#i wish the very best and lots of support for the victims | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

emmyrosee · 2 years ago

Note

are u down 4 sum lil angst?? well, i'm just curious how would it be being the famous star volleyball player, Sakusa Kiyoomi's TOTGA?

YOU HAD N O RIGHT MATE

ok so fun emmy history, back when I was a wee child and before the miya twins were even a thing, i wrote a self insert that I’m still weirdly proud of today so congratulations, you scratched that memory HHEISBSOSN-

Hey! Future Emmy here. so... major tw; kiyoomi is very mean, extremely toxic, and i for sure went overboard, but there's a lot of blaming and yelling and just. ugh. this piece hurt my own heart smh.

But listen. You slipped into Sakusa Kiyoomi’s life surprisingly. He wasn’t expecting you or even just to date at all, you were just at the right places in the right times where he finally felt at ease in your presence. You just understood who he was beyond surface level, and he’d never had that in someone before.

You loved him before he was cool, before he was anyone other than a top ace in Japan. You were the first to tell him it was okay to mess up, do something other than eat drink and sleep volleyball, even if he wants it to take up most of his time.

Time, he no longer has, when he gets injured.

It wasn't like it was an inopportune time- though, as a college athlete, there really is no good time to get injured- if anything, it was spontaneous and had he not had dreams of making it big, he'd never think twice of it.

But he gets injured. Junior year of college, just as his name starts to grow in the industry, and he gets injured. Bad ankle, it’s actually a former injury from his childhood that apparently didn’t heal right.

There’s articles that spread about Bokuto Koutarou, how he’s climbing the ranks and how Miya Atsumu, the same little rat who bothered him in high school received an offer from god knows what team, and he’s fuming.

That should be him and his setter getting those offers and climbing that ladder, it’s been him and him alone for years, and he knows it's bitter to hate people for their successes, but its not fucking fair, he deserves more than this.

He deserves more than doctors trying to encourage surgery to heal at the sacrifice of volleyball, he deserves more than flowers and cards of best wishes, more than Miya Atsumu texting him to see if he's okay, he deserves more than any being on earth could give him.

And that includes you.

"Baby, did you finally call the surgeon?" You ask, coming in with a water bottle and a cup of his meds.

Apparently, that's more than enough to set him off.

"I don't need surgery."

He hears you sigh, "the doctor says the tear is too big just for physical therapy, you'll need the extra support-"

"In case you forgot, I was fucking there."

His breath becomes hot, and he can't peel his eyes from the commercials playing on the tv. The room suddenly feels suffocating, and of he could will himself to do it, he'd apologize and tell you he loves you, he's just tense and hurt, and he's grateful you're here, and-

"I'm the one who's life is going down the tubes. Fun fact."

The other thoughts in his mind are static. merely an incoherent buzz. You're his victim now, to his ugliest sides that therapy and his family prodded back years ago.

There's no one to prod it back now.

"I... I didn't mean any harm, I promise-"

"You really shouldn't talk to me right now," he snarls, rage bubbling and clawing away at his soul. There's a bubbling of tears that rip at his waterline in a demand to fall, but he's blinded to anything else.

He hates his life. He hates his ankle. He hates his doctors for telling him it may not heal right ever.

He hates you.

"Kiyoomi, please-"

He bears his teeth like a dog in an attack, and you flinch back slightly. "If you hadn't fucking distracted me, this never would've happened." He hears you whine in your throat.

he ignores it.

"I was fine," he barks. "I was happy before you. I was strong, I was powerful, I was a damned force to be reckoned with." He crawls closer to you on the couch, and when you cower to try and get away, he chases your body with his torso.

When you stand up, he does too. His leg lights every single nerve up in a blaze of agony, but he's too gone in his own rage to think about it.

"I... I know you're mad, but please, sit down Kiyoomi-"

You're right.

"Shut the hell up!"

Even on one foot, he towers over you threateningly. You bring your hands up to try and force distance between you both; your touch does ground him slightly, but not enough to stop his scorn.

You sniffle softly, clearly uncomfortable, "you're just mad... and that's okay. Please stop shouting at me, we can make this work, kiyoomi."

Now, his eyes are scalding with furious tears.

"I want this to work, oomi... please, stop shouting-"

“It doesn’t matter if you want it to work,” he snaps. “I’ve got a plan to stick to that’s already been screwed because of us, AND IT'S YOUR GODDAMNED FAULT!"

When you sob and crumple to your feet, there’s a small part of kiyoomi that comes to, the words suddenly sour on his tongue. He feels… confused, he doesn’t know where it came from inside of him, but the way your eyes water from his words snaps him back to reality.

“I’m… im ruining your plan?” You choke, and god kiyoomi wants the floor to engulf him whole. Because duh, of course now you’re not he’s just the scum of the earth, you’re all he can think of wanting in this shitty life, but he can’t say that, not when your hands cover your mouth in distress and horror, tears slipping over your fingers. He feels the blood leave his face when you take a step back, followed by another, then one as you turn on your heel to leave.

“Wait-“

“No, Kiyoomi,” you snap, and its his turn to feel your rage, your head whipping to look at him in betrayal. “No. I’m officially done waiting for you.”

And despite the fact that he wants to chase you, wants to gather you in his arms and pin you to the wall and demand you listen to him, listen to why his plan has changed and how you’ve completely ruined all of it in the best ways, he can’t. His leg throbs at the mere idea.

He just. Stands there, frozen for god knows how long, staring at the long slammed door, wondering if you’d come back for something you’d forgot in your exit. Something dumb, like a charger or a water bottle, something easily replaceable but you wanted from him just as a last chance makeup.

But you don’t. And once his good leg starts to cramp from standing there, he slowly moves his way to his bedroom.

And he’s fine. Honest!

Sitting by himself in the cold of night gives him more time to think about the future. The one without you, of course. Limping around the dorm on crutches makes his arms ache and knees weak, and the backpack on his shoulders making him fall forwards is plenty to make his elbows strengthen up (they’re withering away) and his breathing circulate (he’s breathing back tears of pain and frustration.)

