, the stone would restore you so that it would be as if you had never left this world at all.

The groans from the man wounded at his feet brought Pero out of his reminiscing. For three years now, Pero had been searching for this stone that could revive his princesa, his tesoro and return her from muerte’s icy clutch. Before his personal quest began, he would have scoffed at such talk surrounding a mystical object; however, now he prayed that all the stories about this resurrection stone were true so that he could be reunited with his estrella, his North Star that served as a beacon to bring him home, no matter how far apart they were.

He barely spared a glance at the man lower than a barnacle in his eyes as William came up to him.

“My friend, look what he had in his cabin.” He opened up a journal, which had maps and scribbling in it.

“From his writing, it looks as though he and his crew lost something or someone valuable three years ago in Port Royal.”

Pero’s eyes slowly rose from the pitiful bottom-feeder to William.

“That could possibly be your beloved, amigo.”

Yes, Pero thought, I’m not an idiot. As soon as he realized that he might have gotten the biggest possible lead in his quest to be reunited with you, Pero crouched down so that he could be eye level to the scum.

“You will tell me what I want to know, then I will decide whether or not I should kill you. But if you dare to play me for a fool, I will take great pleasure in killing you so slowly that you shall be begging La Parca and Ángel de la Muerte to come visit you.”

The man whimpered, but did little else.

“What exactly did you lose at Port Royal?”

It seemed to take a great effort out of him, but the man finally wheezed out “a woman.

The captain wanted her, so we stole her away.”

“Where did you steal this poor, unfortunate woman away from?” Pero had to fight to keep his stoic composure in place when the man breathed out the name of the port city you used to call home.

“And did any one of your men or even you yourself touch her after stealing her away?”

“Never! I swear to God!”

Pero now felt that small, flickering flame of hope he had been nursing within himself for three years begin to grow warmer. However, before he could indulge in the heat emanating from this renewed sense of hope, he had to deal with the situation at hand.

Now that he had no use for the man, he quickly drew his dagger.

“Thank you for being so helpful.”

At first, the cobarde relaxed as though he honestly thought that Pero would allow him to live after admitting to such crimes against the capitán’s woman.

“But you see, you dared to harm mi princesa, mi preciosa tesoro.”

The man tried to move away, his eyes widened in fear. Pero’s hand coming down hard upon his shoulder prevented the scum from moving any further away.

“And for that, for touching what wasn’t yours, for stealing something away from La Parca, you must pay. For situations such as this, only one payment will satisfy this debt. A life for a life.”

Now this pathetic excuse of a man was begging for his life before Pero’s own eyes, and while he might have had some sympathy toward his fellow pirates since the harsher crackdowns by sanctioned ships in any other case, Pero was nowhere near ready to allow one of the brutes who stole away his tesoro to remain on this mortal shell.

Pero swiped his hand out and drew his dagger quickly across the scum’s throat. As the man began gurgling and choking on his own blood, Pero wiped the blood off on the man’s shirt and rose, keeping his eyes on the dying man in front of him.

It seemed an age, but the cobarde finally died and not a minute too soon. Perhaps that was only because Pero was so eager to see the demise of the man in front of him. As soon as he saw the light leave the man’s eyes, he turned to face William once more.

“Come, amigo, we must make our way to Port Royal.”

With that, the two comrades clasped their hands on each other’s shoulders before heading back to Ángel de la Muerte. Without another glance backward, Pero barked out orders to his men to throw the body overboard and feed it to the sharks.

As the ship changed course to begin making her way to Port Royal, Pero slowly climbed the stairs to the helm to overlook the crew working to ensure that they set sail as quickly as they could. He watched for a minute or two before he went to the railings and pulled out the chain that had resided around his neck for almost four years now.

A locket that had been caressed so many times by Pero’s fingers that he had worn the metal smooth over time hung at the bottom. Pero rubbed his fingers over it once more, knowing that a lock of your hair also resided inside but not daring to chance opening the locket for fear that a strong gust of wind would sweep the precious gift away from him.

Opposite your hair in the locket was a cameo as well, to aid the memory when he was away at sea, the shopkeeper had advertised. Pero had scoffed, as if he would ever require assistance to remember your stunning visage. But now that he hadn’t gazed upon your beauty for years, he was eternally grateful you had talked him into the luxurious purchase all those years ago.

Next to the locket hung the ring he had purchased with the hope of placing on your finger one day. And with this latest clue, Pero had renewed hope that this ring would soon make a home upon your hand. He raised the locket and ring to his lips and placed a reverent kiss on both before looking out at the sea once more.

“Te extraño, mi tesoro. Espero verte pronto. Te amo, mi amor.”

Translations:

1. capitán- captain

2. Ángel de la Muerte- Angel of Death

3. La Parca- the Grim Reaper

4. tesoro- treasure

5. cobarde- coward

6. el infierno- Hell

7. princesa- princess

8. muerte- death

9. estrella- star

10. amigo- friend

11. mi princesa- my princess

12. mi preciosa tesoro- my precious treasure

13. Te extraño, mi tesoro. Espero verte pronto. Te amo, mi amor.- I miss you, my treasure. I hope I will see you soon. I love you, my love.

Tagging people I think may be interested: @gamingaquarius @miraclemoreno @absurdthirst @scribbledghost @aerynwrites @storiesofthefandomlovers @f0rever15elf @cinewhore @softpedropascal @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @agent-whiskeys-sweetheart @flightlessangelwings @hopelikethemoon @jawabear

#pedros12daysofchristmas #pero tovar au fic idea #pero tovar #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x reader

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hexalt · 4 years

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CW for discussion of suicide

- She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - What? No, I'm not. - She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - That's a sexist term! - She's the crazy ex-girlfriend - Can you guys stop singing for just a second? - She's so broken insiiiiiide! - The situation's a lot more nuanced than that!

There’s the essay! You get it now. JK.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the culmination of Rachel Bloom’s YouTube channel (and the song “Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury” in particular where she combined her lifelong obsession with musical theatre and sketch comedy and Aline Brosh McKenna stumbling onto Bloom’s channel one night while having an idea for a television show that subverted the tropes in scripts she’d been writing like The Devil Wears Prada and 27 Dresses.

The show begins with a flashback to teenage Rebecca Bunch (played by Bloom) at summer camp performing in South Pacific. She leaves summer camp gushing about the performance, holding hands with the guy she spent all summer with, Josh Chan. He says it was fun for the time, but it’s time to get back to real life. We flash forward to the present in New York, Rebecca’s world muted in greys and blues with clothing as conservative as her hair.

She’s become a top tier lawyer, a career that she doesn’t enjoy but was pushed into by her overprotective, controlling mother. She’s just found out she’s being promoted to junior partner, and that’s just objectively, on paper fantastic, right?! ...So why isn’t she happy? She goes out onto the streets in the midst of a panic attack, spilling her pills all over the ground, and suddenly sees an ad for butter asking, “When was the last time you were truly happy?” A literal arrow and beam of sunlight then point to none other than Josh Chan. She strikes up a conversation with him where he tells her he’s been trying to make it in New York but doesn’t like it, so he’s moving back to his hometown, West Covina, California, where everyone is just...happy.

The word echoes in her mind, and she absorbs it like a pill. She decides to break free of the hold others have had over her life and turns down the promotion of her mother’s dreams. I didn’t realize the show was a musical when I started it, and it’s at this point that Rebecca is breaking out into its first song, “West Covina”. It’s a parody of the extravagant, classic Broadway numbers filled with a children’s marching band whose funding gets cut, locals joining Rebecca in synchronized song and dance, and finishing with her being lifted into the sky while sitting on a giant pretzel. This was the moment I realized there was something special here.

With this introduction, the stage has been set for the premise of the show. Each season was planned with an overall theme. Season one is all about denial, season two is about being obsessed with love and losing yourself in it, season three is about the spiral and hitting rock bottom, and season four is about renewal and starting from scratch. You can see this from how the theme songs change every year, each being the musical thesis for that season.

We start the show with a bunch of cliché characters: the crazy ex-girlfriend; her quirky sidekick; the hot love interest; his bitchy girlfriend; and his sarcastic best friend who’s clearly a much better match for the heroine. The magic of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is that no one in West Covina is the sum of their tropes. As Rachel says herself, “People aren’t badly written, people are made of specificities.”

The show is revolutionary for the authenticity with which it explores various topics but for the sake of this piece, we’ll discuss mental health, gender, Jewish identity, and sexuality. All topics that Bloom has dug into in her previous works but none better than here.

Simply from the title, many may be put off, but this is a story that has always been about deconstructing stereotypes. Rather than being called The Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, where the story would be from an outsider’s perspective, this story is from that woman’s point of view because the point isn’t to demonize Rebecca, it’s to understand her. Even if you hate her for all the awful things she’s doing.

The musical numbers are shown to be in Rebecca’s imagination, and she tells us they’re how she processes the world, but as she starts healing in the final season, she isn’t the lead singer so often anymore and other characters get to have their own problems and starring roles. When she does have a song, it’s because she’s backsliding into her former patterns.

While a lot of media will have characters that seem to have some sort of vague disorder, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend goes a step further and actually diagnoses Rebecca with Borderline Personality Disorder, while giving her an earnest, soaring anthem. She’s excited and relieved to finally have words for what’s plagued her whole life.

When diagnosing Rebecca, the show’s team consulted with doctors and psychiatrists to give her a proper diagnosis that ended up resonating with many who share it. BPD is a demonized and misunderstood disorder, and I’ve heard that for many, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the first honest and kind depiction they’ve seen of it in media. Where the taboo of mental illness often leads people to not get any help, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend says there is freedom and healing in identifying and sharing these parts of yourself with others.

Media often uses suicide for comedy or romanticizes it, but Crazy Ex-Girlfriend explored what’s going through someone’s mind to reach that bottomless pit. Its climactic episode is written by Jack Dolgen (Bloom’s long-time musical collaborator, co-songwriter and writer for the show) who’s dealt with suicidal ideation. Many misunderstood suicide as the person simply wanting to die for no reason, but Rebecca tells her best friend, “I didn’t even want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop. It’s like I was out of stories to tell myself that things would be okay.”

Bloom has never shied away from heavy topics. The show discusses in song the horrors of what women do to their bodies and self-esteem to conform to beauty standards, the contradiction of girl power songs that tell you to “Put Yourself First” but make sure you look good for men while doing it, and the importance of women bonding over how terrible straight men are are near and dear to her heart. This is a show that centers marginalized women, pokes fun at the misogyny they go through, and ultimately tells us the love story we thought was going to happen wasn’t between a woman and some guy but between her and her best friend.

I probably haven’t watched enough Jewish TV or film, but to me, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the most unapologetic and relatable Jewish portrayal I’ve seen overall. From Rebecca’s relationship with her toxic, controlling mother (if anyone ever wants to know what my mother’s like, I send them “Where’s the Bathroom”) to Patti Lupone’s Rabbi Shari answering a Rebecca that doesn’t believe in God, “Always questioning! That is the true spirit of the Jewish people,” the Jewish voices behind the show are clear.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend continues to challenge our perceptions when a middle-aged man with an ex-wife and daughter realizes he’s bisexual and comes out in a Huey Lewis saxophone reverie. The hyper-feminine mean girl breaks up with her boyfriend and realizes the reason she was so obsessed with getting him to commit to her is the same reason she’s so scared to have female friends. She was suffering under the weight of compulsory heterosexuality, but thanks to Rebecca, she eventually finds love and friendship with women.

This thread is woven throughout the show. Many of the characters tell Rebecca when she’s at her lowest of how their lives would’ve never changed for the better if it wasn’t for her. She was a tornado that blew through West Covina, but instead of leaving destruction in her wake, she blew apart their façades, forcing true introspection into what made them happy too.

Rebecca’s story is that of a woman who felt hopeless, who felt no love or happiness in her life, when that’s all she’s ever wanted. She tried desperately to fill that void through validation from her parents and random men, things romantic comedies had taught her matter most but came up empty. She tried on a multitude of identities through the musical numbers in her mind, seeing herself as the hero and villain of the story, and eventually realized she’s neither because life doesn’t make narrative sense.

It takes her a long time but eventually she sees that all the things she thought would solve her problems can’t actually bring her happiness. What does is the real family she finds in West Covina, the town she moved to on a whim, and finally having agency over herself to use her own voice and tell her story through music.

The first words spoken by Rebecca are, “When I sang my solo, I felt, like, a really palpable connection with the audience.” Her last words are, “This is a song I wrote.” This connection with the audience that brought her such joy is something she finally gets when she gets to perform her story not to us, the TV audience, but to her loved ones in West Covina. Rebecca (and Rachel) always felt like an outcast, West Covina (and creating the show) showed her how cathartic it is to find others who understand you.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the prologue to Rebecca’s life and the radical story of someone getting better. She didn’t need to change her entire being to find acceptance and happiness, she needed to embrace herself and accept love and help from others who truly cared for her. Community is what she always needed and community is what ultimately saved her.

P.S. If you have Spotify... I also process life through music, so I made some playlists related to the show because what better way to express my deep affection for it than through song?

CXG parodies, references, and is inspired by a lot of music from all kinds of genres, musicals, and musicians. Same goes for the videos themselves. I gathered all of them into one giant playlist along with the show’s songs.

A Rebecca Bunch mix that goes through her character arc from season 1 to 4.

I’m shamelessly a fan of Greg x Rebecca, so this is a mega mix of themselves and their relationship throughout the show.

I’m in a TV group where we wrote essays on our favorite shows of the 2010s, so here is mine on Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, I realized I forgot to ever post it. Also wrote one for Schitt’s Creek.

#crazy ex girlfriend #crazyexedit #cxg #ceg #crazy ex gf #writing #mine #mental illness #bpd #mental health #spotify #music #playlist #essay #*

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asthesamcroflies · 4 years

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Hi I was wondering if you could write a story with Jax Teller. The reader is pregnant and goes into labor during a lockdown but she doesn’t tell anyone she’s in labor. Eventually Jax or Gemma or Lyla catch on but they won’t make it to the hospital so they have to deliver the baby in the clubhouse. I totally understand if you do not want to write this. Since it doesn’t follow what you are specifically asking. Thanks.

Thanks for the ask - happy to give it a go, so hope you enjoy! :)

Lockdown delivery

“You think I don’t know the timing’s shit? Of course, I know the timing’s shit!”

You could hear your old man’s voice rising angrily, even over the thrum of noise filling the crowded clubhouse. Not for the first time, Samcro had been forced into lockdown by an outside threat for the safety of its members and all those they held dear. Old ladies, kids, some extended family, close friends – all those who were considered at risk now seeking refuge within the clubhouse walls.

All the responsibility, more now than ever, of the club’s young president Jax Teller. Your old man.

It was a huge burden on his shoulders and, for all his usual confidence and authority, there was worry etched between his brows. You hated knowing you were a big factor in adding to that.

With a sigh, you let a hand rest lightly on the huge swell of your stomach. You had to admit you didn’t exactly need all this right now, not at just coming up on thirty-seven weeks pregnant and with the finishing touches still to be done on the nursery and so much still to organise.

You were exhausted and yet here you were, doing what you could to be of practical help and to show your support for your old man.

“Go lie down, baby – we can manage,” Gemma scolded yet again, on her way past with another armful of blankets to make their guests more comfortable. “You look worn out.”

“Thanks,” you managed, through gritted teeth, rolling your eyes at Gemma’s usual bluntness and too stubborn to be dismissed even if it was for your own good. “I’m fine…”

But you trailed off with a pained expression, your other hand going to the small of your back as the dull ache you couldn’t seem to shake only deepened.

“You good, doll?” Lyla stopped briefly in her tracks to check in, but she had her hands full too, trying to feed the impatient little kids who’d been voicing their needs loudly amid ongoing groans over being kept shut up inside, so she accepted your less-than-convincing nod more quickly than she otherwise might.

So left to your own devices again, you took a deep, steadying breath. Goddamn Braxton Hicks contractions. You’d been having them all damn day and… Really? Had it really been that long? Normally, they passed much quicker than that…

No. No, it couldn’t be. You had at least another three weeks to go – not to mention a lockdown to get through!

Maybe you would have that lie-down after all.

*****

“Jax?”

“What, mom?” the biker finally snapped, more sharply than he normally would, riled at having his attention diverted from a quick situation update from his grim-faced sergeant.

Gemma’s eyes narrowed in warning at his tone, but she let it slide, knowing full well the pressure on her son’s shoulders right now. And that she could well be about to add to it.

“Oh, nothing important,” she snarked nonetheless. “Just the small matter of your old lady. You know, the heavily pregnant one?”

That was enough to cut through Jax’s focus on the club and he was immediately on a red alert of a different kind. “What about her? She okay?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing… No one’s seen her in a while.”

“What?! Shit. Well, she can’t have left – no one’s left. Jesus, how do you lose a pregnant woman in here?” Jax bit out, raking a hand through his blond hair. “Sorry, Hap, I gotta go deal with this.”

*****

Gasping in pain, you tilted your head back against the seat, now regretting the seemingly bright idea of taking the weight off your feet in the rare peace of the big old car that had been left in for a service at TM before the shutters had been forced to come down. With every dorm room already full, it had seemed like the best chance of just sitting back and holding on until the pains you’d been experiencing had passed. And you had still been telling yourself they would pass. That there was no way you could be so unlucky as to be in labour in the middle of a lockdown.

Ha, if only that were true.

Trying to remember everything you’d been told about breathing, you couldn’t hold back a cry in response to a particularly strong contraction.

“Oh god, please not now…” you all but sobbed, realising that even if you called out for help, it was highly unlikely anyone back in the main clubhouse would hear you.

But just as panic was about to set it, you heard your old man’s voice calling your name, concern already obvious in his tone. And somehow you found the strength to respond.

“Jax, I’m here!”

“What the hell are you doing out here? I’ve—Oh, shit!”

As soon as you saw him staring at you, you could let your eyes close in relief, knowing at least you weren’t alone in this now.

“Now? Seriously?” he grimaced, before quickly realising that wasn’t exactly the reassurance you needed. “Hey, hey, easy now, darlin’. It’s gonna be okay. We can call an ambulance and see if--”

“I … I think it’s too late for that …” you managed, panting for breath. “I’m so sorry, Jax. I thought it was just Braxton Hicks and--”

You broke off with another cry of pain, making your old man wince in response.

“Fuck,” he swore. “Okay, two seconds, I swear – I’ll be two seconds.”

“Jackson!” you yelped. “Don’t leave me, you asshole!”

“Two seconds!” he hollered back, dashing towards the clubhouse, yelling for his vice president at the top of his lungs – literally turning on his heel and racing back to you as soon as he’d managed to get the attention of a startled Chibs and had the Scotsman running to catch up with him, convinced they were all mere moments from being blown sky-high. Again.

But Chibs skidded to a halt when he realised the truth of the situation, his eyes widening.

“Ah, Jesus Christ, Jacky – I’m no a fucking midwife, brother!” he declared in alarm.

But seeing you sobbing in pain as you caught your old man’s hand in a death grip, the VP crossed himself, kissed the rosary that hung around his neck and heaved a heavy sigh.

“Towels, hot water, and a bottle o’ whisky,” he ordered.

“She can’t drink in her condition,” Jax protested.

“The whisky’s fer me,” Chibs clarified.

*****

It was rare for the clubhouse to fall so quiet in the middle of a lockdown, but with word about what was going on having spread, a hush had fallen over all those now waiting for news – or at least a hush periodically broken by screams drifting through from the garage, making the mothers among those gathered exchange sympathetic, knowing looks, while even the most battle-hardened Sons could only cringe in something close to horror.

And in the backseat of that godforsaken car you’d sought refuge in, you no longer gave a shit who heard what as you struggled in agony, exhausted by your body’s efforts.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” you panted, your hair sweaty and falling in your flushed face. “Please, just make it stop.”

“I know, darlin’, I know,” Jax tried to soothe you, his hand still caught in your death grip, but his well-meaning words enough to make you round on him with renewed energy.

