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eddiemunsons80sbaby · 6 months

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Naughty List

Pairing: JoeQuinnXReader

Summary: You've been feeling down this holiday season but Santa has the perfect idea to lift your spirits. Have you been a good girl or a naughty one?

You walked into the house after a long day in retail, ready to kick off your shoes, sit on your couch with your boyfriend, and enjoy a glass of wine. You usually loved working this time of year. Christmas had always been a source of joy. You embraced the chaos but this Christmas season had been rough.

Work had been insane with far too many unpleasant shoppers. You were used to a few here and there but it seemed as if everyone was in a hateful mood lately. They yelled about long lines like they weren't aware it was the busiest shopping season. They cursed at you when something was out of stock like you were the one manufacturing the damn televisions and radios they wanted. On top of that, your grandma had a stroke last month and you'd been spending a lot of your down time trying to help out your mom and dad. You were run down, exhausted, and running on fumes You were more than ready for a long winter's nap.

You dropped your purse, turning, and paused, taking in the apartment around you. Festive lights were strung all around the ceiling, twinkling in hues of red, blue, green, and yellow. Two stockings were attached to the hooks you usually used for your keys. Someone had clearly written your name on one and Joseph on another with gold glitter glue. Your Christmas tree sat against the wall, beautifully decorated with all your favorite ornaments. Tears sprang to your eyes as you took in the sight before you. You hadn't had time to decorate for Christmas with everything else going on and that had just added to your melancholy feeling this holiday season. Nothing was more depressing than coming home to a space bare of any Christmas joy during what was supposed to be the happiest time of the year.

Your favorite person in the world poked his head around the corner, giving you one of his little pouty smiles, that dimple you just loved to sink your tongue into appearing on his cheek. On his head sat a bright red Santa hat, the little fluffy white ball hanging just over his forehead.

"What did you do?" you asked with a grin.

"Well," Joseph began, slowly walking towards you, his hands folded behind his back, "I know that things have been a bit tough for you lately. You've been so busy with work and your grandma and I knew you were feeling a bit sad that you hadn't had time to decorate. You're usually so happy, downright jolly, at Christmas time and I have not seen you even smile in days. So I wanted to do something to brighten your spirits. Did it work?"

"What do you think?" you replied, bridging the gap between you, sliding your hands around his waist, the brightest smile ever on your face.

"It looks like my mission was quite successful," he answered softly. One of his hands slid up your arm and shoulder to cup the back of your neck. His other hand moved around to settle on the small of your back.

"Very successful," you whispered softly, your legs going weak as his lips found yours, gentle and sweet at first, and then more insistent. His tongue danced along the crease in your lips, slipping past to meet with your own. You moaned softly, trying to press yourself closer to him because there was never such a thing as close enough when it came to Joseph.

Joseph pulled his lips from yours, backed up, and you groaned with disappointment. People said that everything fizzled out eventually in a relationship. You wouldn't be as frantic about each other, sex would die down, you just would become comfortable. Well, that was not the case with you. It had been three years and nothing was dying down and there was absolutely no fizzle. The raging inferno that was your desire for him continued to blaze hot, threatening to burn the world in the process.

He smirked, strolling over to sit on the couch. Leaning back, he spread his legs open wide and desire flooded through you. Why was it so fucking sexy when he manspread? It should be obnoxious. He gazed up at you, that fuzzy ball hanging in front of his forehead, as he patted his lap.

"Sit on Santa's lap, darling and tell him if you've been a very good girl this year," he said, a devilish smile playing on his lips that made you feel like you were coming apart at the seams.

You walked slowly, swaying your hips as you went, thinking two could play at this game. If he wanted to tease then you could tease him right back. All thoughts of being tired vanished, your body suddenly quite energized ad you settled yourself in his lap. Joseph wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against him.

"Come on, love, tell Santa what you want for Christmas," Joseph urged, his fingers sliding up and down your arm, sending shivers racing along your spine.

"I think I have exactly what I want right now," you responded, kissing the side of his mouth, "you."

Joseph tilted his head, tutting softly. "Oh, now that won't do. That's not very specific, darling. You have to tell Santa exactly what you want if you hope to get it."

Oh, it was going to be that kind of night. Your stomach tightened in anticipation, heat rushing between your legs. You ran your hand under his shirt, over the downy hair that sat above the button on his pants, feeling his muscles tense under your fingers.

"I want..." you whispered, leaning in close to his ear, "you to make me cum so hard that I see stars." You nip at his earlobe, enjoying the hiss that slips from between his teeth. "I want your mouth everywhere on my body." Your hand slid down over his pants, palming his erection and he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "I want to feel every inch of you." You twisted your body, draping your legs on either side of him, straddling his lap and began slowly rocking your hips. You whimpered at the feel of his erection pressing against right where you needed him. "I want you to fuck me so hard that I can't move when it's over."

"Fuck..." he murmured softly, placing kisses over your jaw, one hand coming up to grip your hair, tugging on it gently, exposing your neck to his famished lips. "And have you been a nice girl or a naughty girl this year?"

"Oh, I have been so, so naughty, Santa," you breathed, your breath catching as you continued to press against him, sliding your hips feverishly back and forth.

"Mmm...well, you know what happens to naughty girls, don't you?"

Joseph grabbed your waist, stilling your body so you could no longer enjoy the friction that was relieving the tension building in your core. You tried to move your hips again but his hands were like iron, keeping you frozen. You whined and he chuckled, enjoying his little game. The man loved to tease you, to drive you to the brink of desperation before giving you what you craved.

"Naughty girls have to get punished before they get their present, darling," he rumbled. "Now, lay across Santa's lap and lift that little skirt up for me."

You were so turned on right now. Jesus, you loved it when he took charge. You slid off him and then bent forward, laying across his lap. His fingertips grazed the skin along the back of your calf. Obeying his commands, you lifted your skirt, exposing your bare ass to him. As he realized you were wearing nothing underneath, you heard him inhale a shuddery breath.

"Oh, you are a naughty girl," he hummed, his hand softly running over your bare ass before you felt the sting of his hand coming down hard on your ass cheek.

You whimpered softly as his fingers slid down, through your slick. Your hips bucked, your body craving him. Joseph chuckled again, the sound deep and amused as one finger slipped in between your folds, teasing your clit with slow circles. You wriggled your hips, desperate to get him to apply more pressure but his hand instantly disappeared and another hard slap came, causing you to cry out.

"Naughty girls don't get what they want. Remember? You have to show you can be a good girl before Santa gives you your present."

"I am so sorry Santa," you replied, your voice ragged, feeling like you were going to come undone if he didn't touch you soon. But you would play his game because you needed it. You needed the release only he could give you. "How can I be a good girl?"

Joseph slapped your ass again and the sting brought both tears to your eyes and raging desire between your thighs. He grabbed onto your hair, yanking you up to your knees, roughly pressing his lips to yours. Your teeth clashed, tongues tangled, his lips bruising your own with hard pressure as he showed you exactly who was in charge tonight.

"You want to know how to show me you're a good girl? Show me how good that pretty little mouth can suck my cock."

Releasing your hair, he leaned back on the couch, spreading his legs open. You crawled in between them, on your knees, working to unbuckle his belt and slide it loose. You undid the button on his slacks and he lifted his hips so you could pull them down, along with his boxers. The full glorious length of him greeted you and you could feel the dampness between your legs growing at the thought of bringing him pleasure.

Wrapping your fingers around him, you pumped your hand up and down the length of his shaft before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. You were rewarded with a groan from above you that you could feel in your core. Flicking your tongue out, you teased around the slit and then slid your tongue slowly down along the vein running underneath.

"That's it...that's my good girl," he groaned, his head resting against the back of the couch, eyes closed. "Such a good girl, darling, taking all of Santa's cock. Yeah, take it in all the way. Want to tickle the back of your throat, sweet girl."

Shit, you loved turning him on. You could almost get off just from listening to the sounds he made, the praise he lavished on you when you were making him feel good. You wrapped your mouth around him, taking the entire length of him into your mouth, allowing it to hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck, yes," Joseph growled, his hand gripping your hair again, pushing himself as far into your throat as you can handle until you gag. "Just like that, love."

You released him from your mouth for a moment, continuing to work him with your hand. Your other hand came up to cup his balls, relishing the softness of the skin there as you rolled them around gently before tugging them downward and he grunted harshly, growling out your name.

Joseph grabbed your shoulders and lifted you up from the floor, throwing you down on the couch. His eyes darkened with the desire he was feeling. He was the one in charge but you took pleasure in the fact that you had managed to undo his composure. You knew he wanted to take you right there but he was struggling to regain the upper hand.

"You are such a good fucking girl," he whispered. "Such a talented little mouth doing exactly what Santa asked. I think you've earned a little present."

He grabbed the front of your shirt, tugging at it with his hands until the buttons snapped off. For a second you were annoyed. It was a work shirt and you only had so many but then his mouth was on your breast, his tongue lavishing your nipple and all ability to think fled your brain. His lips pressed warm, wet kisses along the curve of your breast, down in the valley between them, before reaching the other one. He took that nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before sinking his teeth in.