He can’t… he can’t do this without you.

Call him selfish, but his life was not only easier with you around, it was better, it was fun to love you and have you scream his name from the stands, but now that seat is occupied by someone else when it should be yours and yours alone.

He’s tried to get over it. He’s tried to get everything in line, get you the hell out of his mind but he can’t.

You’re different. He hates you for it. There’s something about you that refused to leave his mind and soul. Every time someone is interested in him, he feels disgusted because every crush is based on appearances now; it never was with you. Every time someone laughs, his first thought is how much he misses yours. When one of those stupid fast food commercials comes on in the late hours of night, he smiles sadly as he remembers the way your eyes would meet his and you’d beg him for some fries at ungodly hours.

He has to move on. It’s been fucking years. Why hasn’t he moved on?

Any sane person by now would have moved on, passed through his heartbreak and try to find another, but he’s so emotionally unavailable at this point. Every thought and every reminder that plagues him continues to hit like a ton of bricks every time.

Maybe it's guilt.

No, its definitely guilt.

He loved you, more than you could imagine, he appreciated you more than he can express, and to show you how much you mean to him, he blamed you for his failures.

No wonder he deserves to be alone.

And just when his exhaustion can't grow, his self destruction and crumbling self worth can't get lower, he gets thrown in another circle of hell that he seems to find himself in; this time, in a coffee shop he frequents. Not too many familiar faces, just a couple blocks from the train, and up until that point, only having known him as an alias.

Until today, when the Gods decide to torture him a bit more.

“Name?”

“Sakusa,” he says, not even thinking as he scrolls on his phone. There’s a high pitched gasp from the girl, and it makes his eye twitch.

“NO WAY!!! Oh my gosh, you’re THE sakusa kiyoomi?! Oh my gosh, wait, hold on- can I get a picture? No, wait, you’re not into those- can I get an autograph? I knew you looked familiar, my sister and I watch you play all the time! I’m such a fan!-“

“Uh… thanks. Can I have my tea-“

The girl doesn’t answer, instead, she calls for her co-worker who barrels out in equal excitement.

On any normal day, kiyoomi would snap. He’d scold and snarl about how rude they were, how he’s still a fucking person who just so happens to be good at volleyball, but he’s like a deer in headlights. He’s too surprised at his own stupidity of not using his usual alias, how damn tired is he?

There’s a weight that feels like a ton of bricks that settles on his chest once he hears the line behind him complaining about how long it’s taking, then people behind the register flashing pictures that have him blinded and asking him questions he doesn’t want to answer, he just wants his tea for God’s sake and-

“HEY!” There’s a snap from someone at a table, and it breaks up the small, impromptu paparazzi at the front. “People are trying to work here, and not get a damn seizure from your damn pictures!” He feels all that anxiety break on his shoulders once they cower away. “And shame on you all!” They continue, the line slowly parting to let them continue shouting. “He may be famous but he’s still a damn person! Make the fucking drink and GO!”

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to look. Even if he’s eternally grateful for them, he knows that scold and he knows that bravery to call out random people for their shiftiness.

Because it’s the same thing you used to do all those years ago.

He winced and pulls the mask higher on his nose to keep himself concealed- as if he’s not a 190.5 cm monster. But you don’t say anything about anything that just happened, you must be deep in your work to not process just exactly who you were defending.

He gets his tea with a quick apology from the baristas, and he heads to the door to leave.

….

…right?

He’s gone. He’s on the bus, headphones in and heading to practice, audiobook putting him in a new world where his only current connection is the hot tea in his hands.

Right?

There’s always been a table on the bus, a table he rudely stalks up to, where you’re sitting and typing away furiously at your laptop and massaging one of your temples, too engrossed in your work to notice the outside hitter standing just in front of you.

“Uh…” he chews his lip nervously. You don’t look up.

This is the chance Komori’s been talking about. If he doesn’t take it, he’s going to hate himself forever.

“Thank you for standing up for me back there.”

“You’re welcome.”

He sighs staggered, “can I… uhm… repay the favor?”

To his extreme relief, you offer him a small chuckle, “maybe you can recommend a coffee shop where random cele…” your voice drifts off when you look up at him, jaw frozen open and eyes wide and dancing all over his face. You’re both just staring at each other, breathing ragged and tense, and his brows furrowing to try and hide the guilt and absolute need he has for you to continue the conversation.

You clear your throat, “your uhm… your foot healed uh… well.”

He wants to, but can’t, fight the snort that sneaks past his lips because that’s about the last thing he thought you’d say. But he sees you crack a smile too, and it’s worth it.

“Yeah,” he says after he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m playing professionally now. Minor aches here and there, but nothing unusual.”

“So you got to stick with your plan,” you hum sadly, and his heart stops. “That’s wonderful, Sakusa. Im glad to hear it-“

“But my plan never felt complete,” he interrupts, and he sees your nostrils flare in annoyance. “I-I-I thought I knew what I wanted, but god, I didn’t. I don’t, I’ve always only wanted you.”

You offer him a shrug, “Kiyoomi, I was an intruder in your life; I can’t blame you for that, I shouldn’t have been there-“

“I wanted you there.”

“Clearly you didn’t,” you snip, and finally, he sighs in defeat. “You made it just fine without me in your plan.”

Fuck it.

If he’s here, he’s gonna lay all his cards, give you every last thought of his and leave you one more time to pick up your shattered pieces.

“I miss you.”

You freeze, but there’s a glazing of your waterline before you slowly, tensely, turn up to look at him.

“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t do this, Sakusa.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, own voice twinging raw. "I hate it too. I hate that I've had to carry this weight with me for all these years, years I should've been with you, kept you safe and happy, and I couldn't even do that."

"You shattered what we had. Don't ever forget that."

"I never have been able to."

There's another silence surrounding you both, suffocating and hot and thick, and he gets flashbacks of a scenario not too dissimilar, where you're looking up at him with those same, betrayed eyes.

But your gaze doesn't last. It crumbles before you let out the breath you'd been holding, a sign that you're not going to waste your energy on him anymore, "you're too late, Kiyoomi. You don't get to miss me anymore."

