#i dont have a chronological order thought out to these

[befuddled-calico-whump]

for the whump game (under dialogue): 6 or 10 for Cerus? or 5 for Alexei!

"Please punish me."

cw: abuse, broken bones (mentioned)

Penumbra Masterlist

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He was almost afraid to breathe.

Pinned between an overturned cart and the unyielding stone of the mountain, unable to free himself with his shaking, useless arms, the only thing Cerus could do was cry for help and hope someone, anyone would answer.

Maybe he shouldn't have.

The men who came to stand around him, cold or impassive or outright gleeful looks on their faces, were not the sort who'd simply lift the thing and send him back to work. The metal lip dug into the soft flesh of his stomach, the thick siding painfully heavy on his legs, but the miners made no move to remove it.

Cerus willed himself not to panic, dredging up the humility for a single, feeble please that the men only laughed at.

"How'd such a thing happen?" one of them queried, arms folded across his chest.

"Shadow's just a shite miner," another replied in the same amused tone.

Cerus knew what had happened. Someone had jammed a rock in one of his cart's wheel wells, and he hadn't noticed until he'd started up the hill. From there, it was just a matter of poor luck, something he had no short supply of.

"Please," he tried again breathlessly. "I must… get back to work… the overseer… demands it." Bare pleas for mercy would do nothing for him, but reminding them why he was here, reminding them it was by order of the Council that he slaved away, might do the trick. And soon, he hoped. The weight of the cart was turning rapidly from discomfort to pain.

In response to his murmurs, one of the men, a broad fellow named Durragan that Cerus knew not to trust, leaned on the overturned cart.

Cerus let out a choked cry as the pressure on his abdomen seemed to double, crooked fingers clawing fruitlessly at the metal siding.

"Please— please—" he gasped, but the weight did not let up.

"What do you think, boys?" Durragan said, not taking his eyes off Cerus. "Shadow dropped a full parcel of coal and wants to be let off the hook. Should we be so kind?"

His question was answered with a chorus of nos and nays, and a smile spread across his face.

"There you have it. As I see the matter, you can either be punished for your carelessness, or you can stay there." He gave the cart a shake for emphasis, and Cerus nearly retched at the shifting weight.

"Punish me then," he wheezed out. If it was the quickest way to have it over with, he'd agree to their barbarism. Staying trapped here was not an option.

"What's that you say?" Durragan held a hand to his ear theatrically, his other arm pressing even more weight into the cart, until Cerus was writhing beneath it, his body looking for reprieve even while his mind knew there was none to be found.

"Punish me," he said again. Oh gods, what if his spine snapped before the man relented? Would the Healer be able to mend such a wound? What would they do with him if he couldn't be healed, if he couldn't walk?

"Please," he added, the word slipping out like a cry, and the weight lessened, just a little.

Durragan's attention was on his compatriots now. "Well lads? What should we do with him?"

"Break his legs," one said.

"Hang 'im by his ankles and burn the skin off his back," another piped up.

"Piss off, Jackie, we all know you don't have the stomach for that."

"Yeah? String him up and we'll see!"

Durragan held up a hand, and the men fell silent. "Healer's not in for another two days. If we kill him, Reacher'll have our heads, not to mention the Council."

"Why not let him choose then?" Jackie replied casually, and Durragan grinned at the notion.

"Good one, that is. What say you, shadow? What punishment do you want?"

Even struggling for breath, Cerus's mind raced as he tried to sort out the tamest path. This was meant to trap him. Anything could be deemed unsatisfactory, any word twisted to bring him more sorrow.

"Well?" The pressure on the cart increased again.

"A w-whipping," Cerus groaned out. It was the simplest thing he could think of that might satiate their bloodlust. He'd taken such wounds before, in the cells of what had been his own castle. The pain would be great, but the Healer would be in soon. No permanent damage, unlike what would happen if he left the miners to their creativity.

"What's that then? You want to be flogged?"

"Yes," Cerus said through clenched teeth.

"Then say it like you mean it," the big man sneered, putting what felt like his full weight on the cart and drawing a strangled gasp from Cerus.

"I want you to whip me," he managed to get out, but Durragan was still unsatisfied, rattling the cart and holding the pressure until tears were streaming down Cerus's face. He swore he felt the edge grinding on his vertebrae as he practically screamed,

"Whip me, whip me, please whip me!"

At last, his begging seemed to be enough for the man, and Durragan let up, nodding to one of the others to come and help before lifting the cart off Cerus.

He lay there for a long moment, gasping like a fish out of water, feeling like his stomach had been crushed. He didn't move when two miners went to his arms and roughly hauled him up, dragging him towards the tunnel's distant exit.

He wondered how many lashes he'd have to endure before they were satisfied, but that worry was distant now that the threat of a severed spine was gone.

And maybe if he screamed loud enough, this time they'd stop before he was bled unconscious.

Cerus had taken a whipping before. He'd doubtless take one again.

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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chiswhumpcorner @whatwhumpcomments , @dont-look-me-in-the-eye , @turn-the-tables-on-them , @pigeonwhumps , @itsmyworld23 , @andromeda-liske , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @haro-whumps , @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

[sevenangrybees]

Sometimes things bother me

[enbysiriusblack]

thinking about horror film au marauders.. (tw. lotta gore)

lily the nerdy, bossy character that comes out with a giant axe and brutally beats up the killer/s to the shock of every other character

peter is either the bargaining character that tries to bargain and give the killer/s what they want just as he's about to die. or the character secretly on the killer's side that's revealed at the end

definitely giving wolfstar the making out whilst a killer is in their house/car/woods

mary, dorcas, remus, and lily all turning to each other wondering which of them is gonna die first, when they realise they're basically in a horror film cause of the black character dying first trope (i watched the blackening yesterday and the tagline "we can't all die first" gave me this hc. very good film. highly recommend)

sirius is the resident horror film expert that tells them what the killer usually does next (im imagining someone dying and everyone is just screaming over the dying body and sirius is also screaming but then adds in "this is exactly like that scene in wrong turn!"

the screamers are probably mary, remus, and james. not a definite though. i can see it being other people.

marlene gets the most jump scare scenes and emmeline gets the most hearing creaking and footsteps

james is the best at fighting but absolutely hates blood. feel like there needs to be a scene where he's like punching a masked killer and is doing SO WELL. and he gets the killer on the ground and is about to pull the mask off when the killer pulls out a knife and stabs at his hands and chest and shit. and he just screams and backs away staring at his blood until he faints.

as marlene dies, she clutches dorcas' hand and whispers "the lesbians never get a happy ending. apart from fear street... why couldn’t this be like fear street?"

the final girl HAS to be mary. ofc.

[isaacathom]

im finding that often when i stay up later than usual (like, until 3am instead of 1) my brain goes 'hey wanna think about hornblower again' and like. yes. but also ?? you still havent read commodore, you havent read or watched anything since late feb/early march, and you havent even really read any fanfic in that time bc you ""exhausted"" the specific sort of thing you like to read. what is FUELLING this???

[paper-mario-wiki]

i'm loving seeing you post more of your art!! out of curiosity, how long have you been drawing? is there anything specific you do to practice or do you just pick something and draw it? (i've been trying to learn to draw myself for the past year or so, and seeing your art more often has become somewhat of an inspiration for me!)

ive been doodling all my life! thought when i say "doodle" i mean "as an unmedicated youth i was unable to focus on a drawing for more than 45 minutes at a time"

here's some posts from an art blog i had in middle school, and the first year of highschool.

what most critically separates this art from the art ive been doing recently is that i NEVER used any refrence. ever. i looked at stuff to make sure i knew what it looked like, but the rest was always roughly estimated based on what i thought would look good (which was largely based on cartoons).

but i only ever started trying to "learn how to draw" over the past year. here's the thing: spending a bunch of hours practicing drawing cubes and cylinders is like. all you have to do to see yourself start improving in real time.

draw a bunch of cubes and cylinders, and learn how to make them look realistic in proportion to each other using references to guide you. practice drawing stuff like basic buildings, cans of soda, maybe a cake (3 short fat cylinders on top of each other) if you're feeling daring. then try to draw slightly more complicated shapes, like spheres and cones and stuff. layer these shapes on top of each other to make more complicated shapes. you're gettin the picture.

infuriatingly, basic shapes is like 40% of the "getting it to click" work done.

after than, move on to 30 second sketches of nude models using this site. yeah, only 30 seconds. it doesnt matter if it comes out looking like shit, the point is learning how to simplify complicated shapes down into their most basic lines. dont waste time erasing. dont waste time pressing ctrl-z. erasing is your enemy. you arent learning how to erase, you're learning how to draw. (you'll get your eraser back later).

do this hundreds of times. yeah, hundreds. put on a podcast or something. get in a voice call with your friends. but ya gotta practice this one. that's the next 20% of making it "click".

now, unfortunately, the last 40% is just a matter of slamming your head against the wall of art until things slowly start to look better and better. it's sort of like a chemical formula, in that the closer you get to 100% purity, the more and more difficult it becomes to distill it.

the key is to ALWAYS use reference. you cannot learn how to realistically draw something you've conjured from your mind if you cannot depict something that's right in front of you realistically.

im currently in this valley, as most artists are. in fact i dont think it's possible to make art "click" in your mind 100%, but it sure is fun to inch closer and closer!

below is a bunch of art in chronological order from april to now. you'll see that it's not really a straight road of getting better and better, but you'll see my lines slowly getting more confident and details becoming more clearly defined!