“Do you? Do you really, Jackson? Are you also pushing something the size of a watermelon out of your vagina, darlin’?” you snapped, your voice rising shrilly. “Oh my fucking god, someone just get this baby OUT OF ME!”

Chibs could only chuckle, looking at you over the top of his glasses as he patted your knee gently while your words turned into a roar as you pushed through yet another agonising contraction. “Atta girl. Come on now, lass – nearly there…”

“I can’t…”

“You can, baby,” Gemma coaxed, from where she was hovering anxiously in the background with an armful of towels. “And you’re damn well going to – I want to meet that grandbaby of mine!”

You could only grit your teeth at that, more than tempted to take out all your pain and discomfort on everyone around you, but starting to lack the energy for that. Just when you really did think you couldn’t take much more though, it was done.

And a small whimper turned into a full-throated cry.

“Welcome to the Reaper Crew, wee fella,” Chibs declared, shooting you and Jax a little grin, tears shining even in his brown eyes as he laid the tiny wriggling bundle in your arms.

“A son,” you whispered tearfully, trying not to cry, even as Jax blatantly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, his arm curled protectively around your shoulders. “We have a son.”

“And he’s absolutely perfect,” your old man nodded, leaning in to kiss your damp forehead, his ringed fingers tenderly tracing your baby’s soft cheek. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

#soa #sons of anarchy #soa fanfiction #soa prompts #soa requests #samcro #jax teller #jax x reader

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

Text

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 30: Tim

Tim still feels guilty a week later.

Not, it has to be said, that anyone is making him feel guilty. Quite the opposite. The group hug in the Primes’ unofficial bedroom seems to have cleared the air. They don’t exactly say anything about forgiveness or accepting one another’s apologies, but Sasha comes with them when they leave work and ends up spending the night; they build a massive fort in the living room using every pillow and blanket in the house, have popcorn and hot chocolate for dinner, and swap stories about their childhoods until way too late in the evening considering they have work the next day. When Martin hesitantly admits the next evening that he’s been having trouble sleeping, Jon reminds him of his promise that Martin doesn’t have to be alone anymore, and the three of them curl up together in Tim’s bed for the first time since Jon’s stabbing, this time with Martin in the middle. They agree after that to assume they’ll keep doing that unless one of them has a genuine need to sleep alone.

But Tim still finds himself occasionally waking up in the middle of the night and studying the peaceful look on Martin’s face as he sleeps, or watching Jon mumble and shift restlessly as he watches whatever horror the Eye is forcing someone to relive, and feeling like the world’s biggest heel. While he knows he doesn’t have anything to do with Jon’s nightmares, he still feels like they’re not so bad when Jon isn’t isolating himself, and God knows Martin’s sleep is probably better when he doesn’t feel like he’s being shut out. And while, again, Jon was the one to insist at first that it would be better for him to sleep alone while he had the stitches in and Martin had quietly gone to his own room as well, Tim still feels like he pushed them away, even if it was unconsciously. He hurt both of them and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He knows he should say something. That’s the whole point of all this; they’re trying to communicate. If something is bothering him, he ought to tell the others. But what he doesn’t want is for Martin—or Jon, for that matter—to spout platitudes and reassurances that he won’t believe. Even though he can tell from their actions that they’re genuine.

At the root of it, that’s the issue. Jon and Martin have forgiven Tim for the way he treated them when he was angry. Tim can’t forgive himself.

Tim taps his pen against his jaw absently as he studies the file in front of him. He’s quizzed Martin Prime on the “feeling” he once mentioned getting about which statements were real or not, and in the last few days he’s been trying his hand at it. It’s slow going, and he knows it’s probably at least partly because he’s resisted the Eye harder than the others, but ever since Sasha’s intervention, he’s decided, screw it. He’s trapped here, for better or for worse, and if it means he maybe gets freaky psychic powers, maybe he can at least use them to help keep his family safe.

This one feels real. It feels bad. Tim hates it on sight, which probably means it’s a Stranger statement; he tends to react badly to those for obvious reasons. And this one deals with taxidermy, which definitely doesn’t help matters. Still, he grits his teeth and digs into it, and what he finds…isn’t comforting. The name Daniel Rawlings is one he remembers—that was one of the people who went missing near Old Fishmarket Close, the very first statement they ever researched that had to go on the tape recorders. And the description of the thing in the basement sounds a hell of a lot like the thing Nathan Watts saw—holding bodies, luring people down with creepy, repetitive phrases. The guy’s lucky to be alive. The fact that the Trophy Room apparently still exists, and is still under Daniel Rawlings’ ownership, is…not great. From a research standpoint, it’s a boon they don’t usually get, but from a practical, this-is-probably-something-set-to-destroy-the-world standpoint, it’s fucking terrifying.

Tim stares at the statement for a long moment. Whether they need to follow up on it or not is almost academic at this point; they will follow up on it, because it’s what they do. They’ll do what they can from the office, but Tim doesn’t need any kind of special powers to know that eventually, someone will go out there to investigate in person. And it’s dangerous. Someone could get seriously hurt.

Which means there’s only one choice, really.

Sasha comes back from her lunch break and smiles at Tim; he smiles reflexively back and goes through the usual routine of how was your lunch, what’s the weather like, anything interesting come up while I was out. He assures Sasha that everything is fine on their end, shuffles the folder under some of the others on his desk under the guise of neatening things up, grabs his jacket, feels to make sure his phone is in the inner pocket, and heads out of the Archives.

It’s the warmest it’s been all month, but there’s just enough of a breeze to keep his jacket on as he walks to the Tube station. Sloane Square is the nearest stop to the Institute, but it’s not on the right line, so he’ll have to change trains at Monumental, and God, this is stupid. Jon hasn’t told him to look into this statement like this, hasn’t sent him to investigate. He doesn’t have to do this, job-wise.

It also occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn’t told anyone he’s doing this. Well, there’s a reason for that, really; Jon would either try to forbid him from heading out there or insist he bring someone along, neither of which are happening. Tim’s not exposing anyone else on the team to this, even if he’s right there with them. Better that it just be him risking…whatever he’s risking by heading up to Woodside Park. But he should at least warn someone he might be a bit late getting back from lunch. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going exactly, he rationalizes, just say he’s investigating a statement. There are four or five on his desk, and even if Sasha goes snooping through them to see what he’s working on, there’s no way they can be sure this is the one he’s poking into. They’ll probably think it’s any statement but this one. They all know how Tim feels about the Stranger.

When he sits down on the second train just before it pulls out of the station, he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. What he pulls out…is not his phone. It’s a small handheld tape recorder, the sort of thing you’d find in an amateur spy kit, looking like it’s brand new out of the package. Tim stares at it in stupefaction for a moment, then quickly pats himself down. His phone is not in his pocket, and he suddenly has a clear and vivid picture in his mind of it sitting on the corner of his desk, charging, because he forgot to plug it in last night.

Great.

For a moment, he’s tempted to go back. Turn around, head back to the Institute, grab his phone, come back another time. Maybe give Jon a heads-up that he’ll be a bit late getting back, if Jon’s back from lunch by the time he gets there. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going, just that he’s following up on a statement or something like that. No need to specify, right?

He doesn’t, though. For one thing, he’s pretty sure if he goes back, he’ll lose his nerve and either not go back or bring someone back with him…or worse, let one of the others go instead. He’ll never be able to live with himself if he puts anyone else in danger like that. And for another, he knows Jon won’t accept a half-explanation. Tim will either have to tell him nothing or everything. And if Tim tells Jon everything, Jon will forbid Tim to come out here.

“I can hear him now,” he mutters, still staring at the recorder in his hand. “‘There’s no need for you to put yourself in that kind of danger, Tim, and certainly no need to expose yourself to that. We can do this over the phone if we have to.’”

Except they can’t; the Stranger is at its best when it’s hidden, so if they’re not looking it in the—well, looking it in the eye, Tim guesses—it’s going to lie to them. It might lie to his face, too, but at least he’ll have the evidence of his senses. And at least he can put it on alert, maybe. The Eye sees you. The Institute is aware of you. Timothy Stoker knows where to find you.

Yeah, right. This is the stupidest thing Tim’s done since he tried to jump off the roof using his grandmother’s umbrella with the bird handle as a parachute.

He turns the recorder over a couple of times in his hands. The Primes mentioned once that their Tim hated these things—the way they kept turning up without warning, the way they would turn themselves on at random times, what they might mean. Tim’s not exactly thrilled about this one just turning up in his pocket either, if it comes down to it, especially in place of his phone. A tape recorder won’t enable him to get in touch with anyone if things go tits-up, or if he’s running late or something. On the other hand…well, it’s better than nothing. And he has to admit it’s a little bit of a comfort to know he’s not technically alone. The Primes both swear they aren’t a tool of the Eye, and he has to admit their logic is sound as to why not, but still, someone or something is listening to him, which means he won’t disappear into nothing. If, God forbid, something goes wrong, at least there will be a record. Some kind of witness.

Tim pats down his pockets and locates a pen, then pops open the recorder. Nestled inside is a microcassette tape, ready and waiting. He considers for a moment, then writes RETURN TO ARCHIVES, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, LONDON on the label as neatly as he can. There isn’t anywhere on the recorder’s surface to write, and he doesn’t have any tape or anything, but he hopes that will be sufficient, should someone find it and need to send it back. He considers writing his name and the address of the Institute on his arm or something, the way his parents used to do with him and Danny whenever they went out someplace they might get separated, but decides against it. Based on where he’s going and what he knows about what’s there, the balance of probability is that if he dies, they won’t leave any skin to identify him. He’ll have to settle for tucking his wallet in the same pocket as the recorder and hoping they dispose of his jacket without going through it.

Tim is beginning to wish he put a little more forethought into this. Or, you know, any forethought at all.

Woodside Park is almost at the end of the Northern line, which gives Tim way too much time to think about turning back and consider that there’s no turning back now. He’s the only one who gets off at that stop, which is certainly not eerie at all. Nope, nothing to be concerned about here, perfectly normal. (Logically, it probably is perfectly normal, but Tim is so addled right now that everything looks spooky.) He fishes out the recorder and turns it on.

“Right,” he says. “Uh, this is Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, and…if you’re listening to this and don’t know what that is, well, uh, stop listening and get this back to Jonathan Sims, the Head Archivist. You, uh, you should be able to look it up. Stop listening now.” He pauses a second or two, then continues, “Okay, should be Archival staff listening now…Jon, Martin, if it’s you, I’m sorry, but I had to do this. I’m, uh, I’m at Woodside Park right now, I just got off the Tube, and…well, I’m about to go into the Trophy Room. This statement is just…it’s too freaky to leave alone. I can’t risk any of you if it’s something serious and…I’m sorry. Anyway, I’m…going to leave this thing going in my pocket, kind of try to get a recording, so that if I can’t explain for whatever reason, you’ll know what happens. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Hopefully nothing too bad, but…well, we’ll see.”

He pauses for a moment, then tucks the recorder back in his pocket and says under his breath, “Fuck.” Then he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and heads down the block.

The Trophy Room isn’t hard to find. It’s exactly as the taxman described it in his statement—an aged, grimy building with faded gold lettering and a dirt-streaked olive green awning. There’s even a stuffed big cat in the window, and the only reason Tim knows it’s a tiger and not a lion, apart from the statement, is because big cats were something of an obsession of his when he was nine or ten, back when he’d considered a career as a wild animal tamer for a circus, and he made a study of the physiology of them. This is unmistakably a tiger, long-faded stripes notwithstanding. That seems to him a somewhat irresponsible way to care for something you ought to put pride in, but what does Tim know?

The bell over the door clangs raucously when Tim pushes the door open, and he is suddenly confronted by hundreds of staring, glassy eyes. Tim quite likes animals and he’s seen many of the ones in the shop live and in person, including an up-close-and-personal encounter with a moose (this one must be a juvenile, he thinks, a full-grown bull wouldn’t fit in the space it’s crammed into), but the concentration of them looking at him, all at once, is disconcerting, to say the least. But it’s not nearly so disorientating as the smell. Danny once declared he was going to buy their mother something “unique” and purchased a titan arum for her before learning that it was more commonly called a “corpse flower” for a very good reason. This place smells like they’ve got an entire greenhouse of them under the floor.

Which is better than the alternative, really.

A man comes out of the back. True to the description in the statement, he’s a “fresh-faced twenty-something”; if he’s even Jon’s age, Tim will eat the entire taxidermied moose. He raises his eyebrows in Tim’s direction. “Can I help you?”

A nagging, persistent voice in the back of Tim’s head that sounds an awful lot like Martin suggests that declaring himself to be from the Magnus Institute would be the worst decision he’s made all day, which is saying a lot. Time to fake it. Luckily, Tim’s good at that. He switches on his most charming smile. “Hi! I sure hope so. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my sister.”

Is it Tim’s imagination, or does the man he presumes to be Daniel Rawlings relax, just a fraction? “Bit early for that, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know if you’d have something on hand or if I’d have to wait for you to get something in or bring something in,” Tim says, waving at the assorted animals. “I mean, she’s kinda picky sometimes. I don’t know how this works.”

“Ah. Well, let’s see what I can do to help you.” The man extends a hand and grins. “I’m Daniel Rawlings. And you are…?”

“Nick DiAngelo.” Tim Anglicizes his grandfather’s name; it feels safer than giving his real one. He accepts Rawlings’ hand; it’s cool, hard, and very dry.

“Mm.” Tim can’t tell if Rawlings believes him or not, but he shakes his hand and lowers it. “Well, all of these pieces are for sale, unless you brought something in. You’re not a…hunter yourself, are you?”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis Rawlings puts on hunter, but he keeps up his smile. “Nah, not my thing. Never been one for guns or the like. I like my nature alive.”

“But your sister doesn’t?”

“She’s an animal lover, but she can’t have pets at this new place she’s moving to. So, stuffed it is.” Tim waves a hand at the room. “Don’t think there’s room in her flat for a whole moose, of course, but…”

“Of course, of course. Well, feel free to look around and see if anything catches your…eye.”

Tim manages not to react to that word. Instead, he, smiles again and ambles towards a shelf full of squirrels. The animals’ eyes seem to follow him as he walks, and he knows Rawlings’ eyes follow him, too.

“So how long have you been doing this, anyway?” he blurts after a moment, turning back to face Rawlings. “It must have taken ages to do all this.”

“Oh, I inherited it,” Rawlings tells him. “An old friend of my father’s left it to me. Apparently he didn’t have any other family.”

Mentally, Tim ticks off the first item on the list—the stories tally. Which, well, of course they would. “Do you like all this?”

Rawlings shrugs. Tim tries again. “You’re lucky, you know. Falling into a business like this. I’ve been having to work my way up from the bottom. Is it hard?”

“Not so hard as it could be, I suppose.” Rawlings looks around him. “At least it’s a good, steady business. No heavy lifting.” He smiles. “I’ve got people for that.”

“Hey, are you hiring?”

“Hmm.” Rawlings tips his head to one side, studying Tim. A prickle of unease crawls up Tim’s spine. The man won’t make eye contact, but something about that regard unsettles him. “I think we might be able to find a…fitting position for you. If you’re interested.”

Tim pretends to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know after the new year? Got a big project I’m in the middle of now.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of time.” Rawlings smiles. “It’s not like the animals are going anywhere.”

Tim laughs, despite the creeping feeling of dread. “That would be…strange.”

The word slips out before Tim can stop it, but Rawlings laughs, too. He seems genuinely delighted, and even comes closer. “Here, let me help you find something that would suit your sister.”

He lights a cigarette. Tim raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about these old things going up if you drop that?”

“I’d be desolate if they did.” There’s no doubt about it; Rawlings is dropping those words deliberately, but this time he sounds amused more than taunting. He either realizes Tim knows something, or he’s just showing off his own knowledge. Neither of which is good. “But no, they’re remarkably well-preserved.”

“That’s what they said about our uncle,” Tim quips. He does get another laugh out of Rawlings for that one. “How old are they, anyway? I know you said your dad’s friend did them…”

“He owned the shop. Many hands have worked these creatures.” Rawlings strokes the moose’s nose almost reverently. “Tell me, Mr. DiAngelo, what is your field?”

“History,” Tim lies easily. “Eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with a focus on arts and industry.”

“Ah.” Rawlings still doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s a glitter in them. “Then I think I have something worth showing you.” He gestures towards the back.

Tim’s not stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. He knows from the statement that the workroom is back there, behind the office. There’s a distinct possibility that he’s letting himself be lured into a deadly trap. But in keeping with his persona, and also in the interest of getting the information he needs, he says brightly, “Great! Lead on, then.”

If he survives this, Jon’s going to kill him.

The office is small, largely dominated by an old oak desk. Seated behind it is a petite woman with close-cropped brown hair, wearing a grey t-shirt and a light jacket, bent over what look like account books. Tim has a nasty feeling he knows who this woman is.

“Sarah,” Rawlings says, confirming Tim’s suspicions-slash-fears, “this is Nick DiAngelo. I brought him back to show him the skins…Mr. DiAngelo, this is Sarah Baldwin, one of my fellow employees.”

“Pleasure,” Tim says cheerfully. This is officially too much, but he’s got to see it through now. The smell of Death By Flowers is stronger here, and he remembers suddenly Melanie King mentioning in her statement that the Sarah Baldwin who did sound work for her Ghost Hunt UK episode had a sharp, faintly floral perfume, or something like that. He wonders if she’s been living here—so to speak—all this time, if the smell of the building has soaked into her skin or if it’s something that comes from her and Rawlings and whatever else might be part of all this.

“Hi,” Sarah says succinctly. Tim also remembers Melanie saying she was a woman of few words.

“Come look at these. She won’t mind,” Rawlings assures Tim. Sure enough, Sarah seems scarcely aware of their presence as Rawlings begins showing Tim the skins hanging on the wall. And if they’re genuine, if he’s telling the truth about their origins—and Tim has no reason to doubt him—they are impressive.

One skin seems to be missing, though. The man from Internal Revenue described a gorilla skin, alleged to be from the fifth century B.C., the oldest bit of taxidermy in the world. There’s nothing like that in this room. Tim’s not sure why that bothers him so much, but reluctantly, he has to admit that he probably shouldn’t ignore it.

“…And this,” Rawlings concludes, indicating a stuffed figure on the desk—a white hare in a waistcoat, “was part of the Great Exhibition of 1851. It helped drive Victorian England mad for the craft.”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis he puts on mad, but since this is supposed to be his specialty, he says, “I am impressed. There was a lot of fantastic craftwork at the Great Exhibition. I saw a stereoscope card once while I was doing my graduate research, but I never dreamed I would ever see something that was actually displayed there.”

“Would you like to touch it?” Rawlings asks. “You can, you know. It’s quite safe.”

Tim tries very much to look like he’s hesitating out of reverence for the age of the piece and not because he wonders if he’s going to end up poisoned, sucked into an alternate dimension, or triggering a trapdoor to the mouth of a hungry monster, but he can’t actually think of a good reason why a historian would refuse to touch, well, actual history. So he reaches out, slowly, and runs his hand over the hare’s fur. It’s stiff and wiry, the effects of almost two centuries of existence, but still feels mostly soft under his palm. The body is solid and firm. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it has a heartbeat.

“That’s brilliant,” he breathes. Hopefully he still sounds awed and not terrified. He takes a risk. “Is this the oldest piece you have?”

“Wolf,” Sarah grunts, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the wolf pelt hanging on the wall.

“It dates back to the Middle Ages,” Rawlings explains. “We had one even older, but, well, it was stolen some years ago.”

“Stolen?” Tim is genuinely taken aback by this. “Did they ever find it?”

“No, sadly. It was never sold, at least not publicly, so who knows?” Rawlings sighs. “It was a gorilla skin, from Carthage. Brought over by Hammo in the fifth century B.C.”

“It must have been worth a pretty penny,” Tim whistles.