When your hands shift to close your laptop, he sees it. The massive, heavy rock on your finger, glimmering under the soft lights of the coffee shop.

Kiyoomi feels sick. He could faint right now if his pride would let him. Instead, he swallows the bile in his throat and grits his teeth, giving you a smile and a casual scratch of the back of his head, "that's... that's awesome! I'm happy for you."

"Don't be," you smile sadly.

"Why?"

You shurg, "you don’t have to be happy for me. I’m happy for me. He's a friend of Bokuto-San's. Set us up not long after we broke up." Then, you sigh shakily, "I'm just here for work, I won't taint your coffee shops for much longer." It was an attempt to break up the heavy silence.

He could puke right now if he didn't feel completely defeated. He could strangle Bokuto in devastation.

In his younger, naïve efforts to drive you away, he drove you straight to someone else's arms.

He nods and chokes out a small "alright," before spinning on his heel away from you

He makes move to leave the coffee shop, but before he does, but before he can, he turns back to face you, trying to get one final look at you, soaking in your presence and soul before you vanish from his life forever. He calls your name, and you look at him one more time with that big, beautiful gaze.

"Do you believe in the one that got away?" he asks, and you process his answer before slipping your computer in your bag.

"Yeah. And I believe I'm yours- but you were too worried about losing volleyball. Now, I guess we all got what we wanted."

His veins turn icy as he tries to blink back the hot tears searing his waterline, turning his head to dodge your knowing eyes.

Everyone got what they wanted.

Except for his broken heart, of course.

584 notes · View notes

sanzy4 · 2 months ago

Text

Arcane spoilers ahead-

The way I see hate for Vi and Jinx for being the cause of each others misfortunes is absolutely crazy. They were both victims and products of a corrupt society. One was just raised to be a hero and the other was raised to be a weapon.

I had an argument with someone the other day who said and I quote , “the sole reason powder became jinx was powders fault alone. She was always a psychotic and mentally ill person. She should’ve just listened to her sister and cuz of her every one is dead. Tbh she deserved what she got” . It annoys me first off cuz Powder was never psychotic for wanting to help out. Yes we all hope she could’ve stayed home like her sister said cuz that could’ve prevented a lot but powder never knew the severity of the hexcore just like how Jayce and Viktor didn’t either and she didn’t know what was at play at Silcos little hideout near the bridge. Vi is 15 years old and Powder is 11. Both have been raised in very terrible circumstances that they keep getting exposed to no matter how much Vander tried to prevent it. Their parents were killed by enforcers and they had to witness violence from the very start. It does terrible things to your mental health. Silco ended up using all her trauma as a fuel to make her a weapon for his cause rather than giving her the help she needed. Without any form of therapy or a support system her situation got even more worse. With the “oh Powder should’ve stayed home” argument you can easily also say “oh well vi should’ve listened to Vander instead of turning herself over to the enforcers because that ultimately killed Benzo and left Vander defenseless which is what got him captured in the first place”. But it doesn’t work that way. Vi is a very brave minded individual who doesn’t really like being told what to do. She will do what she believes is right for the right cause even if it means sacrificing herself in the process. Powder has always looked up to her sister. In the process she did a very similar thing fueled by the desire to finally prove to her friends and family that she wasn’t a jinx like many had teased her. That decision of hers ultimately ended up negatively impacting the ppl around her but to say she was psychotic at that point of her life is wild.

It’s the same for the people who say Vi was a terrible sister. I think Vi is an amazing older sister who really did the best she could in the circumstances she was provided. She even spent 7 years in the prison thinking about her sister every day hoping she was ok, doing everything she could she save her. And in the case of the alternative universe, it wasn’t perfect because Vi was dead but it was perfect because hextech was never invented and Silco read that damn letter.

I think a lot of the sisters relationship was based off misunderstanding and their insecurities and mental health overpowering their will to make amends. Not to mention Silco has isolated and manipulated Jinx but saying all she had and ever will have was him. He hid everything he could about Vi and everything else and fed lies about how she was being replaced and what not.

Either way neither sisters are to blame they were just raised in very unfortunate situations I would wish no one would have to experience at such a young age.

#arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane season two #arcane season one #arcane league of legends #league of legends #jinx arcane #jinx #vi arcane #vi #vi and jinx #powder #vi and powder #vander #ekko arcane #silco #lol #netflix #analysis

32 notes · View notes

cotl-flower-crown · 6 months ago

Text

My experience with Fang

My story in all of this is not that important, it's mostly just a petty drama between me and Fang. Please aim your support towards @catatombi and others mentioned in the original doc in their post: https://www.tumblr.com/catatombi/756286505510666240?source=share

I suppose since I'm somewhat involved in this and the other side seems to misinterpret my issue with fang, I feel compelled to explain myself. It might be a bit jumbled up, because I'm writing this in the middle of the night and I'm a bit sleepy.

cw: mentions of self harm and suicide

So me and Fanged met in a discord server that we were both in for a while. We and a few other wonderful individuals were hanging out, loving each other's art, talking and other stuff. We weren't exactly close, but we enjoyed each other's company.