"Fuck!" you screamed, gripping his hair in your hands and you heard him chuckle.

"My girl likes it rough, doesn't she?" he asked as his fingers pinched your other nipple, twisting it just enough that the pain was so goddamn sweet. "I didn't hear your answer."

"Yes...yes...I love it rough," you choked out, gasping in shallow breaths. His tongue was moving south now, sliding along your stomach, pausing to dip into your belly button, causing your toes to curl, your fingers to grasp at nothing.

Joseph knelt on the couch between your legs and lifted your skirt, tilting his head to the side as he gazed down at you. His fingers trailed up and down the insides of your thighs, close but just never quite close enough to finally touch where you so desperately needed him. You whimpered, rocking your hips forward, needing him to finally quell this unbearable need.

He lifted your foot, bringing it to his mouth, pressing kisses along the arch, your ankle, your calf, your knee. Jesus, you were going to implode if he didn't relieve some of this pressure soon. HIs lips moved along your inner thigh but darted over your center, moving to the other thigh. You whined softly and he laughed, the sound a deep rumble in his chest.

"My girl sounds upset. What's wrong, darling?" he questioned innocently.

"Please..." you begged. "Please Joseph."

"Please what?"

"Please touch me," you pleaded, bucking your hips again, desperate for him to use his fingers or tongue on you. Anything as long as he was finally giving your pussy some attention.

"What would you like me to touch you with?" he teased, a smirk playing across his lips as his eyes gleamed mischievously.

"I want you to taste me," you moaned.

"Mmm...that's my favorite choice too," he agreed, diving between your thighs.

The minute his tongue ran along your folds, you groaned loudly in relief, your eyes rolling back into your head as you arched into him. HIs tongue flicked over your clit and then circled it. You rolled your hips toward him, yearning to get as close to his face, to that sweet tongue, as possible.

"Jesus, this right here is my favorite place to be," he moaned against you and you shuddered at the vibrations that rolled from his lips through you.

His tongue slid along your folds, slipping inside of you. He slid it in and out of you before flicking his tongue over your clit again. You saw nothing but white, your breathing growing labored as your chest heaved up and down. Two of his thick fingers slid into you, scissoring open, stretching you.

"Fuck Joseph!" you screamed, your hands gripping his hair as if it would keep you from sinking, pressing his face firmly against you. You could die happy right now, with this beautiful man buried between your legs.

He twisted his fingers, so skilled at knowing exactly how to hit your pleasure button exactly the way you needed it. Fuck, it was so damn good. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on it gently and your whole body began to tremble.

"Oh shit! Don't stop baby. I'm so close..." you gasped.

"That's right. Come for me, darling."

You screamed his name as your body violently shook, your orgasm feeling like it would rip you straight down the center. But what a way to go. He never stopped, continuing to touch you as you writhed through it. The violent tremors subsides to gentle aftershocks as you gasped softly, your head falling back.

Joseph trailed kisses up your body and you whimpered at the feel of his lips against your skin. Your senses were heightened, every nerve ending flayed open, from the intense release you had just experienced and every single kiss was sending shockwaves of overwhelming pleasure through you.

"Such a good girl," he praised. "Let's see if you can keep following the rules. Shall we? Turn around."

Your body felt like jello but you somehow managed to rise to your knees, turning so your back was to him. He pulled you against him, pressing himself against you, his hands running over your breasts, your stomach, your thighs and just like that, you could feel your desire building again.

Joseph's hand pressed against your back, pushing you forward until your cheek was pressed against the cool leather of the couch cushion. Gripping his cock in his hand, he teased you as he ran it along your folds, rubbing the tip over your clit. He slid just the tip of himself inside of you before pulling back out. You growled in protest, needing him to fill you, to finally give you what you'd been wanting since he'd poked his head around the corner in that fucking hat.

"Remember the rules, darling. You have tell me what you want," he commanded.

"Please baby. Joe, please. I need you to fuck me. Need it so bad, baby."

"That's my girl," he groaned, slamming into you with such force that your whole body rocked forward. You screamed with relief at the feel of him inside you.

His name fell from your lips over and over, a consistent moan, as he pumped into you hard and fast, the sound of your bodies slamming together filling the empty room. He grabbed your hair, yanking you up to him, pressing his chest against your back, not an inch of space between your bodies. Lifting your hips, you bring them down again, matching his frantic rhythm. His hands slide over your hips and then up along your waist before cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples.

"Tell me how much you love getting fucked," he whispered.

"I love when you fuck me, Joseph," you groaned, head rocking back against his shoulder. "I love the feel of your cock inside of me. Fuck baby, nothing feels better than you."

One of his hands slid down the front of your body your body, finding your clit once again and you bit down on your lip so hard you could taste blood. His finger circled your clit, his other hand torturing your nipple. When his mouth found your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh there, it was too much.

"Oh fuck!" you screamed, gasping for precious air as forceful quakes took over. You hit your peak again, feeling as if you would float right up and out of your body.

"Yes baby...that's it...you feel so blood good, darling. Your pussy is so good," he snarled against your skin. "Oh fuck!"

His warmth filled you, painting your walls, as he hit his peak as well. You could feel him shudder against you, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you pressed tightly against him as he placed gentle kisses along your shoulder.

"Jesus, I fucking love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," you breathed, meaning it more than you could ever possibly express.

"Merry Christmas, my love," Joseph said softly, his finger lifting your chin, lips molding sweetly against yours.

"Merry Christmas baby."

#joe quinn fanfic #joe quinn fluff #joe quinn edit #joe quinn smut #joe quinn #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn stranger things #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn #smut #fluff and smut #christmas smut #holiday season #christmas fanfic #merry christmas

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rooksmoor-manor · 7 months

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The Founder; or, A Restless Autumnal Dream!

«There was I, once again, wandering through the hallways of that sinister, damned building—trapped in a maze of closed doors. I had lost track of how much time I had spent dragging my feet across a succession of the same frigid, unfamiliar rooms until I finally found a welcome change in the scenery: a flickering light shining through a panelled door left ajar. Never before had such an opportunity been presented to me, so I crept through the door, desperate to finally escape this madness.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I found there. On the other side of the door was a crowded room of people I did not recognise, yet with whom I perceived I shared a strange veiled familiarity. It was like observing the blurred faces of an acquaintance someone introduced to you but once or a distant cousin you once met in your now faraway childhood. They moved slowly and mechanically, paying no heed to my presence there as I walked among them, almost like ghosts or automatons—shadows suspended in time. I finally came face to face with the source of light that initially had drawn me into the room: a majestic fireplace, almost as tall as I, with a fire that raged with the terrifying fury of seven hells. But there was something even more astounding than that, a sight that sent shivers down my spine. Over that inferno hung an immense portrait of myself.

There was no doubt that man was I, yet I could not recognise myself in him. He looked older, with several tufts of ashen hair and quite a respectable number of wrinkles I lacked. A triumphant, complacent expression crowned his face, armed with a fierce, piercing gaze. The attire was also unusual, offensively outdated clothing that no one in their right mind would want even to be caught dead in. At the bottom of the frame were two words engraved; not a name, not mine at least: "The Founder". Yet deep inside, I knew that man was I, but not me. Out of this jarring feeling of myself slowly crumbling, I was overtaken by a sudden, more dreadful realisation: even though the fire raged in the chimney, inches apart from me, I was still cold.

Cold, yes—freezing! Standing in front of an inferno that had not warmed my body, and even less my soul. I tried to scream, yet no air left my lungs. I could not feel my breath or mouth, nothing besides that wretched coldness of the grave. Was I a ghost? Had I perished and found myself in a torturous afterlife? I closed my eyes, still screaming in an agonic silence. When I opened them again, the cold was still there—yet the room was not.

It was now a different kind of cold, the chilly air of a foggy autumn morning before a warm day. The cold of the metal lamppost I was leaning on against my trembling cheek. I tried to straighten myself, stumbling to my feet as I examined the clothing I was wearing, not sure if they were indeed mine at all. I sighed with relief—it was but a dream. Yet my solace was short-lived as I inspected my surroundings: I had been sleepwalking again, this time worse than ever before. Somehow, I had managed to get fully dressed, bow tie and everything, unlock the door of my lodgings and walk for almost a mile, meandering through the narrow streets of London. Hurriedly, I tried to return to my accommodations, hopeful that, in my condition, I had remembered to lock the door yet still bracing for the worst. I grumbled all along the way, complaining about how everything was turning the worst way possible: I could not rest without being plagued by those terrible, and my noctambulism did nothing but deteriorate my health. I was at my wits' end.

I stopped right in my tracks as I passed a large window. I might sound like a madman, but I know what I saw: for a split second, on that window, it was not my reflection that looked back at me—but the man from that portrait, myself. And I laughed. Oh, I laughed and cried and shrieked, yes, as if some unknown force had possessed me, as something inside me snapped. "I will!" I shouted at the skies, roaring with laughter. "I will become that Founder, whatever that means, and do what I must, whatever you, whoever you are, expect from me! Just one night, one night of peaceful slumber, and I will fulfil my duty!". Passerbys kept staring at me, but I did not care, for you cannot comprehend how verily desperate I was.