“Its value is immeasurable,” Rawlings says earnestly. “It means the world.”

Something about that phrase makes Tim’s blood run cold. Not it means the world to me, or to my dad’s friend, even though he guesses that’s a fiction. Just it means the world. Whatever that means, it can’t be good for humanity.

“Well,” he says, as sympathetically as he can. “I hope it comes back to you in the fullness of time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will. If it hasn’t been destroyed…I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows where to look.”

Tim would like to go now, he decides. He’s pretty sure he has all the information he needs, and surely the Primes can fill in anything he’s missing. “I’m glad you showed me these. They’re really impressive. But I’m sure they’re well out of my price range.”

“Maybe,” Rawlings says. “But that could change. We’ll discuss that later, if you’re still interested in that job.”

Tim definitely does not like the sound of that. “I’ll be in touch about that. And I’ll be back for sure about something for my sister, once I’ve had time to…reassess things a little. You know, get an idea about her flat layout and what sort of thing would work best for her.”

Rawlings smiles. It sends chills down Tim’s spine. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He holds out his hand. As they shake again, for the first time, Rawlings looks Tim dead in the eye, and Tim realizes two things. First of all, the taxman wasn’t kidding; Rawlings’ eyes are as dead and lifeless as the animals’, and like theirs are made of glass, fixed in place where his real eyes should be. They should stare without seeing, but unlike Martin Prime’s eyes, which are still warm and expressive but stare right past or through you, these bore into Tim’s and he is one hundred percent aware that Rawlings can see him perfectly clearly.

Second…his eyes are glowing faintly, a deep and vibrant indigo, like they’re lit from within. Which is frankly beyond disturbing.

“I won’t,” Tim assures him, and means it.

He comes out of the office ahead of Rawlings and is about halfway to the door when it happens. The bell jangles again, and two men come in—two men Tim would prefer never to see again, dressed like deliverymen and crossing into the shop.

It’s Breekon and Hope.

One of them notices Tim and stiffens. “Hey, you.”

“What are you doing here?” asks the other, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Come to spy on us?”

“See what we’re doing?”

“What?” Rawlings asks sharply.

Tim bolts. He has surprise on his side and manages to get out the door before anyone can grab him, but unlike the man who gave the statement, he knows they’re not just going to let him get away. He considered a lot of possible fates for himself should he visit the Trophy Room, but somehow, Breekon and Hope turning up while he was there, and recognizing him, never occurred to him. Stupid. Stupid.

It’s a good stretch to the Tube station, and Tim expects every step to feel them on his heels, but either they can’t move as quickly as him or they’re not chasing him for their own reasons. Still, he hears a rumble behind him and doesn’t stop to check if it’s them or not. Instead, he sprints for the entrance to the station and leaps down the steps three at a time. He lands wrong at the bottom and his ankle buckles, but he shakes off the pain and manages to just make it to the train before it pulls out, which at least has the advantage of giving anyone who saw him come flying in a possible explanation for his hurry beyond “being chased by something out of a horror film”.

He collapses into his seat and catches his breath as the train pulls away, heading back towards central London. Once he’s breathing normally, he takes stock. His ankle throbs, but the pain is relatively mild. He’ll live and, most crucially, he’s not in the back of an ersatz delivery van…or worse. Tim honestly can’t say what he would have done if they’d caught him, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about it.

After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and checks for the recorder. It’s stopped, which might mean it cut itself off when the danger had passed, or might mean he hit the end of the spool, or might mean he screwed up and turned it off and it didn’t catch what happened in there at all. He’s going to have to hope he got everything, though, because no way is he risking playing this on the train. There are other people here, after all, although not many. He does rewind it, though, and he’s comforted to hear the length of its backwards spool. There’s something on it at least.

He makes the connection with seconds to spare; the Central line is a bit more crowded, so he ends up standing near the door, which does at least mean he’s the first one off at Sloane Square. He tries to hurry without running—the last thing he wants is to draw attention—but even now, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if anyone is following him. Luckily, it appears he’s managed to give them the slip. For now, anyway.

As he gets closer to the Institute, he slows up and tries to straighten up his appearance. The last thing he wants is to make it look like he had to run for his life, or might still be running. He’s got the tape if Jon doesn’t believe what he says, but maybe he’ll get lucky and he can avoid having to play it, so Jon—and Martin, for that matter—don’t have to know how close a shave he just had.

Yeah, right. And maybe he’ll finally get that phone call about his audition for Jersey Boys.

He’s still limping as he reaches the Institute and lets himself in the door to the Archives. For just a minute, he pauses when he comes in, wondering why they swapped out the light bulbs for novelty green ones…but no, he blinks hard and the lighting goes back to normal. Just the regular old Archives, rows of shelves littered with files, pod of desks in the work area, three people grouped around it. Tim’s not sure what’s going on, but from the looks of it, Sasha and Jon are sitting down and Martin is fussing.

Martin looks up as Tim comes closer, and his face goes slack with relief. “Tim!”

Sasha’s head whips around. “Are you all right?” she asks.

Tim tries for a grin. “I’m not dead.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly comforting. You get why that’s not comforting, right?” Martin tugs at his hair in evident frustration. “Wh—” He stops and presses his lips together tightly for a second.

“You’re late.” Jon’s voice is soft but accusing. He gets to his feet and wobbles for a second before steadying himself against the back of the chair.

Suddenly worried, Tim takes a step towards him. His ankle chooses that moment to remind him that he’s already fucked it up and buckles under him, nearly sending him to the floor. He doesn’t fall far before Martin is there, catching him and half-dragging, half-carrying him over to his chair. “You’re hurt.”

“Master of the obvious,” Tim tries to joke, and then he sees the look on Martin’s face and realizes what’s going on. They’ve all realized that Martin has acquired the ability to compel people to tell him things, especially about how they got hurt or why they’re scared; he’s trying to learn how to control it, just like Jon and Sasha are trying to learn to control their new powers, but Jon Prime warned them already that it will be harder for them to not let it slip in involuntarily when they’re upset or stressed. Martin is trying very hard not to force Tim to tell him anything. It’s a courtesy Tim doesn’t think he deserves, but he swallows down on the guilt. “Just twisted, I think. No big deal.” He eases away from Martin and stands; it hurts a bit, but he’s at least able to do it on his own.

Martin lets him, but he’s still hovering, around both him and Jon. Jon stands facing Tim, looking grim. “You didn’t have your phone with you, Tim. We couldn’t contact you. It’s been two hours.”

Tim winces. “I didn’t realize I’d left it behind until it was too late to come back, and then I just…I thought I’d be back sooner. Sorry, boss. I’ll make up the time.”

“I’m not worried about the time, Tim!” Jon throws his hands up in frustration. “I’m worried about you. You were gone longer than you should have been, and we had no way of getting in touch with you, nor any idea where you were.”

“I—I was going to text you, but—”

“No, Tim, we didn’t know where you were,” Martin emphasizes. “Sasha tried to Know where you’d gone and gave herself a nosebleed. Jon tried and passed out! I-I finally asked downstairs, and all he’d say was that you were safe and on the way back, but that’s really not as comforting as he made it sound.”

“I know how you feel about…all of that,” Jon says, his voice sounding strained, “but we were worried. We were scared. Especially since…” He gestures at the files on Tim’s desk. “I wasn’t sure which one you were investigating.”

And Jon’s avoiding actually asking questions, too, out of fear of forcing Tim to answer against his will. They’re all better than he deserves, he thinks distantly, and it would serve him right if—no. He’s hurt them enough.

“The Trophy Room,” he says quietly. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out the tape recorder, which he hands to Jon. “Pretty sure I got the whole thing on there, but I haven’t had a chance to check.”

“The Trophy Room? The taxidermy shop in Barnet? The one we’re pretty sure is a stronghold for the Stranger?” Martin’s voice rises in pitch. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What were you thinking?” Jon says, clearly upset. “You’ve read that statement, you know how dangerous it is. If I had wanted someone to go there to investigate, I would have sent someone, and you would have been the last person I would choose—”

“I wasn’t going to let any of you go out there,” Tim argues.

“Tim, you’re already marked by the Stranger,” Jon says sharply. “Remember what they said? The marks make you a bigger target. It means they’re more likely to try something on you. That—whatever it was in the basement, the anglerfish thing—if Rawlings had opened the door, it might have lured you down. My God, Tim, you could have been killed and we would have had no idea where you were.”

If Tim did this to make himself feel less guilty, he failed spectacularly. He inhales sharply and tries to meet Jon’s eyes. For just a second, they seem to glow a vivid and vibrant green; Tim blinks and they go back to their normal brown. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that, I just—all I could think about was that I needed to protect you all. I knew someone was going to end up investigating all this, we couldn’t get the truth over the phone, and I—I didn’t want to risk one of you going over there. I knew it was dangerous, but…I haven’t done enough, so I thought it had to be me.”

“Tim.” Jon’s jaw works for a moment, and then he just surges forward and hugs Tim tightly.

Tim hugs him back, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. A moment later he feels the comforting weight and warmth of Martin’s arms around them both, but instead of making him relax, it just makes the tears flow harder. He doesn’t deserve this.

He must say that aloud, because Jon releases him and steps back to frown at him. “Don’t deserve what? What are you talking about?”

“This.” Tim gestures to Jon and Martin hovering around him, then to Sasha, who evidently was part of the hug, too, at least peripherally. “I didn’t—I fucked up, Jon. I shoved you all away and I made you feel—I was hurting, so I hurt you without any reason, and I—”

“We were all hurting,” Martin interrupts him, his face tight with sympathy. “And we all did things to hurt each other—”

“You didn’t,” Sasha points out.

“I could’ve stepped in any time, or spoken up about what was bothering me, instead of acting like I thought you’d hurt me if I tried,” Martin says. “I didn’t. I let myself class you all in the same category as my mother, and that isn’t fair to any of you. I know better. What happened this month between us is as much my fault as anyone else’s and I’m not going to sit by and act like I’m the victim in all this, because that isn’t fair to anyone. Including me.” He takes a deep breath. “We’re a team. We’re a family. We’re supposed to work together, right?”

“Right.” Tim swallows hard and wipes his eyes. “No more unauthorized field trips. Promise.”

Jon nods. “Thank you.” He glances at the tape recorder. “I’ll listen to this later, if you need me to, but meanwhile, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Tim sighs. “Might want to sit down. This could take a while.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #canon typical stranger content #guilt tw #implied past emotional abuse #tim stoker stop being a dumbass challenge

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ghostbustermelanieking · 4 years

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tma as “the haunting of bly manor”: self-indulgent au ramblings

this started as me really loving thobm’s ending (both in general and as a representation of what i want out of tragic gay love stories in horror) and thinking “wow it’d be cool if tma ended like that,” and ended up here because i started analyzing the parallels and where other characters fit in and couldn’t stop thinking about it. indulge me on this one please

(putting this under a cut in case anyone is watching the haunting of bly manor and doesn’t want to be spoiled. i don’t think you necessarily need to have seen thobm to understand this but it probably helps.)

· okay as pieces of horror that deal a lot in tragedy and death and love and themes of being trapped and fighting against things and reliving moments in time and losing yourself to outside forces, i think thobm works really well as a template for a tma au

· to start off: martin is the storyteller. of course martin is the storyteller

·“statement of martin k. blackwood regarding… a ghost story” more on this later

· the magnus institute stands in for bly, and it’s pretty much the same except it’s in the middle of fuck-all nowhere, and is much less staffed, and half the staff just like. lives there out of necessity

· it isn’t just a temple to the eye though; it’s mostly that, but it’s also kind of like a sinkhole for all the powers. the land it’s on is a mess and divided up between the powers like a mini fearpocalypse

· consider: tim and sasha as owen and hannah come and suffer with me

· ok aside from the inherent tragedy of their stories being in parallel, consider: tim would make those awful puns and sasha would absolutely pretend to hate it

· ok but also consider: sasha dies and no one notices, not even her. she’s taken by not-sasha the lady in the lake and she dies and no one notices it, but everyone wonders where sasha’s always going, why she always seems to be so out of it.

· imagine sasha fading into the background not realizing that shes dead... tim not understanding why she's pulling away or constantly disappearing, why she acts so strangely when he suggests they run away... sasha reliving moments with tim, unable to understand why she keeps coming back to the moment where she pushed him out of the way when something was in the institute, not realizing it’s the last time she saw him alive

· “tell him i love him…” oh my god

· not sasha is the lady in the lake. just because.

· jonah elias magnus is a little bit the lady in the lake a little bit peter quint he’s got the backstory of this being his house and being there for fuck-all-ever, and he’s using all these people as cogs in the machine, trying to get them to lose themselves to the eye or anything else there, using their lives and wellbeing to benefit himself (especially jon more on that later)

· (it should be noted there’s a very good fic with a huge manor and ghosts and romantic stuff and jonah possessing people called antigonish that makes way more sense than this but anyways)

· basira and daisy are a little bit quint and rebecca jessel. not entirely; their backstory is different and so is their dynamic, and daisy doesn’t possess basira to kill her and trap her there forever or anything like that. but she does go over to the hunt and ask basira to come with her. the difference is, basira wants to

· georgie is henry wingrave. minus the spousal infidelity and secret daughter, but in that she refuses to come to the institute. she’s brushed enough with it (with the end) that she doesn’t want to come anywhere near it, or anyone involved. she’s henry wingrave who separates herself from everyone for her own preservation but also loses jon and melanie in the process… who calls all the time because she misses them and wants to either apologize or beg them to leave but can never get up the courage to say anything… who comes back to get them out and dies briefly and has her encounter with the end… who talks to sasha when she reveals she’s dead and says, “tell him i love him…” who helps melanie leave in the end…. jesus christ

· melanie and jon are both dani yes i will elaborate

· melanie is dani in that she’s the last to come, and she thinks it’s going to be a new start even though it’s anything but. (she’s running, although not from a ghostly fiancé, but from the slaughter and the war ghosts and the humiliation she faced on the internet.) she comes to give a statement and ends up never leaving, and the slaughter only tightens its hold on her. georgie disapproves. melanie wants to leave when she figures out she’s trapped but she doesn’t know how

· jon is dani in that he is the second to last to come, and also the linchpin to ending all of it. but he’s also a little bit the kids, in that he’s being manipulated and taken over by the eye and in a lot of danger but he has no idea. he’s still the archivist he still takes statements and elias (who’s a lot less present here but still has some sway over everything) is manipulating the hell out of him ala quint to miles and flora

· the covering mirrors motif pops up here somehow mirrors looking glass eye all of that

· jon still takes statements, and statements are a version of dream-hopping. where they can relive their statements and their fondest memories and all of that, but jon is unwilling voyeur to all of it

· tim and martin are the ones who don’t stay at the institute overnight. jon and melanie and sasha and basira do. gradually tim and martin start to leave less and less

· it ends in a big confrontation i’m not sure how. lake + eye imagery, the power well trying to pull everyone in. sasha accepts she’s dead. georgie comes for her loved ones. jon gives himself over to the eye to save everyone, so they can all leave

· here is where storyteller martin comes in because imagine that ending of dani and jamie in a jm context. holy fucking shit

· jon and martin who leave the institute and go to scotland on borrowed time, knowing jon will inevitably lose the rest of him to the eye someday, but wanting to spend whatever time they have left together. the safehouse period but it lasts for years pls imagine. all of that. oh my god

· jon eventually going back to the institute to protect martin and martin following him and getting there too late… that entire scene by the lake… holy shit holy shit

· storyteller martin who won’t talk about it for years before finally giving the statement (possibly at georgie and melanie’s wedding just because, possibly not like that at all). who gives the statement futilely hoping it’s the key to seeing jon again because that’s always worked before. storyteller martin who is still looking for jon years later, who fills the sinks and tubs and sleeps with the door cracked open. storyteller martin who sleeps unknowingly with jon’s hand on his shoulder

· this is messy and unformed but i’ve been screaming about it for weeks oh my god someone draw this for me

· i don’t expect actual tma to end anything like this but i’d die if it did

#tma au #tma #the magnus archives #thobm tma

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dccomicsimagines · 5 years

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Coming Out By Bleeding Out - Young Justice Imagine

Requested by Anon - If you're comfortable with it, maybe something with the S1 team where FTM!reader gets hurt on a mission and when they take him to the med-bay to patch him up he refuses to take off his suit, and the team is freaking out bc *Y/N you're gonna bleed out--* when he finally takes it off they see he has top surgery scars and he tells them he didn't want them to find out he was trans because he'd had some bad experiences with coming out before and its just some good platonic hurt/comfort💞 thanks✨!!

Requested by Anon - can you please write something with a trans!reader who is nervous about telling the team since people hadn't been accepting before? I'm kinda in a similar situation rn and your writing always cheers me up :)) also sorry if i made any grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language lol😂 thanks in advance!!!!❤❤ ❤❤

Author’s Note - For the second Anon, if you wanted a story with a MTF!reader, please send in another request and I’ll do that for you. I just figured since both prompts had similar themes of coming out that I would combine them.

***

“Stay awake, (Y/N),” Artemis ordered as she put pressure on your gunshot wound. You moaned, sleep pulling at you.

“I’ll try.” Pain seared through your body when Artemis pressed down harder. Black swarmed your vision.

Kaldur came into your sight, taking over for Artemis. “We’re about five minutes out, (Y/N). Stay awake.”

“I think I might hurl,” Wally exclaimed when he got a peek at the blood soaked bandage.

“Shut up, baywatch.” Artemis smacked him away. “You have no room to comment when (Y/N) took the shot for you.”

“That wasn’t me! Rob was the one that was about to be shot,” Wally protested, moving away.

“Who cares?” You moaned, closing your eyes. There was a hard tap on your cheek. You forced your eyes open to see Conner glaring down at you.

“Stay awake.” He snorted.

You hummed. Pain rocked through you again. “We’re almost there,” M’gann shouted.

Everything blurred together. You felt yourself being moved. Pain shot through your body. You heard Kaldur explaining the situation to Red Tornado.

You were laid down. Your heart skipped a beat when you felt someone start to pull up your shirt. “No!” Your hands gripped the edge of your shirt, keeping it down. Fear made your blood run cold. You saw the rest of the team was still in the room with Red Tornado standing over you.

“(Y/N), I must take your shirt off to see the wound,” Red Tornado explained.

“No, no, no.” The pain disappeared as you kept a tight grip on your shirt.

“(Y/N), you are bleeding out, we have to take your shirt off,” Kaldur soothed, coming to your side.

“It will be fine.” Red Tornado attempted to take off your shirt again, but your grip was too strong. “(Y/N), your resistance will only cause you to lose more blood.”

You shook your head. The fear made you more aware. They didn’t have to worry about you falling asleep anymore. “No, leave me alone!”

“Take the shirt off, (Y/N)!” Conner snapped, tired of it. M’gann touched his arm.

“(Y/N), why are you scared?” M’gann asked, frowning. You felt her reading your mind. The horror of the team finding out this way chilled you to the bone. You weren’t ready to come out to the team. They would reject you like how you were rejected before.

More blood gushed from your wound. You felt lightheaded. “No, don’t.” You collapsed back into the bed. All you saw was black.

***

You woke up to bright lights. Panic filled you as the memory came back. You reached to touch your chest, relieved to find you were wearing a shirt. However, the horror set in when you realized it was a different shirt. They had taken off your shirt.

“(Y/N), you’re awake,” Dick said, perking up from the chair beside you. You flinched, staring at him in horror. “Woah, hey you’re fine.”

Your mouth went dry, terrified out of your mind. You didn’t want to be kicked off the team. They were your friends. You couldn’t stand the idea of them throwing you out.

Dick held up his hands. “Hey, you’re fine, (Y/N). You lost a lot of blood and you’ll have to heal, but there’s no permanent damage.”

You covered your face with your hands, wincing when the IV pulled slightly at your movement. Dick eyed you before leaving the room. You couldn’t move your hands away from your face even after you heard the others filing in.