One day I decided to share a story I wrote for my beloved Red District au (aka Gang au) which included an abuse scene between Grinder and Lambert. I have represented the two before as them having at least a sexual relationship (to be honest I do not remember if I ever depicted them as specifically romantic, I may have, but I cannot tell) and at the time I was toying with the idea of dipping into the dark side of the pairing. I was not trying to make it look like it was an romantic act (which that's what romanticizing means by the way), it was a scene straight up from a thriller. I left appropriate content warnings above the story. Fang saw them and read the story knowing that it would make him upset, he told us as much (sadly I do not have the screenshot to prove it, I don't know if that server still exists tbh). I felt really bad for him afterwards and it made me question myself. He later on appeared in my pms and from my perspective insinuated that I romanticize abuse, which I do not believe I did. The pms in question: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1zYN84ZT1xIAsxrQ8WvdwSlwUviT7InoB I admit it's not the best look to draw nsfw art of an abusive couple, though I would like to make it clear, the dive into the dark side begun after I was already made those drawings, I did not made them with the potential abuse in mind. With the story, I was just experimenting with how realistic can this relationship become. The au had barely any debt at the time and I wanted to make something deep. I was never really given an opportunity to elaborate on that. At the moment of the pms, I was scared for Fang, because he reacted very strongly to that story and I was worried for him and ended up backing out completely from the direction I wanted to take. Him telling me that he had 4 panic attacks over my story didn't help in the slightest. It just made me want to agree with him more, so he would feel more comfortable. I don't want to hang this over his head, because in the end it was my decision to change things in my au to fit his preferences. It could be a lot darker than what I have now, but what I have now is also good, you know. However, I'm not sure how else to describe it, but I wish I was told at the moment "hey, it's ok, you don't have to feel compelled to change YOUR story to fit MY preferences, because it's not my story, it's yours and if I'm not comfortable with this, then I shouldn't get involved". But he didn't, instead he encouraged me to keep it "clean", because he thinks that Grinder is hot and therefore he can't be an abuser apparently (sarcasm). So... whoops. It's not something that breaks a friendship tbh. I just want to let everyone know that I wasn't romanticizing abuse, because Fang's friend in their responce insinuate that I do. I don't. It was Fang who implied it. I don't romanticize abuse, I don't condone it, I despise it. But at the same time I'm not gonna say that abuse doesn't have the highs that make the victim stay by his abuser. It can be about money, it can be about security, it can be about sex and romance too. Back then for Lambert it was for all of those reasons. It was because when there were no bad days, there were the good days, great days even. Days that would make him question his own sanity, make him think that "this isn't so bad" before reality hit him in the face with a crash. Sometimes I wish I could tell that story instead of the misunderstood cat boy and a wolf in sheep's clothing. The thing is that I wasn't doing anything wrong and Fang made me think I did. I guess it happens sometimes and I don't really hate him for it, tho I wish he didn't pm me that night. I hope he gets help he desperately needs and avoids the spaces that make him uncomfortable if he can.

What really broke off out friendship was the situation on Itaku. I was following him there because I thought of him as a friend and he makes lovely artwork. I knew that he made gore artwort, but I don't hate gore, so the fact that he was drawing it in general wasn't an issue. One day I scroll through the feed and BOOM, a graphic piece "assaults" my eyes. Made me squirm a little. Very well made artwork, but fuck, I sure wish I could consent to that view. There was very clearly no content warning, because if there was, I would be allowed to make a choice on whether or not I want to see gore. So I leave him a friendly comment, something like "Nice artwork, wish there was a content warning tho" and I thought that would be it. But instead it turned into a debate that ended with him blocking me on Itaku. The debate in question can be read here: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1z0rC4gxUOzfI_qUu9BRcThOufc_uF9np I was confused and angry when I learned about it, because I ended the discussion with "agreeing to disagree" and yet he still blocked me. And admittedly in the petty glory I decided to block him back on all my social medias. I wanted to unblock him the next day, once my emotions cool down, and propose a compromise. Anyway, I log on to see that Fang left me a message in the one place I forgot to block him at that left a poor taste in my mouth and made me think "this man is full of shit and I don't want to deal with him". He tried to love-bomb me at first, specifically mentions that he wants to be unblocked on my nsfw account, doesn't really mention the other places, really showing where his priorities lay. Then he tries to excuse himself, saying that the PSA he made wasn't about me, but it appeared directly after our debate, how am I supposed to not take that as vague posting? So that was the first lie. He then mentions my art again, saying that he's gonna miss it, not me, a friend, tho I guess, I feel very valued by that, thanks (sarcasm). He makes excuses again, he "warns" me that there are a lot of medias does the same thing he does, including cotl itself, which isn't true, because most do actually have content warnings these days, including cotl. Besides, semi-realistic gore and cartoony gore don't exactly hit the same way. So that's another attempt to deflect. He then talks about how he doesn't know what he did wrong, which I straight up just don't believe him. I didn't know about the vents yet, but most of the conclusions could be deduced from the discussion itself.

Refearing to the vent posts now (they're in the link above) I never told him to censor his art. Itaku has an option to put a content warning, which basically covers up the piece with "warning" written on top and the reasons that the author can add manually. Clearly the tags are not enough, so why not use that? The only reason why Fang wouldn't want to use that tool that he was given, is that it would most likely lower his views. The line "I'm not going to de-boost my content" confirms it. I did not want to block the whole gore tag because I don't hate gore, it doesn't give me PTSD or anything, and it can be cool and beautiful when done right. Gore tag includes a lot of variety and blocking it ALL would feel like a waste. But also if your art makes me - someone who can take the blood and guts pretty well - imagine some random person, who cannot take the gore and has no idea about blocking the tags, stumbling onto your art and being met with an image of a bloody spinal cord. If there is a tool that allows you to warn your viewers that "hey, this one is a bit graphic", if I click on it anyway, that's on me. It's my choice to view it and I can't blame Fang for it. Fang, by refusing to put up a content warning, strips me and other viewers of that choice. A tag is not gonna fix it. I'm sure that those who wanted to follow Fanged for his other artwort, would appreciate the content warning as well. I said as much in the comments. Looking at it from the other side, remember that story I wrote about earlier? What if I decided not to put up content warnings? Bet Fang wouldn't be very happy about it either. So it's fine for ME to get disturbed without my consent, but when it's Fang that sees something graphic by his own volition, then he's allowed to be upset and come to me with a critique? But when I do it, then I get hit with a block? Very classy. The killjoy thing is so stupid, self-depricating humor is a thing and I was aware that my comment might be taken as less than fun, so I was trying to make a joke about it, to break the tension. It wasn't supposed to be hostile in any way. He complains that I don't appreciate him bringing his panic attacks into the discussion which are not related to the topic. If that's not guilt-tripping then what is it? Also the tweet does confirm that he blocked me because he got mad about it. So yeah, sure, PSA not being about me, my ass.