[caramellody]

I am not immune to Usha/ G13posting, actually. In fact, i have lots of thoughts. About it, and it's that @grovylelover brought up the dissonance between the G13 that is being portrayed and presented vs. How G13's actions and thoughts show him to truly be.

LIKE. If we lay out EVERYTHING we know about him so far in as chronological of an order as It essentially goes:

- 8 months pre-canon something happens to the hive where G13 gets captured and taken in by the government

- At some points, G13 and Johnny are both 'hired' at the same time to work for the shadow falcons. Both having someone that is clear they care about being used as blackmail (Lucy for Johnny and Slicer for G13)

- biggest clue into his thoughts is in his comments on Slicer. The fact that. Usha, even as shes being erased catches onto the fact that theres a part of G13's thoguhts on Slicer that he isnt touching upon. Many thoughts.

I dont doubt that. G13's been some level of hardass bastard by nature of the world he lives in. But there's a clear level of empathy and care that he does have for his group. So imagine him when hes being forced to upload an extremely dangerous file, only for a 100 year old woman to come crashing into and taking over his body and he's helpless to do anything because what this means is 2 things:

1. This old woman fucking up the shadow falcon protocol is going to put slicer in danger

2. You've just realized that this world isn't even real to begin with.

Like. That's a LOT to handle on top of all the issues he's already having to deal with! A LOT of his agressive behavior comes off both as a front that hes always had by nature of his situation of being used by the government, coupled with him having to grapple with the fact that hes a fictional character in a fictional movie thats just going to rewind and force them do the same choices again and again and again. And if he remains aware of this fact, then that's torture, and that could make ANYONE bitter

[simp4konig]

"Can't sleep?" König x Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: 3704

Having flashbacks about the battlefield and unable to fall asleep after an exceptionally draining mission, you go seek the comfort of your Colonel in the middle of the night.

*Slow burn

*ANGST!!💔... dw it gets wholesome at the end i promise ❤️

*Thanj you to Azzy!! (My No.1 Fan...🥹🫂💘) for this request !!!🙋🏼‍♀️💫💞💞✨Love u too🫶💕,, I kind of 🥺slightly🥺 maube a littke bit🥺🥺🥺went off prompt and König isnt affected by the mission per se BUT i have fulfilled the CUDDLING part!!! ☺️☺️pls dont show up to my fhome with pitchforks and torches im sry it just sorta happened ok😱

Also i rhink i have dementia bc I thought someone else rqsted König comfortinf rreader in a storm???😰😰Turns out nobody did so maybe i hallucinated it or smtj idk🤷🏼‍♀️Anyways I thought to merge these two ideas together so lmk what u think abt this lil (by "lil" i mean WAY too long🤪) drabble🙏💕

*Reader is pining for König

*Events loosely take place in the KönigxKing (as in, reader's call-sign is "King" storyline) mini-series. This serves as a slight backstory for King (reader). Again, this is by no means in any chronological order in relation to the series, so this can also be read as stand-alone! :)

*THANK YOU FOR 100+ FOLLOWERS!!!!!! 🥳🎉🎊✨🎇💖I SWEAR ONE IT LITERALLT FEELS LIKE MID-AUGUST WHEN I HAD LIKE 7 WHERE DID U ALL COME FEOM??????😰😰💘 IT MEANS SO MUCH FOR ME LIKE I CANR STRESS THIS ENOIGH BC IM SO HAPPG U GUYS THINK MEWORTHY ENOIGH OF YOUR PRECIOUS FOLLOW AND WANT TO READ MY WACK WORKS!!!!!!🤧🤧💖💖 LIKE??????? 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹THANK U THABK YOU RHABK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🫶🥰🥰💖💖💖❤️💞💞💕💖💕💕💞

                                        ...

You couldn't sleep.

It was raining relentlessly outside, the pitter-patter of water droplets hitting your window. Storm clouds boomed loudly outside, and despite the blinds being pulled tightly shut, lightning occasionally flashed through the cracks, elongated shadows of buildings forming on the walls.

Counting down the seconds until you'd hear the rumbling thunder, it would only be a few kilometres away, and you'd shudder at the sound, shivering.

While tossing and turning in bed, you had kicked off your covers and were staring at the ceiling, still wide awake. Normally, a storm like this would be like a lullaby to your ears, yet now it did nothing in helping lull you to sleep.

Even if you wanted to sleep, how could you when those corpses haunted your nightmares?

Laying in bed, your mind replayed the same scenes like a movie reel, the same screams like a broken record:

Lifeless, unblinking eyes with mouths agape and an expression of fear permanently engraved on their pale faces; flies swarming in hordes to harvest the soft tissues of the irises and tongue, eating the human mush; limbs contorted in unnatural positions, arms and legs crushed by the force of detonated mines, bones broken under the weight.

Rumbling roaring of machine guns and the deafening explosions from hand grenades meant that the high-pitched ringing would drown out everybody's yelling, muffle all noise from your surroundings, and you'd only be pulled out of your daze when you'd find yourself stumbling on unstable ground, on bricks and cheap concrete that had all crumbled.

Bodies would drop so fast it'd take at least seconds for you to register whether it had been an enemy or an ally.

You'd pull the trigger, but seeing a bullet go through someone's forehead and the exaggerated shock stamped on their face — a permanent expression in their final seconds remaining forever in death — left you wondering why you would ever sign up willingly to do this.

Disorientated, you'd struggle to pull yourself together, would enter far too many close calls for a soldier to count, and would only get a grip once you saw a familiar face, a reminder that you weren't alone in the warzone.

Even now, the sonorous sound kept echoing in your head, and, if you listened closely, it resembled hundreds of hoarse shouts, so many people screaming at once in collective agony.

You flinched as a bolt of lightning suddenly struck the sky.

Sparing an absentminded glance at your digital alarm clock, your eyes widened slightly at the time: 1:56am.

Damn... you thought. ...it's that late already?

Drills would begin at 7 o'clock, and you had to have woken up at 6 to brush your teeth, get dressed, eat, and mentally prepare yourself for the day, so you kissed a good night's sleep goodbye, and accepted the telling off from your superiors the following morning for under-performing.

...Still, how could you sleep after what you had experienced? What you experienced and would continue experiencing?

Accepting high-pressure missions and a demanding workload once you had enlisted, you thought that your ability to keep calm under pressure and stay composed would mean that you would have been unaffected by the shooting by now, and be taking everything in your stride. Calm, composed, and unaffected, is what you had thought you'd be. Surely you'd be able capable enough to cope with it all?

Yet, you weren't any of those things. Never getting used to the stress that would persist even while on supposedly "low-intensity" extractions. You'd always be on edge, always recoiling at hands that would reach over to tap your back as encouragement or hold your shoulder in reassurance on base.

You believed you could never familiarise yourself with the panic and unpredictability of missions and being hyper-aware of something, anything, everything going wrong, with the adrenaline that would course through your body and take over your senses in times of fight or flight, with the nerves that would keep you on edge hours after landing safely on base.

But, most of all, with the nights you'd lay in bed, unable to fall asleep: nights like these, when every time you closed your eyes, you saw the eyes of dying comrades; when every time you walked along the corridors, imagined yourself diving across the floor and felt shattered shrapnel breaking under your feet; when every time you sat in an empty room, heard ear-piercing blasts and the ricochet of discarded shells just missing your head.

Whereas the other operators seemed to be completed unmoved by any of their deployments and would shrug their shoulders off of the events, the anxiety for you lingered, trauma deep within your soul consuming you whole.

How could you ever get over the fact that you were shooting real people? Losing real soldiers?

...Losing yourself along the way?

All this work took a toll on your psyche, but comparing yourself to the other soldiers made you feel like such a coward, and second-guess ever enlisting in the first place.

...Well, you did so because it had been your only option all things considered, but looking back on it, you thought that maybe it would have been better if you hadn't chosen anything at all.

Accepted the grave nature of your failures in life, the same life that would have had inevitably ended with you pre-maturely in a grave.

After all, you had no job prospects to look forward to, no dreams to strive for, no aspirations to achieve.

Failing your school exams time and time again until you had finally achieved a result that was good enough didn't earn you any security, as you weren't exactly employable with grades you had just barely managed to claw to even pass.

Really, it was hopeless. You were hopeless.

To say your family was disappointed in you would have been an understatement. Out of three children, you were labelled the disappointment child, the underachiever and failure.

Your two siblings worked as a lawyer and an engineer respectively, while you had never even been able to grasp the basics in education, never spoke with your teachers of anything other than the worrying results of your exams, never came home to share a thing with your parents you had accomplished with a smile of pride stretched on your young face like your siblings did.