The following night, I slept undisturbed for the first time in years.»

Brief excerpt preserved from one of the unexpurgated diaries of the Founder.

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gffa · 1 year

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My thoughts about it are a bit disconnected, but I was going through your dark side tag & came across a post wondering why fire was sometimes associated with the dark aide, & came to the realisation that the headquarters of dark side users tend to reflect the reason they turned in the first place.

Vader'a Castle is on mustafar, a planet of intense heat, because the warmth & passion of love drove him to commit atrocities

The Inquisitorious base is underwater, a place that's generally seen as dark and cold and suffocating. But they were all tortured into the role, and are kept there by fear. They can't leave the base or the dark aide without risk to their life

For me, I think the association with fire is because that's what authors and creators think should be associated with Vader's Force presence in the dark side, that we're primed to think of anger and hate as raging infernos. But even Vader is cold on the dark side--like in that episode of Rebels, when Kanan and Ezra feel Vader's presence, they specifically describe it as cold when they feel Vader. And I think that goes all the way back to Empire Strikes Back, where Luke feels the cold of the dark side on Dagobah, that that's what higher canon (Lucas + Disney) show the dark side as feeling like. So, what happens when a book or comic describes Vader's dark side as fiery? Eh, do what you want with it! If you like that view better, then that's what you should view it as. For me, I tend to acknowledge it but disregard it because it's one of those things where Disney canon contradicts itself and I chalk it up to authors either liking the idea better or they just disagree with that view or they just didn't do the same deep dive into this kind of thing. There's no single answer to this, it depends on what you prioritize as your source material and what you want to see as the answer and what you think makes for the best story. For me, I think making Vader fiery in the dark side takes away from the loneliness and cold, empty of warmth and light space that the dark side is. I think making Vader cold on the inside, even while he lives on a planet of fire and lava, never to be warm again until he climbs out of the dark and embraces the light again, is exactly the kind of thematic stuff I love about the character. I can see where you're coming from and how much awesome stuff can be done with it! But I definitely like the idea of Vader as cold better because the cold is empty and lonely no matter how much warmth you try to fill it up with, it can never chase away the chill. Vader can never be warmed by the light again until he leaves the dark, what an awful but poetic fate for a boy from Tatooine.

#anakin skywalker #dark side #meta

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sphylor · 10 months

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hi its almost 3am i was feeling sad so i made Dewdrop feel sad instead enjoy:

It's such a natural part of life, the comings and goings of others. Even in the pit, the realm of eternal damnation, eternity can be very fleeting. Dewdrop knew this. He was well aware that not everyone would stick by his side forever. The thought used to bring him comfort. He used to hold that idea in his chest like a glowing flicker of hope. Hope that the people who tormented and hurt him would someday pass through and out of his life forever and would never be able to reach him again. Just as a river flows from source to mouth and then out into the sea.

It didn't matter then that he was being left behind because it was in his best interests. It didn't matter that the concept of impermanence brought about other comings and goings that caused him more pain as they moved on than when they came through. He knew the pain would pass in time too. Just like everything else. Even when the day came for him to move on, it still felt like he was standing still whilst everything moved around him. And he told himself he took comfort in that. It was familiar, all he had ever known, and so clearly he should be taking comfort in it.

For a while, though, Dewdrop’s tumultuous existence was graced with a fragile permanence. Suddenly, there was nothing he wished would pass through his life. He wanted things to stay the same. He found himself clinging to the people around him, his new home, his very essence and being. Clearly not tight enough… The first time in his life he had ever dreaded change led to the most upheaval and hurt inflicted upon him yet. An uncontrollable storm surge of misery that flung brackish water and daggers of debris back up the river channel, bursting its banks and flooding the surrounding land.

Everything changed for Dewdrop.

He soon found himself lighting the flame in his chest once more. He hadn't even noticed it going out, he hadn't needed it at the time. But now he needed something familiar again. Something safe. And though the flame was no longer a candle, though it was now a raging inferno that burned him inside out and left nothing but charred flesh and agony in its wake, it was still a flame. It was still familiar, he told himself as he felt his skin burning up with fever. He found comfort in expecting the things he dreaded the most, he whispered to himself on those dark nights where all he felt was searing pain. He didn't care if he got left behind. He lied to himself as he lay alone in his bed.

Of course, since then people have come into his life and stayed for a while. They doused his fire and healed his wounds. Grew flowers over the scars and wafted away the memory of smoke and ash on the gentle breeze. But a flame still burns in Dewdrop's chest. It is smaller, granted, smaller than it has ever been. But he hasn't forgotten it. He still curls himself around it and tries to find safety in its dark light and cold warmth. Everyone and everything will pass through his life, he reminds himself, there's no good in wishing for things to stay as they are. It is inevitable that he will be left behind.

Sometimes, though, he snuffs the flame and sits by the lake pooled in his heart. He'll stare at the still surface of the water, how it ripples and laps at the shore but the water never truly moves anywhere or changes. And sometimes he'll wish that someone would sit by him just a while longer. And when he looks up into the endless oceans in the eyes of the water ghoul who sits beside him, he wonders if finally he has been the one to flow down the river and come to rest in the sea. And sometimes that thought is enough to forget about the flame reigniting itself once again in his chest. If just for a while longer.

#dewdrop ghoul #the band ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fanfic #if this is shit blame it on the fact that i probably should be asleep rn #i am Coping

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ifyouwaltzwiththewildthings · 1 year

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You can never predict what you may find when wandering Neverland at night. Things always seem so peaceful... But there was something in the air tonight. A disgustingly familiar feeling, a faint warmth...

Smoke.

If anything could take Fletcher's eyes off the ground, snap them out of their whimsy, it was the smell of smoke. It only had to be a faint whiff for them to feel the horrible acrid feeling in their throat. Suddenly, they were far too aware of their surroundings. Eyes held wide open by fear rapidly move, searching... This has happened before, when Fletcher had gone out on nights during the bonfires the Lost Boys would light. They avoid those at all costs... But some part of Fletcher attempted to calm themself - "It's probably just a little campfire."

That was swiftly disproven, much to their dismay. A long line of smoke reaches up for the stars, embers flickering almost akin to fireflies against the night. The source... Was that right? Could it be?

Perhaps Fletcher should have just flown away, minded their business. That ship burning, well... It's only fitting, isn't it? Yet no matter how much it might be deserved... There are people on that ship, people who don't deserve to be engulfed death's hellish claw. What were they going to do? They had no idea, but their wings were already carrying them toward the Jolly Roger.

Stopping just short of the beach where the Jolly Roger sits, hiding in this kind tree's leaves...

Just in time.

Shouting and crying vaguely registered in their ears. Several silhouettes in action... But Fletcher was quick to narrow their sights on just one, the smallest that hovers in the air, surrounded by fury. Fletcher felt their horror suffocating them as they watched, paralysed.

Until...

It only took one clean cut. That's all. One dexterous movement from the wrist.

That small silhouette... Became two, separating from each other as they plummeted out of the air.

Fletcher didn't realise they had begun to scream until they felt their throat strain.

Everything was blurred as Fletcher lurched forward onto the deck of the Jolly Roger. They didn't care - he could do the same to them, could end them with far less trouble. Small puddles of blood were pooling in two separate places, and Fletcher didn't know what to do, looking between the two halves of Thorn.

Beloved Thorn...

Fletcher's knees would bruise quickly from how brutally they dropped onto the wood. Thorn, his eyes still carried that rage, that fire... Fletcher witnessed it as it ever so slightly left with each passing moment. Both their hands cupped Thorn's face tightly as they pleaded, begged. It all just turned to choked sobs before any of it could reach their lips.

For a moment, Fletcher could have sworn Thorn's eyes turned to meet theirs. Could have sworn... That they softened.

" Don't leave me! Don't leave me! Please! "

...

He's gone.

Oh, Thorn.

Gone. All gone. Lost. The world robbed.

Fletcher's sobs become muffled as they hold Thorn's torso so, so close, tears staining his clothes, burning through the fabric. Blood has utterly soaked their lap. They aren't paying any attention to that, not one bit, the pounding in their head and their heart drowned out anything else but the utter despair of holding half of a friend.

No part of Fletcher wants to move, it's a gamble on whether they even can move, but... They need to take him away from this wretched ship. But how? Tears continue to splash against Thorn as Fletcher looks between... Him, and him. How? Would they have to just take half... No, no, the pirates won't have any of him. They can't. They don't deserve him, any part of him.

The inferno alight in Fletcher's chest. Thorn's last fire.

Hands slick with red, Fletcher struggles in anguish as they find a way to make it work. It's ugly, it was always going to be, but they feel as if they could crumble away as they hold both halves of Thorn desperately in their arms. Their poor wings struggle, flight erratic and slow, leaving a thin trail of Thorn's blood - off the ship, across the sand, in the dirt...

By the time they reach their tree, there isn't much blood left for Thorn to bleed. His face has gone completely white, expression has settled into a chilling, thousand mile stare.