“(Y/N), my dude,” Wally said with a bright smile on his face. “I’m so glad you’re awake. We thought we lost you, man.” He plopped down beside you, making himself comfortable. You stared at him in shock.

“You scared us to death,” Artemis added, slapping Wally’s arm. “Give (Y/N) space, baywatch. He doesn’t need you crowding him out of his own bed.”

“(Y/N) doesn’t mind. We’re buds.” Wally nudged you with his elbow, giving you a smirk. You were still staring at him with wide eyes. None of this was making sense.

Swallowing hard, you were able to wet your throat. “You don’t care?”

Wally and Artemis looked confused. “What do you mean we don’t care? Of course, we care. Why else would we save you?” Conner said, frowning.

You snorted at the irony that you would have to bring this up. “About my scars?”

“Of course, we care,” Kaldur said calmly. “You are our friend.”

You blinked in disbelief. This wasn’t what you expected. “You mean it doesn’t bother any of you that I’m trans?” You looked around at everyone, meeting each of their gazes.

Dick shrugged. “No, I mean you’re a cool guy that took a bullet for me and Wally. Can’t complain about that. I’m whelmed.” He laughed his signature creepy laugh. Your heart soared. A smile pulled at your lips.

M’gann gave you a bright smile. “You’re our friend, and I think I speak for everyone when I say this changes nothing.”

“Yeah, doesn’t change a thing,” Wally said, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

Artemis snorted. “Yeah, like we didn’t have to explain what top surgery was.” She slapped Wally’s head. Wally whined.

“Sorry that I don’t know everything.” Wally glared at her, but turned back to you a moment later. “But I’m willing to learn what I need to know.” You turned away, tears in your eyes. “Hey, don’t cry. You’ll make Artemis cry.”

Artemis snorted. You ran a hand over your face, getting control of yourself. “I just expected you guys to hate me,” you explained. “When I came out before, everyone treated it like a joke. No one would use my correct pronouns and don’t get me started on the bathroom...” A sob escaped you.

Kaldur came up to pat your leg while Wally hugged you. M’gann joined the hug a moment later. “We respect you, (Y/N),” Kaldur said quietly.

“Thank you.” You sniffled, trying to stop yourself.

“But if you refuse to take your shirt off again when you’re bleeding out, we’ll kill you,” Dick said. The mood lightened. You laughed along with everyone else. The relief rushed through you and you realized the best friends you had ever had were the ones standing around you.

#young justice #young justice imagines #young justice imagine #dc comics imagines #dc reader insert #young justice x reader #young justice reader insert #transreader #ftm!reader

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adorable-american · 4 years

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So... I rewatched otgw and started looking at fanart and was reminded of bipper... and I've spent the last day and a half looking at #billdip help.

Also, I have an idea for the billdip mafia au, so course

(Mostly a human au)

(Edit: ok so, I had no idea what was happening until I typed it all. I was gonna mostly put the idea and hope a more experienced writer could take on the challenge bc I don't feel my mafia expertise is good but... well... I ended up typing some story bits so sorry if the third person/ first person switches are random and difficult to follow along with)

Bill is a criminal kingpin and afraid of nothing and no one, he is married to Dipper but since Dipper is almost a hazard for his line of work, he keeps his marriage secret. You cannot find a record of their marriage since Bill has the judge on payroll, Dipper (now older) uses his real name, Mason Pines-Cipher instead of the old childhood nickname. So, if anyone hears Bill say "'Pinetree' or on rare occasions 'Dipper'" they just figure he means another random thug. Mason, is completely oblivious to the nature of his husband's true work (because he wouldn't approve) and lives a very normal life as a doctor. He has seen Bill's office which is the front for his true dealings. The office is a nice space at the top of a skyscraper in Seattle. The business front is actually a realtor firm, where he takes advantage of the information and uses dilapidated/condemned/empty houses and buildings for his private matters. But because of Mason's odd work/call hours he often has long shifts and stays tired so he hardly notices the shady things that happen around their home, or the coming and goings of strangers at the wee hours of the morning.

Bill is also a very loving husband who brings his favorite doctor lunches and sits with him during his breaks so that with their crazy schedules they know and still make time for each other.

The only people who know about Mason is a very small circle, it consist of 2 people actually. Bill's chauffeur and another doctor that Bill pays extra to watch out for Mason at work. And because Bill separates the two lives so carefully no one can figure out his weaknesses and use it against him.

Until... dun dun dun!

Bill is kidnapped by a rival!

Mason sitting at the hospital cafe he waits for his husband to bring him their lunches but when he doesn't show Mason becomes irritable, mostly because he is hungry and never carries his wallet out of routine, but also because Bill will not answer his phone and he is stressing out about it, to the point he calls the realtor office and checks the ER. After his shift at the office he quickly drives home and searches the house and goes to the police to file a missing person's report (he forgets to eat and gets highly cranky with the officers.)

After leaving the police station, a black unmarked car follows him home. He is taken in the middle of the night while asleep, he wakes to find some smelly thug in his face and that he is strapped to a chair. (Still wearing his scrubs because in all his stress and overworked body he passed out before changing or cleaning up.) The thug smacks a crowbar against his palm. Threatening to Mason before telling him that he better answer their questions or he'd get the 'crow'. To which the thug steps back and Mason can now see the man standing behind him, the rival mafia boss. "So, who are you?"

"M-mason.." he says, his heartbeat becoming erratic and his breathing quickening with panic.

"Last name?"

"Pines...-Cipher" he hesitates before adding the hyphenated portion. He wasn't sure why, but he was very scared to death.

"So, how do you know One-Eyed Bill?" The rival asks because no one knows Bill's real name.

Mason's face contorted in a confused manor having never heard the name before. And as he hesitates too long the thug brings down the crowbar, smashing Mason's knee.

As Mason screams and cries the boss asks again. "How do you know him?"

"A-are you talking about my husband?" Mason exclaims, chest heaving. The image of his loving husband, an eyepatch hiding the injured eye from long ago, the injury that caused them to first meet... Bill had been quite the charmer. Even after his eye was removed, he denied prosthetics in favor of his new aesthetic. He would visit the hospital and wait in the cafeteria until the handsome doctor showed up. Everyday he waited, until eventually he learned Mason's typical schedule/routine, then he would show up only for lunch and sit with the doctor. Until eventually Mason gave in to his former patient and accepted his request for a date.

The boss and thug give each other a side glance. The boss smiles, making Mason even more scared as he moves closer, getting very close to Mason's face. "You mean to tell me that the notorious One-Eyed Bill, is married to a very cute doctor and his real name actually is Bill?" The boss pinches Mason's cheek and spins the chair around. Behind him the whole time was Bill, his shirt was ripped to shreds, cuts, bruises, and bloodstains littered his body as he wore a masked expression upon seeing his husband now in the same situation as himself. The very thing he worked hard to prevent, being undone... by Mason searching for him.

Mason lurches forward despite being tied to a chair, he wants so badly to help his husband, to bandage him up and nurse his wounds. "Please, I'm no threat to you! Let me help him." The rival boss thinks for a moment, smirking as he has the thug retrieve Mason's medical bag. (Stupidly, they grabbed it with Mason thinking it was Bill's briefcase) The thug dropped the case in Mason's lap and untied him. "Alright, but you have to get to him yourself." The rival said, leaning against Bill's chair and watching as the doctor with a smashed knee crawled with the heavy bag over to Bill. Tears rolling down his eyes in pain. Bill gives him an "I'm sorry" look, his own mouth tied shut with a handkerchief. Opening his bag Mason searched for something to sterilize the open cuts and bandages to cover each one. He pulls himself up into Bill's lap and sets to work. The rival boss unties the gag and questions Bill instead, this time when Bill doesn't answer or tries to lie Mason takes the punishment. Him being yanked by his hair and thrown to the ground, dropping all the bandaging and sterilization wipes.

"Gag him and hold him." The rival instructs, the thug does as he says, gagging Mason and picking up the young doctor rather haphazardly, his large tattooed hand around Mason's throat. Slowly tightening until Bill gives up locations for his operation. He looks over to Mason who has tears in his eyes, letting his gaze drop Bill can read the disappointment all over his husband. By the time, the rival has Bill's locations checked out, Bill knows he has now lost fortunes in investments but that won't stop him from destroying this guy. Because as they agree to finally let them go, hurt, broken, and Bill disgraced. Bill can feel the old powers course through his veins. Its not until they physically knock Mason out that Bill can retaliate. His eyes begin to glow yellow, his pupil turning into a slit as blue flames flicker to life, burning the bonds around him. His body healing itself. He stands up. The rival and thug's eyes widen in horror. Bill snaps his fingers and the both of them burn alive in the blue fires. He was in fact a demon but no one knew, he even had been playing games with these humans for so long he had forgotten what it was like to be beat in his own game, and forgotten the feeling of his power.

After the two burned alive Bill wasn't with the decision to cut his loses and start over else where or cheat and wipe the minds of his rival's thug's. Looking down at Mason, however, he wasn't sure what to do. He pressed his hand gently over Mason's knee, healing the shattered bone before moving up to his head, he couldn't wake him like this, for the mind was much too fragile but, he could see inside his husband's mind. And repair the damage that way but again, he wasn't sure he wanted that either. So he scooped up the handsome doctor along with his medical bag and teleported them home. Dropping the bag onto the kitchen table he carried Mason to their bed laying him down and played his least favorite game, the waiting game.

Once Mason awoke he jolted upright in the bed, fear immediately consuming him as he looked around, screaming for Bill and quickly checking his leg.

Bill was at his side in seconds, calming him down and reassuring him they were safe now. Once Mason calmed down Bill had told him everything and told Mason his options. 1) they could runaway together and start over 2) Bill could fix it all with a snap or 3) They did the first option and Bill would force Mason to go with him should he decide that he wanted to leave him.

Mason raised his hands in defense telling Bill to slow down and let him process.

Mason ends up requesting number 2 but that they be a couple of nobodies who aren't missed and ditch town in favor of traveling the world in search of mystery and adventure.

#billdip #bill cipher #gravity falls dipper #gravity falls #Mason Pines-Cipher #dipper pines

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jisssooyah · 4 years

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Hi you... if you were going to curate a little season of films for me, which ones would you choose and why? They don't need to be horror, I'm just curious what you would choose 🌸

I don’t know if you’ll like these movies, or if you’ve already watched them, but after i watched these films, i felt like they might need to belong to you now. i hope they make you smile, roll your eyes, and cry just as much as i did.

1. city of god (2002): this is one of the most immersive and gorgeously shot films i’ve ever seen. it’s set in rio de janeiro during the 60s and spans decades exploring the drug culture in the slums and how this can affect kids just as they are trying to figure their own selves out. the way this film is shot, feels like you were at the sea with them as the sand crunched underneath your feet. but the way that the director captures these individuals, makes you so fucking relieved that you don’t live through any of the circumstances that they go through.

2. the dreamers (2004): set in 1968, this film follows three students in Paris who come of age and explore one another and their limits during the revolution. while these students prop themselves up as individuals obsessed with sex, running underneath themselves is a current of jealousy, obsession, and blurred familial relationships that made me increasingly uncomfortable. you find yourself feeling bad for the children, and ultimately upset at their upbringing because of their parents.

3. if beale street could talk (2018): this movie is based off of james baldwin’s titular 1974 novel. in it, the director expertly and vigorously explores love: a love that feels so real that it hurts. the cast is what sold this film to me. the way they talk, laugh, cry, and smile at one another is achingly beautiful and terrifyingly sad. i wanted to transport myself back to their time period and watch the main characters fall in love because the film didn’t seem like enough.

4. the neon demon (2016): this film follows an emerging model who sacrifices herself to the demands of the industry in order to be attractive and beautiful. there are so many stunning colors in this film that it makes you dizzy, like you’re in a trance and that’s what this world is for the main character: a trance. as she oscillates between reality and fantasy, her world and the characters in it, increasingly seek out to alter her personality.

5. death becomes her (1992): a deliberately ultra-campy parody of trashy, pandering "women's pictures," soap operas and paperbacks from the '80s and '90s. The three leads all do some of their best work - it's hilarious watching Meryl Streep play a terrible actress, Goldie Hawn is particularly hilarious during her character's cat lady phase, and all around just a really fun and eccentric film.

6. princess cyd (2017): i can’t think of anything to write for this but i just wanna say that this is literally one of the most pleasant movie experiences i’ve ever had. so much light and genuine interaction in warm sun rays radiating positive energy and an openness that is far too uncommon in movies nowadays. people talk, people connect, people grow bonds and are allowed to be sexual or intimate or personal without an air of shame or judgement. just pure kind and curious human association.

7. spiderman: into the spiderverse (2018): the message of Spider-Verse is not "gentrify yourself! stop expressing your personality and just conform to what society wants you to be!" After all, what makes you different makes you Spider-Man, and Miles' final expression of himself as a superhero still retains much of his personality and individuality...they're just being used in more productive and fulfilling ways. It's the little things that drive the point home, like noticing that the title page for Miles' finished Great Expectations essay has been stylistically doodled and colored like street art. Rather than seeing his artistic gifts as an opposition to his schoolwork, Miles infuses them together to make the best of the hand he's been dealt.

8. my life as a zucchini (2016): initially heartbreaking and sad, but slowly becoming more joyful and heartwarming as the plot moves along. The film really feels like it captures the essence and child like wonder of these kids, all of them going through hardships but managing to find something to help each other out. It’s so refreshing to see the actual orphanage portrayed in a more positive light, not the usual horrid dump that a lot of lesser movies play them out as. The animation is stunning. One of the best uses of stop motion I’ve seen, everything is so colourful and detailed. There’s some moments set in snowy mountains and these look incredible. There’s clearly been so much love and care put into each and every scene here. The music too, sounds spectacular, it really works well with each scene.

9. lovesong (2016): Mindy and Sarah have that type of relationship where they don't need words because they speak in a language made out of glances and touches. This movie is about the fear of ruining a meaningful friendship and losing an important person, about love that is so complicated that one might not even try because the outcome seems to be so obvious.

10. her (2013): Heartbreak is formative: it changes you heart side out, and leaves your muscles a little stronger, your skin a little thicker, your bones easier to repair. Before this film, I’d never seen anything constructive in having your insides pulled apart by the seams by another person, but this film taught me how. Being in love and then being forced out of it is an experience that changes you fundamentally, but Her taught me its purpose – you don’t need them to leave you so that you can find someone who’s a better fit, because perhaps you never will. You need it to participate in humanity. The common denominator is being hurt, and without it, you’re barely alive.

11. shoplifters (2018): bittersweet and richly transportive, Shoplifters is a film that nonchalantly eases you into its tragic beauty in a way that doesn't punch you hard until the end. It simultaneously made me want to be part of the film's world and also very glad that I'm not. The setting the characters live in is messy and cluttered and full of dysfunction and lies, but it's also got family, and laughter, and fist-bumps, and slurping warm noodles while rain pings on the tin rooftop. So nuanced, so many tiny moments of delicate beauty and unassuming heartbreak, so many people making terrible decisions with good intentions.

12. god’s own country (2017): though it is a love story between two men, this aspect is only addressed briefly in a single scene. Rather, the film is about finding someone who makes you want to be a better person, someone who comes into your life just when you needed it most. Gheorghe helps Johnny open up and realize the beauty of the simple life. From this relationship, Johnny begins to feel comfortable with expressing himself, and his love and gratitude towards others. He also begins to appreciate life in the country, surrounded by stunning landscapes and the beauty of simplicity. Addressing the Yorkshire countryside, Gheorghe says "It is beautiful, but lonely." Johnny is presented with the notion that he doesn't have to be cold and miserable, slaving and drinking his days away. He is presented with the possibility of no longer being alone and finally finding happiness and contentment - and it is more than gratifying to see him accept it.

13. disobedience (2017): a tender star-crossed daydream. the three main character dynamics are special enough on their own, but the romance that blooms at the center is cathartically intimate and even magical: a reunion that feels so inevitable. catching glimpses of a past life, details we aren’t privy to. all the stolen kisses and whispers and promises. a bond so strong that they fall back in sync with each other like second nature, even if they try to fight against it. even if it won’t work. and yet they choose each other, even if for a few minutes.

14. raw (2016): this film is so gross and I like that. There is tons of blood and unique body horror and it all works perfectly for the tone the film is attempting to set. The use of color, specifically neons, creates a constant feeling that you are traveling through some sort of weird ghost world, which I really like. Overall, it's a very well put together film with flashes of brilliance.

15. the night is short, walk on girl (2017): what an absolutely magical adventure of a film. Essentially this is a heavily episodic look at a night in the lives of several people, centered on a woman and a man as she gleefully floats from event to event while he neurotically obsesses over how to "coincidentally" talk to her. The storytelling is incredible; while the overarching narrative is simple there are countless threads woven together to connect everyone in the story to each other. That in itself is a big theme: connections between people, how everything is interrelated, and what a large impact seemingly insignificant things people do can have an impact on everyone around them.

16. coraline (2009): Coraline is the best stop motion movie ever made in my opinion. Before the film released in 2009, I read the book and was completely blown away by its creativity and story. It’s a pretty dark tale featuring many scenes of fright that work well in both a horror setting and an animated kids setting. On surface value, this film is quite horrifying, which is something I’ve always loved about it. While it does make a few minor changes to the book, it improves upon a piece of art that was already jaw-droppingly good. Coraline feels like a real little girl with some real problems. She’s selfish but likable which is something most films cannot translate well. Of course, she has a pretty awesome arc as well which brings this movie to a perfect close for her character. The other-mother is also perfectly done. She is almost exactly how I imagined her in the book and the animation on her is spookily gorgeous. There is not one dull moment in this film. It is literally a perfect piece of cinema.

17. the third wife (2019): haven’t seen a film this visually delicate in a while. Ash Mayfair works with the looming mountain surroundings to make her characters —these women, these girls— as small as possible, as isolated as possible. Uneasiest of all is the protagonist May, so young and so weighed by responsibility, her position blurs between being one of the wives and being one of the daughters. It’s an extremely bleak tale of circumstance. An old tale, certainly, but so beautifully crafted it doesn’t matter. Mayfair holds a fearful tension throughout, and it only ever shatters in the cruelest of ways.The abundance of women and display of sisterhood begin as a comfort, but horror takes over as we realize how conditional and fragile that comfort is. Even the daughters are subconsciously aware, one of them praying to the gods to grow up and become a man, shearing her hair off in naive triumph. It’s a doomed cycle of girls performing roles which are unfortunately their best option, right up until the final scene of May with her daughter, still in their mourning clothes. She, like the older wives, finally realizes they’re the same as the cattle laying on their side for too many days.

#asks #shortcake-kaspbrak

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targaryenimagines · 5 years

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Dying Light

Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,126

Summary:

Warnings: Angst

A/N: I'm sorry this so rushed, but your two other story ideas are on their way too. (I think your english is lovely.) I, also, changed the way Viserion died. I'm sorry if that upsets any of you.

Icy winds rip at your face.

Your eyes were starting to squint underneath the heavy assault of the snow. Your mind whirling just as much with thoughts of what you needed to do. What you had to do.

You had known that sending a team beyond the Wall was idiotic. You had known that it would only end in disaster. After all why would you, knowingly, go into your enemies territory? Especially when it was all to show your other enemy that it existed in the first place. You would never understand why it was decided that the plan was a good idea, but you did understand the consequences of said action.

The swarm of Wights moving underneath you was proof of that.

Your eyes look down towards the ground at the mass of the undead. Their glowing blue eyes shining amidst the whiteness of the snow. Their groans were unlike anything you had ever heard before. It was like the cries of the damned were screaming out towards you. A soulless sound that belonged in the depths of hell. Only promising death within its icy tone.

Your gaze switches from the mass of bodies to Daenerys. You could feel anxiety starting to spread through your body at the sight of her. She was too close to the mass of beings that had only thoughts of death and carnage. Drogon was too vulnerable on the ground, they needed to get into the air as soon as they could. The longer you stayed here the more chance there would be for casualties.