Never. Because you weren't ever good enough.

At the dinner table, your siblings boasted of promotions and of revolutionary research, of trials and of successes, of their brilliant breakthroughs, as you sat on the side of the table, listening from the sidelines, excluded from all of the grandeur that you couldn't relate to.

Still, it was always better to keep your mouth shut than to make a dent in the conversation, further embarass yourself and prove how lowly you were, than to have so many pairs of pitying eyes talking down on you in patronising tones, of the subtle condolences from your parents and their regret with triumphant smirks and condescending attitude from your siblings.

In a last ditch effort to make your parents proud, you made the decision of joining the military. You were young and impressionable, under the impression that your parents would finally be impressed.

...Of course, they weren't. In fact, your decision made them even more disappointed, shaking their heads sympathetically with strained smiles stretched on their lips.

Maybe that was the reason you couldn't handle the pressure of the military, you thought. You were weak, incompetent. Pathetic.

Although no one told you explicitly or made you feel that way directly, somehow, you always had felt inferior. Somehow, you felt that no matter what you did, how much you did, how well you thought you did, you wouldn't ever come close to the others's level.

That, despite your effort and dedication, you would never be good enough. Would always be inferior no matter what, because you always had been and would always be so.

...Your Colonel never made you feel that way, though, and you never quite understood why.

After all, your interactions were few-far-and-inbetween. It made you wonder what made you feel this way, and what spark ignited the warmth you'd feel when he was around.

Although a man of few words, the words that he did say to you would matter, though. His praise, his acknowledgement, his always being there made you want to keep going and prove your worth to him.

It started off as sporadic encouragement:

Your skin glistening with sweat, an accented voice would say "Gute Arbeit," over your crumpled body on the gym mat.

Offering you a gloved hand, you grasped it gratefully, and he pulled your tired body with ease. "Good job, King."

A lopsided smile from you as you'd wipe the sweat from your forehead and brows after sparring with someone else, limp limbs barely keeping you standing. His eyes were betrayed no emotion under his veil, yet a thin-lipped grin was behind it.

"Thank— you— sir!" You'd manage to breathe out, still panting for breath. "I did— my best, but— I didn't win."

"That does not matter," he'd say, speaking in a tone you couldn't quite recognize. "Very good job. Keep it going. Soon, you'll be able to pin even me down."

You'd laugh weakly at his words, yet would immediately feel a surge of motivation to keep working hard, and would train up to the point of exhaustion behind closed doors. Thinking you'd be alone, you'd punch a dufflebag with grunts of effort, missing the tall silhouette observing you with crossed arms in the corner, satisfied.

Then, those became casual greetings;

"Guten Morgen, soldier. Nice day, ja?"

Turning around, you'd see your Colonel walking towards you, frame visible even from a distance.

You smile broadly, eyes crinkling up in genuine joy, before you caught yourself and coughed. "Y-yeah!"

"Always a nice day whenever you're around, sir," you'd tease, playfully winking at him as he approached you, yet you were yet to master it without blinking both eyes.

He'd chuckle heartily, flattered, then shook his head to hide how his face flushed under his veil, and held up a hand.

"Thank Gott I have you here. My day would have been ruined."

"Have a good day, sir!" You'd call after him brightly, and he'd turn around for a final time with a two-fingered salute. Strange, since he was your superior, not the other way around, but you shrugged this off as a friendly gesture.

Until it developed into a sort of mutual connection.

In your eyes, at least.

You didn't want to assume that you two were friends, as the man was way out of your league. Strong, muscular, and a disciplined soldier — a Colonel, no less — a man of influence.

Besides, he, conversing with the only-recently-recruit-turned-soldier that was the slowest to understand a joke, did not comprehend complicated terms, and was the least bright out of the entire faction was not something you wanted him to be associated as, didn't want to tarnish his reputation.

You reasoned that you didn't want to bring down the Colonel down to your low level, so you kept your relationship as just that; associates. Aquaintances. Nothing more, out of respect for your Colonel.

Little did you know, the Colonel had developed a soft spot for you.

It seemed as though the storm had gotten worse, as the rain was unrelenting, and the tapping on the glass increased with force. Booming thunderclouds made your room shake.

A sigh as you turned to your side again. 2:07am.

Your thoughts moved back to your Colonel, and you started missing him, longing for him. The warmth that radiated off him made you wish he'd take you in his arms, hold you close to his chest, and you suddenly felt so cold. So lonely and cold.

Maybe it was childish of you to be feeling this way — he was your superior, after all, and you had no reason to be so attached — yet your daily encounters made you gain feelings for the man. Made you feel things when he was around.

Somehow, he brought you security. Made you feel protected. Safe. Like you could always count on him for having your back.

Made you forget that you were so useless, and was the reason for the fuzzyness within your chest, the buzzing feeling you'd feel as you'd be grinning from ear to ear after speaking to him.

Made you feel like you weren't pathetic. Weren't a wasted wishing star. Instead, you were appreciated, seen, even.

You wanted to see him. You wanted to be with him.

...Would he want you, though?

No. Of course he wouldn't. You weren't good enough.

A deep sigh. 2:15, the digital alarm clock displayed.

...What if he actually did want you? Not even as a partner, but just to be around him? Breathe the same air as him? You thought you weren't worthy of his time, but maybe, just maybe he wouldn't see it as such a waste.

Another crash of lightning brought you to your senses.

Finally making up your mind, you huffed in exertion as you pushed yourself off your stiff mattress, not bothering to organize the mess of blankets on the floor.

Walking with certainty, before you realised it, you were at König's bedroom door. Standing behind the door, hand hesitatingly reaching for the handle, you bit your lip, confidence wavering.

Should you really go through with this right now? What if he was asleep at that moment and all you'd do is disrupt his slumber? It wouldn't be fair of you to disturb him so late in the night, especially when he had so many responsibilities.

Still, you inhaled deeply, and, as quietly as you could, knocked twice.

You almost jumped out of your skin at the familiar accented voice of your Colonel.

"Come in," he said hoarsely. His tone was almost warm, inviting, yet you shook your head at the idea, and pulled the handle.

Entering inside, you slowly closed the door behind you. When you turned around, König was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, seemingly deep in thought. Wearing a tank top and cargo pants, his head was hung low, his veil hanging loosely over his head.

The blinds were drawn open to reveal the sky dominated by darkness, the grey curtain of monochrome on the nearest buildings cast down by the clouds, the raindrops that remained on the windows and the rhythmic echoes against the pavement as they dropped in syncopation.

The sight, his presence, were both so... relaxing. In a way, your anxiety was relieved by the tranquility of the scene, and it made you forget the internal turnoil you had been going through for the past few hours, made the tension in your body fade.

"Ah, King," his arms dropped to his sides and he raised his head to meet your eyes in the dark. "I had a feeling that it would be you."

You fidgeted nervously, not knowing what to do.

"Bitte, schön," he said, patting the empty space beside him on the mattress. "Please, sit down. I insist."

Slowly lowering yourself to his side, you sat at a reasonable distance away from him. With the both of you sat down, the size difference was still very noticable. His height made him hunch over you, and one of his thighs was like the two of yours combined.

So nervous, you didn't even notice how his back slumped so you'd be both at a similar level.

He cleared his throat. "What brings you here so late in the night?"

An awkward tug of your t-shirt collar.

"Can't sleep," you stated simply.

"I see." He was quiet for a few moments. Then: "And you decided that my room was the place to go?"

Your face heated up, and you averted your gaze. "Well, sir, it's j-ju—"

"—Nein," he cut you off, holding up a hand to stop you. "I have told you so many times not to call me that. Call me König."

"But— but you're my superior," you gasped, mouth agape. "You deserve to be addressed with respect! I couldn't possibly—"

The protest died on your lips again as the man shook his head, the loose material of his veil following his movements. "Nein. None of that matters. I want you to call me by my first name."

A heavy silence lingered over the two of you, words left unsaid by you both.

"So," König prompted, "what brings you here, King?"

Pausing to think over a pretence, the best you could come up with was: "The storm scared me."

"Ja?" Even with the fabric covering his face, you could almost see the skeptical smirk on his lips.

"A soldier like you afraid of loud clouds? Some rain?" He chuckled.

"Really, I'd have thought you better than that, King." If you didn't know him well enough, you'd have thought he was mocking you, yet despite the sarcasm his eyes held a genuine concern for you.

An bashful laugh escaped you as you rubbed your arm, nails slightly digging into your skin.

"Okay, tell me the truth, King," Leaning forward, his tone became serious. "I know for certain you aren't scared."

He searched for your eyes, yet you avoided his gaze.

"Something is troubling you. Is that it?" He cocked his head to the side, fabric falling loosely over his shoulder. "You can tell me, King. I am your superior, you know. You should tell me these things."

"Well... it's j-just—"

You bit your lip, willing the tears to stay in your eyes.

Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.

König watched you, patiently waiting for you to continue.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, vulnerability showing in your eyes. "—This recent mission, it was— it was really, really difficult. And I just..."