Is he seeing anything? Stars, the moon, the world...

Fletcher's hands shake violently as they place his legs on the lower half of their bed, then his upper half. They so gently rest his head onto their pillow before a futile attempt try nudge the two halves together. Just... Close enough. When they bring the blanket up to his shoulders, you can't tell... Then, finally, Fletcher brings two slender fingers over Thorn's eyelids, carefully bringing them down over his glazed eyes.

And now he... He's at rest. Right? He looks like he's sleeping. Very still, very peaceful... Fletcher harshly collapses back onto their legs, positioned beside the bed.

" Thorn... You can rest now, finally, you can... Say hello to her for me... "

Fletcher leans forward, burying their face into Thorn's arm. No amount of grip on Thorn's hand will ever bring anything in return.

#FLETCHER | Fresh static snow #THORN | In loving memory #I cried almost the entire time writing this if any one else cries then I win

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general-gt · 1 year

Text

Less a thought and more a snippet of writing but here’s a chunk of something I’m working on.

Warnings for fearplay, arguments, possessive behaviour. Let me know if I missed any.

“Optimus…?” Elias watched the Cybertronian cautiously, taking in his tensed plating and the thin curls of smoke pouring from his smokestacks. They’d never seen him look so tense. Was this argument getting to him that much?

Glaring azure optics looked down at them and they shivered. There was a burning rage in his optics and they involuntarily stepped back.

“Elias.” His tone was cold, iced over with hostility somehow seeping from that single word.

“Optimus, I had to-”

Between one moment and the next there was the slam of metal on metal, the sound vibrating through their body, reverberating across the vast room.

There was a fresh dent in the table, something Elias didn’t need to see to understand as they watched Optimus pull back his fist. The paint across his knuckles was scuffed from the sheer strength of the blow, revealing the gunmetal grey metal underneath.

Elias barely had to chance to choke out a single syllable before they were fixed under the gaze that began to blaze into a raging inferno. “You didn’t have to do anything. Our war is not yours to get involved in!” he snapped, an underlying growl to his words.

Their own temper flared, frustrated by the cresting of the argument they’d already been having for an hour. “We’ve had this argument a million times, you can’t stop me!”

“Can’t I?” All the boiling rage turned stone cold in a split second and a thud shook Elias’ world as their perception narrowed to focus completely on the towering Cybertronian. Optimus’s knees hit the floor and despite the change in height, he still loomed, faceplates shadowed, Elias’ only source of light the eerie glow of his optics. “It would be so easy to keep you here with me. To keep you safe.”

The realisation clicked and Elias was aware for the first time in months of how large Optimus was. His entire being was incomprehensibly vast, his chassis an expanse of metal and glass like staring across a field, only able to see a fraction of what was before them, his height capable of eclipsing buildings. The hands splayed on either side of them caged them in effortlessly and they knew that if Optimus wanted, he could crush them effortlessly.

Or, in the case of the overprotective giant, grab them and lock them in a cage, safe behind bars.

“Y-you wouldn’t!” They tried to maintain their confidence in their friend, the mech that had fought for the freedom of all sentient life. He wouldn’t lock them away. He couldn’t.

“If it keeps you safe, I would.” There was no hesitation as Optimus’ hands closed around them. The grasp that had always seemed so comforting was devoid of any familiarity. It was bordering crushing, the kind of grasp a particularly well loved glass figure would be put under if the owner felt it was at risk of shattering. “Maybe I will.”

#g/t #g/t writing #transformers g/t #giant optimus prime #tiny oc #tiny original character #tiny elias

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teethingpains · 2 years

Text

When Sephiroth had awoken and found his mind his own again. He'd been alone.

The world was still there. But it didn't resemble the world he'd known. He'd just watched it for a wile. It's people going about living their lives. Friendships, jobs, lovers, families. He watched them until he could force himself to move.

Sephiroth changed his appearance to fit in with the people around him. Silver hair became black, cats eyes became round.

They had rockets that went into space now, star charts of their galaxy and thebones next to it. He buried himself in research. The learning comforted the emptiness inside of him. Filling his mind with facts about the stars helped him ignore the things that were missing everywhere else.

Within a few years he'd learned everything he could from books, their computers and digital libraries. He attended conferences and learned their new theories in person. Eventually he joined them in their exploration.

This new world was strange. Different races from different planets all working together. He looked at the other creatures around him, in all their diversity, none of them looked like him. He wondered if they knew of Jenova. The calamity of worlds. He doubted it would do him any good if they did. They accepted the form he presented to them, praised him for his intelligence and successes, unknowing of his origins, of what he already knew.

Some tried to get closer to him but he held them at arms length. They wouldn't accept him, not the real him. They had only lived a fraction of his life. They didn't know him. Couldn't know him. You don't know all the things I've done.

Sephiroth preferred the logical beings. They didn't ask personal questions, their questions had logical answers, and in turn their answers were strait forward. Others joked he was secretly one of them, or perhaps a child of both worlds. He didn't tell them how close they were to the truth. It would have been nice if he had been one of them.

He awoke one night with a sense if urgency. It had no obvious source. He checked all he obligations, nothing he'd forgotten, nothing he needed to do. Sephiroth sat on his bed in the dark. He let his hair become silver strands in the moonlight. He didn't need the light to see.

He allowed himself to just be. The urgency felt familiar, almost like it wasn't his, like it belonged to someone else. But there was no one else.

At work he took on extra jobs. A bad habit. A friend had said that once. All he had left were bad habits and memories he wanted to forget. He just had to wait for this to pass.

The night feelings didn't pass. Instead they became more regular. Like a radio signal repeating until someone intercepted it. Good thing he had practice hiding bad sleep. No one noticed. They would have noticed. Don't think about them. Don't think. Don't think.

It was 3am and he was lying awake again. The urgency was a pounding headache. Desperate, pleading, help me.

Help me?

Help me.

"How?"

Sephiroth spoke into the darkness.

Help me

I'm burning

He sat up clutching his head. He tried to phocus on the voice. It came to him distorted. As if they were either side of a raging inferno.

At work someone made a joke about him getting a gray hair. It wasn't gray. It was silver. He could see it in the bathroom mirror. His concentration must be slipping. Sephiroth couldn't afford that. They all thought he was human.

He called in sick the next day. Hoping he could catch up on some sleep.

He managed to keep up appearances for the most part. That was until an exploration crew returned. They were talking about a strange star. Something seemed to be alive at its core. A new entity of some kind?

Help me…I'm burning.

Sephiroth recalled the distorted words. Was there Something, someone, in that star? Was it better to just walk away?

Please.

His head snapped up from the monitor. Everyone around him seemed undisturbed. The word had come from inside his head, but this time it had been clear, he'd recognised that voice.

Sephiroth repressed the sting in his eyes. Instead he used the feeling to drive him to his feet. He found the captain leading the exploration crew.

"Will you be going back to that star?"

"Yes, I expect so. We need to learn more about it."

"I want to accompany the next mission."

The captain seemed surprised. They didn't really need anyone else, why did he want to come? Stars were his speciality. 'Seth's' credentials backed this up. He could be of use.

To his surprise the science officer also backed him up, saying they could use the extra knowledge. The captain looked between them, sighed, then agreed. He could come.

The star was smaller than Gaia's, or Earth's as they now called it, Sephiroth wasn't sure it was even a real star. But he'd have to get closer to prove or disprove that. Which would be the hard part. He doubted they'd just let him suit up and go out there.

Old habits, old patterns, the ability to make a 6 foot 3 body walk with no sound. The difference was that this time, this time, he would save him.

"One of the air locks has been opened Captain."

"Who? That damned rookie! He's going to get himself killed!"

"Should we try and retrieve him Captain?"

Sephiroth switched off the built-in radio.

Are you there?

The roar of the star filled his ears. The suit wouldn't hold up against this heat for long. He knew he could, but then they'd know, did it even matter now? His mind reached out to the center of the supernova. The the one thing that did matter right now.

Genesis?

Can you hear me?

He could feel the stunned silence.

Seph?

He sounded exhausted.

Yes. I'm here.

The flares around him seemed to pull back. The great receding slightly. He was aware of the ship behind him. The captain wouldn't want to get too close. Good. Sephiroth pushed forwards, dropping the mask, redirecting the energy to sustaining the suit.

Can you control this?

I don't know…where are you?

A flare kicked off to his left.

I'm right here. I'm trying to get closer.

The heat and flames withdrew again. He was certain this wasn't any star now, but a ball of magma and flames that surrounded Genesis. If he could get him to reign it in…

When he reached out the others mind was full of fear, panic, guilt and pain.

Focus.

The star pulsed but remained. Sephiroth could smell burnt plastics. The suit wouldn't hold up much longer. Was he being a fool? Was Genesis too far gone? What is he reached the center of the star and all he found was more fire?

No. He had to try. He owed him that.

Sephiroth teached within his own mind. Bones and muscle that hadn't been used in decades shifted underneath his skin. It ripped through the suits fabric as if it were paper. This body was meant for the vaccine of space. He leaned into it.