Feeling Viserion dip towards the ground causes you to snap your attention back to him. You could tell he and Rhaegal were starting to tire. The constant motion and fire breathing were wearing them out. You could see it in the way his head was starting to dip.

With a heavy heart, you whisper to Viserion. Your words full of encouragement and love. "Just a little longer, Vis. You're doing so well. All you have to do is hold on a little longer."

At your words Viserion perks up and shoots higher into the sky. However, even as you flew higher you couldn't help the heavy feeling in your heart. You couldn't go on like this forever. Either Drogon took off soon or Rhaegal and Viserion will succumb to their exhaustion. Something that you refused to let happen.

You couldn't let it happen.

Your own shoulders were starting to quiver from the constant strain you were putting onto them. Your body finally letting you feel the exhaustion that was starting to run rampant throughout it. Bringing your gaze back towards Daenerys, hoping that she was already in the air, only to see her reaching her hand out towards Jon.

Jon who was making his way towards the looming mass that was Drogon. Who was moving too slow across the snow.

A sudden feeling of hopelessness causes your eyes to rise, further up, the landscape. Meeting a pair of the coldest blue eyes you have ever seen. The glare causing you to stiffen with alarm. You watch with muted horror as he raises his arm, a spear within his grasp. There is nothing you could do as he throws it. The projectile ripping through the air at an alarming rate.

Heading straight towards Viserion.

Realizing what was about to happen you nudge Viserion into a dive. Knowing that you wouldn't be fast enough to clear the spear, but you would be fast enough to save him. Feeling the wind tear at your clothes at the sudden movement, and then the pain.

The pain of the spear ripping through your side with a force you weren't expecting. Causing you to lose your grip on Viserion's spikes.The feeling of weightlessness surrounds you. The feeling of having your entire world turned upside down.

Your body was spinning in a sporadic circle. The crimson of your blood only adding to its affect. You could feel your hands trying to grip something, anything, that would stop your descent. Even though you know it was hopeless. The part of your brain that was begging to live was kicking into overdrive. Causing you to grasp at thin air.

You look up, or at least try to, when you hear a pained roar from above you. Seeing Viserion diving towards you, his body careening towards without a hint of slowing down.

"Bē, Visērion, jikagon bē," you scream, your words slipping into the familiar dialect of Valyrian. Your heart beating erratically as you watch him. The heaviness in your chest only growing when he doesn't heed your words. Only pulling his wings tighter into his body.

Closing your eyes you couldn't help the tears that escaped. You mind filling your head with memories. From when you told Daenerys you loved her for the first time to when Viserion dipped his head towards you. Acknowledging you as his rider for the first time.

A decision that has sentenced him to death.

You knew, without even looking, that the ground was closing in on you. That Viserion only had a small window to pull up or you would both crash into the icy floor. A fate that seems to be more and more likely as each second ticks by.

Opening your eyes you can see that Viserion was now closer to you. His nose only a few inches away.

And for a moment you allow yourself to believe that you would survive this. That you would be able to pull yourself onto Viserion's back. That you would be able to hold Daenerys again.

However, you know, that none of that was possible. The searing pain in your abdomen reminds you of that.

The reality of the situation rearing its ugly head. Causing a few more tears to slip from your eyes. Though as you look up into sparkling gold eyes you couldn't help but accept it. Accept what was about to happen to you despite the fear it causes.

Reaching up, with your last bit of strength, you grab Viserion's neck, as best as you can, and hold on. Pressing your body into his warm embrace. Nuzzling your face against his neck like he had done to you when he was a baby. The comfort causing you to relax. His soft croon in response echoing in your ear.

And as you crash against the ice. Your body slamming into Viserion's, you couldn't help but find comfort within it.

As if he was telling you.

You're doing so well. All you have to do is hold on a little longer. Then everything will be okay.

You knew that he was right.

Everything would be alright because you had each other.

Even as the darkness consumed you both.

#daenerys #daenerys targaryen #daenerys targaryen imagine #daenerys targaryen x reader #daenerys x reader #game of thrones imagine #got imagine #dying light

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qm-vox · 5 years

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The Far Realms vs. Obyriths: Cosmic Horror in D&D

Shout-out, once again, to Afroakuma, from whom I learned most of the material I’m about to explain and with whom I’ve had many fascinating discussions about this topic.

It’s ya boi Vox, back at it to complain about RPG shit in an educational fashion again. Remember when I did a whole article about (evil) gods in D&D, arguing that they have more potential than to be used like supervillains? We’re gonna do that again, but this time with incorporating cosmic horror elements into your D&D campaign. Some of this advice may also be useful for games similar to D&D but for the sake of my own sanity I’m gonna confine myself to the one system or I’m gonna be here until my kids are in college.

This article will be broken down into three parts: an overview of cosmic horror’s origin and original thesis (in which we travel my favorite magical land, Full And Complete Context), a breakdown of the Far Realms in D&D (including older takes from late 2e & 3.5, how those changed in 4e, and their ambiguous state in 5e) & how you might use them for a cosmic horror campaign, and a breakdown of Obyriths in D&D and how you might use them in your campaign.

No discussion of cosmic horror is complete without some Content Warnings. Right up front: cosmic horror has its roots in extremely racist fiction, and I’m going to be talking about that straight-up. Also included in this article will be body horror, descriptions of mind control and mental corruption, supernaturally-induced madness, violence, and medical horror, among other things. This is a genre that hit the ‘fuck shit up’ button with its face on fuckin’ Zero Day and does that but again every time we successfully write something in it. Additionally, spoilers for some of Lovecraft’s work will be in here, with absolutely no tags and no warnings before they happen. You have been warned; do as thou wilt.

HP Does A Racism - Origins Of Cosmic Horror

Yeah, I’m about to be like that about it.

In the beginning there was Howard Phillips Lovecraft, an absolute garbage fire of a human being whose personal issues are such a knotted mess that I’m half-sure that the concept of the Ouroboros is just the echo of his bullshit reaching backwards through time. Like many authors of his time, Howie Love here was born into significant wealth, and while his education would be cut short (he had some manner of health problem in high school that ended his attempts at schooling) it was pretty high-quality, as it tends to be when you’re rich and white in the late 1800s. When he began writing his most famous body of work, Lovecraft had three attributes which would shape it: EXTREME racism, an incredible love for the works of Edgar Allen Poe, and every fucking phobia ever turned loose on God’s green Earth.

If you want to know more about that first point, try looking up what he named his cat; Lovecraft was so racist that even other racists thought he was too racist. Mother fucker was so racist that he wrote about the dangers of contaminating one’s bloodline with French-Canadians. His racism made it into all of his works in some way, shape, or form; many had themes of miscegenation, plenty included people of color only as deranged cultists of terrible powers, and as we’ll get into later in this segment the very racism that caused him to do these things also made him write the...let’s say ‘villains’ for lack of a better term, of his ongoing body of work as thinly-veiled stand-ins for white people.

No, really.

Lovecraft’s early work included a few short stories in the American Gothic style, the most famous of which is The Rats in the Walls. It’s a fairly classic story as far as those go, but Howie Love would soon abandon American Gothic for the genre he founded and defined: cosmic horror. Keep the racism and phobias in mind going forward, they’re about to become real important.

Howie Love Clowns On Himself - Themes And Thesis Of Cosmic Horror

While Dagon is generally accepted as the ‘first’ cosmic horror story, I prefer The Colour Out Of Space as the definitive example of the original thesis of cosmic horror at its most clean and clear (it’s also the work of Lovecraft’s that has aged the best; I highly suggest it if you haven’t read it yet!). In it, an alien presence - arguably but not necessarily an entity - crash-lands outside the fictional town of Arkham. Our narrator, a surveyor, coldly investigates the horrors that occur after and learns the sorry tale of a family destroyed by this alien presence as it blights their land, corrupts their bodies, and drives them to madness. The presence leaves, but not wholly; a fragment of itself remains behind, alongside the chilling possibility of a repeat performance.

The Colour Out Of Space, and indeed most of Howie Love’s work, was written at a time in the United States and the United Kingdom where human exceptionalism was the norm. Humans were not merely important, but special, chosen, exalted in nature and placed in a universe whose sole purpose was to be the stage for our domination. The Colour Out Of Space proposed a different idea: that we ain’t shit. Not only is humanity not exalted, but humanity is insignificant, existing at the mercy of fate, able to be casually annihilated at any time by forces we do not understand. It was a shocking proposal when it was published, and though the zeitgeist that gave it power has faded (most people realize we ain’t shit these days, can’t imagine how that fucking happened) it still resonates with many people.

The later works that defined the Cthulu Mythos would build on this theme, introducing powerful beings which claim dominion of Earth or of all reality. You’ve probably heard of most of them - Cthulu is the big one, of course, but there’s also Yog-Sothoth (The Dunwich Horror), Azazoth, Catboi Slim (Nyarthalotep), and many more, not all of which were written by Lovecraft himself. These beings are gods, or else so far above humanity that the difference is academic, and this brings us to the second defining theme of cosmic horror that Lovecraft would lay out, that of forbidden knowledge.

Protagonists in Howie Love’s stories have a tendency to lose their minds. Later authors would chalk this up to the idea that witnessing these gods or their works is so inherently horrifying that the mind simply snaps in their presence, or even that these gods are bound up in the concept of madness (this second one is a rather incompetent reading, not that I’m thinking of any PAIZO in particular that just ran with it in their RPG setting), but Howard’s own work doesn’t always bear that out. The protagonist of Call of Cthulu is not driven mad by that being - he is driven towards the brink by the realization that the Cult is still out there (and coming for his life), and that Cthulu will only rise again. Our viewpoint character in At The Mountains Of Madness realizes he has committed unspeakable atrocities on living beings much like himself by mistake, and that if further explorers come to disturb their slumber they will only repeat the same errors and lead to mankind’s annihilation. It’s not just that these ancient powers are terrifying or even that they are alien, but that to comprehend them is to understand that humans are so far beneath them that their attitude towards us cannot be thought of as ‘benevolent or ‘malevolent’, because we are beneath their notice, lesser in comparison than even a bacterium. In such a context, all humans do is consume resources better used by our superiors, and thus our existence is a profanity upon the divine. The only moral action, the stories argue, is self-annihilation; only ignorance permits us to justify our own existence to ourselves.

Sound familiar? Almost like this is the exact argument chucklefuck racists make about the existence of people of color, Jews, and anyone else they happen to not like? Yeah. This is the part where Lovecraft accidentally made himself the villain of his own work. Congratulations Howie, you played yourself. And since his audience was largely fellow white men also hard up on that whole racism thing, this idea of human profanity tapped a deep well of anxiety. I’m not about to argue that racism is over (it isn’t) and that’s why this vision of cosmic horror is less popular; indeed, it’s retained a pretty solid cult (heh) following, in part because the idea of such beings is inherently kinda terrifying. But I’d be remiss not to bring up the fact that this terror has its roots in racism, so...there you have it.

Other authors also built on the Cthulu Mythos, with Lovecraft’s enthusiastic blessing. These days their works tend to be mistakenly attributed to Howie Love himself, but that’s not actually his fault; they were published on their own, under their own authors’ names, and as far as we can tell Howard never tried to take the credit. These other authors had a tendency to substitute the indifferent divinity and corrupted humans of Lovecraft’s work with direct malice; their vision of these god-like beings was one in which they noticed humanity and did harm to it, creating a movement away from Howie Love’s original thesis (”human insignificance will lead to the unimportant and unmarked event of our destruction” & “seeking knowledge can only lead to self-annihilation”) during his life which only picked up momentum after his death. Indeed, most modern attempts at Lovecraftian horror mimic this overt malevolence, often without even lip service to the original thesis. It’s not necessarily an unworkable angle of horror, and it definitely has bones in with its origins; “God is real and He hates you personally” is a terrifying idea! But this movement away from the cold indifference of stories like The Colour Out Of Space definitely contributed to the current climate of...sloppy adaptations, let’s say.

Not that I’m thinking of any Paizo in particular.

So Should I Use Mythos Content Directly In My D&D Game Or What?

No, because I will cry and tell everyone that you punched my children and kidnapped my girlfriends.

More helpfully, probably not. The presence of other divinities, but especially evil divinities like Erythnul (Greyhawk) or Malar (Forgotten Realms) makes the thematics of cosmic horror pretty fucking weird. If you really wanted to, your best bet is to not use the published system of divinity at all (see the previously-linked article, up at the top of this one) and instead make Lovecraft’s gods the setting’s only gods. That means asking yourself some hard questions about clerics in your game world and possibly divine magic in general - that’s a separate article though - and even then you’re in for a rough row to hoe. D&D’s characters tend to be competent, dynamic, empowered - a far cry from the educated but otherwise fairly helpless protagonists on which cosmic horror tends to trade. Themes of futility in the face of incomprehensible beings don’t really make for good D&D most of the time, not when so much of the system (any edition, it doesn’t matter) is set up to create and reward cunning and heroic struggle. Classic cosmic horror, in the original proposed form, is not a good fit.

Thankfully, we have two solutions to give you what you crave in-house. Let’s start with the one that is somehow both the closer fit and the further fit.

You Have Fucked Up - The Far Realm Overview

Originally introduced in late AD&D 2e, the Far Realm as an idea hit its stride during 3.0/3.5 before getting a major rework as part of 4e’s cosmology, where it became the source of most/all aberrations. We’re gonna go ahead and pretend 4e didn’t happen, not because 4e is bad (and for the love of fuck please don’t start an edition war on my cosmic horror post) but because 4e’s cosmology just doesn’t really fit in with any of the rest. 1e <-> 3.5 is more or less coherent and you can beat 5e into line with a wrench and some harsh language, but 4e...well, anyway.

The Far Realms is outside reality. No, not in another dimension, we know what those are - those are the Planes. It’s outside reality; it is Somewhere Else. “It” is probably even the wrong term, since by definition any place (”place”) that isn’t the multiverse as D&D knows it is the Far Realm. To paraphrase Afroakuma, if the Great Wheel is a Lego brick, the Far Realm is a giant squid; if the Great Wheel is a bowl of Fruit Loops, the Far Realm is the theory that intelligences from Pluto rig the results of major sporting events. The contexts are not compatible. These two things do not go together in any way. Combining the two can only end in sorrow and woe.

So mortals try to combine the two all the time, because we’re dipshits like that.

Every now and again, some truly, monumentally stupid person - usually but not always someone inside reality - breaches the skin that contains reality inside itself, and lets in the essence of Outside. This is a phenomenally bad idea; the immediate result is corruption in both directions as the essence of each form of reality bleeds into the other. Both attempt to ‘scab’ the breach, translating the foreign substances and beings into something more like the reality they have moved to. If a breach happens, there is one of three outcomes. If you are very, very lucky, no being on the other side notices the breach, and you’ve ‘merely’ blighted and corrupted a vast stretch of land, tainting it with something sort of like, but not enough like, Chaos and Evil for millennia to come - maybe even forever. If you’re not lucky, a being on the other side notices the breach and acts to seal it, the ripple of which causes you to not have a nation or continent any more as said corruption absolutely consumes the lands in which you live. And if you are phenomenally unlucky, the being on the other side is just as stupid as you are, and it comes through. The last time that happened the original Gnomish pantheon got murdered. Their homeworld doesn’t exist any more.

There is no ‘good’ outcome. This is the repeated and absolute theme of the Far Realms; whatever your reasons for getting involved with them, whatever you wanted, whatever you were seeking, you don’t get it. Mortals fuck with the Far Realms because our inability to comprehend them leads us to think of them like things we can experience. The scabbed-over beings we meet that are from there (Psuedonatural creatures; see the Alienist prestige class in Tome & Blood and Complete Arcane, as well as the bigger version in the Epic Level Handbook) are Chaotic Evil because that is how reality translates them. They aren’t Chaos, they’re another reality, and their unwilling and unwitting corruption of all around them gets redefined as Chaotic Evil in order to reduce their damage to all of existence to a manageable fucking level. Were you seeking the Far Realms in order to harness power for great change? Get fucked, you can’t control what happens. Were you seeking magical power? Get fucked; the reason people go mad when exposed to the Far Realms isn’t just that the knowledge they gain makes no sense, it’s that the complete lack of context means all of the stuff you killed and stole and lied and cheated for is more or less completely goddamn useless. Trying to escape existence for some reason? One, death is faster, but two, hope you enjoy suffering the entire time you die - and that’s if the breach stays open long enough for you to be able to enjoy death as a concept before you get sealed away in a place where mortality doesn’t meaningfully exist.

You don’t get what you want. This was a bad idea. You fucked up.

5e, the most recent edition of D&D, mainly continues this trend. It has suggestions of the lazier interpretation of Lovecraft’s work tied to the Far Realms, which I heartily suggest you ignore, but some of the other ideas are phenomenal. The Great Old Ones Pact for Warlock has one in particular that I like quite a bit, which suggests that the Warlock-to-be created an unintended connection to a Far Realms intelligence and gained power against both of their wills and possibly without the intelligence in question even noticing. You don’t need to change a lot in 5e’s run to bring out the extant themes of the Far Realms - though admittedly this is greatly assisted by the fact that 5e barely has any Far Realms content to begin with, so there’s not a lot to edit. That also means there’s not a lot to use, so if you want to use Far Realms stuff in 5e you’re gonna have to get ready to spend a lot of time making your own. Which brings us to...

Who The Fuck Funded This Research?!? - Using The Far Realms In Your Game

Considering that all-important theme - “this was a bad idea” - the Far Realms are likely to be antagonistic in nature in your game, even if ‘antagonistic’ isn’t the right term. Published adventures have used Far Realms content as a sort of backdrop (Firestorm Peak comes to mind here) before, and you can easily make Far Realms creatures a more direct problem for your PCs by centering the campaign around a cult or research team attempting to cause a new breach. This could be a great time to engage with player-side themes such as the ethics of magic use, the cost of power, and the burden of responsibility for said power, assuming your group is down for it. Even if they’re not, horrifying monstrosities that by definition have no place in this universe are great to kick in the head(s).

What motivates people to cause a breach? Mainly stupidity, but the special kind of stupidity you only get when someone is highly educated and deeply intelligent. For awhile, in the real world, there was a burst of designers making D20 heartbreakers - successors to D&D 3.5 meant to fix its many catastrophic flaws. Each person thought they had it, the secret to make the system they both loved and hated finally function, and they were all wrong. Causing a breach into the Far Realms is like that. Every sign points to it being a bad idea. Reading the research and spells of the last people who tried it reveals that it’s a bad idea. All of the diaries and primary sources of those who did it and those who stopped them say it’s a bad idea, but that’s okay because I, Wizardhat von Dipshit, am not like those fools. I will be more careful, and the power to reshape the Planes will be mine!

The easiest way to make Far Realms creatures for use in your campaign is to start with an existing monster and fuck it up; rearrange its abilities (adding or emphasizing mental attacks and psychic damage, if you can), alter its physical form, and generally just make that shit wrong and fill its blood with spiders. If you want to get more alien from there or make something original, the best guideline I can offer for you is that aboleths were the result of Far Realms taint in the beginning of this reality (it’s telling that the closest thing reality could translate their progenitor into was a Greater Deity).

No one wants power for its own sake, of course, but what your antagonist actually wants is more or less irrelevant because the important bit is that they had every chance to know better and they’re about to make this bad decision on purpose anyway. This is how the Far Realms brings out cosmic horror themes in a heroic context; power that is beyond both mortal comprehension and control, which has no place in this reality and recoils from us as violently as we recoil from it. Like Lovecraft, whose stories revealed a deep cynicism about knowledge and science, your antagonists will be erudite individuals whose ruinous plans are only possible because of what they have learned and, in turn, chosen to ignore. If nothing is done, unstoppable catastrophe will be unleashed, and with it will come madness and desolation. If only some heroes were on hand, eh?