What I took from all this is that Fang wants everyone to respect his boundaries, but he's not gonna respect boundaries of others for his own gains and he will try to deflect blame, because he can't handle criticism. I don't need that toxicity in my life, so I just kept him blocked. One would assume that's what he would want as well, since he blocked me first. The nerve taken to try and wiggle his way into my graces for my nsfw doodles baffles me. I didn't hate him though, not being able to take criticism is not really an evil quality. But I tried to get through to him in the most polite way I could manage and he didn't take it. If that's too much then I can't do better unless I say "You're right and I'm wrong". If I can't express my true thoughts without him taking it as a threat to his safe space, then I'm not going to sacrifice mine for him.

And that was it for me for a while. I wasn't going to talk about this situation at all, unless asked, and people did ask. Because guess what, Fang can say all he wants about how his vent account is private, but that's bullshit. If people can see it, then it's not REALLY private. If you want to have a private space to vent, get yourself a diary. The internet is not a private space, no matter how private you try to make it. But yeah, I learned that Fang was talking shit about me, which was funny at first, until a few months later I learned from Cata about what he did to them and the others. I learned that I was one of the people he cut himself for. He cut himself. Because of this. I can be snarky and passive aggressive all around through this post, but I cannot laugh this off. This is not healthy. This isn't something to laugh about or ignore. It's not about me, it's about what Cata and the others had to go through. Learning about the self harming thing didn't feel good at all and I can only imagine how they felt through out his abuse.

Even now I don't want to hate him. That's not to say that I don't think he's not dangerous. If you've read Catatombi's call out, you know about the suicide pacts, pushing boundaries and just hurting people around him in general. He's definitelly a danger to himself as well as the people he surrounds himself with. But even then, I can get mad and sad about it, but I can't really hate him. This callout is not to hate on him, but warn others against his destructive behavior. In the end what he really needs is to get off the internet, get proffessional help and touch grass. I'm not sure whether or not Fang is actually taking steps to take care of his issues, I really do hope that he does and I cheer him on for it, even if we can't be friends anymore.

And for those who ended up being his victims, even if it wasn't intentional, I hope they can find their peace as well. That is all I really want in the end.

Now excuse me, it's almost 5 am and I need sleep. Goodnight.

#cw mention of self harm #cw mention of suicide #my experiences #cult of the lamb #ffangedd

63 notes · View notes

gothcsz · 3 months ago

Text

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter XX.

GIF by bestintheparsec

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: The night of the ritual.

WORD COUNT: ~9.1k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: dead dove: do not eat!, kidnapping, mc is held hostage, allusions to SA (nothing explicit. will be explained later on), hallucinations, humiliation, wound care, hurt/no comfort, crime thriller vibes are vibing, demon worship, cult ritual, supernatural elements, non-consensual drug use, angst, whump, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i'm missing any other tags please let me know.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: i’m going to hold y’all’s hand when i say this... i am putting paloma through it 😓 i was initially going to just bang everything out and post it in one big chapter, but as i was writing... i just felt like it would be better if we let the suspense of it all do its thing and end with a cliffhanger. i am a sucker for ‘em, even if they’re so frustrating (in the best way possible) 😭 i hope that all the lore revolving the cult has been concise and strong enough to hold up during the ending bit of this. i wish i could say things are going to get better from here but they’re not… they’re actually going to get worse 🤠 as always, feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or on ao3. i'd really appreciate it 🖤

♰ read on ao3. ♰

♰ playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

When ten minutes pass, Javier brushes it off. She’s probably just caught up in something. It’s nothing to worry about.

But when twenty minutes roll by, that’s when the unease creeps in. He starts pacing the living room, fighting the urge for a cigarette, glancing at the clock.

Where is she?

By the time half an hour has come and gone, he’s dialing the library, wondering why Paloma hasn’t come home yet. The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. His stomach tightens, and he wills himself to remain calm. She’s probably fine.

At the hour mark, Javier’s behind the wheel, speeding into town. Maybe she’s still upset from the argument they had earlier, and instead of coming home, she went to Tammy’s.

But when Tammy tells him she hasn’t heard from Paloma for a few days now, a knot twists in his chest.

Panic threatens to take hold, but he pushes it down. He can’t let it consume him—not yet. Not until he has a real reason to worry.

But she has that damn habit of disappearing to sulk in random places when she’s upset. And that habit is gnawing at him now.

He drives to every spot he can think of, the abandoned tracks, the clearing behind the cemetery, the creek—but there’s no sign of her.

That terrible feeling grows, heavy and unshakable. He marches into the sheriff’s department, jaw set, not caring who sees the frantic look in his eyes.

He storms the file room, ripping through boxes. His hands tremble as he plucks out the file he’s searching for.

“Fuck!” He curses under his breath, jaw tightening as the photo of Paloma’s mother stares back at him.

Now, he has a reason to panic.

He should have known when he first laid eyes on it. The familiarity of her features—her eyes, her hair, her smile; it was all too close to Paloma. Too close to ignore. But he had, all because his mind was completely elsewhere at the time. Now look where that got him.

It’s like a scene from a horror film, where everything snaps into place too late.

The recent victims; brunettes in their mid-twenties with similar features, similar backgrounds—they resembled her.

The staged chamber, the gore, the man who killed himself.

All of it was leading to this, tying up the gruesome mystery with a neat little bow, like a gift Javier wishes he could burn. They had been played—manipulated, distracted from seeing the bigger picture.

Whoever orchestrated this whole thing has been after his girl from the very beginning.

He fights the urge to smash his fist into the nearest wall, to tear down every shelf in the room in a fit of blind rage.

But what would that solve? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Rage won’t lead him to her. Fear won’t undo what’s already been set in motion. All he can do is cling to hope, even if it’s slipping through his fingers.

The ultimate goal of this fucked-up cult—their twisted mission—is to birth the flesh reincarnate of their so-called, bullshit deity.

His blood runs cold at the thought of Paloma being used in some horrific ritual, being touched, violated, forced into madness.

He’s shaking, on the verge of a panic attack, his heart slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. But he forces himself to breathe—slow, deep, steady breaths, locking the perturbation away.