König shuffled towards you until your knees were almost touching, watching you intently. As your body trembled, a hand hovered in uncertainty by your shoulder.

Sniffling, you wiped the wetness on your face with your arm, voice breaking.

"I-I just think that I'm not strong. That I'm... weak. Not— not good enough to be working with people that are so much better. So much stronger—"

Your breath hitched in your throat, voice coming out in a broken sob. "—I-I mean— I'm so pathetic. I shouldn't be so... weak. I should — I should be better. Wh-why—"

Tears flowed freely down your face. "—Why can't I be better, König? Why am I so— so useless?"

Without saying anything, König wrapped his strong arms around your body and pulled you against his chest, pulled you close so you could let it all out. For a few moments, he let you cry, ever-so-gently stroking the back of your head, fingers running through your hair. Weeping into his chest, his steady breathing soothed you.

Once you recovered enough from your emotions, you pulled away, downcast. Face red and blotchy with tears, eyes puffy and pink from crying, lips quivering and voice hoarse, you felt so pathetic. So, so pathetic.

"F-fuck, s-si— König—" Trembling. "I'm so so sorry. I'm too emotional, please, I'm sor—"

"Nein." His tone was soft, yet firm. Definitive. "You have nothing to apologise for, King."

Both hands cupped the sides of your face, tentatively tilting your face upwards. His expression was forlorn, and you felt tears brimming in your eyelids again.

"...You're not weak. You're not pathetic. You're not useless. I see you always trying so hard, King, always giving it your all..."

He paused for a few moments, deliberating over how best to put his thoughts into words. "...Maybe... maybe your best isn't the best out of anyone's bests, but it's the effort that counts." He rubbed the back of his neck, then let out a mono-syllabic laugh. "Scheiße, did that make sense? Sorry— I'm not good with words—"

You glanced away. "—Hey," his hand reached to hold to side of your face. "Look at me, King."

"You're not weak, not pathetic, not useless," he repeated, voice wavering.

"You're none of those. You're better than you think you are. Your inner strength," a finger pointed at your chest, "your heart, it's so full of goodness. So full of so many good things that don't define you, but instead changed you for the better."

"Maybe... maybe you aren't the aren't the best, haven't been the best, or never will be the best, but it's not your fault. You try so hard, and the odds... the odds are stacked against you. And, sometimes... sometimes it's okay to not be the best. You don't have to be fearless, the strongest, perfect. You can just be... you."

His eyes were pleading in the dark. "Please don't doubt yourself. You're so— so much better than you imagine."

A shaky breath. "So much stronger than you tell yourself. I can promise you, you are your own person. Other people's successes don't define you."

König turned around to glance at his alarm. 2:36.

When he turned back, your face had slowly regained the colour on your cheeks, eyes sparkled, chest rose and fall at a steady pace. You said nothing, yet König knew you listened to every one of his words.

"Looks like it's too late for you to fall asleep in your own room," he whispered, gently caressing your face. "Stay here with me, King."

Eyes immediately widening in surprise, you were about to protest. "B-but— I couldn't possibly, König—"

That protest died on your lips as König's arms engulfed you again, and brought you down against his mattress so you were laying on his chest. Cocooned like a protective blanket over you, you didn't need him to say anything more. You felt so... safe. Loved.

The storm outside seemed to calm down, and lightning no longer crashed against the window. Rain faltered, and some clouds were separating in the darkness of the sky.

Before you knew it, your eyelids became heavy with drowsiness, feeling a wave of calm wash over you, cleansing away your sorrows.

Just before you fell asleep, you heard König say something in German, barely above a whisper, but you did not understand:

"Schlaf gut Schatz. Ich liebe dich."

...

I don't know who needed to hear that, or if anyone even did, but I stand by the words I wrote. Although you are reading this, and are likely a stranger, and I'll never face you in real life, I want you to know that you *are* good enough. And if it takes a person on the internet using a fictional character to tell you so, then so be it. You are still valid. 🫂

...

Note: i rhink some of the ppl that read my previous fics will be able to tell that i went tryhard mode on this one 💀💀

Its mostly bc im back in school and were going over all the stupid fancy shmancy literative devices and figurstive language (god why cant u call it literallt anything else i swear why does it have ro be so unnecessarily overcomplicated just call it sentence structures or writing techniques istg.man😭)so i unconsciously chanelled all of thise boring technicalities into this 😬

With me writing as a hobby you'd think I'd have the highest grades in English? No💔I wish LMAO

I NOW HAVE 130+ FOLLOWERS!!! Which is unbelievable if u wsk me bc etf why wre eo mwnt people following me i don't deserve this qt ALL 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 THANK YOU ALL 🥹🥹🥹🫶🫶🫶💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓

I still remember when @puff0o0⭐ began their self-aware au with König and Ghost qnd ive qlways veen cheerint for her from the sidelines ☺️☺️come to find out shes been mentioning ME in THEIR podts and writing on their blofs thwt my CoD blog is good and i.????😭😭😭cant????????😭😭😭😭😭 Literally -99999 damage and an ARROW 🏹 STRAIGHT thru the HEART 💘🥹 I LOVE U B (platonically ofc dw)😽💕💓💓❤️💞💞💕💞💕💞💞💞💕

[literallyroselacroix]

PT 2 of my last post bcs I just had a thought! OH THIS IS PURELY HYPOTHETICAL BTW, I DONT RLLY BELIEVE ANY OF THIS HAPPEND

I’m going to explain this in step-by-step chronological order bcs I can’t figure out how to organize it any other way.

Side note: Rose is the culprit in this hypothetical situation

1: whit was the one who overheard Arei/Eden’s conversation

2: Whit saw the culprit (accidentally???) kill Arei

3: Whit decides to help the killer for some reason. Maybe he felt bad and wanted to give the killer a fighting chance or was being blackmailed, I mean Rose *did* have his secret (personally I think the first one is more likely, CRAZY, but more likely)

4: they both dragged the body to the playground(explains scruff/drag marks on floor) and made the crime scene look all fucked up and complicated. Whit could’ve gotten the rope from storage bcs he’d know it’d be in here(if my memory serves correctly, he was there when Arei was fighting monotv over it)

5: whit forged the letter and tore it afterwards, told Rose to knock over the trash can to find it so it’d make her look less suspicious. This would explain why it was in that particular trash can, bcs why wouldn’t the culprit hide it somewhere less obvious?

And yeah BOOM. Hypothetical situation done! Again idk WHY Whit would be the killer’s accomplice but again again super super hypothetical 💪🏾 one of the many problems with this hypothetical would be the amount of time they would have to do all this. But yea dunno

[anxiousalene]

MY THOUGHTS ON THE WISDOM SAGA ⌛️

USUALLY, I PUT THIS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER BUT WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL THERE IS NO WAY ATHENA JUST DIED. I REFUSE IT HOW DARE ZEUS SHE WAS MY FAVORITE WHAT THE HELL. (That was me last night) OKAY SO I LOVE MICO’S VOICE ITS SO ADORABLE AND IN THE ANIMATIC WE GET TO SEE ARGOS! I KNOW THIS HAS BEEN SAID BEFORE BUT I LOVE THE FACT THAT WHEN TELEMACHUS SOMEONE SEND ME A SIGN WE HEAR ATHENA’S MOTIF. ALSO ANTINOUS CAN MEET ME IN THE PARKING LOT IF HE KEEPS TALKING ABOUT PENELOPE LIKE THAT. DONT YOU DARE DISRESPECT MY GIRL. ALSO WE FINALLY GET TO HEAR THE “Whatchu gonna do about it champ?” AND ITS SO GOOD. ALSO THE FACT THAT TELEMACHUS SAYS “IF I FIGHT THIS MONSTER IS IT YOU I’LL FIND” BECAUSE HIM AND ODYSSEUS GET REUNITED WHEN THEY ARE SLAUGHTERING THE SUITORS AND BECAUSE ODYSSEUS HAS BECOME THE MONSTER THAT TELEMACHUS WILL FIND. I LOVE THE VIDEO GAME FEELS WITH LITTLE WOLF, ANTINOUS BEATING THE CRAP OUT OF TELEMACHUS AND ATHENA BEING LIKE NAHHH AND JUMPING IN AND ATHENA TEACHING HIM TO FIGHT WITH QUICK THOUGHT IS SO CUTE. THE DUET BETWEEN MICHO AND TEAGAN IS GOOD LIKE HOW ARE THEY HITTING THOSE NOTES??? The fact that Athena is still so upset about the whole Odysseus thing is heartbreaking 💔. ITS SO COOL TO SEE HER GO THROUGH THE PAST SAGAS and then we see…CALYPSO! Barbara Wangui’s voice is just so vibey like THE CAST FOR THIS SHOW IS JUST PERFECT. Poor Odysseus being stuck with Calypso and literally just suffering. That man is TRAUMATIZED. ALSO IS POLITIES EVER GOING TO STOP HAUNTING ODYSSEUS AND THE NARRATIVE LIKE I DONT NEED THAT GUT PUNCH EVERY SAGA. AND THE FACT ODYSSEUS CALLED OUT FOR ATHENA IS JUST AHHHHH. Then the one I have been waiting for GOD GAMES! I Love how Apollo and Hephaestus are both like he did this thing and I’m like kinda upset and Athenas like nah he didn’t mean it, and they’re like Okay!! He can go! I CANNOT GET OVER ALL THE THOUGHT THAT GOES BEHIND THE MUSIC ITS SELF, LIKE THE TINKERING IN THE BACKGROUND FOR HEPHAESTUS AND THE FACT THAT ITS JORGE’S DAD ITS JUST AGHHH. THEN J. MAYA COOKING AS APHRODITE, HER VOICE JUST SOOTHES MY BRAIN. AND THEN ARES COMING IN AND ATHENA BEATING HIM AND THEY BOTH BEGRUDGINGLY LET HIM GO, love how Jay paired them up. Hera’s music is so like funky and fun and Athena knows EXACTLY how to get her stepmom to pick her side in the father-daughter argument. BUT BECAUSE ZEUS IS SUCH A SORE FREAKING LOSER AND HE CANT ACCEPT THAT HIS DAUGHTER WON FAIR AND SQUARE…HE ATTACKS HER, Like Holt’s voice is GENUINELY terrifying, you can get the rumbling in his voice like THUNDER. I LITERALLY STARTED CRYING WHEN I SAW ATHENA GETTING HANDED A BABY TELEMACHUS AND THE WARRIOR OF THE MIND MELODY PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND AND THE FACT THAT ATHENAS (ALLEGED) LAST WORDS WERE HER BEGGING ZEUS TO LET ODYSSEUS FREE. LIKE HOW COULD JAY DO THAT TO ME. THIS SAGA WAS DEVASTATING BUT ABSOLUTELY AMAZING PER USUAL. I APPRECIATE THE CAST AND THE PEOPLE BEHIND THE SCENES SO MUCH