A silhouette was appearing the further in he got. A bright glowing form curled in on itself.

From the outside they could now see that the 'star' wasn't a star at all. Seth seemed to have disappeared, replaced with a being with one huge black wing.

Sephiroth reached for Genesis. His eyes were closed, streaks of magma tears cooled into black at the edges. Red glowing cracks ran over his skin as if it barely contained the being within it. A halo of fiery red hair billows around his naked body. He pulled him towards himself, wrapping strong arms around his slim frame.

I've got you.

Genesis reached for him. For a moment their bodies blended together as the ball of flames receded. They looked like one glowing creature with a pair of mismatched black wings.

"We're going home"

The captain met them at the air lock. He looked livid, but whatever words he was going to say died in his throat. The being called Seth didn't look like Seth anymore. His face was the same, but he seemed taller, his long hair wasn't black, it was silver, and his green eyes stared down at him with slotted pupils.

"I'm taking him to the medical bay."

"..Now just wait here a minute!"

He did not wait.

All his focus was on the red haired being in his arms.

The star.

#sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #sephgen #sephesis #sephiroth x genesis #writing #my wriitng #putting this here becuse what is even going on with Ao3?

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thepilgrimbetweenworlds · 11 months

Text

Antiverse Revised Character Profile: Meltdown

Meltdown

Donor Name: Fyro-klese Pūlmo

Age: 27

Species: Pyronite

Birthplace: Pyros (Antiverse)

Hair: Plasma infused Mohawk

Eyes: Pitch black with sickly yellow iris

Height: 6ft 1in

Weight: 232 lbs.

Powers/Abilities:

-Napalm Bombs: Here comes the boom. Meltdown can produce a napalm-like explosive from his hands. These bombs are coated in a thin plasma membrane, allowing them to stick to surfaces, and the flames they produce are difficult to put out.

-Self-Ignition: Rage burns like fire, and consumes the soul. Meltdown can set himself ablaze by expending energy from his fiery core, becoming a walking inferno. This technique is highly dangerous if not properly controlled, as it drains him of energy the more often it is used.

-Plasma Breath: “Scream warrior! Let them hear you!” By concentrating his energy into a single attack, Meltdown can fire a beam of pure plasma. This beam can melt most objects instantaneously, but drains Meltdown’s energy very quickly. If used too long, it can even cool him to the point of death.

-Heat Absorption: Cling to that warm spot, for it might not last. Meltdown draws life from heat, and can drain it to replenish himself and boost his power. Gain enough, and Meltdown can enter a super mode and unleash and explosion of monumental proportions.

-Innate Melee Expertise: In a battle to the death, everything is a weapon. Kevin’s innate combat awareness is amplified as Meltdown by drawing on his countless years of combat experience. Though he seems to have a special preference for spears and tridents.

Physical Description: Fyro-klese’s appearance is best described as Mad Max meets Ghost Rider. His body is composed of two parts: his igneous outer shell, which contains and regulates his energy, and his inner core, the source of his life and power. His oddly trapezoid shaped head rests upon a thick neck that is always hunched over. His stocky upper half slightly outgrows his waist and legs. Fyro-klese is covered in gladiator style armor over much of his body and legs. His shoulders carry spaulders that channel his flame through specialized ports, and spikes line the front and back of his chest. His outer hide is pitch black, save for the cool yet lively red shine of his inner core. The armor is colored in several shades of grey and yellow. The Antitrix symbol is located on his chest.

Backstory: The Antiverse is filled with violence and death. To its dwindling denizens, death is a common occurrence. But for Fyro-klese Pūlmo, death became entertainment. When Pyros was ejected from its orbit, civilization collapsed. In the aftermath, a dictatorship was formed, and horded the last active sources of geothermic energy to keep the populace in line. After centuries of despotic rule, a resistance movement was created to overthrow the emperor. But like all light on cold Pyros, the heat of rebellion soon flickered and began to wane. Desperate, the resistance launched a final assault on the emperor’s palace but were swiftly captured. The ringleaders were imprisoned and sentenced to fight in Pyros’ infamous gladiatorial arena. But a far more deplorable fate awaited their wives and lovers: They would be used to breed warriors for the arena… Fyro-klese was one of those children.

From birth he was already a warrior. Displaying a fierce personality and ferociousness at a young age, he was handpicked to be a part of the emperor’s personal gladiators. But Fyro-klese hoped for something beyond the confines of the arena dungeon. Hope that he would one day he would find freedom for his mother and siblings. But the emperor was not about to lose his newest toy. He had the young Pyronite taken from his mother, and for many long and grueling years “trained” him in his private arena. The light of hope was soon snuffed out, and from the broken shell of Fyro-klese came an animal, burning with rage. His pet ready, the emperor unleashed him on the public. Fyro-klese had become a spectacle of carnage and destruction, slaying many innocent gladiators. His deathmatches were recorded and sent to black markets across the Antiverse, where one managed to find its way to a special traveler, far, far away…

Personality: Fyro-klese is consumed by rage and hate. As he was born into a life of death and gruesome entertainment, he views all living things as potential opponents. He is near feral, bloodthirsty, and feels no peace until all who oppose him are bloody stains. Yet buried deep beneath his burning exterior lies a poor boy, hiding from death under the masque of wrath.

Influence on Kevin: Kevin becomes consumed by rage whenever he transforms into Meltdown.

Trivia:

-Fyro-klese is easily the most vulgar of Kevin’s aliens, and he'll often swear in the Pyronite language.

#ask #roleplay #Meltdown #antiverse au #character profile

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ohmightydevviepuu · 2 years

Text

writers month prompts

day two: chance (follow the complete story, try / cry / why? (just a dream) as it posts daily or on AO3)

"You chose her," Cora intoned. "And the consequences of that decision." (2B canon divergence wherein Emma and Killian deal with the consequences.)

He climbs in silence.

There is no ambient sound, nothing to cushion his grunts of exertion, inhale, exhale; the sound of his hook as it seeks purchase in the flesh of the vine. Schunk.

He climbs in darkness.

There is no source of light, though it is not completely black here; the air is heavy, without the faintest whisper of a breeze as he moves, one foot and then another, schunk, a regular rhythm as he moves first his hook and then his hand, the empty satchel shifting against his hip a constant reminder.

(Of failure.)

Schunk.

(Of her.)

One foot, another; it seems a shorter trip on the way down and he lets go, welcoming the release as he falls the last several meters to stand in the shadow of the beanstalk.

He doesn’t turn to face her---doesn’t have to, for he knows where she is, can sense her.

(Always, since that day.)

(And she, him.)

(Awareness. Faint, ever-present, impossible.)

“I’m surprised you didn’t cut it down,” he says. “The warrior’s blade is sharp enough.”

It’s not the first time he’s thought it but it’s the first time he gives voice to the thought. The air feels heavier, as if it too is waiting for her answer.

“That was the plan,” she admits, coming to stand next to him. They look up instead of at each other, as if that makes this part any easier.

(But it is easier, here. Somehow. Less real.)

(Less urgent. Or is it more?)

She continues: “In case---”

His body tingles with the nearness of her as she cuts herself off and even though he can’t see it in the darkness he can feel her blush creep across his skin. She needn’t say anything else. He already knows.

(It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation.)

“It’s fortuitous that another opportunity to betray me presented itself, isn’t it? A second chance to fix your mistake.”

“You would have done the same,” she says.

(Not the first time.)

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Hook---”

“Stop.” He turns to face her, feels her surprise.

“Stop?”

“Stop talking, love. The time for that is done.”

(There is no echo here to remind him of the underground cell and the way sound felt heightened. There is no harshness to his consonants. There is just weariness.)

(Regret.)

(His. Hers.)

“No.” Her voice is a mocking echo of his, a hint of her anger bleeding through; a mere flicker compared to the inferno he can feel raging within her.

(At him?)

(At herself?)

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You have no idea---” She breaks off rather than pretend that is true. Starts again: “I think about it every day, and I’m sorry. Killian.”

(Killian, she says, and he can feel it, the syllables of his name on her tongue. Tasting it for the first time.)

(It’s an admission he does not want, or need. As if he does not know how often she thinks of it. Of him.)

(Better to pretend; what happens here isn’t real.)

“You’re not real,” he says. He’s trying to convince himself---failing---and his anger isn’t bleeding so much as gushing. “I’ve had this dream before. I’m disappointed, really.”

“In me.” Her tone is flat.

“Aye,” he says. “In you. And in myself.”

(For trusting.)

(For wanting.)

It would be easier without it, the echo of it, reflecting back at him from her.

(Hers.)

(His.)

“What more could I have done, Swan?”

For this, at least, she has no answer.

“I gave you my allegiance. I gave you the heart. You got your prize, and made it home.”

(He pictures the sword in her hands and the sparks on his hook.)

(How easy it would have been to defeat her; yet it was easier, somehow, to let her win.)

(To pretend.)

(To want---but that isn’t easy at all.)

He takes another step. Whispers, “Have I told you a lie?”

(He has not, and he knows she can feel it.)