Javier puts out an APB, his voice tight as he details her car, her appearance. Every word feels surreal, like it’s not really him saying it, like he’s watching someone else’s nightmare play out.

Romeo’s going to hear this, and he’s going to have to explain how they missed all the signs, how Paloma has been in danger this whole time.

The weight of it presses down on him like a thousand pounds of guilt.

Gathering what he needs and delegating some of the overnight officers at the station, he frantically drives to the Leighton house.

He’s already chain-smoked half a pack. That nasty habit he’s been trying to shake is clinging to him. The file in his hands feels too light for the bomb he’s about to drop.

How the fuck is he supposed to do this? How do you tell someone their wife’s past is tangled in a nightmare, and that their daughter—a woman they both love—is at the heart of it? How do you stay composed when you’re barely holding yourself together?

“Where the fuck is my daughter?”

Javier’s barely set foot out of his truck when Romeo’s fists twist in his shirt, shoving him hard against the vehicle.

The impact rattles through him, but all he can see is the wild, desperate look in the sheriff’s eyes—a terror that matches his own but runs even deeper, cutting into every line on his face.

“Romeo, listen to me!” Javier’s voice is authoritative, that familiar guarded wall of stoicism building as his trademark defense mechanism to the absolute anxiety that’s gnawing away at his body. “This is gonna be hard to hear—I’m barely making sense of it myself—but I need you to listen if we’re going to figure this shit out.”

Romeo’s grip tightens, then slowly loosens, and Javier seizes the moment, shoving the older man back, no longer giving a fuck about keeping the peace.

He yanks the folded photo from his jacket pocket and holds it up, letting him get a clear look. “Tell me. Is this Paloma’s mother?”

Romeo’s gaze flits to the photograph, and the recognition that floods his face is immediate.

His fingers snatch the photo from Javier, and his expression cracks, aging him in just a matter of seconds. “Where did you get this?” His voice is barely a whisper, “What the fuck is going on?”

Javier’s own dread deepens. “From the old files,” he says, voice hollow. “The ones from the original group. She’s connected to all of this. They both are.”

He takes a breath, then begins to explain everything he knows. He lays it out, bit by bit—the tangled web of what Paloma had uncovered, the twisted threads that pointed to this cult, the fake leads that had kept them chasing shadows. Every word feels like glass in his throat.

Confusion, fear, anger—every emotion etched on Romeo’s face makes Javier feel like he’s the one who has failed.

“Did you know about any of this?” he asks, though he already knows the answer from the lost look in Romeo’s eyes.

His mouth opens, then closes. He seems to gather himself, shoulders dropping under a weight he’s only just begun to grasp. “None. When I met Abby… she was just a woman startin’ over. She’d moved into a small house near the church. Said her parents had passed and she needed a fresh start. Picked a random town—that’s how she ended up here.” The sheriff’s gaze drifts to a place Javier can’t reach, caught in the bittersweet memory of his late wife.

“Paloma said she found this out by going through her mom’s things,” he says carefully, each word a stone dropping into his gut. “But I don’t think she was telling me everything.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded as they lock eyes in an unspoken understanding.

They need answers, and every second they waste is another second Paloma could be slipping further away.

“Before we make accusations,” Javier says, forcing himself to stay grounded, “we need to dig through their belongings. There has to be something there—a lead, a hint—something that’ll tell us who’s behind this.”

“But you already know who it is, don’t you?”

Javier’s eyes darken, and his jaw locks as one name barrels into his mind, clear and hateful: August.

The red flags he had dismissed, convinced they were just a byproduct of his hate for the guy, now stand out like beacons.

He meets Romeo’s gaze, a grim certainty settling into his features. “I believe it’s Augustus Dixon and his group.”

Romeo’s face twists with anger, and he grits out, “Motherfucker—” His fists clench, his whole body radiating fury.

“Be pissed off later. We’ve got a job to do.”

They stalk up the stairs, both men moving with purpose—Romeo heads for his wife’s things while Javier makes his way into Paloma’s room.

It feels surreal, even wrong, to be rummaging through her life like this. The last time he’d been in this position, it was in Jessica’s room, and even then he could see the resemblance her space shared with Paloma’s—but he’d never thought he’d be here, seeing his girl as a victim.

His fingers skim over a leather-bound book tucked away on the top shelf in her closet, hidden behind a jewelry box. It’s as if she’d placed it there purposefully, stowed away out of reach.

When he pulls it down, he realizes it’s a scrapbook brimming with photographs and clippings.

Inside, he finds images of Calmana, surrounded by groups of men and women, all dressed in matching, traditional attire. A towering cathedral looms in the background, religious iconography scattered throughout—symbols he now recognizes from his research.

Maps, faded with time, span several pages, and in the center lies an intricate, sprawling family tree with Paloma’s name written at the bottom.

He spots envelopes tucked between the pages, each one addressed to her in cursive hand.

He calls out for Romeo, and the sheriff is by his side almost instantly, his expression a twisted mix of hope and dread.

“What’d you find?”

Javier silently hands him the scrapbook, keeping the envelopes for himself.

One by one, he opens them, unfolding each paper. His breaths come out ragged, and he feels his stomach drop as he reads.

They’re love poems—explicit, filthy in their adoration. Line after line, they detail all the things August wants to do to her, each word penned with obsession.

The praises he lavishes on her, how he calls her a spectacle, the power he insists she wields—it’s like poison seeping into Javier’s mind.

His hands start trembling, and the implications tighten around him like a noose.

Romeo, sensing his agitation, reaches out, his voice rough. “What’s that—what did you find?”

Javier jerks the papers away, swallowing hard. “Trust me. You don’t want to see these—not now.”

“Let me see them, Javier! Goddammit, my daughter is in danger!”

Before their back-and-forth can spiral any further, Javier’s walkie talkie crackles sharply, an officer’s voice coming through:

“A dark green, 1970 Buick Electra matching the APB put out an hour ago has been found in Lake Fraiser alongside an unidentified female body.”

The air thickens and shatters as Javier and Romeo lock eyes, both of them wearing the same look of wide-eyed horror.