[shepscapades]

Have you ever thought about making a playlist for the DBHAU characters? I'd be interested in what music they all would listen to or songs that relate to them.

WAOUGH thank you for reminding me-- there's actually. okay. okay so, there's actually... (checks writing on hand) 9 DBHC playlists currently LFKGJDLKFG

The way i like to organize playlists is, as i develop a character's lore/think about them more, i tend to put/look for songs that represent moments/feelings throughout their overall story in chronological order, rather than putting things on the playlist that are like, things the character would listen to or just general vibes. So each playlist is built to kinda... take you through their whole emotional journey :3 LFKJGSDFG although!! Usually, i will try to find a song i think is a good overall representation of the vibes, story, and character! Like, a title track :>

I think the only playlist that's currently closest to it's "finished" form or version is Etho's, which i've actually been meaning to share for ages LKFKLFJG but i keep getting this feeling that I would rather write up a quick explanation for what each song represents before I post it here, so i haven't gotten around to that yet :(

Though, there's a link to the Etho playlist in my stream discord LOL so a few people have access to it haha

Just for those who are curious, the dbhc playlists I currently have are:

Etho (Finished! Or like. i would have to find a PERFECT song to fit something new into the song lineup i think)

Tango (This one's pretty close overall... there are some gaps here and there but it's pretty long right now so i need to do some trimming too)

Jimmy (a short collection of vibes i haven't really organized yet)

Ranchers (I dont know if I'll do anything fancy with this playlist yet, it's kind of where i've been dumping songs that i cant quite fit on either jimmy or tangos playlists)

Xisuma (this one just kinda happened, but it's pretty fleshed out right now, especially for s8... not anywhere near finished but i've been listening to it nonstop lately. this man is destroying me rn)

Doc (also just kinda happened. i listen to this one a lot for the bops and vibes because most of the songs on this are kinda. ahem. yknow. he's kinda.)

Bdubs (this one is also kinda short! its got like 8 or 9 songs so i haven't really been focusing on it a lot-- it's kinda where i dump songs that are either hyper-specific for something from bdubs' pov or doesn't quite fit anyone else for dbhc)

Mumbo (this one is really short (5 songs) but i really like the songs on there so far hehehe, i haven't been focusing on it too much since i haven't been thinking about him too much lately but i love the vibes :])

[REDACTED]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Failure to Comply

Epilogue for Sweet Treats AU: by character | chronological | epilogues

Warnings: these drabbles will include dark elements such as noncon, control, intimidation, alcohol abuse and addiction, and other stuff that may not be specified. Take this as you chance to scroll by.

Please let me know what you think <3

🍹🍹🍹

“I hope you like bacon,” you say as you plop the paper bag on the table. “They didn’t have any sausage left.”

Steve turns, the fluffy robe open shamelessly around his boxers. With a body like his, you wouldn’t be shy either. He pushes back the plush cotton as he eyes the bag.

“What is that?”

“A breakfast wrap and hashbrown,” you flip back the plastic tab on the lid of your cup.

“You want me to eat…” he opens the grease-stained bag and peeks inside with a grimace, “this?”

“Uh, yeah, you said you wanted breakfast.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you were going to grab groceries or something?”

“And do what?” You look around the hotel, “look, I gotta head out. I have a shift today and I smell like the bar.”

“I can’t eat this.”

“Then I will,” you come forward to swipe the bag and he catches your hand. You try to recoil as he clings to you. You tug again as you look him in the face, “bro, what the hell?”

“Bro? You were calling me captain last night.”

“I can’t even remember last night,” you twist your wrist in his grasp, “let go. You’re weirding me out.”

“You promised me breakfast.”

“This is a hotel. Call room service,” you yank your hand away but realise it’s only because he let you. “Jesus, who knew the spangled sack of stars was such a baby.”

You spin on your heel and sip your coffee. It’d be a lot better with some vodka. Or whiskey. You should’ve saved the money you spent on the shitty wrap for a mickey. Fucking jackass.

You toss the keycard on the little tray and grab the door handle. You open it an inch only for it to be snapped back into the frame. You wiggle it and pull again. You look up slowly at the hand planted against the wood. You turn as Steve looms over you.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I didn’t say you could go.”

“I don’t need your permission,” you scoff, “the fuck?”

“Captain’s orders,” he snarls.

“Alright, you are delusional,” you tug on the handle again, “I really can’t–”

“What happened to that sweet little pussy, hm? You couldn’t get enough last night.”

“Alcohol does that to people,” you roll your eyes, “step away, Cap, or this,” you raise the paper cup, “is going in your fa–”

He smacks the coffee out of your hand, the dark roast spray across the room. You scoff and curse as you gape at Steve. What the fuck?

“You don’t threaten me,” he looms over you, “do you understand what I could do to you?”

You glare at him defiantly, “if it makes you feel like a big man, go ahead.”

“Oh, you know I’m a big man,” he smirks, “you seemed to like that fact a whole lot last night,” he brings his finger up under your chin, “didn’t you?”

“I don’t even remember last night,” you hiss and swat his hand away, “shouldn’t you be looking for your missing girlfriend instead of fucking randos from the nearest dive?”

“Dont,” he warns as he jabs his thick index in your face, “as pretty as that mouth is, doesn't mean I won’t fix it.”

You scowl, “there’s about a dozen other bar hags who would be happy to fuck around but I’m hungover and I can’t be late for work. So move you back up and fuck off.”

He sucks his teeth and stays as he is. Your heart pounds as you reach blindly to your purse. You wrap your hand around the small canister attached to your keys. You’re pretty sure even super soldiers don’t react well to mace.

“You beet back–”

His hand comes up, aimed at your throat, and you raise your own. You hit the button but not quick enough as he angles your arm away from him. He twists your grasp around until the spray is directed straight into your eyes. You shriek and let go of it too late. Fuck that stings.

“You little fucking bitch,” he stretches your arm and bends it harshly, spinning you to pin your wrist to your back. He shoves you against the door as you squirm, “it didn’t have to be like this.”

“Fucker,” you bark as your eyes stream and you gag on the remnants of the spray, “crazy ass motherfucker.”

“I fucking am,” he hauls you away from door, dragging your feet across the floor, “you’re a hard nut to crack, baby, but don’t worry, you will.”

[lulu2992]

I'm in the process of putting together a FC5 lore document (that is very geared towards the specific existence of my deputy so I'm duct taping the canon together very crudely), and I've been reading up on your blog (not in chronological order, i dont get how tumblr works anymore) because your thoughts are very helpful ! Thank you for being such a wonderful person and FC5 fan, you've really made my experience with enjoying this game so much better, so bless your whole existence

I wanted to share with you something I found in my research that I remembered as I was reading your ages post from all the way back in 2018: Pre-2002, it's possible that America had no real enlistment criteria based on age, meaning child conscription was possible due to the (takes deep breath) Optional Protocol on the Involvement of Children in Armed Conflict (OPAC). In 2000, they had only signed the treaty but were still pushing for to send 17y.o.'s to war; today, America still recruits as young as 17y.o., they just don't send them to war just yet. I'm thinking that if we go by the dates we've been given, Jacob could have been recruited when he was as young as 16, because the first Gulf War is dated to the beginning of 1991. What are your thoughts?