The disconnect the Far Realms has from classic cosmic horror is also the source of why they fit; they don’t belong here. In Lovecraft’s work, it’s humanity that doesn’t belong - we are a blight upon the rightful property of higher beings. The Far Realms are instead an intrusion, something from Elsewhere which doesn’t want to be here as much as we don’t want it here. That helps those classic cosmic horror themes work much better in this context, but maybe you’re looking for something else, something from here. Do the Planes have cosmic horror from within the shell of Reality?

Yes. Oh yes, they do.

Ancient Evil Survives - Obyrith Overview

In the beginning, there was war.

The primordial War of Law and Chaos is the greatest conflict to have ever rocked the Planes. It was so destructive, so all-encompassing, that it consumed entire Material Plane worlds, reshaped the nature of the Planes themselves, and is still happening, even now. It began in the early days of the Great Wheel and was prosecuted by Chaos, led by the self-styled Queen of Chaos, over a single question: should reality be real? Should effects follow causes, should gravity exist, should fire burn and light reveal, should things age and die, should...

The forces of Law said yes to these questions and fought to establish and maintain an order and logic to reality. Chaos fought for an unbound reality, one in which each individual would be completely free to express their own true essence as tangible changes in the existence around them. The War was never truly won or lost, but the imprisonment of Miska the Wolf-Spider broke the backs of the Chaotic coalition and brought the War to a stalemate of sorts, in a reality which, if not dominated by Law, is definitely Law-leaning. Mortals are familiar with the terrible demons used as footsoldiers by the Abyss, the Tanar’ri, who reign yet in that terrible place. But it was not the Tanar’ri in command of Chaos, and not the Tanar’ri who prosecuted that terrible War. Indeed, the beings we now recognize as demons rose up against their creators, the Obyriths, after the imprisonment of Miska. They overthrew the Obyriths in a great slaughter and replaced them as the dominant exemplars of Chaotic Evil.

The Obyriths are not dead. They plan, and they wait, and they wage war and slaughter upon their wayward slaves in the Abyss. Every last one of them burns to reignite the War and achieve their vision of unbound reality, free of the wretched Law and all too weak to survive without it.

Prisoners Of The Flesh - Obyrith Nature

So what are Obyriths? The easiest answer is that they’re demons - the first demons, in fact, which preceded the more famous Tanar’ri (when you think of demons in D&D chances are you’re thinking of a Tanar’ri), and while this answer is entirely correct it is not the whole story. Tanar’ri are famously Chaotic Evil; they revel in corruption and destruction and are driven to maliciously annihilate or taint all they come across. A demon army marching across the land will stop to personally kick every puppy between point A and point B and they will absolutely mutiny against you if you try to stop them from doing so. What is good and pure must be soiled; what exists must be made to not exist, its foundations shattered, its virtues turned against themselves, its values abandoned. Tanar’ri respect only raw might, and only as long as they think they can’t defeat it.

But Obyriths, their progenitors, are Evil Chaos.

Let’s have some examples. This little guy is a draudnu, a kind of Obyrith made from the bones of chaotic celestials which post-dates the ‘end’ of the War by a pretty significant amount of time. They’re on the weaker side for Obyriths.

(You’ll find this boi in Monster Manual V for 3.5 incidentally.)

Take a nice long look. Really take it in - because that’s not the draudnu. That’s the prison of flesh, the scab, that reality has forced on the draudnu, that the terrible Law has locked it within. The actual draudnu looks like it’s inside me God it’s inside me I can feel it growing and twisting it HURTS get it out, it’s seeping into my blood it’s inside me it’s INSIDE ME -

Let’s have another example. This is a sibriex, recently re-published in Mordenkeinan’s Tome of Foes for 5e with no mention of Obyriths, which is a damn shame. They were instrumental in defining the forms of the common breeds of Tanar’ri.

Fun, right? But again, that’s not a sibriex; the actual form of a sibriex is perfection. Absolute beauty and grace. I am nothing compared to this perfection. I am no one in the face of this perfection. My existence can only profane this perfection. I must serve the Perfect One. I must let it remake me and reshape me, I must appease it, I must make amends for the crime that is my trespass upon the reality made for the Perfect One.

Those two are ‘common’ Obyriths, examples of that race of demons which have peers who are much like themselves, but the Obyriths still have extant Demon Princes. The Queen of Chaos is still alive and nursing her ancient hate. Pale Night’s true form is so profane that reality cannot stand its existence; when she reveals it to you, the multiverse destroys your soul so that knowledge of her truth does not exist. Obox-Ob, murdered by the Queen of Chaos, yet exists as an Aspect of himself - and the Planes live in fear of the rise of the Prince of Vermin, whose truth is agony, rot, and corruption, such that even if you magically remove memory of it from your mind you continue to die from the soul outward.

And Dagon plots within the depths of his palace, sponsoring and advising Demogorgon - the Prince of Demons - and contemplating unimaginable lore of evil. The Demon Prince of Depths looks like this.

This is the form carved on blasphemous altars in the depths of the oceans, where sunlight has never reached. This is the form worshiped by mortals who delight in corruption, destruction, and fear, who dream of a sea where vision is a distant memory and predators hunt by the scent of blood. It is the form sought by those who lust for ancient lore, kept in places far from mortal sight and utilized by an evil older than many gods and mortal races, a form whose mere touch can taint a body of water, mutating & mutilating all within and unleashing their fury, their terror, their slaughter, for ages to come. And it is not Dagon. Dagon’s true form, imprisoned within that flesh, is I’m drowning in the cold dark, I can feel my bones breaking, my eyes are bursting, I’m blind and I’m drowning and I can’t die, my lungs are gone, the water is seeping into my blood I’m drowning and I just want to die make it stop I’m DROWNING.

It’s telling that witnessing Dagon’s true form, his Form of Madness, can give even creatures that breathe water, or which do not breathe at all, crippling hydrophobia.

The true forms of Obyriths are not flesh or matter; they are not, by nature, Material beings the way other Outsiders and mortal things are. Their true forms are that you, personally, are going mad. You, personally, are being assaulted, violated, and infected; you, personally, are being victimized, corrupted, consumed, and betrayed. Imagine if the act of pouring flesh-eating beetles into someone’s eyes had a personality, will, and desires - not the person doing it, the act itself - and that’s an Obyrith. They are evil because what they are is evil, much in the way Erythnul is evil. Unlike their creations, the Tanar’ri, Obyriths aren’t in it to kick every puppy that has ever existed. They want to throw off the yoke of the Law and release their unbound forms. They want an existence of darkness and isolation in which all beings are free to express their true essence to the limit of their might and their will.

They just wanna be themselves.

No matter who has to die.

The Foes Of All Reason - Using Obyriths In Your Campaign

Do you enjoy life’s little conveniences, such as cause-and-effect, linear time, predictable & observable physical laws, not having your body boil away beneath the agonizing will of some random asshole, and the capacity to recognize patterns in nature? Then Obyriths are your enemies. As demons, Obyriths can be summoned and are thus easy to use in the sort of ‘guest star’ role that Tanar’ri are often used in, even if it takes a moon-sized pair of brass balls to decide you can contain one. However, this use - while valid - is not a good way to bring out their cosmic horror themes, and since you decided to read an article about cosmic horror in D&D this far down I’m going to go ahead and assume you’d like to do that.

As one of the Planes’ most ancient and active evils - arguably the most ancient one that hasn’t died or otherwise fucked off - Obyriths are absolutely prime for campaigns that deal with ancient lore, primordial conflict, and unreality. If you like the idea of long-burn plots by masterminds with the patience of aeons, Obyriths are definitely for you. For an example of one such story, check out The Tale of the Whale, written by Afroakuma. The downside to using Obyriths in this way is that if you want to do so in canon settings, you need to be prepared to do some absolute fucking deep dives on the lore, which may require access to books or PDFs as far back as 1e & 2e. If you’re using your own setting this problem is lessened, though at that point you do have to manage to sell the ancient nature of such beings in a way that makes them feel suitably eldritch.

For more...let’s go ahead and say modern for lack of a better word, takes, keep in mind that Obyriths are not Tanar’ri. They do not scheme to overthrow the government of a nation; your pale, fleshly shadow of the Law is nothing to them. The plots of Obyriths upend the Laws which underpin reality itself. Could the great contract that details the alliance between the tribes of Men and Cats be found and perverted, turning each against the other in all reality? Could the insects of this realm be infected with the essence of Obox-Ob so that the Demon Prince of Vermin can feast on mortal souls and effect his own return to power? Could a bridge linking the Deep Ethereal to the Abyss be constructed, permitting the sibriexes and their master, the Prince of the Chrysalis, to shape new slaves from the very essence of raw Potential? Obyriths pervert what is and should be, not just because it suits their end goal of chaos unbound, but because corruption and violation is their very nature. It’s how they think, how they move, what they believe in, love, and value.

Obyriths have a lot to suggest for them when it comes to cosmic horror stories in D&D’s context. They bring out direct themes of madness, terrible truth, malign alien intelligence, and reality-unreality. You can comprehend their motives and even their nature, sort of, but their end goal is completely alien to mortal beings; the reality they want would be completely unrecognizable to the denizens of the current one. They are evil as mortals understand the concept, but not in a way that matches or even relates to their peers, which means they act in surprising and unpredictable ways.

All of this of course damages their ability to fulfill the classic cosmic horror thesis, but there’s something to be said about the idea that an alien intelligence, to be horrifying, needs something humans can attempt to relate to. It certainly makes writing for them easier.

If you’re using Obyriths in 3.5, you’re set to go; look for them in the various Monster Manuals, as well as Fiendish Codex. If you’re attempting to use them in Pathfinder, good decision but you’re gonna have some stat block converting to do. Trying to use them in 5e is gonna be the absolute bitch of a job, and I’m not sure where to even start on those suggestions except to note that the signature trait of Obyriths - the thing that makes them them, mechanically - is a Form of Madness ability, where they reveal their truth to their victims. Forms of Madness are mind-affecting abilities which hit all non-demons near the Obyrith, tainting them in some way. You can see some example ideas above, and the ones from 3.5 in the published books I just mentioned, but here’s hoping I can find an expert on 5th Edition’s mechanics kind enough to lend me a hand here.

I hope this article proved helpful to you! As with all of my work, questions and critique are welcome. Thanks for reading!

#D&D #planescape #far realms #demons #obyrith #cosmic horror #body horror #advice #I'm Not Sure How To Use Tags #reblogs welcome #critique welcome

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myriadimagines · 5 years

Text

One Way Trip

Game of Thrones One Shot

Pairing: Reader x Sandor Clegane

Other Characters: –

Warnings: violence

Request: “Hello you beautiful sunshine! I would like to request a Sandor Clegane one shot, where the reader loses sight of Sandor during the battle of winterfell and reader is really worried, (they are a couple) but in the last moment before the reader is killed by a whig Sandor saves them and we get a fluffy reunion, but after the battle Sandor wants to kill his brother, but reader begs him to don't go, ending is up to you if it's fluff or angst. Thank you very much, I hope you have a nice day!! 💕💖” – anonymous

Word Count: 1,639

A/N: I procrastinated this one so bad oh my god I’m sorry I hope it’s okay!!! Sorry the reunion isn’t super fluffy but I just felt like it didn’t really fit (both for the situation and the character) but I hope you still like it!!

please reblog/leave comments, they’re very much appreciated!

Your name: submit What is this?

You don’t think it’s possible to hear anything over the screams, the screams permeating through Winterfell, coursing through every hallway and every inch of the land like your own blood running through your veins. The screams of your fellow soldiers, the Northerners and the Free Folk and everyone in between who joined the fight against the Night King. It’s a garbled, distorted sound mixed with the relentless cry of the wights as their mindless bodies charge forward, decaying teeth bared as they snap and snarl at any flesh they can rip out.

Your head rings as you swing your sword, slashing out at any wight who scrambles towards you. Your sword is heavy, muscles weakened by lethargy and weighed down by your armour. A soldier behind you screams, and you turn around in time to see three wights pounce on him, a rusty sword plunging into his abdomen before you can stop it. He lets out a gargled sound, blood bubbling from his lips before the viscous liquid drips down his chin in abundance.

The screams become louder. A cry so deafening you can’t even hear your own screams.

More wights charge in as you peel your eyes away from the dying soldier, his arm outstretched to the sky as if he is reaching for the Gods, begging to be saved, to be pulled away from the battle. The thought inappropriately distracts you, and a sardonic laugh bubbles at the back of your throat as you think, surely, the Gods must have abandoned you all. Creatures so monstrous, so horrid, could have only been concocted from the very fabric of nightmares, that the Gods, the almighty Gods themselves have turned their backs to humanity.

You finally stumble backwards, raising your sword and driving it into the chest of a screeching wight that leaps forward. You yank it out harshly, the limp body of the wight falling to the floor before you crush its skull under your heavy boot for good measure. With heaving breaths, you whip around, eyes scanning the courtyard before your heart suddenly clenches with the realisation that you’ve lost him.

His name rips through your throat in a panic. “Sandor!”

Your cries are swallowed by the ocean of screams and cries of dying men, and tears sting your eyes as you blindly stumble forward, shoving past bodies in an attempt to find just one. You stumble over the dead at your feet, forcing yourself to look into their lifeless faces and praying to whoever can bear to listen to the countless other prayers of dying men and terrified souls you know are being said tonight. Your heart simultaneously elates and sinks as you identify each corpse as someone who isn’t Sandor, yet you want to sink to the floor, want to come apart every time you see a similar face, each time you realise just how many have fallen during this battle that is far from over.

Disoriented, your body crashes against the wall, your fingers skimming over the stone as you attempt to regain your balance. Your sword drags against the floor, and a strangled sob lodges itself at the back of your throat as you cry out his name again. He was behind you, protecting you like he always does, and he had disappeared. It seems helpless, attempting to find him in the midst of the ruthless battle, yet for him, you refuse to give up. Pushing yourself off the wall and onto your feet again, you barely manage to get one step forward when the door beside you suddenly bursts open, wood splintering as a flood of wights spill into the hallway. You immediately retreat, screaming out warnings for the soldiers around you as they clumsily begin to run. One falls, tumbling onto the ground, and against your better judgement, you collapse onto the floor beside him, grabbing his arm and trying to pull him to his feet. The both of you don’t even make it upright before the first wight tackles you from behind, and you’re quick to use your sword to block its growling face from your throat, bony fingers scratching against your skin as you grit your teeth in pain. The wight struggles against you, yet you can’t muster enough strength to push it off your body, and the fight only becomes more difficult as more and more wights pile on top of you. Tears blur your vision, your raspy breaths becoming strained as you realise this is your grisly end. You feel yourself growing weaker with each passing second, and your eyes screw shut as you brace yourself for the inevitable pain that is to come.

You barely hear the low, guttural cry that charges towards you over the wights shrieking in your ear, but suddenly, the weight above you is lifted, and you sit up to see Sandor stumbling to his feet, sword swinging at the remaining wights he didn’t manage to knock off you. Not wasting any time, you pull a dagger from your belt and forcefully thrust it into the mouth of the wight wriggling at your side before you pull yourself to your feet, letting out a cry as you charge towards the wight about to attack Sandor from behind. You swing your sword, your blade beheading the wight, and Sandor finishes off the last wight before turning around to see the brittle skull shattering on the floor.

“Can’t stay out of trouble without me.” Sandor grunts, grabbing your arm as he pulls your close, eyes scanning your body for any injury. You chuckle slightly, raising a hand to touch the light trickle of blood on the side of his face. Shaking his head, he insists, “It’s nothing.”

He softens as your thumb gingerly brushes over his skin, a simple gesture that somehow helps him forget the horrors around him. You smile at him, a smile brimming with relief, and you struggle to hold back your tears, “I thought I lost you.”

“You’ll have to try harder to get rid of me.” Sandor deadpans, and you scoff. Grabbing your hand, he presses a kiss to your temple as he continues, “We’ve got to keep moving.”

Nodding at him, you squeeze his hand before the two of you run back into the battle.

—

You find the rowdy atmosphere almost jarring when you think about the war that was waged and that the living had barely won. Drunken cheers fill the room, alcohol sloshing over already full glasses and spilling onto the wooden tables. There is exhaustion in everyone’s eyes, yet the victory overpowers it, the thrill of having fought against Death itself and coming out triumphant, save for the tremendous losses that unfortunately had to be sacrificed.

You sit opposite Sandor as his teeth sink into the roasted chicken that is being served. The both of you are famished, understandably so after constant fighting for the whole night. You listen to the disorderly hollers around you, mildly amused as you hear toast after toast, praise after praise and story after story of each person’s experience in the battle. Shaking your head, you take a swig from you almost sickeningly sweet mead before turning to Sandor.

“What?” Sandor asks, knowing well the expression on your face when you’re in thought. Dropping a bone onto his plate, he sloppily wipes his mouth with his sleeve as he raises his eyebrows at you.

“I can’t believe we’ve won.” you shrug, gesturing around you. “We did it.”

“We’re not done,” Sandor warns, and you press your lips together. “We’ve still got to fight those cunts in King’s Landing.”

Silence falls upon your conversation. You know there is an abundance of enemies in King’s Landing — Cersei and her soldiers, the Iron fleet — yet you know there is only one enemy Sandor is seeking to kill.

You reach out to grab Sandor’s hand, your finger intertwining with his as Sandor fixes his gaze, his focus, on how your hand fits over his while you insist, “My love, don’t let vengeance consume you.”

A ghost of a smile appears on his face. “It’s too late for me, y/n.”

“No, it isn’t.” your reply firmly, hand gripping tighter around his. Still trying to recover from the utter fear that had gripped your insides when you thought you had lost Sandor on the battlefield, you are far from ready to let him ago again, to let that fear settle in and make itself at home every day until he would return from King’s Landing to you. Desperate, you plead, “Sandor, please, don’t go. Stay in Winterfell with me.”

His eyes finally flicker up to meet yours. You wish you could see the hesitation flicker in his irises, could see some form of uncertainty, but the resolute expression on his face terrifies you. Your hand weakens, slowly pulling away from his as you realise there is no changing his mind, no stopping him from exacting the revenge he has spent years thinking about, and you can feel your already frail heart beginning to crumble.

Sandor catches your hand before you manage to pull away fully. He has prepared himself for a one way trip, prepared to accept whatever fate awaits him, yet for you, he lies, “I’ll be back.”

You nod, breaths becoming shaky as Sandor brings your hand up to kiss your knuckles, and you choose to believe him.

Later, you would watch him mount his horse after kissing him and trying to remember every intricate details of his lips. And as you would watch his retreating back, his horse treading down the path and disappearing into the hills, you would find yourself unable to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, unable to ignore the whispers in your head that would tell you this would be the last time you saw him.

tags: @chinike / @gofandomsandotherstuff / @emmacata / @pascalisthepunkest ↳ want to be added to the tag list?

#got imagine #sandor clegane imagine #got #got one shot #sandor clegane #sandor clegane one shot #reader x sandor clegane #sandor clegane x reader #imagine #imagines #reader insert #oneshot #one shot

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bts5sosempire · 5 years

Text

Freedom

A/n: a couple of things before I start lol, I'm not fluent in German so I Google stuff a lot 😂😂 so if you see them please pardon me. Plus this was in the draft for soooooo long that I just wanna kms cuz I forgot about it. Another thing I don't approve this kind of behavior too.

Pairing: Yandere! Kim Taehyung x Reader

Content: implied stuff, horror, scheme, manipulation, etc.

Words: 2,135

Prompt: “What's the different of give and take?”

Maybe it had been days? No, maybe it was weeks? Months or even a year? You don't know anymore, staying in this dark basement have deprived you of any human contact and light from the outside world. The chains shackling your ankles is enough proof to say that you were confined. Bruises formed around them long enough to tell that they were marred there. The entity.

Oh, how you long to be free.

Your story is a variance of like how Icarus had flown to close to the sun.

Instead of your wings burning off, it was your freedom and dignity taken. Two things that were given to you at birth. You would do anything to have them back. But in this, can you? If you can't, maybe in rebirth?