“Romeo—” Javier tries, reaching out, but the man is already out the door, the scrapbook falling from his hands and hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud that reverberates in Javier’s chest.

He mutters a quick fuck and scoops it up, rushing after him, yet the sheriff is a blur, tearing down the driveway with the kind of desperation only a father can muster when everything he loves is on the line.

Now that he’s left alone, Javier grips the railing, and the weight of it all—of losing her—comes crashing down. His heart’s splintering, his chest tight, mind skidding out of control.

This is what he’s been running from all along—failure… loss… grief. Now it is all coming back, circling like vultures, ready to take the one thing that’s ever brought him true happiness.

But he forces himself to breathe, to anchor his mind to the one cold comfort he has left. “He wouldn’t kill her. He needs her.” The words taste bitter, chilling him, but they hold him steady.

Paloma is at the center of this plan—there’d be no sense in taking her, just to end it so abruptly.

Despite everything, he finds a sliver of reassurance in that cruel logic. He clings to it with everything he has, because right now, it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Javier pulls up to Lake Fraiser, where the scene is a flurry of first responders, flashing lights reflecting off the water’s dark surface in sharp reds and blues.

He parks haphazardly, barely cutting the engine before he’s out of the truck, heading straight toward the area cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape.

His heart slams against his ribs as he spots Romeo, kneeling by the edge of the lake beside a body draped in a white cloth, his face blank, almost empty.

Javier’s eyes dart to the surrounding officers, scanning each one, trying to get a read on the situation before he speaks.

“Is it her?” His voice breaks the stillness.

Romeo doesn’t look up, his gaze locked on the covered body. “…No.”

Relief floods through him, dizzying him for a moment before his gaze lands on a tow truck pulling Paloma’s car away from the scene.

He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to swallow back the bitter uncertainty rising in his throat.

Romeo stands slowly, brushing the dirt off his hands, his expression hardening as he relays, “Just got a call from the hospital. Our girl from the woods finally woke up. Tonight of all nights.” He chuckles dryly. “Asked to speak with me specifically. So I’ll head that way tomorrow after she’s been stabilized properly… which means you’ll be in charge of all this.” He gestures around them vaguely.

The pulsing emergency lights cast fractured shadows over their faces.

“It’s best for you to step back momentarily. Clear your head. You’re too close to this,” Javier adds quietly, “She’s your daughter.” And while Javier is her lover and every inch of him is fraying at the edges for her, he understands that his pain won’t amount to the agony that Romeo is drowning in.

The sheriff’s silence stretches, words hesitating on his tongue, until finally, with a quiet confession, he murmurs, “I was too harsh on her. On you. I was an asshole, and if it’s any reconciliation—thank you for tryin’ to get her out of this shitty town.”

Javier’s caught off-guard but doesn’t show it, the self awareness on his behalf is appreciated. “I’d do anything for her.”

Romeo studies him for a moment, as if measuring the resolve behind his words, then he nods, his expression taut, “Gonna start combing through everythin’ back at the station. Probably call Olsen, see if he’s got any cameras ‘round the library so we can get a timeline goin’.”

These two men are similar in that regard, backing themselves into their jobs to mask the turmoil inside. They talk through some of the procedures before Romeo is pulled away by other officers, leaving Javier to handle things here.

He forces himself to switch gears, to summon every bit of authority he has left to do his job. He’s got a dead body to assess, a team to command, and then—then he’ll focus everything he’s got on finding Paloma.

Paloma stirs awake, the pitch darkness of the early morning pressing in from all sides.

She’s disoriented—a dull ache in her head and the sting of thick, abrasive rope biting into her wrists.

Her hands are suspended and bound above her, tethered tightly to an old, rusted pipe overhead, which creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

She can feel the grit of dried blood matting her hair against her temple, the aftershock of Sloane’s vicious hit with the bat ringing sharp behind her eyes. Her boots are missing, leaving her barefoot against the cool concrete ground.

As reality sharpens around her, she realizes this isn’t a dream and it nauseates her, instilling panic in her heart.

She barely remembers the car ride or the way they dragged her down here, everything muddled from the hit she’d taken until she’d finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

Now, the throbbing intensifies as she tugs instinctively at the ropes, her wrists burning, but no amount of pulling loosens her bonds.

Frustration and terror mix, unwieldy coiling in her chest and tears sting at her eyes despite her attempts to fight them back. She doesn’t want to imagine what they plan to do to her.

She knows Javier and her father have to be looking for her. They must be tearing themselves apart with worry. She can almost hear her father’s harsh reprimands and Javier’s quiet, determined rage—they’re relentless when it comes to protecting her.

They’ll find her. They have to.

The cellar door creaks open and she freezes, her pulse skittering as August, Sloane, and Gabriel descend the stairs.

The dim light barely touches their faces, but she doesn’t need to see them clearly to know what they’re capable of.

She tries to hold her head high, pushing back the tears, refusing to let them see the fear that’s boiling inside. She won’t give them that satisfaction, not if she can help it.

Their footsteps echo against the walls of the basement. August stops just close enough that she can feel his presence invading her senses, suffocating, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good morning, P,” he drawls, voice dripping with the charm that managed to slither its way into her heart.

What she once found magnetic in him is now hollow, a mask that hides something so unfathomable.

“Pretty nasty cut ya got there.” Sloane’s voice drips with fake sympathy. Her eyes glint with that special brand of cruelty she’d always kept hidden behind a guise of friendship.

The satisfaction in her tone is unmistakable, like she’s savoring every moment of seeing Paloma in such a vulnerable state.

The urge to spit in their faces, to lash out, is almost unbearable, but she remembers her daddy’s lessons, advising her to stay calm, to never let them know how afraid she really is.

Every word of advice he’d ever given her about self-preservation hangs heavy in her mind.

She keeps her face blank, her mouth a hard line.

“Silent treatment, huh?” August steps closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers are inches from her forehead when she sees the sick satisfaction in his eyes, and she can’t suppress the involuntary grimace as his fingers hover over the gash near her forehead.

The moment of weakness feels like a win for him, his smile widening as he grazes her wound, pressing just enough to send a wave of pain radiating through her skull and a fresh stream of blood to trickle out.