Oh wow, thank you so much!! And I’m glad my blog has been helpful :D

I didn’t know about the OPAC, but if we want Jacob to be born in 1974 as the Playasia Blog says, that would make sense!

@anna-elizabeth-jason had another interesting theory that could also explain why his dog tags say “JAKOB SEED”: if he was born in 1974 and too young to join the army, he might have lied about his age, and if he did, I think he may have received some help.

In The Book of Joseph, we learn that he went to juvie and joined the military “once he served out his sentence” because it was either “the army or a life of crime” for him, but the book also says “the teachers believed in him” and “some reports praised his sense of honor and leadership skills”, so if he wasn’t 17 yet when he was released, I believe it’s possible those teachers made sure he could enlist anyway. They probably didn’t want him to end up on the street (ironically, he eventually did) and I doubt Jacob liked the idea of going back to the orphanage or being adopted again, so the army sounded like the best option to them. In any case, if some documents were hastily falsified to allow him to enlist despite being too young, that may be the reason his name was apparently incorrectly spelled “Jakob” during his military career.

To be honest, the spelling mistake on his dog tags is most likely an oversight that doesn’t mean anything, but if we want to find a logical explanation for everything, I like this theory!

In the end, we don’t know his canonical age since the game never reveals it, but we can imagine he’s simply over 44 and that’s why he fought in the first Gulf War. After all, Absolution (even though it’s only semi-canon to me) implies Joseph is already in his fifties so that would mean Jacob is ever older. The OPAC and/or the possibility of him lying about his age are interesting hypotheses if we want 1974 to seem less absurd as his year of birth, though :)

[hows-my-handwriting]

Hobie Brown Headcanons

long post ahead. will put as much as i can under the cut but i will have a.... loose table of contents.

and im not feeding you everything. i need more content to drip feed you later.

the inspo is driving me crazy but the hands are refusing to write.

the table: backstory food british animals

lmk if ppl want this to be split up into individual posts per category. cuz its l o n g

BACKSTORY:

Not based on the comics. purely my own attempt at writing his backstory and his particular villains.

Hobie's Doc Oc was a university professor pressured by Osborn's regime to produce weapons. Hobie had met the guy while crashing a university class, but nothing more than that. Octavius snapped and took the revolution to the extreme. he built a WMD and planned to use it on the city. Hobie talked octavius down and disarmed the weapon.

Hobie's lizard was his close friend and bandmate who got jealous over their lead singer's affections towards hobie. they were close friends until hobie started drifting away. curtis was bitter and never really forgave him. the final straw was when hobie returned in full, having just abandoned his spider suit. the band is back together but curtis still has hard feelings. he knew vaguely about hobie's connection with spiderman but thought that it was some kind of special deal or friendship which was just another nail in the coffin. he turns himself into the lizard and attacks hobie, demanding answers and refusing to listen.

the above is just an excuse to hurt hobie really bad >:3 i love my angst and my beating my muses up. i wanted to break his ribs.

electro was a civilian who just happened to get struck by lightning. he is the sole reason hobie has insulated all of his gear and one of the reasons all of his spikes can shoot excess electricity like one of those funky little electrode balls. hobie took one look at this guy and immediately got to work.

Kraven was a bounty hunter hired and possibly engineered by osborn and fisk to hunt down hobie. classic kraven activities. he tried to drown hobie in the thames. hobie managed to escape but couldn't breathe or eat properly for a week after the attack

hobie's ship was hauled from the local junkyard. It was originally just used as a figure head to lead the charge from the government locked dam blocking off water. it somehow survived so he uses it as his hq.

hobie is immune to his scorpion's venom after being stung so many times and stealing samples of it to build up an immunity. yes it hurt. yes it sucked. but it worked. (loosely inspired by a fanfic)

the above are not in chronological order. mostly.

FOOD:

Hobie's world doesn't have a lot of spices. it's a closed state unless importing 'important' materials like lumber, steel and other sciency stuff, food is a lower priority or just a restricted luxury. the spice trade has regressed to something like the 1600s where foreign spices are held by those in power purely as a status symbol. the common man might have access to salt, sugar and cream, but anything else- especially anything spicy- is a luxury item.

hobie would love spicy food. i just dont think he's gotten much exposure to it. day one out of e-138 he opened a bag of spicy chips in the cafeteria, touched one and exploded.

exotic/foreign fruits fall under this same category but for more legit reasons of travel and lack of safe storage. so for example: mangoes, oranges/citrus, kiwi, pomegranates.

boba would freak him the fuck out. he has no idea what those little jiggly things are and its only made worse when one of the kids inevitably shows him the hamster 'is it worth it' meme. he becomes scarred for life.

if you take too long to take a bite out of whatever you're holding and hobie is hungry, he will just lean over and take a bite out of it. sandwich? bitten. spaghetti? stolen off the fork. chocolate bar? wrapper and bar, gone.

his favorite flavor of cake is chocolate or caramel. sue me im projecting onto him

BRITISH

he holds out his pinky when holding cups. it's just an unconscious thing that turns conscious once someone calls it out. in which case he sticks it out even further

flips the police and the royal family off regularly with the one fingered or the two fingered version. will only respect the french for inventing the creative two fingered fuck you, but nothing else.

has a winter fit that is just like a pile of whatever sweaters he has and two scarves. and long socks that make the space in his tight boots even more tight. sometimes cuts off circulation to his feet.

loves going to pubs and just chatting with people. also loves picking fights with the drunk people. Particularly the irish. he thinks their accents are funny and has long arguments with them while they're both speaking absolute gibberish.

knows french but only the insults. has an arsenal of french insults he will just whip out of his back pocket and drop on someone's head.

not really a british thing but i bet he doesn't know how to ride a bike. he was a) too tall and b) not willing to get his entire skeleton rattled by riding over the cobbled streets of london.

wimpy's fan. (its like the british version of mcdonalds but less popular and less famous. according to my research).

ANIMALS

Hobie keeps pigeons. he built a little house when he was bored and was surprised to find three pigeons hiding from the rain underneath it the next day. he didn't really intend to keep them but they nested and he kept bringing them food and water. he did name the brown one hobie jr.

hobie has a cat. again, not really 'has' but rather 'it broke into his boat and wont leave'. he didn't name her because he can't think of a good one. for the longest time he had no idea she was living in his floorboards but later discovered a hole in the side of his boat and found a crawlspace just large enough for a kitten.

he is freaked out by snakes. not as in a fear of snakes. but rather in utter disbelief that they can be the size of a human person. he's read about and probably seen the average snake, about the size of an arm. but anything larger than that will make his jaw drop right off of his face

he did have a symbiote dog for a short time. the dog was badly hurt and the passive symbiote had merged with its body to try and help it. he offered it a place to stay and rest and it happily agreed. it followed him around for the short while they had together and one day went off on its own.

he still sees that dog around (affectionately named 'spider-mutt') and offers it head scratches or belly rubs but they always part ways sooner than later.

loves opossums. thinks they look funny.

part two? maybe....

might add more to this as my brain keeps turning.

[corvis-crimson]

Basic Writing Advice

Take everything said with a grain of salt because this is just what I do…not what everyone should do

I’d like to give writing advice to people as someone who has written stories since I could pick up a pencil. However, I’m realizing a lot of my advice may not work for everyone…

Despite this I will be posting this post anyway!

Make your rough draft good enough that spelling and grammar aside…you could feasibly send it out into the world! Then go back and fix things that need fixing!

The best way to know if something needs fixed is to have someone else read it! If they don’t understand what’s going on you need to elaborate more!

If you feel like you’re using too much detail or too many words try using bigger words in place of two to three smaller words!

Act out scenes in your book as you write them and be aware of how you do things! Watch how others do things and emulate that! Study people! It’s the only way to write movement well…

For that first draft focus only on getting it to sound good and flow well! Fix grammar the second time through!

Aim to write ten pages a day then get upset when you don’t do that! Guilt yourself into writing close to ten pages a day until your book is finished! You’ll be upset you keep not reaching your goal that you’ll be determined to reach the ten page mark and by the time you start reaching it your book is almost done! It’s a life hack to completing your book under your own nose!

Dont focus on one project by itself unless you think you can get it out in six months or less (what I did with my first ever book linked in my pinned post)

If you’re a reader like me don’t read any books while you’re writing (I know it’s hard but trust me I got way more done when I wasn’t reading) if you must read at least read something from a different genre!

Write in chronological order and make a bullet point list for your plot chapter by chapter if you must! You can go off path but so long as it you make it to the next bullet point you’re good!

Do not pigeon hole yourself into one genre!! You’ll get bored of it if you don’t challenge yourself!

Write for yourself and don’t be afraid to take inspiration from things! So long as you aren’t copying things word for word and so long as you aren’t stealing characters or plots ITS FINE! It’s great actually!! (Think of it this way…I am a HUGE zombie movie fan and just because there are already a lot of zombie movies out there in the world when a new one comes out I will definitely watch it! Not only will I watch it but I won’t care if it’s similar to another zombie movie I enjoyed!)