Many questions swirl in your head, enough to paralyze your thought.

But the sound of the heavy door caught your attention. The hair on your neck stands up instantly, as a horrible shiver ran throughout your entire body. This is enough to cause epilepsy. A small whimper made pass your lips, as you try to make yourself small as possible by scooting closer to the corner and hide from him. However, nowhere is safe from him.

Taehyung will find you no matter what.

Horrible fate isn't?

“Good morning,” his voice rang throughout the small space you were confined in, “I hope you're doing alright?”

Alright, wouldn't be the word you'd use in this situation you were in. It was more like killing you slowly and taking away your sanity little by little. Pieces of you being strip away and barring nothing but your skeleton and your vulnerable naked heart in front of him.

And that is something Taehyung prefer to keep it that way. Kind of mess up if you ask yourself about it. But he's the definition of that two words, ‘mess up’.

Your silence disturbs him.

“Why aren't you answering me?” he took a step and this cause you to recoil back into the corner tightly as possible. This causes him to stop in his steps. You fear to look at him right now, he may look harmless but that night—on that day—proved how dead wrong you were. You never have seen a person who smiles from joy by hurting others and in a slow torture style.

“You're that scared of me?” The words seem to lose their kindness in them. His hands start shaking uncontrollably. Breath getting ragged. The next thing causes the blood in your veins to burst with fear. He was crackling a burst of laughter, enough to haunt your mind for your entire being. Taehyung doesn't or maybe he does know, the things he does (to you) would be a tattoo in your mind. His hand made a slow movement to his waist and pull something, as a glint was shown in the dimly light basement.

“Let's play a game shall we?” he chuckles, and you whimper out of fear. Taehyung twirls the knife in his hand as he scrapes the tip of it against the brick pillar. The sound of two different elements making contact comes closer to your ears unpleasantly. You turn away and grip the hem of the tattered shirt, this time crying. You hate this, you want nothing to do with this any longer!

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go, eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” Taehyung voice stop abruptly and you bite your whimpers, in fact, you feel his presence just mere inches away, “My mother told me to pick the very best one, and that is YOU.” those words hit your ears with a strong shiver of horror. Tensing up, the tip of the knife trail up your back like water in reverse motion. But his trailing was very careful.

“If you win, you get to go free and I won't ever pursue you again.” His voice was low and eerie. The trailing stops in between your shoulder blades and stays there. “But if you lose, you will accept me wholly and be part of my life. How does that sound?”

Your silence was all he needs now, whether you like it or not.

Taehyung had made you ‘play find the treasure’, around the house there were three specific items he wants it to be found and you already found one of them.

The discovery was gruesome. It was his first victim already decayed body in the Iron Maiden. A key was stuck to its mouth, and you almost retch at the sight of it. The smell of death was strong in the room, even blood that was supposed to be washed away was stained there. He wants you to fetch the key from its mouth. You were hesitant about getting it, but if it means freedom from this hell-hole.

You are all in.

The second item was a code, but it was in a room filled with advanced math and equations, but you can make out the scribbles of white and red overlapping with each other. There were papers already prepared there. Like Taehyung already had planned this all along, since there were layers of dust coated the papers and desk.

You thought you were going crazy for a second as you saw repeated math equations, but you weren't. Taehyung did that on purpose. At first, you weren't sure of your going to get out if all the numbers are right since, you added them, subtract, multiply and even divide them but it doesn't make any sense at all! You were getting frustrated. What were you doing wrong?

Letting out a frustrated sigh, there was something bothering you. Taking a look at the ceiling and around you, there were more whites than red in the room. And the highest number you achieve was 27. The inner corner of your brows knitted together and you grab all the papers scattered around you. You had color coded them. There was a letter you had scribble next to the number when you had the answer. On each and one of them.

Looking around the room one more time, there was something laying in a forgotten corner. The paper folded neatly. You went over there and pick it up.

Unfolding it, it was only the alphabet letters. But it does make sense to you now. Each number represents an alphabet letter. You grab the papers that were filled with scribbles and jot down a letter next to them. But the red is more apparent than the white ones.

Freiheit ist nights, aber in Narrenwunsch.

You recognize it was in German.

But whatever it means, it's going to aid you in your freedom.

Running out of the room, you went to find the final piece of treasure.

Taehyung watches from the cameras in an unknown room, as he successfully saw you retrieve the key. He was neither anxious nor impatient, instead, he was rather very calm.

You were intriguing his mind more, very compatible. All he needs is to get you to join him is his misfortune and mischief, by ruling his side like the person he needed in this reign he's going to take over.

“Oh? She already solved it.” A small chuckle reverberates from his vocal cords. It didn't take long for you to solve the problems.

You run past the living room where you were supposed to be in there like fifteen minutes ago and you came back to find a computer hook up in cables and cords, as its links to a double door. Something made your skin crawl, it's not the cold air in this dark place. It's like you're being watched.

Making a small step at the bright computer, your eyes wince at the contrast. There was a question written on the computer screen.

What is freedom?

You type in the letters and press enter, and a click resonates around the room. The heavy doors open with a loud cry upon forces.

Everything in you pause for a moment.

A gust of strong wind push through the small gap of the door, you feel it rustle pass your unkempt self. Light peers through the dark room, making the darkness scramble away as it was eaten up. A breath of amazement escapes your lips, as you saw the landscape you were surrounded with. Wildflowers bloom everywhere, a giant lake down below the field, mountains far away with snow decorating their top.

Shaking your head, you cut off your thought. You need to get out of here!

Without wasting a moment, you set foot outside and it feels like many centuries have passed since you last visited the outside world. The rush of adrenaline filled you with excitement. A smile made on your dry lips. You pick up your speed and run towards the no path field of flowers.

Petals float in the air as your legs hit the wildflowers. The sun warms against your skin.

But the sound of a gunshot cut you short your freedom as you halt all movements. All feeling of happiness and childish self-flew away from you as fear regrips your heart again. You turn around and saw Taehyung there with a gun pointed in the air with a cynical smile. He then pointed it at you.

“Your freedom must've tasted good because it didn't last long.”

“You said you would let me go.” Your voice came out raspy because of the lack of use.

“But I didn't promise you though.” He comes close to you. Your legs start to buckle in fear and anxiety. “This was merely a lesson for you.”

“What?” Anger surge through you, like a breath of disbelief, filling your lungs.

“You know what ‘Freiheit ist nights, aber in Narrenwunsch’mean (Name)?” His terrifying eyes bore into your orbs, that look is enough to make your body lock under pressure, but you refuse to fall under his gaze. “It means freedom is nothing, but a fool's wish’. You get it to don't you? I let you escape like this to tell you how easy it is to take and give freedom. The words give and take are no different since they are so close to each other.” Taehyung closes the proximity. His hand went to capture your wrist with his one hand and twist them around your back. He pulls you close to him, chest to chest. This makes you struggle in his vice grip.

“Since taking away your dignity didn't break you enough, I would have to break your ambitions, your hope, your everything, and even the light that glimmer in your eyes.” The gun in his hand came dangerously close to you, as he traces the cool tip of the gun right down the side of your face. He leans his face close to you, just inches apart. “I will make you depend on me for the rest of your life. Want to hear a term for that? It's called Stockholm Syndrome. With enough deprivation of human contact, you will become eventually paranoid and start begging for my attention, then I'll make you learn how to love me.”

“You're sick!”

“I don't appreciate being called mentally ill (Name) after all, I'm not the one who killed their family and was label that.”

A snarl emits from your lips, as your anger override your emotions to think properly and words blurt out. “You think throwing the crime on me would make me come running towards you and kiss your feet? Instead, this made me hate you with a fiery passion that I run away and you're the one who came chasing after me instead! In fact, I appreciate if they killed me off sooner I wouldn't have to deal with your psychotic-”

A hand had made contact with your face. And you were shocked that Taehyung had just backhanded you! You bite your lower bleeding lip. “You don't mean it, you don't know what you're talking about. You don't hate me, you love me. Say that you love me.” Taehyung commanded the last sentence with the gun pointed under your jaw.

You give him a hard stare for a good few seconds before closing your eyes awaiting death if you don't answer.

“Open your eyes and say that you love me! Say it!” Taehyung tugs you.

Refusing to open your eyes, and the metallic metal was removed from your chin as you were pushed to the ground as the air was knocked out from your lungs. You open your eyes and saw him loom over you. There weren't any emotions shown on his face.

On that field, Taehyung was nothing more than an animal mask with the essence of the devil himself as he takes you there. He retook your everything.

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spongeekat · 5 years

Text

[Rewrite] The 6 Months Peter Parker was Dead Chapter 1

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Masterlist Here

Summary; Peter is forced to fake his own death to save the lives of his fathers, as well as his boyfriend Wade and the rest of the Avengers. Now living as his secret identity of Spider-Man, he must cope with the pain he's causing his friends and family, while adjusting to the lonely life of a full-time hero. It's not easy when his decision keeps finding ways to haunt him, and it seems his identity is even harder to hide when he's 'dead.'

“Peter, please. Just look at me. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to hurt Tony, or Steve, or anyone else that cares about you. You’re so young.”

Bruce’s pleading was wasted breath. His uncle’s voice was distant, barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears. Peter’s mind throbbed with unease. The burning embers kissing the windows and door frame were pulsing brighter than the rest of the world, and when he tore his gaze down to his arms he saw the crimson burning his skin and up the expanse of his shoulder. Fire Trucks blared deafeningly close, yet he didn’t so much as wince. Men and women were screaming at the rescue teams to help. It all sounded so far away. When he looked up at the fire consuming the burnt mansion, dripping with hunger and malintent, the blistering heat scorched his body. Sweat gathered on the edges of his hairline, and for a moment he felt he was breathing in pure charcoal and ash. His logical mind, though hardly present, told him this was a terrible decision, and he should stay clear of the collapsing building. He felt a hand firmly grasp onto his shoulder, before it drug his limp form around to face Bruce. Peter caught sight of calm eyes staring back down at him, though the usual composure of the scientist before him had broken. Blood dripped steadily down his cheeks, and Peter was aware of wires of a bomb strapped to his uncle’s chest creeping up from under his shirt. They served as a grim reminder of the consequences of his actions, if he chose not to go through with the plan being forced onto him.

The splintering crash of another room caving in on itself pulled him from his mystified haze. His senses slowly started to return, the deluded shrieking now hitting him in stereo. Glancing back at the horrifying scene, the mansion was standing on its final legs. His window of opportunity was running short. There was a tunnel in the basement open only for so long, and Peter would lose his chance to disappear into it if he didn’t make quick decisions.

A man howled for help from the second story. Peter wasn’t sure if he was a pawn placed there by Harry, or if he was an actual tenant of the home that had been ambushed with his arson. Either way, the fire truck's ladder wasn’t operating, and the man had no method of escaping. Peter’s urge to rescue him was making his stomach churn in agony. He knew Harry was watching, and any aberration from the scheme would result in negative outcomes for everyone involved.

“Don’t think about me for a second.” Bruce’s voice was soothing, and much closer to Peter this time, his hands desperately anchoring him in place to keep him from making a move towards the flame-engulfed house. “Think about yourself. It would be better for me to die than you. Remember your fathers. Remember New York. All the people that love and depend on you. The people that would be devastated.”

Who? The thought made Peter’s throat constrict. He couldn’t deny Tony and Steve would be left in shock- and childless- but thinking logically, both of his previous sets of parents and the one girl he’d ever loved were already dead. Superheroes lost people all the time. In the overall scheme of things, did his life really matter…?

But Bruce. Uncle Bruce was someone Peter had vowed to protect. He glanced shortly up at his worn face, the abuse he’d been dealt taking form in dark bruises on his jaw and a fractured nose. The Green Goblin had been the mastermind behind this all.

Harry Osborn had made his appearance at the science convention Bruce and Peter had gone to that afternoon. Peter had originally been invited by Tony, but his Dad hadn’t been up to attending the event and sent Bruce in his place. The look of disbelief on his Uncle’s face when Peter had shot out a web to defend them was cemented in his mind. Peter fought hard. He hadn’t won. Harry had baited them out of the convention center to a parking garage rigged with electric traps, and he’d stupidly ignored his spidey-senses until it was too late. Static shot through the room, currents cutting through his body until he was debilitated and had passed out. The horror he felt waking up to Bruce, beaten, bloodied, and covered with explosives, had felt grimly similar to watching Gwen fall to her death 2 years ago. He couldn’t go through that again. He couldn’t watch another person in his life die because of his double-life.

Windows shattered behind them, glass shards dropping to the sidewalk and causing onlookers to take steps further back to avoid the spray. Peter was pushed into Bruce from the momentum of the crowd, though Bruce wound his arms tightly around him. Peter could feel his unwillingness to let go. He wished he could stay that way with him, even if just for a minute longer. He may have resolved himself to his death, but that didn’t make the fear any less harsh.

“I know you think it’s your only option. But Peter, you have so much more to live for besides just being Spider-Man. You can’t lose your family. You can’t lose Wade.”

Wade. He would be devastated. He and Peter had agreed they would end each other’s lives when it came down to it, because neither wanted to survive alone. His promise ring was heavy on his finger. Peter slowly reached down and slipped it off with trembling hands, pressing it tightly into Bruce’s palm. “Keep it for me.” Peter’s voice ruptured through his chest, searing his lungs. His body ached, like he would have a break down any moment. However, he didn’t feel the immediate need to cry. He felt... numb.

Harry hated Peter. He didn’t have to scream it at him a thousand times to get the point across. He could see it in the spiteful eyes of his ex-best friend. He could see how Peter had broken him with his refusal to be the experimental drug for Norman. He had promised to do what he could to help the man he’d grown up with, but Norman had taken matters into his own hands and was too far gone for Peter to save him in the end. And then there was the night Norman had killed himself in a horrible accident, impaling himself on his glider when he had tried to take out Spider-Man. This fueled Harry’s inexplicably strong animosity, and Peter had no way to convince him that he hadn’t caused the loss of his father. In his eyes, while he knew it was horrible mistakes leading up to this, he accepted the blame for ruining his friend.

“You don’t deserve your dads.”

Peter had been electrocuted to the point he felt the shaking wouldn’t stop, sweat dripped down his face, and burn marks charred his arms and legs. He was in no shape to attempt an escape from the Goblin, especially with Bruce covered in explosives and unable to mutate to the Hulk. He wouldn’t risk his life in a gamble.

“Little Spidey wants to take away my father, my future, and still wants to pretend he’s the good guy! All we wanted was your goddamn blood !”

“Harry, this isn’t you.” Peter had seen Harry’s darkest days - through every disagreement with his family. Yet, despite the pressure of his Dad and the fate that awaited him, his fire had never burned out. Now, it seemed only black voids filled his eyes. “Let me help you. I-I promise, I’ll do everything I can-”

“No, that offer has expired. Sadly enough for you!” Another bolt coursed through his spine and spread down to his fingertips. Peter collapsed to his side on the floor, his body spasming excruciatingly as he tried to catch his breath and his heart threatened to give out. “You’re on my terms now. And that is somewhere you don’t want to be.”

Harry had given him an ultimatum. He cackled sadistically from behind his deranged mask, hovering over Peter’s broken frame on the floor still his twitching from another round of electrocution. “I won’t kill you. I want you to kill yourself. Peter Parker will die from this world either way.”

Peter was too disoriented to respond, and trying to pick himself up off the floor only left him dazed and in a heap once more. His limbs seemed to stop obeying him entirely.

“So I have a choice for you, Spider-Man.” A single, deformed finger blinded him, his brain engorged with electric sparks and hardly able to take in the details of it wavering in his eyes. “I’ll blow Banner’s brains out like a firework , reveal your identity to the world, and just as you return to normal life with Dear old Dad’s and your family of super-freaks, I’ll come for you. You won’t know where I am. But I’ll take a person from your life one by one, rip them to shreds and send you videos to commemorate, until you end your pathetic existence yourself.”

“Don’t listen, Peter.” Bruce croaked, though his prompting didn’t eliminate the weight of the Harry’s threats.

“Two.” Another green finger dug into Peter’s forehead, pushing sharply at his temples to make his neck arched painfully back. “You will leave your life as Peter Parker, and your Dads will be childless. You are a part of the Avenger’s now, aren’t you? Do you have fun being Spider-Man? Running around pretending not to sleep under the same roof? Is it easy to lie to them? I hope so, because Spider-Man is all you’ll ever be. You’ll kill yourself- or at least, they’ll think you’re dead- on television so everyone can see just how weak and pathetic you truly are. And you’ll suffer each day watching them in pain, knowing they couldn’t save you. Your Hulk will live. So long as you trust him to keep a secret.” He paused, tauntingly, and withdrew his fingers from the teen’s forehead. Peter stared in disbelief at the floor in front of him, a shuddering taking over his form. He couldn’t do that to Steve and Tony, or the rest of his family. Either choice was a terrible punishment for them; they’d lose a friend, a team member, and suffer the publicity of Peter’s identity reveal and the murders that followed; or they’d lose their only son, while he played observer to the aftermath right under their noses.

“Don’t make me wait all day, Spider-Man, the choice is clear. Make your decision by the count of three, or I’ll set off my boom-toys and kill Banner now.”

Before Harry had even reached 2, Peter’s voice shot out in utter panic. “I’ll do the second one! I’ll pretend to die!”

Peter could see the heartbreak on Bruce’s face. He knew he was selfish. He knew he couldn’t do this to the people he held most dear, but he couldn’t risk lives that weren’t his. He couldn’t put people in danger who had never agreed to be in harm’s way in the first place.

“Be careful. Get the bombs off as soon as possible.” Peter brushed away Bruce’s arms from his body, taking a few steps backwards. Worry spiked in Bruce’s eyes, but Peter had his back facing him before he could say another word. He ducked under the police tape at the front lines. A fireman squawked to his right and made to grab him,, but Peter was quicker and evaded his grasp. He sprinted towards the home before anyone had really noticed he’d broken through, but when they had, there was an outcry of concern from the crowd. His steps tapered off at the front door and he slowed to a stop. The furniture and walls just inside the doors were blackened from the flames, sweltering smoke pouring through the frame. He could smell the petrol that had fed the fire, which was now spilling down the stairs at a rapid pace. He had a minute, maybe less, before the entire front room would be consumed by the blaze. Sweat collected on the arch of his eyebrows, and for a moment he was left petrified on the porch. There were civilians screaming at him to stop, and training his ears, Peter knew one of the first responders was dashing towards where he stood, his footsteps slamming against the asphalt. Despite the dread of entering the tomb that stretched in front of him, he couldn’t let himself get stopped. If he were interrupted by an officer he wouldn’t get a second chance to finish what he had started. His eyes locked onto the cameraman from their local news gawking at him from behind police lines, and before concerned bystanders could get in his way, he had ducked in the doorway and out of sight from the public.

Before he had even taken 5 steps away from the door, an explosion sounded behind him, nearly catapulting Peter into a half-destroyed piano from the force. Peter threw arms over his head as dust and debris sprayed his way, varnishing his face and hair with ashes. The side of the house closest to the stairs had begun collapsing, beams creaking before plunging through the weakened ceiling and splintering against the ground. He navigated his way towards the kitchen, the furthest point in the house from the source of the fire, purposefully orchestrated by Harry. He knew he was watching him, executing perfect timing as to prevent Peter’s plan from getting hindered. This also meant Peter was given no chance to go back on his word, once it was set into motion. His way out had been barraged chunks of burnt wood and drywall, and there was only one escape point remaining; the basement.

The roof groaned with strain, and the snapping of wood caught Peter’s attention. A tingle of warning ran up his spine, and his arms straightened above him on instinct to catch a burning beam that was hurtling down towards him. It easily outweighed him and was painted black with fire. The flames scorched the skin on his hands, but his adrenaline-induced high distracted him from the pain. He managed to throw it aside back towards the living room, side-stepping the cavern above him in case another piece of the frame decided to give out. He sucked in a sharp breath to look down at his palms, bits of the skin burned away to reveal pink and bloodied skin, but there wasn’t much to do about it now. The sooner he got out of this house, the less trauma he’d have to worry about later.