She is silent, and he chuckles, ignoring the dull ache in his chest as he does so. There is always a dull ache; always the weariness, heavy as the air in this strange place. Every day the same these last, endless years until that day.

(Find the crocodile.)

(Kill him. Avenge her.)

“You think this is a dream?” she asks.

“Aye,” he says again, though it is both more and less than that, this place between sleeping and awake.

(Surely that doesn’t count as a lie, not when he needs it to be true.)

“Every night, I find myself here. Sometimes it is Cora who awaits me, or the warrior with her sword. Most often, it is you. I wonder why that is?” It is a rhetorical question, if such a thing can be accomplished with a leer; either way, she does not answer. “But always, it ends the same way: I’m asleep.”

(But something is clawing at his chest, and this is new.)

(Pain, acute and urgent.)

“Not this time, buddy.” Her laugh is more of a choke when she reaches for him, her hand hovering above his heart. “We need to talk about Cora. I know she’s in Storybrooke with you. I know what she did. And you’re going to tell me what she’s gonna do.”

She pushes.

It’s gentle.

It’s excruciating---then, with a wrenching spasm, he can breathe again. He can move.

His eyes open.

on this day in 2021: coffee on this day in 2020: magic

@shireness-says @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @mariakov81 @kmomof4 @stahlop @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @katie-dub

#cs fic #canon divergence #season 2b #writersmonth2022

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kanisema-blog · 9 days

Text

The salty breeze whipped through my hair, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore a constant lullaby. Boracay was a kaleidoscope of colors - the turquoise water, the pristine white sand, the vibrant flora that lined the beach. But for 10-year-old Babe Bayola, the most captivating sight was the man building a sandcastle with my little brother, Enzo.

His name was Rafael. Tanned and with a mop of unruly black hair, he was a year older than me, the son of our family friends. We spent the entire vacation inseparable, constructing elaborate sandcastles, chasing hermit crabs along the shore, and giggling as we buried each other in the warm sand. It was a childhood friendship, innocent and pure, but it sparked a flame within me, a tiny ember that flickered to life every time our families vacationed together.

Years flew by in a flurry of school plays, awkward teenage phases, and stolen glances across crowded rooms. Rafael, ever the athlete, excelled in basketball, his name synonymous with every victory our school team achieved. I, on the other hand, found my passion in fashion. My room became a haven of fabrics, sketches, and discarded patterns. I dreamt of becoming a designer, of dressing women in clothes that made them feel powerful and beautiful.

One summer, the ember within me flared into a raging inferno. We were both 18, on the cusp of adulthood. Our families rented a beach house in Batangas, a place that seemed to exist outside of time. One starlit night, a shared bonfire crackled between us, casting flickering shadows on our faces. We talked for hours, about dreams and fears, hopes and aspirations. As the fire died down to embers, Rafael took my hand, his touch sending shivers down my spine. We leaned in, and our first kiss was a revelation, a collision of unspoken emotions held captive for years.

The following years were a whirlwind of stolen moments, late-night phone calls, and furtive glances across crowded college hallways. Rafael, ever the charmer, pursued basketball professionally, his name lighting up the national leagues. I, fueled by love and ambition, launched my own fashion line, "Babe." My designs, a fusion of elegance and comfort, resonated with women, and my brand took off.

Distance, however, tested the strength of our bond. Rafael's grueling schedule kept him on the road, while my burgeoning business demanded my constant attention. We snatched moments of happiness whenever we could, stolen weekends and late-night video calls. Yet, a silent fear gnawed at me - could our love survive the relentless pursuit of our dreams?

The turning point came on the eve of my biggest fashion show. The pressure was immense, and self-doubt gnawed at me. As I sat backstage, overwhelmed by the chaos, a familiar hand squeezed mine. It was Rafael, his presence a balm to my anxieties. He whispered words of encouragement, his unwavering belief in me a source of immense strength. That night, the show was a triumph. The models glided down the runway, my creations coming alive under the spotlight. But the most rewarding moment was seeing Rafael in the front row, his eyes filled with pride and love.

In the years that followed, our love story unfolded like a well-crafted garment, beautifully woven with threads of success, challenges, and unwavering commitment. Rafael retired from basketball, his fame transitioning into a successful sports apparel brand. My fashion line flourished, gracing the wardrobes of celebrities and socialites alike. We built a life together, a testament to the enduring power of our childhood connection.

Today, as I stand on the balcony of our beachfront home in Boracay, the same place where it all began, I glance at Rafael, his hair now streaked with silver, but his eyes still holding the same warmth from our youth. We've weathered storms, celebrated victories, and grown together. And as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I know that our love story, like the tide, will ebb and flow, forever drawn to the shore of each other's hearts.

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silenceofpetals · 5 months

Text

Sailing Away

The flame crackled and danced on the sandy beach, sending plumes of dark smoke into the sky. The slender figure stood firmly with her feet planted in the burning sand, her gaze fixed on the raging inferno. It cast an eerie glow on her features, highlighting the pain and sadness etched in her expression.

She slowly lifted her head, her eyes shifting to the gloomy clouds above. Despite the chaos around her, she found solace in the stillness of the sky. It was a reminder that even when everything below was in turmoil, the heavens remained constant.

Her hair whipped violently around her face, tangled and wild like her thoughts. The wind was relentless, blowing away any semblance of normalcy from her life. She closed her eyes and allowed the gusts to ravage her, as if hoping it would take away the hurt and darkness consuming her soul.

But the fire continued to rage, a symbol of destruction and chaos. Long shadows danced across the beach, menacing and foreboding. The flames leapt higher, reaching desperately towards the sky as if begging for salvation.

The fire crackled nearby, its flames dancing wildly in the dark night. To anyone else, it was just a mere campfire, providing warmth and light. But to her, it was a reflection of her own heart - ablaze with emotions she couldn't control.

Holding onto a simple silver ring in her palm, she watched as its glimmer flickered in the light of the fire. Just like her heart, its shine was wavering and uncertain. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, finally giving in to the overwhelming weight of emotion.

As she stared into the fire, lost in her thoughts, a strange peace swept over her. The dancing flames seemed to understand her pain, turning from orange to red to blue in a beautiful and melancholy display. The smoke rose into the dark sky, as if carrying her troubles away with it. In that moment, she realized that the campfire was more than just a source of warmth. It was a symbol of her inner turmoil, a reflection of the turmoil that ignited within her.

She stood by the shore, her emotions raging, as a wave of despair crashed over her. The salty air burnt her nostrils, matching the sting of her unshed tears. Expelling all her pain, she lets out a piercing scream, the sound echoing against the vast, empty night sky.

With trembling hands, she picks up two handfuls of sand and slams them ferociously against the ground. The grains scatter around her, a befitting representation of the pieces of her shattered heart. Her fists ache, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the ache inside her soul.

Her sobs choke her, raw and untamed, blending in with the symphony of anguished screams that fill the night air. In this moment, she needs the world to know the depth of her sorrow, to hear her cries and acknowledge her brokenness.

Just when she thought the night couldn't get any darker, a beam of light jars her from her despair. The distant hum of a cruise ship sails by, completely unaware of the tragedy that has unfolded on the shore. In a moment of poetic irony, she suddenly remembers the ring that once meant everything to her, now nothing more than a weight to be discarded.

With a last burst of strength, she flings the ring as far as she can, watching it glisten in the moonlight before sinking into the dark, infinite vastness of the ocean.

The woman knew she never stood a chance of becoming his bride. She was just a placeholder, easily replaced by someone more suitable. She felt her heart drop as she watched the man she thought she loved marry another woman. The wedding cruise sailed away, taking with it the joyful melodies and hopeful promises of a new life together. But for her, it was like the echo of their love fading into nothingness.

As the reality sunk in, she realized she had been foolish to even dream of being with him. Her heart ached at the thought of his happiness with another, while she was left behind, cast aside like a discarded object. She knew that no matter how much she had cared for him, she could never be the one he chose to spend eternity with.

The sounds of the wedding cruise grew fainter and fainter, until they were nothing but a distant memory. Just as her own heart slowly succumbed to the numbing pain and loneliness she felt inside.

She couldn't help but wonder, was she ever really meant to love him, or was she just a temporary blip in his journey to find his true happily ever after?

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sinvulkt · 1 year

Text

Angstpril: 27. HEATED Argument -scel & sin?

@whumpril - Day. 27. Forced To Kneel | Grabbed by Collar

I flew and I flew, leaving the Temple behind. The Council had given me orders to stay put, but slipping away was all too easy. The Jedi would regret these ‘extra Shadow lessons’ they made me take.

Scel had gone too far. He had hurt Pat, and I’d make sure he regretted this. It was time he remembered he wasn’t the only one with teeth.

✯ ✯ ✯ ꒰ঌ ⚔ ໒꒱ 𓆩⚔𓆪 ꒰ঌ ⚔ ໒꒱ ✯ ✯ ✯

Tracking down Scélérat was eerily easy. He hadn’t gone back underground yet, too occupied to tie up the loose ends left by his last mission debacle. As soon as the theelin entered my sight, I dove, not leaving him the time to react as I closed my grip around his throat.