Get the words out of your head it doesn’t matter how! If writing scrawled words you can barely read across notebook paper gets them out then do it! Don’t let your story die!

If you let anything sit for over a year and it has less than five pages go ahead and re-write those pages! Start fresh from the beginning because you’ll never be in the mindset you were in when you first wrote it again!

If time was a social construct and the human body could withstand lack of sleep, water, and food…if locked in a cell with nothing else to do but write the ideal thing to do would be to push through and write the entire thing in one setting! Get that shit out of your head before it drives you insane! Since the human body does need sleep, water, and food I suggest writing as much as you physically can before stopping! The only reason I’ve ever finished a book was because I wrote the first twenty or so pages in one sitting!

Re-read your book until the thought of looking at it again gives you a headache! It’s the only way to catch all the mistakes…(side note: when combing through the interior of your book don’t make the mistake of slacking on your cover thinking you are now invincible…you’ll make a mistake)

As your book nears its final chapters go ahead and design the cover! Select a style and a theme to match your books contents! Amazon cover designer has great covers but I recommend taking a photo for your cover! (At a later date I will make a post about cover design etc)

Taking breaks is good but taking longer breaks is bad! Get some water, get some tea, some koolaid, a pitcher of lemonade?! Whatever floats your boat! Set it next to you and when you’re stuck pour a glass and have a drink! I call this “Drink and Think” and something about pouring the drink into the glass and taking a sip helps refresh my brain!

[angelharness]

I hope you dont mind me writing more of this timeline? Scenario? I have a few more ideas for this version of the reader and ghostface, not all in chronological order, though i’d place this one after my first writing. If there’s interest in this series I’d love to expand on it

These and Other Lucky Witnesses 

WARNINGS: off-screen murder, still fairly descriptive

DANNY “JED OLSEN” JOHNSON / THE GHOSTFACE

You didn’t expect anything for your anniversary. Both of you worked, had to, to consistently scrape by. Danny picked up every project he could, whether or not it was manageable with his already swamped wordload. You were thinking of taking on another job, since your current one was so resistant to giving you more hours. In short, the two of you had loaded plates and waning time together, even one year into living with each other.

Even knowing this, there’s a deep disappointment as you whittle away at your last hour of work. 

The holidays mean an influx of customers at work in your tailor shop. Velvet dresses brimming with foamy lace, pristine suit jackets, matching dress pants, carefully embroidered button ups, all divided cleanly and safely in sheets of plastic on color coded hangers. No one ever picks up their items on time; instead, they love to wait until the last half hour before closing to all rush over and come stampeding in like loose cattle, typically requiring you to stay open an extra twenty or so excruciating minutes. 

Today, that works in Danny’s favor.

He had been stressing. He hadn’t planned on taking on another victim this week—it was shaping up to be a slow one, and he was very much ok with that. Nearly getting unmasked in a skirmish a month ago had sent him into a period of hiding and reminded him of his humanity. It was weird to say he was rattled by the experience. That is all to say the night was meant to be uneventful. Money was tight, as it always seems to be around the holidays, in time for the blinking assault of green and red lights and the spray of white paint in shop windows to imitate a snowy landscape. 

The two of you had agreed you wouldn’t be able to do anything particularly fancy today, no extravagant gifts or pricey restaurant trips. He had been saving, even still, with the hopes of buying you something. He had never been great with picking out gifts, given that he had never been on the receiving end, either, so he had struggled to find something meaningful. Not to mention, a medical bill all over a few stitches had eaten through his last couple of paychecks (only cementing the idea to him that he ought to learn how to close up a wound on his own). 

A nice dinner at home is planned for the evening. It won’t be anything spectacular, he reminds himself, but he’s insistent to show that he’s remembered. He’s been so caught up in his other identity, only recently breaking from this character to wonder if he’d been neglecting you. Danny knows he’s too involved in orchestrating the script of Ghostface, it’s an all consuming aspect of his person, he’d never be able to part from the persona he’s drained so much thought into—there’d been incredible hesitation from the get go when he met you and things advanced further than expected. Inevitably, between you and the Ghostface, one would end up untended to, and your recent sourness suggests that has been you.

That’s why this display seems too insultingly minor. A nice dinner and time spent with a loved partner should communicate appreciation, but Danny was never great at operating interpersonal relationships. It would be naive to say they scared him, rather it’s like handling an exotic animal. That’s his problem—Danny performs, directs, coordinates, he doesn’t truly live, does he? Everything is a value he wants precedence over. He earns a look from a passerby when he scoffs out loud. 

He’s off early, headed to the grocery store, admittedly bitter thinking about the trek back on foot, but there’s a delightful little change in plans when he sees her.

Gold, curled hair, with gleaming green eyes and cakey foundation that flakes at her deep smile lines. She’s a beautiful woman, no doubt about it, but his attention is fixated on the hand clutching her purse; some forgettable designer brand, presumably, but he looks further at a finger wearing a glittering ring (he didn’t think or care to check if it was her ring finger, his mind was set.) It’s gorgeous, a gentle gold that’s not overwhelmingly yellow—rosey is the word—curling delicately around a gleaming gem. It’s undeniably opal, with how the light on it shifts in a kaleidoscope of colors, not diamond, but he thinks he prefers it. Everyone does diamond, anyways. His mind is made in that moment. 

The lady nearly shoves past him, too entrenched in a loud conversation with the man next to her, decidedly not a partner, given the many feet of space between them. Danny stops for only a second, not letting himself stare, but he feels his heart thunder.

He thinks. But not for too long. He listens to their voices fade until they’re unintelligible before he stops again, thinks again, purses his lips and pretends to pat desperately at his pockets, making a show of sighing and throwing his head back, frustrated, before turning on his heel and starting down the sidewalk in the direction the two had disappeared. There had not been anyone else around, something he had eventually begun to note subconsciously whenever in public, but he’s practiced the display so much it was almost subconscious itself. 

She never thinks to look back. Not once. Not after parting with her friend, not after taking a shortcut down a considerably darker street, slipping only infrequently under the weak shower of light from buzzing street lamps. It’s too perfect, he almost wonders if he’s being led into some elaborate trap. In hindsight, it would have been smart to keep track of the street names, but he’s just a little clumsy tonight.

He must practically be stepping on her heels when she finally tenses and flips around, eyes already wide, a misty gray in the dark gradient of the night. So wide. This might be the only instance where he’ll remember the color of a victim’s eyes. She goes for her pocket knife, only, at most, the size of her hand outstretched. He goes for his own knife. 

He didn’t think about the clean up that would follow, or about the time. Fuck, fuck, he wants to kick himself, get a good, solid punch in there that would make him stagger back. He has to hope the ring will fit you as he tries to screw it back and forth, inching it off her finger. In increasing desperation, he’s attempting to wrench it off, something crunching. If he waits too long, the joints will go rigid and he might then have to saw the digit off entirely, and it wouldn’t be too pleasant of a gift if the ring came with a knifed finger attached. He wished he would’ve just reverted to his high school ways of petty robbery, but his face is bare to the pungent, stinging night, no usual robes to conceal himself. 

That’s not what the Ghostface does, anyways—theft at knifepoint. The papers would mischaracterize him after all the careful, deliberate consideration gone into his depiction, both on Ghostface’s and Danny’s parts; for Ghostface, the victims, chosen not irregularly on a whim (randomly, to any outsider) with no connections or immediately discernible motives. He loves to make them really think, so much of the threat is built in the wildly intense imagination of the public. The playfulness and the brazenness and how they intersect in shameless pictures, taunting notes and evidence left purposely. For the latter, nights of writing and rewriting paragraphs, descriptions, careful word choice to hammer in the threat that the next victim could be anyone, could be the reader. The Ghostface never has to kill, he wants to and does so without reason, that’s what makes him so unnerving, Danny thinks, scowling to himself. He finally twists the glimmering ring free from her limp finger, almost taking the skin with it as he digs his fingernails angrily beneath the band. He lets himself laugh once in triumph, a single, full exhale like he’d been struck in the sternum.

His work gets sloppy when he gets frustrated. He reminds himself of this as he turns the ring over in his palm, finally free. He thinks about your delighted face and his expression finally softens. 

Danny massages his forehead and the lines that are certain to form there with all his grimacing and scowling. How late is it? He looks up to the darkening sky like the moon itself will reveal the time engraved onto its surface. This might be the first time he’s killed in plainclothes. He thinks he should remember something like that, but all the bodies, different as they were, mold together in his memory. Every face, the ones he can visualize, overlay each other. There won’t be a fancy dinner for the two of you tonight, but he’s decided this is much better.

He lifts his arm just to watch the blood on his hands travel down his wrist and then down his forearm, two thin, winding snakes. 