He trudged his way down the staircase that led to the under structure, the air growing thinner and easier to breathe. Peter hitched his backpack off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor, yanking out his suit. Despite the rush he was in, he faltered when he looked at the fabric, as if it was his first time seeing it. He didn’t feel like he was in a hurry this time to don the costume. After today, it would serve as his prison sentence. He wasn’t able to take it off and return to his life as a student, son, and Daily Bugle employee. Peter Parker, in this reality, was dead.

He tore off his current clothing, dropping it to the ground beside him. It was difficult to pull the spandex over his damp skin, but he eventually was zipping it and fixing his mask in place. Feeling his breathing obstructed by the suit was what finally made it all seem real. He wouldn’t be returning that night from his trip with Bruce to a warm bed and a kiss on the forehead from Steve. He wouldn’t spend his night listening to Tony trying to prove why it was a pointless convention made for less competent scientists to prove their theoretical intellect. There’d be no family movie night like every Saturday, and Natasha wouldn’t tease him and Wade endlessly when Wade snuck in once Tony and Steve went to bed. He wouldn’t go out for his nightly patrol, and he’d never again return at an unholy hour to rush to hide his new bruises with concealer and long-sleeve shirts.

Peter was really losing his entire life.

He twisted to locate the crudely carved tunnel leading out of the basement and up towards the back yard. Harry had told him it would be there as his means of escape, and it seemed just barely big enough for him to crawl through. With a faltering confidence he shoved his backpack in far enough to fit his body, then grabbed hold of the walls of the dirt path to pull himself in as well. His toes poked around for a growth in the dirt, and when he found it, he gave it a light tap and withdrew his foot. A weak bomb went off and the end of the tunnel collapsed, the light fading out of the space in seconds. Harry hadn’t been lying about the detonator to prevent his route from being found. He really had planned this revenge meticulously. Peter grabbed hold of his backpack and pushed it up further along the steep angle, using his feet to climb up after it.

Trapped in utter darkness in a tunnel that led Peter to god-knows-where, he crawled towards the beginning of a new kind of hell he wasn’t emotionally prepared to face.

“Now being called a Reckless Hero; How the adopted son of Tony Stark lost his life in an attempt to save politician Jamison Morre last Tuesday when he was trapped on the fourth floor of his burning home. The Manhattan Arson and Explosives team has just concluded their investigation on the case of a house-fire that left two dead earlier this week. Firefighters received the call about this massive fire at about 4:30 PM. When they arrived on the scene they discovered Morre was still inside the home, unable to escape his bedroom before the fire had caused the stairs to collapse. 20 Year old Peter Parker-Stark was spending the day with a family friend when the young man supposedly passed by the scene and heard the cries of the homeowner as he yelled for help. Despite all of the first-responders best efforts, they were not able to extend their ladder due to faulty equipment. It was then Stark decided to take matters into his own hands. He ran into the half-demolished building to try to reach him, but a gas line exploded just as he entered. Police say they found a body that was badly burned and crushed under the rubble, but it had been concluded to belong to Parker-Stark. We talked to the fire chief that was on the scene at the time.”

“It was an unfortunate incident that my men were not prepared to deal with. Our truck ladder wouldn’t extend, and we couldn’t reach the man through his window. The kid ran past us and it took too long for any of us to realize he had gotten through. It’s something sad that we have to deal with when heroes like Spider-Man and Captain America run around and try to save people all the time. Normal people want to be heroes, too. All of our trucks are being tested to be sure this won’t happen again, and the parts that failed are being looked into.”

“We’ve received no comment from Tony Stark on the incident. More details to come as they’re uncovered.”

The TV clicked off, the screen shutting down to black, and Peter was once more basked in the silence of his empty apartment. He drew his legs up to his chest, resting languidly against the arm of his couch. After a couple of nights taking refuge under the bleachers of his old high school, Bruce had gotten him settled into a rented furnished studio apartment, at least for the time being until he figured out the next steps he would take. It had been surprisingly difficult adjusting to life on his own. Despite his roots of living primarily with Aunt May and Uncle Ben in an aged, single-family home, he had grown quite accustomed to life in Stark Industries and the luxuries that came along with it. Of course he was also never completely alone in the tower. Even when his 5-or-so family members were away on a mission, he still had Jarvis, who was decent company. But now he was left isolated on the other side of town.

Bruce hadn’t come to visit Peter yet. At least not when he’d been home. He’d left a new phone, clothes from his room, his laptop, his promise ring, and cash in a box on his counter while Peter was out. He also texted him updates about upcoming Avenger’s meetings, though all official activity had been postponed until further notice. Peter hadn’t heard anything about Steve and Tony’s state yet, though he figured that was for the better.

The depression of losing his family had hit him quite hard. Rather than crying to mourn his losses, he just felt... empty. His life had been shattered apart by the man he used to consider his best friend, his relationship had been ripped prematurely away, and he was left a captive to his superhero persona. He hadn’t brought himself to move from the couch since he’d moved in, much less go out for patrols. Besides, the temptation to burst into his old home and reveal that he had never really died and beg for forgiveness for lying to them would overwhelm him. He wasn’t strong enough for it yet.

On his new phone he navigated to the social media sites his family had kept up for him, all now switched to a remembrance page. Several people from highschool and college that had barely even known his name when he was ‘alive’ had posted tribute statuses. Even his professors had reached out about the unfortunate death of their student. The name that stood out most viciously on the page was Flash. He was, according to his post, torn-up by Peter’s death, wishing he had been given the chance to apologize for his misbehavior all those years ago towards Peter. The fact that his death may have actually done good for a person made him want to laugh at the sour irony.

There was still the intrusive thought that overall this may be a benefit to those he’d left behind. After all, how many of his family members had he seen murdered, or close to it, because of his genetics and powers? It was hard to ignore the fears when they were the only thing keeping you company during the day.

Peter’s police scanner buzzed on low volume next to him on the cushions, and the words ‘Masked Red Man’ and ‘Shooting.’ immediately caught his attention. Wide-eyed, his fingers fumbled to turn it up.

“ 612 we’re requesting response cars because we have squads tied up with this shooting. Unable to move inside. 5 suspects have been spotted with firearms, and approximately 24 people are still inside the mall. Masked man is now out of sight and has appeared to have entered through the fire exit. Shots have been fired. Where did this guy go? Were those swords?”

Apparently there was a hostage situation in the mall, and Wade was getting himself involved. The fact had Peter on his feet in a second. Wade had been kill-free for a year and half since joining up with the Avenger’s alongside Spider-Man, and had been very proud of that fact. Peter was really hoping that streak hadn’t been broken. No, he had to be sure Wade wasn’t going to hurt anyone. His chest ached as he pulled himself from the couch and tumbled over to his suit that laid out on his counter, holding it up before him.

No more moping. He was going to have to face this head on. He was doing this to protect those he loved, and he couldn’t give up on saving the city and the people in it just because he was grieving. So he pulled the zipper open and ripped off his shirt, trying not to let his mind linger on the anxiety of seeing Wade again.

Spider-Man landed stealthily on the glass roof of the Manhattan mall, but he still heard an eruption in the crowd gathered to watch the scene, supposedly noticing him. He braced his fingertips against the slippery panes and crawled silently, eyes scanning inside for where the hostages were. He’d heard from the report that the shooters had been spotted near the electronics store on the second floor through a window. As promised, when he reached that area, he saw a man standing with a loaded gun in the center of a broken escalator, with a group of a dozen people kneeling behind him. There were bound to be more shooters in another section, which Peter had to be careful not to alert, as to not risk any of the individuals’ lives.

He carefully gripped onto and pulled one of the glass panels up as warm air rushed out at him, calculating his strategy. Yelling below him indicated someone was on the phone, likely with the police, in one of the hidden stores. The hostages seemed to all be alive at least, though Peter was sad to know there had already been at least one casualty. He picked the angle at which he could quickly web the gun with one hand and grab the gunner with the other, which would hopefully be silent enough that he could then land in front of the hostages and body-block them until he’d taken out the three other gunman.

Peter adjusted so that he’d have room to jump down once he’d webbed the man, extended his wrist, and braced himself to ambush his target.

“Who the fuck is that?!”

The faint sound of boots hitting tile drew his attention to a maintenance hallway. His vision locked in on a man making his way towards the gunmen with a frightening ambiance, shrouded by the crimson emergency lights flashing rhythmically. His katanas were dragging on the ground, sparks leaping off the tips , and nothing about this man seemed friendly or hopeful like Peter had come to know him. His heart swelled in his chest upon seeing the familiar suit, a sharp pain forming in the back of his throat. Wade. His presence brought in an instant happiness that threw him completely off guard, though the grief overshadowed it in a moment when he’d realized that it meant nothing. Wade had no idea who lied behind the mask. They were still stuck miles apart.

“Stop walking towards me or I’ll kill one of the kids!” Peter was torn back to the situation at hand. His eyes darted to look for the other gunmen, and he could see the barrels of their machine guns poking out of the door of one of the stores. He counted 3 present at the scene, which meant one was still missing.

Deadpool’s heavy steps didn’t falter at the threat, and Peter’s ears picked up on the clicking of a gun safety. It was time to make his move.

A child screamed when Peter descended down on them, which distracted the man aiming at Wade long enough that his blades had the chance to scrape together. Peter turned in horror, expecting a maimed body lying on the floor, though he was met with the sight of a halved gun and the man bleeding from his nose after taking a hilt to the face. Thank God. The criminal was injured, but alive.

The whizzing of a bullet entered his ears and he instinctively side-stepped it, and several other shots. His wrists darted out, web fibers solidifying and sticking onto the strap of one of the rifles. He ripped it out of the hands of the gunman, pulling the magazine out and discarding it before the body clattered to the floor. Peter shot another two webs at the man’s arms and drug him forward, digging the heel of his foot into his forehead to disorient him. Deadpool was beside him without hesitation, sliding under a bullet’s path and yanking the shooter’s feet out from under him. Peter noted that Deadpool was dully silent compared to his normal banter and… Peter would give anything to hear just a hint of laughter in his voice. Peter turned his head at the hostages, pointing towards the exits. “Go to the police. You should be safe.” He said, calmly, to keep them from panicking and trampling one another. His voice disguiser he’d invested into when he’d gotten invited to the Avenger’s buzzed softly in his mask, distorting his voice deeper and leaving it unrecognizable.

Peter cemented two of the criminals to the floor. He used his knee to anchor another, wrapping web around his wrists to subdue him, and Deadpool seemed to be taking care of the other gunmen. His heart rate had picked up to a rapid pounding due to the close proximity of Wade, and he struggled to find something to say. There was an uncomfortable tension draping them, and Peter knew he should break the silence. He straightened up ever so gradually, studying Wade’s mask, though the mercenary seemed to notice and refused to return his gaze. His body language echoed the tenseness he seemed to feel, his quivering hands using more force than necessary to rip at the shirt fabric of the knocked out man to tie his hands. Peter wanted to hug him. It hurt so terribly to be this close, to see him looking so defeated, but unable to do anything about the fact. Nothing else felt as important in that moment as comforting Wade did.“Deadpo--”

“I have to go.” Deadpool stood from his work, looking over at the computer store. Peter followed his eyes, slowly, every fiber in his being not wanting to look away from Wade, to see the last of the men cowering behind a desk. “You can take care of him, right, Spidey?”

Wade sounded drained. Peter swallowed down the remorse that took over him as he nodded. “I-Uh- Yeah” Wade braced to walk away, but panic erupted in Peter’s chest. He didn’t want him to go. “Um, We should talk!... Sometime. Like we used to.” He said awkwardly, with urgency, unsure why he had made the offer knowing that he absolutely could not risk giving his identity away.

The mercenary hesitated, his blades, still dirtied with blood and gunpowder, being shoved away into their holsters on his back. “Yeah, maybe .” Wade returned half-heartedly, and it was clear he had no intention of accepting Spider-Man’s offer. He didn’t say anything else, picking his way over the bodies and dragging his feet back towards the exit.

And all Peter could do was watch him walk away with the other half of his heart. His promise ring sat heavily on his finger, under the glove.

He was broken. There was no other way he could describe the torment that had crushed his spirit. Wade was hurting, that much was clear by his shortness, and Peter knew it was entirely his fault.

#spideypool #superfamily #spiderman #deadpool #iron man #captain america #fanfic #my fic #spongeekat

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low-budget-korra · 5 years

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The Legend Of Korra_Book One : “That’s Dark”

So reviewing TLOK made me not only caught up in the nostalgia of this wonderful and special animated show but also reflected on the journey not only from Korra but also from all Team Avatar.

(Remembering that all this is just my opinion and some of the various interpretations that I have about the show)

Book 1 is in my opinion the second best of TLOK and the darkest of all.

And reviewing I think I've noticed why.

Book One is the most "real" of all. All the problems there can be seen in the most different societies.

We have an ideological political clash in an environment where segregation between benders and non-benders is still a reality.

I think the whole atmosphere of Republic City is more dark , so at the very beginning we are introduced to those problems that I honestly think we can all understand. Fear of violence, lack of confidence in figures who hold power, a "savior" who appeals to the fear of this population and take's power, conspiracies for power, politics shit , social inequality , etc

Problems that are real at a international level. I here in Brazil can feel and understand this in the same way as a person who whatch’s the show in Canada. I think

Not to mention the urban colors and shades of grey and brown more saturated and not so bright (especially at night) , showing that the city is kind of a trap, something “Too good to be true." Its beautiful and scary at the same time.

So we have Korra, who in book one has 17 years (the same age as I when i started to watch the series) and as it is visible in her’s first moments, is that she has the “spirit of a kid”.

I think the expression "kid's mind in a Woman's Body" can define the Korra in Book One. She is naive, immature, spoiled, a bit arrogant, very self-confident, playfull...

I think it was one of the things that enchanted me in her and undoubtedly was what made me connect with her, because I was also, especially, naive as she.

Korra comes with the glare for just being at Republic City, that childish naivete of thinking that everything will work fine, without consequences.

And it is precisely when she, for the first time, is confronted with the possible consequences of the fight that she has just entered, she breaks. But before we talk more about Korra, let's talk about her nemesis here, Amon.

Amon is a white and heterosexual man representing the patriarchy .... lmao im joking, or not...

Anyway, Amon ... The way he uses to subjugate and dominate his enemies, the violation he makes to achieve this ... I find it almost impossible not to parallel this with cases of sexual violence. Amom takes some of these people for himself, he forces something into them, they get devastated and depressed after losing the benders to him and also they look kinda of feeling humiliated by that.

So we have the terrible and beautiful episode :"The Voice in the Night". Here we see this 17 year old girl, absolutely terrified by the idea of confronting this man who must be in his late 30′s.

I think that when Korra saw what Amon was capable of , it was the first time in her life when she felt truly afraid. And for us girls, being afraid of a man, especially when walking alone in the night , sadly still is a reality.

Anyway, going back to the show ...

After being coerced to fight on the front line against the Equalists for Tarrlok ( I will speak of him soon), Korra gains confidence and in her naiveness, invites Amon to a duel.

Amon not only arrives late as he is disloyal and does not come alone. An adult man ambushes a 17-year-old girl in a dark place with the help of his crew ... Man, this is dark ! And all the lighting and animation of the final scenes of the episode are excellent because it resembles more a horror story than a kid’s show.

The way they hold her on her knees, making her so small in comparation to him, who looks even more frightening. But not only this, because “be on knees” historically and culturally associated with submission and she was forced to be in that position. The way Amon holds her face makes it clear that the avatar was totally impotent since her rival had already crossed the “touch barrier” by touching her face. The Touch for many people is something intimate and touch someone face is not only something more intimate but also associated with caring and love. And this motherfucker just crossed this line

Amon accepted the challenge with the goal of destroying the Avatar independent of who she was. And thats terrible and scary, but also, so real for so many people.

After he leaves, Tenzin arrives and ask if everything is okay and all. Korra then says that she still has her bendings and finally opens with him over her fears as she cries in his arms.

Then after, we have an episode more focused on love triangle and comedy. Cause its a kids show right?

How will Korra deal with Amon now that she has already lost the first battle?

Honestly I dont think she overcame her fears there, I think she just buried them for the greater good that was defeating him. Something like “im scared as fuck but im gonna do it anyway”. And you need to be brave to do that

And after losing her bendings to the enemy in the final episode, when her worst nightmare comes true , she has nothing left to lose. And in desperation to save her friend and crush from going through what she had just been through, Korra discovers she can airbend. And this new wave of confidence makes her defeat Amon at his own game, exposing him as the fraud he is. But is that enough? I see later that she still suffering for losing all the other bendings, she’s still broken until Avatar Aang pass by to say “hey” and give her all the bendings back

(This scene had me on tears)

Tarrlok is a character that I just did not like. And guys since he saw Korra, he directed all the attention to her.

Of course he wanted to use her to climb the ladder and take Republic City's political power for himself. But seriously ... I know that maybe you find yourself thinking "Damn, you will put sexual subtext and sexual interpretation where they do not have". But listen to me.

Tarrlok is an older man who does not accept Korra’s "no" for his partnership proposals.

Then we have the episode where her confrots him by the arrest of her friends. Of course Tarrlok used the bloodbend on her cause she was ready to burn his ass down.

And it is logical that he would disappear with her so she does not unmask him to everybody. Now, though it seemed like something got at the moment, Tarrlok had it all ready. The place where Korra would be taken and where he kept her arrested .

Of course, the most obvious answer is that the place might have been prepared to receive Amon, though he did not know that he was a bender so he did not need that metal box because a normal cell would work, but with all that happened , Tarrlok had this change of plans. I think he may think that she could bring problems to his plans and the let this as plan B

But then an now unmasked and hunted by Republic City police force and just before Amon invades the place, he tells Korra that he will run away and that he will take her as his hostage.

But why? If he had hated her for ending his plans, he could just leave her there to die of hunger / thirst. Not to mention that, Korra would definitely fight and delay him in his escape, so why take her ?

Another thing, Amon wouldnt hurt Korra, he doesnt even saw her as a person, he only saw the symbol, the Avatar and that must be destroyed but all costs. Tarrlok in other hand wants to use the symbol but also know the person behind, he knows the 17old Korra and would hurt her if he has to.

The politics, the intimidation, the haressament, the fear, the power dinamics between those 3 characters...

Mako and Bolin do not have much development in book One . Mako is the love interest and Bolin is the comic relief.

Asami has a very remarkable moment. She has to choose between her father and what is right.

And the Fire Ferrets certainly helped her in that choice. Especially Mako, Asami's mother was killed by benders, probably fire benders cause they kinda murder people parents sometimes, and Mako is a firebender. So relating to him might have knocked over all the rest of prejudice and anger she may have for benders until that.

This arc between Asami and her father is also about the loss of innocence. In that case, lose the innocence of thinking that our parents cant be bad people.

And even more, from then on, Asami is shaped much more like someone who makes right choices in difficult times, even if those choices are heart-breaking.

Tenzin leaves his comfort zone. He will train Korra, who is someone who almost totally contradicts who he is. And right away, we see that he is an excellent teacher. All your patience, your diplomacy is inspiring and will certainly help to make Korra the most conscientious and mature woman at the end of book four.

He also has tough choices, and shows himself steadfast in them, doing everything to protect his family and friends.

Lin, there's a moment I think is incredible. When she sacrifices herself to save Tenzin's family. Lin does not flee the fight. Just like her mother, she is determined in her goals. And we have more depth development in Book 3.

In another post i will talk about the book Two cause this is already too big.

So i believe one of the main sub themes or simple stuff that i can see on book One is the Loss Of Innocence

#the legend of korra #avatar korra #asami sato #korrasami #mako #bolin #tenzin #lin beifong #avatar #avatar: tlok #lets talk about

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