“You went too far!” I shouted as we both collapsed on the ground.

“I went light on him," Scélérat snapped back. He pushed me away and stood back up, dusting himself with a scowl. "With his past on the street, it should have been nothing.”

My tail lashed. Thoughts scrambled in my head, inarticulately, struggling to make sense. By the tunneling of my vision and the pulse in my head, I knew I was angry.

Nothing good ever came out of anger. The sparks had already ignited the fire however, and there was a whole inferno burning in my mind. And it was all too eager to be spread.

“Pat doesn’t have the same past as you!" I shouted as I charged the source of my ire. "He never suffered that way.”

“As if you’d know,” Scélérat scoffed, easily side-stepping the blow. “The way I remember it, you never suffered that way either.”

“Nor would you, had you been more clever,” I retorted.

“If I had been a coward,” Scélérat sneered.

The fight felt good. Both the physical and verbal sparring. It was as if venom filled my throat, as if lava filled my veins, and both wanted to get out. Something in me whispered that it was wrong, that I was attacking Scélérat for the wrong reasons… but the fire raged on, and worse, I didn’t want to stop it.

The fight felt good.

At some point, either me or Scélérat had lit on their lightsabers, and the other had followed suit. Bystanders gawked and gossiped, but never for long- most people knew better than to interfere in a Force Sensitive fight. The plasma blades added a dangerous edge to our spar, a lethality nothing else could quite achieve; and it sent adrenaline roaring through my heart.

“Who do you think ends up laying half dead on the street?" I taunted. "The brave dog or the cowardly rat?”

Scélérat’s retort was a rageous move, and I almost released my shoto as my arm erupted in pain. A simple graze, if painful. I smirked, knowing the recklessness meant my words had struck true. “For all your bravado," I mocked, "I don’t see you at the top of the food chain." A powerful flap from my wings took me out of reach. "Tell me Scel, how does it feel to be beneath Dooku’s leash?"

“I’m higher than you’ll ever be, traitor.”

Debatable, as I currently held the higher ground. The beast in me was purring like a cat who had gotten its cream. It urged me to continue to play, to spit more of the ignited venom that burned my lungs, but the low rumble of army shuttles alerted me that Separatist reinforcements had arrived. It was time to end the game.

“Perhaps," I amended. After all, far from me to deny I was also on a tight leash- albeit from the opposite side. "But I’ll fly longer.”

I smirked and flew away, knowing the Separatists would be far too slow to catch me. The Force twirled around me like wisps of smoke of the fire I had unleashed. It spoke to me, about unnecessary hurt and rage, about devastation. It whispered about false freedom and release, about chains made and unmade by the very person who wore them.

Soon, I’d listen to it. Soon, I’d be forced to kneel; I’d tuck my chin and deferentially bow my head to the world, as it wrapped me back in used chains that vainly pulled and clicked at every misstep. Soon, I’d wear my sentient skin again, step back onto the stage and put a smile on my face as I gave my audience a good show.

Right now, though?

Right now, I was a beast.

(And worse, I didn’t want to stop it.)

#angstpril2023 #fanfiction #starwars #day 27 #heated argument #whumpril2023 #whumprilday27 #forced to kneel #grabbed by collar #(Or well grabbed by neck but it’s the same right?)#star wars #the amazing adventures of excentrics jedi #taaoej #sinvulkt fics #star wars fanfiction

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our-flag-means-death-ao3feed · 1 year

Text

Steal Your Heart

by unencryptid

“Say we believe you,” Ed says.

And fuck. Izzy can already tell Edward has six half-formed plans and a dozen fuckeries in his damn head thanks to Jackie’s newlywed bliss.

“Say we buy the whole ‘partner’ thing; where the fuck would we find one? Most of us are more likely to kill one another than be vulnerable.”

Jackie’s smile does not bode well for Izzy’s future. He makes a mental note to have Buttons curse the woman on the off chance that the nonsense he spouts is real.

She exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, teeth gleaming like the point of a blade. “Same way you get everything else. Take it.”

---------

A Shamelessly Self-Indulgent Alternate Meeting AU™ in which our favorite pirates take “steal your girl” way too seriously.

Words: 3793, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Stede Bonnet, Mary Allamby Bonnet, Frenchie (Our Flag Means Death), Lucius Spriggs, Nigel Badminton, Chauncey Badminton, Blackbeard | Edward Teach, "Calico" Jack Rackham, Spanish Jackie (Our Flag Means Death), Original Characters, Crew of the Revenge (Our Flag Means Death), Fang (Our Flag Means Death), Ivan (Our Flag Means Death)

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet, Frenchie (Our Flag Means Death)/Israel Hands, Black Pete/Lucius Spriggs, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Light Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent, Arson, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, light primal kink, Restraints, Abduction, Slow Burn to Raging Inferno, Pet Names, Threats of Violence, Frenchie Has the Braincell, He Doesn't Want It, Extended Metaphors, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Nipple Play, Like So Much Nipple Play, Frottage, Choking, Spanking, Just One Little Swat, Light Knifeplay, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Invasion of Privacy, Recreational Drug Use, Marijuana, Explicit Language, Mary Allamby Bonnet & Stede Bonnet are Best Friends, Israel Hands & Edward Teach are Best Friends, Izzy & Ed Actually Talk to One Another, Calico Jack is a Mess, Spanish Jackie's 21st Husband, Alcohol, Bad Advice but Good Results, Fast & Loose with Cannon, Historical Inaccuracy, Author is Open to Hearing about Dead Batteries, Power Imbalance, POV Multiple, Less Dysfunctional Relationship Between Ed and Izzy, Class Differences, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, First Time, Top Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Bottom Stede Bonnet, Top Israel Hands, bottom frenchie

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/44122645

#Our flag means death #ofmd

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terramous · 3 years

Text

fire so hot at their backs; better to hit the ground

not another 2x12 fire spec fic... i would never..... title: lily kershaw - ashes like snow word count: 1.7k AO3

Carlos had always imagined that he would know what to do if he was ever caught in a fire. After all, his boyfriend had been a firefighter for seven years.

Smoke rises.

Fire spreads faster than you think.

Air can get so hot and full of irritants that every breath feels like swallowing a branding iron.

You can be surrounded by sources of light and still not be able to see two feet in front of you.

“Carlos, I need you to breathe!”

It was hard to hear them over the inferno raging all around but he could tell they were desperate.

“Breathe. C’mon, baby. Please.”

He was his father’s son, he could never refuse an order. He took a deep breath that sent his lungs and chest spasming with coughs that forced their way up his throat.

“Good job,” TK said with a watery smile. There were the tell-tale tracks of tears cutting through the dark smears of soot and ash on his cheeks and Carlos could see that half of his shirt was smouldering but he seemed to be paying it no mind.

“I know it’s hard. I know you’re tired. But you gotta keep your eyes open and you gotta keep trying to breathe for me, okay?”

In a flash of motion that blurred in the tears gathering in Carlos’ eyes, TK pulled off his shirt and was pressing the balled-up fabric over Carlos’ nose and mouth who gratefully took a deep breath of the surprisingly clearer air. It smelt like ash, and burning, and sweat, and TK.

“It’s not the best but this should help.”

Carlos didn’t have the energy, nor the ability to think clearly enough to reply. He wanted to say a lot of things: it helps, thank you, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m so tired.

Instead he just tried to focus on breathing because TK seemed to calm down every time he inhaled. The last thing he wanted to do was scare TK but he figured they were both beyond that point now.

Here they were, on the ground as their home and all the memories that they had tied to this location went up in literal flames. TK was shirtless and kneeling in front of Carlos, cradling his face in his hands as he coaxed Carlos through every breath he took.

And it wasn’t like Carlos couldn’t see the burns marring TK’s torso. Red angry wounds wrapping around his ribcage and undoubtedly more that Carlos couldn’t see. But he swore if he stretched out his hand to touch TK’s side his fingers would connect with the familiar curve of TK’s ribs, unguarded by the skin he had spent hours trailing his fingertips, his knuckles, his palms and his lips over.

They were going to die here.

There was no doubt about it. TK was trying to keep Carlos’ eyes on him but he could tell that the fire was getting closer to the both of them, and Carlos was barely holding on to whatever shreds of consciousness he had left, and he could tell that despite how TK was trying to keep a brave face, that he was losing strength too.

At least, after all this time, turmoil and near-death experiences, they weren’t going to be alone in their final moments.

Carlos had always been afraid that he would die alone.

He’d had countless nightmares as a kid that he was trapped alone in a burning car or calling out desperately for his parents, his sisters, anyone, to come help while he held a shaky hand over a deep wound but no one ever came.

It’d only gotten worse after he’d come out. Fearing that he’d lie bleeding in the street and only after he was gone that his parents would accept him. That everything he wanted to tell them would hang unsaid forever. That he wouldn’t get the chance to mend whatever he had broken between them.

And then he’d become a cop. It brought him a little comfort to think that if he died on the job he’d at least have a partner there. He didn’t have to be alone.

He’d long moved past fearing death, it was an inevitability and it did him no good to be afraid of it. It was always the idea of being alone that killed him.