He could risk rushing home and pray to every God from every doctrine that you’re not there yet, or wait out the night and return home late, praying, then, that you’re deep in sleep. It’s your anniversary, though—he imagines he could live with you believing he’s cheating on you over you finding out, but he must be going soft, because the image of you waiting all evening, alone, perking up at every noise outside at the possibility it’s him at the door, it makes him feel like someone has his guts in a fist. Plus, the Ghostafce is out and about, it’d be stupid to leave you on your lonesome. 

You have no idea what he does for you.

He stands outside your house, streaked with browning stripes of blood, disheveled, empty-eyed, probably appearing like an intruder. He still has no idea what hour of night it is, but the lights in the house are off, and for once he is unsettled by the sight of it, a cold dread that spider webs under his skin, drastically unlike the flush of relief as he might trudge up the same pathway after a cruelly long day of work.

Finally he forces himself up the steps of the porch and snags his key from his pocket (and now there’s blood on it, too), essentially slamming it into the lock and twisting it open while he clutches his bloody shoes by the heels in the other hand. He careens inside, pulled along by the tilting weight of his own body, finding himself hoping that the neighbors assume him to just be deeply, profoundly drunk should they be watching at this time of night. He slams the door and the house shudders with it then moans in relief as it settles. Fuck, darling, I’m so sorry if I kept you waiting, I actually, really fought tooth and nail to get you this gift. Haha. Like it was the last one, some other guy had the same idea, Christ, we got in a scuffle and nearly got kicked out. Ah, my nose hurts, is it bleeding? I didn’t notice. He’s vomiting words in his head louder than the voice that berates himself for his carelessness (he might even be saying these things aloud, expecting you to be there, horrified). You’re not there. He should be unimaginably relieved, but his stomach only tightens and he can feel the burn of bile stirring at the bottom of his throat. 

Danny can’t bring himself to turn on the light, to douse himself in sudden vision and see the red that he nonetheless feels wet on his chest. He’d never been too disturbed by the sight before, or even the tangy scent that seems so oppressively pungent now, but at the moment he just doesn’t want to think. He really does start to feel like an intruder. He shoves the door closed with his elbow (had he touched the knob with his hands when he opened it?) suddenly silencing the whisper of crickets humming behind him.

Finally his eyes fly to the clock on the oven, artificial red painting out the numbers 6:04. You get off at 6:30, and usually arrive home fourteen after. Fuck. This time he does kick, his target the gray loveseat in the living room. Carefully, he turns on the light with the back of his left hand, the one kindly less bloody.

In an instant he’s ripping a pan out from the kitchen cabinets and tossing in a cup or more of water, setting it to boil. The ring will go in there—for his poor work shoes, though, he’d just gotten them, and they’re genuine leather. They’re not fancy by any extent, but comfortable, and again, a pretty, toffee-colored leather. He throws them in a wash bin for now. He peels off his uncomfortably wet socks, stained from the night and damp from the lawn. Gross, whatever, he can make himself part with those. He tries to tell himself the same for his shirt as he rips down the buttons (he’s got a closet with nearly a dozen more indistinguishable dress shirts, bought in bulk from an acquaintance’s department store). Necessary sacrifice, his internal voice barks, ever cold.

His eyes never leave the clock, and then when they do, the harsh lines of the digital numbers are seared into his eyes like the blackened letters of a branding iron, and are just as blistering. 

It’s 6:13, as he lets the ring soak in a bowl of steaming water, standing to the side, using a toothpick to carefully pick the blood out from under his fingernails. 6:14. The minute had gone by in the length of a second. There’s no candle in the world strong enough to mask the searing smell of bleach-based cleaning products, but he still steals one of yours to light. At 6:22 he nearly breaks down crying. Five minutes are spent glaring at his reflection, looking for traces of blood, staring so long and without blinking that he begins to see red where there is none. 6:30, he breaks down, but into disbelieving laughter.

It’s past seven when you do get off, bursting out of the tailors shop like a bird trapped indoors, tugging on your jacket and feeling for your keys as you jog around the building to the side parking lot, your car the only one left. The pulsing lights of neon shop lights are your personal holiday display, speckled and frosty as they’re reflected on the sidewalk glossy with rain. Your breaths are accentuated in white foam, dissolving quickly into the oppressive air of winter nighttime. You scan the parking lot to confirm it is as vacant as it looked upon first glance. You find yourself staring out into the darkness just outside the chain link fence enclosing the parking lot, picking up tens of silhouettes in the dark treelines. 

You hurry into the driver's seat, key in the ignition immediately, no idling like you may have earlier this year. Danny has never been especially worried about the killer ever-present in the headlines, never a degree that seemed appropriate. You’d snapped at him once about a little joking comment and he’d been quick to protest that humor is how he tends to deal with tension, but you still worry he doesn’t take it all entirely seriously. You’ve been begging him for what must be a week by now to stop walking home. There’s only one car between the two of you, and you’re the one to end up with it most days; Danny’s work is closer to your shared home and in a more well-lit, populated part of town, in between an intersection of office buildings and cafes and sleek looking restaurants. Your job at the tailors is nearing the very outskirts of the town, where the roads broaden, much less busy as they wind through collections of strip malls and perpetually open gas stations. The walk back home, on foot, would be half an hour with few witnesses, so therefore you end up with car privileges most shifts.

The car rattles to life. You go to turn the knob for the headlights, watching out the front windshield, imagining he’ll be there in the beams of light when they blink awake.

You and Danny both have knives. A variety. He jokes he’ll never need to use his, but brings one whenever leaving the house, as is the same for you (in addition to the pepper spray he’s persistent you keep on your person). Your hand crawls towards your jacket pocket, feeling the concealed shape of it to confirm its presence. The Ghostface isn’t standing opposite of you when the headlights do power to life, but you don’t waste any more time before you reel out of your parking spot and onto the main road. 

The drive home doesn’t seem to happen at all, glides by mechanically until you’re stepping out of the car and onto pavement and staring at your own house. You blink, eyes all smudgy from viewing stop lights from a foggy windshield. It only really takes the walk up to the door to reawaken all your muscles and remind yourself you're alive, thankfully, pushing open the door just as you realize the doorknob is slightly dewy, and unlocked. 

The warmth of your kitchen is unearthly, or heavenly is the right word. You smell something heavy and hearty, intersected by the less pleasant stench of an assemblage of cleaning products (a smell so progressively common in your household your only hope is you’ll become used to it). 

Danny appears from the hallway, or had been standing there already, and smiles tiredly. Poor thing. You can only imagine he’s worked himself to the bone, maybe with you on his mind. He always tells you how you’re his driving motivation, that he has to remind himself of you when work is additionally cruel. 

You’ve yet to say a word to each other, something not entirely necessary; his arms are around you already, drawing you in tight. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you huff, but he shakes his head quite intently.

“No worries, not a single one,” he replies honestly, finally pulling away to meet you face to face. You had presumed he was going to heckle you a good deal for being late, just given the tension around the city and recent crime, but it never comes up. He only rubs the sides of your arms with a twitching smile.

Danny steps back fully, but still guides you, ringing you in from the entryway over to the kitchen. 

“No fancy dinner, like we agreed,” he starts, obviously alluding to something that has you a little worried—not unpleasantly, really, but a tight feeling in your side that is likely guilt. He’s the sort of guy to say he won’t get you anything but go ahead and do so anyways; a part of you knew you weren’t gonna shake that from him this year, but with money a concern, you had hoped he would swallow his pride and resist. 

“I got you something else, though,” Danny continues, smiling more genuinely, nearly relieved. He retrieves a brown satin pouch from the dinner table, something only the length of his palm. 

He instructs you to extend your arm out so he can place the pouch in your hands, and now that almost wince of a smile is genuine. 

“I really work so hard for you,” he laughs, but cuts himself off quite suddenly. Something like shame twists at his expression. “I don’t want you to feel guilty, though, no—I’ve just been saving up for a little something.” 

The smile is wider, now with teeth.

“Jed,” you say, low. He shakes his head, dismissing you before you can object.

“I really do love you.”

It’s genuine when he says this, but also not his fault that you always react perfectly. He really is so fantastic as a director, and you as the set piece. 

Dinner might have to wait.

[frankiebirds]

man i remember liking no way out a lot more than i did. i think my issue was that yes, frank breitkopf is scary. yes, his MO is horrifying. yes, the concept is disturbing. but the characters would not stop commenting on that. i dont have an issue with them being horrified, because obviously they would be, but it just felt excessive. we don't need a close-up on reid's horrified face as they enter frank's trailer and hotch saying "i thought i'd seen everything." i dont mind them establishing that this is the worst case they've had, or that "even these people, who deal a lot with things too fucked up and weird for local law enforcement, find this too fucked up and weird." my problem was that they kept establishing that every five seconds. like. okay. i get it.

i did really like the framing device/use of in media res, though. if you haven't seen it, the episode starts with gideon meeting frank in the diner, then it goes back to the beginning and continues in chronological order with occasional returns to the diner scene, continuing until we reach the diner scene itself and continue from there. i especially liked the way they repeated the beginning of the opening to establish that we were back where we started—i got excited when i saw that waitress again lol. i like it in general when cm plays with the formula.