But after all those dreams and nights of stress and fear, he didn’t have to be afraid of anything because TK was right there and he wasn’t going anywhere.

There was probably more he should be thinking about in his final moments. His family, his parents who would have to bury their son. TK’s parents. Their friends who had become family.

Nothing really mattered other than TK leaning down to press their lips together.

It wasn’t intense, or fiery, or passionate, as Carlos had gotten used to. It was just contact and a soft pressure. Carlos could taste TK’s tears as he trailed his tongue along his boyfriend’s lower lip, hoping that if they deepened the kiss he could lose himself in TK.

The distraction would have been nice but it was clear that neither of them had the strength for that.

This wasn’t a moment of lips locked in a physical affirmation that screamed ‘I never want to be without you’ or half-asleep lazy kisses they shared at the start and end of every day.

TK didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe as they lingered there. In any other instance it would have been awkward, but neither of them wanted to draw away.

This was goodbye.

The last thing Carlos felt before he slipped into unconsciousness was TK running his fingers through his hair as they finally separated.

TK could tell that Carlos had passed out, his head becoming heavier in TK’s hands.

This was the end.

TK could probably have found it in him somewhere to resent the fact that their story had come to an end so soon, but there would always be so much more of him that was grateful that despite everything he had been lucky enough to even know Carlos Reyes, let alone to be able to love him and be loved by him.

Every moment with Carlos had been the best of TK’s life.

Carefully, he eased Carlos onto the floor, lying him down on his back. He looked almost as if he could be sleeping. There was a sting in TK’s chest that knew that wasn’t the case.

But he could pretend.

He could pretend that he was crawling into bed after a long shift, joining Carlos who was already asleep. He lay down next to Carlos and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling their bodies together.

Settling his head on Carlos’ chest, TK pressed his ear to his lover’s skin. He let the soft pitter-patter rhythm of Carlos’ heart lull him into darkness.

When they were found, they would look almost peaceful, curled up together like the remains of ancient lovers who could not fathom being apart for even a second in their last moments. If anyone had stopped for a few seconds to study them before pulling them apart, they were sure to find a picture of serenity on TK’s face.

After all, there was nowhere he’d rather be in his death than by Carlos’ side.

The darkness was brief.

Death hurt, and everything was so bright.

Death looked a lot like the lights on the ceiling of an ambulance.

TK’s brain finally managed to grasp the concept that he wasn’t dead as his chest hitched and he choked on the breath he was trying to take. There was a flurry of motion that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

“Carlos,” he forced out between laboured breaths, his voice so scratchy and hoarse that he couldn’t even recognise it anymore.

“Shh,” someone cooed. “Just breathe. You inhaled a lot of smoke.”

That wasn’t Carlos’ voice despite how much TK craved to hear it and it’s absence brought tears to his eyes. He knew it though.

His vision pieced itself together slowly and he could see Tommy hovering over him, pressing an oxygen mask over his face. He was alive but Carlos wasn’t there. They should have left him in that burning room, at least then Carlos wouldn’t be alone.

“Carlos-” he tried again.

“Just focus on breathing,” Tommy instructed. There was something she wasn’t telling him.

“He’s alone,” TK whimpered, reaching out blindly for where Carlos should be. Carlos should be tucked into his side, that’s where he belonged. “He hates being alone.”

As much as Tommy tried to calm him down and keep him on the gurney, TK writhed and fought against her, he ripped the oxygen mask off and kept pushing her hands away until he was falling and the darkness came racing up to meet him once again. They shook hands like old friends.

This time unconsciousness didn’t come with the comforting presence of Carlos next to him.

The lights and noises came back like a tidal wave slamming into him. He bolted upright before anyone could stop him, not even the dizziness that threatened to send him in any direction that meant down.

“Carlos!” he cried out in a blind desperation.

There were hands on him. So many. Too many. None of them the ones he wanted to feel against his skin, the ones he would recognise anywhere.

Where was Carlos? Why were they keeping him away from TK?

Despite his efforts, he could not fight against the hands forcing him back onto the bed.

There was a mess of beeps and other white noise that blurred in TK’s head, all of it fading out in comparison to the words he needed to hear.

“He’s alive, TK. He’s alive.”

He couldn’t do much more than lie there and let hot tears run from his eyes and onto the thin and uncomfortable hospital pillow underneath his head. Everything hurt and TK couldn’t find the strength in him to do anything other than cry in relief.

Carlos was alive.

That’s all he needed for now.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #911 lone star spoilers #idk #userjillian #tuserjamie #tuserpaige #userkimmy

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 years

Text

Day 4: Mirror / Overblot

“When I look at my reflection, the ‘me’ I see is not my true self.”

I wanted to explore the mirror motif and how it is usually linked to themes of self identity. Today’s prompt was actually really hard to write and draw for 💦 I went through a lot of ideas and drafts!

There were a great many things Jade picked up on during his time babysitting looking after the young raven. She always took her tea with milk and one sugar cube. A lantern or a candle--some source of light--would always be present in her quarters. And she had a most peculiar way of sleeping.

When night fell, Raven would gather up various blankets and form a little nest with them, complete with a little pocket in the middle. She would plant her pillow in the center, then curl up into a ball and lie down atop it, tugging the covers over herself in the process.

Perhaps it is simply a bird custom beyond my comprehension, Jade reasoned to himself. Ever the gentleman, he chose to keep tight-lipped, stowing the tidbit away for future use.

But on this particular evening, Raven neglected to tend to her nest of blankets. They remained scattered in a messy heap on her mattress while she lingered by her writing desk--illuminated by the steady flame of a candle, encased by the glass walls of a lantern. With her face half-buried in her arms, Raven watched the fire flicker and dance.

Jade cleared his throat. “Staying up late today, are we?”

“If you’re going to nag me, save it.”

“I was not planning to do anything of the sort,” he assured her with a chuckle. “The fire must be good company to keep, seeing as you have been preoccupied with it for quite some time.”

“I have some things on my mind,” Raven mumbled. She fell silent for a few moments, entranced once more by the way the wavering flame moved. “... Isn’t it strange?”

“What is?”

“The fire.” She cupped her hands, forming a little ball with them. “It can grow, and it can shrink. It can be a spark, or a raging inferno. But it is still fire, no matter what form it takes.”

“Fufu.” Jade’s mouth curved into a feline smile. “Truly, you are amused by the simplest of things.”

“Maybe I am,” she confessed. Her voice was tiny, shaded by the shadows. It faded into a brief silence before finding itself again. “... Jade, do you ever look in a mirror and feel that something is off?”

“Off? Whatever do you mean?”

“You and me, we’re not like fire,” Raven pointed out. “You’re a merman, and I’m a raven. These bodies of ours aren’t the originals. We’re without our usual fins and feathers, we’ve changed to fit new molds. Doesn’t it ever feel strange to you?”

“It certainly was at first. Clothing felt foreign, my legs were difficult to maneuver, and there was an abundance of new customs and sensory information to take in. However, I do believe I have become quite accustomed to life on land since taking my first stumbling steps.”

He paused, his eyes curiously sliding over to the raven. “What of you?”

“It feels weird every day.” She clenched a hand into a fist--squeezed--and loosened it, as though testing that it did, in fact, respond to her commands. “When I look at my reflection, the ‘me’ I see is not my true self.”

Raven shook her head.

“I’m not fire--I’m not even a girl. I’m just a bird. I can hope and pray and wish all I like, but a raven can’t be a part of this world--a part of your world.”

“... You mustn’t think like that.”

“I can think however I want.”

“Then allow me to think this: what does it matter if your reflection does not match what you believe you are?” Jade’s brows pinched together mockingly. “Fire, bird, girl. No matter what form you take, you will always be ‘Miss Raven’—not a common wild raven.”

“I once was one.”

“You no longer are.”

“You can’t say that for sure.”

“If ‘Miss Raven’ were to go, I am certain that it would leave a gaping hole in many hearts. Your poor uncle would lose a helping hand around his household. Vil-san would be without a valued student. Rook-san and I would be ever so lonely. Many others at Night Raven College would miss its sharp-tongued storyteller.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, a little black bird told me,” Jade replied teasingly—a mismatch with his solemn expression. “It will take time, but it is my hope that you will, one day, be fully comfortable with any face that returns your gaze in the mirror.”

Raven’s mouth flew open to make a retort, but instead of a smart comeback, out came a yawn. She groaned, rubbing at her eyes as she slowly drew herself up in her seat.

“I believe it is early morning by now, Miss Raven,” Jade advised, his smile turning sympathetic. He extended a hand and gently eased her out of the chair. “Come now, your bed awaits.”

“But...”

“There will be plenty of time to discuss your midnight musings—later.”

“That’s not the problem. I’m not done making my argument yet, and I’m not sle...” Raven yawned again.

“It seems our heated conversation has worn you out,” Jade noted, razor-sharp teeth arranged into a dangerous grin. “Shall I assist you in making your nest and tuck you in for the evening?”

#Jade Leech #twst #twst oc week #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #twisted wonderland #Raven Crowley #disney twisted wonderland #my art

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