Sloane watches her reaction, faux innocence weaving through her sneer. “You make for a pretty damn good damsel in distress. Thought you’d put up more of a fight, if I’m bein’ honest. You really disappointed me, doll face.”

Paloma’s grip tightens around the rope until her knuckles ache. She wants to tell her off, to fight and scream—but instead she just turns away, refusing to even look at them.

August’s hand cups her chin as he forces her to meet his eyes, eyes that once held promises of affection and loyalty now filled with something so dark and consuming.

His fingers dig into her soft skin. “I need you to look perfect, little dove. All stitched up and pretty.” His thumb trails along her chapped bottom lip. “Gabriel,” he calls, not even glancing back at the other man, “Tend to that. Tonight’s a big night, after all. Lots to prepare for.”

There goes that trepidation again. Her mouth twitches, half-ready to break her silence and demand to know just what the hell he’s talking about. But she’s already committed to keeping quiet.

Gabriel lingers behind them, shifting uncomfortably, the first aid kit clutched tight in his hand.

He doesn’t say anything, just stands there as usual, eyes flicking from Paloma to his partners, some part of him clearly unsettled yet too cowardly to intervene.

He’s her best shot of getting out of here, she just knows it.

“‘S’okay, you ain’t gotta talk,” August’s coos. “I actually prefer you like this—makes things a hell of a lot easier. The others…” He snorts, shaking his head.

How many other unfortunate women had been dragged down here, suffering at his hands?

“Too squirmy, too squeamish—like fuckin’ pigs.” His laughter is mirthless and Sloane joins in with loud, exaggerated snorts that mimic a pig’s squeal. The sound claws at Paloma’s ears.

There’s this twisted admiration in his stare as he studies her. “That’s why I knew I needed to have you. No one else on this planet holds a candle to the magic you have, Paloma. You should stop bein’ so scared and embrace it.” He murmurs, dropping his voice to a whisper.

His hand snakes down from her jaw, tracing her neck, lingering in an unsettling crawl between her breasts before settling at her hip.

His fingers dig in, and she flinches, her body stiffening in revulsion. He smirks at her reaction, savoring her discomfort like a fine wine.

“I’ll be back to check on you later, alright?” His tone is falsely tender. "Gotta make sure everythin’ is perfect. Can’t afford any fuck ups now—I’ve been way too patient for this."

He steps back at last, allowing Gabriel to shuffle forward with the kit in hand.

With a jerk of his chin, August motions for Sloane to follow him. She blows Paloma a mocking kiss and winks with a saccharine sweetness that really piles on the hatred that burns a little hotter for her specifically.

The heavy cellar door slams shut, casting them back into dim silence as the first pale light of dawn begins to creep through the basement windows.

Paloma’s heart pounds as their shadows disappear, leaving her helpless in the creeping morning light.

“What are you goin’ to do to me?” Her voice is hoarse, each word scraping her dry throat like sandpaper, but she can’t keep quiet now that they’re alone.

Gabriel wordlessly drags over a stool, placing the first-aid kit on top. He opens it, sorting through supplies as though she isn’t even there.

Paloma yanks at her restraints, the old pipe groaning in protest. “Fuckin’ say somethin’,” she snaps, anger edging her desperation. “It’s the least you could do—just… tell me.” She hates the pleading tone that slips through, the last thread of her control unraveling as she imagines what fate awaits her.

His gloved hands move to clean her wound, and she clenches her jaw against the sting, glaring at him as if she could force him to talk through sheer will. He’s careful and practiced, clearly having done this before.

“The Crimson Rite,” he mutters, brows furrowing as he concentrates, his voice a barely audible murmur. “It’s where the conception will happen… on the altar of incarnation.”

Paloma’s heart stumbles, her mind racing to piece together the fragments. “What the fuck are you even sayin’?” Her voice wavers, but there’s no denying the chill in her spine.

She knows what those words mean on their own, but together, they paint a picture she’d rather not face—the harrowing reality of how August truly plans on using her.

“August’ll explain,” he replies, brushing her off with the indifference of a man following orders. “He’s better at that shit than I am. I just do what he asks and stay outta the way.”

“Like a fuckin’ coward,” she spits.

The needle pauses, its sharp tip hovering an inch from her skin, and he raises his eyes. “You get all lippy with me, but keep your mouth shut around them? What, I ain’t intimidatin’ enough for you?”

She holds his gaze, defiance simmering behind the exhaustion in her stare. “Nothing about you’s intimidatin’ enough to keep me from tellin’ you exactly what I think.”

His lips twist downward, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he resumes stitching, each tug at her skin rougher than the last.

“At church that day, you were warnin’ me, weren’t you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, the memory of that awkward conversation rattling in her mind. “S’not too late, Gabe. You can still help me outta this… We both can be outta here ‘fore the sun comes up.”

There’s a lapse, just for a second, in his eyes—something she wants to believe is regret, a part of him she hopes she can reach.

The sliver of optimism she’s mustered might awaken that dormant part of him buried under layers of August’s bullshit and the bitterness life has forced him to swallow.

But he shakes his head slowly, avoiding her gaze as he finishes stitching her wound, his hands deft. “You don’t get it. Don’t matter if I do the right thing. He’d find us—he always does.” He sprays her wound with a numbing mist then covers it with a small gauze.

“He wouldn’t find us,” she insists, her voice fraying. “Daddy would protect us. He’d make sure we’re safe.”

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah? He promise you that or somethin’? ‘Cause from where I’m standin’, you don’t look all that safe.”

A bitter, frustrated cry escapes her as he begins to pack up his kit, her pleas bouncing off him like stones against steel.

“Please, Gabe, don’t leave me down here alone,” she chokes out, and the words twist something deep inside her, pulling her further into a desperation she’s been trying to keep at bay.

“Breakfast’ll be down in a few hours,” he mutters, almost as if talking to himself, keeping his voice low and detached. “Probably get you a shower at sundown so you ain’t all sweaty and grimy. Needs you all fuckin’ pristine.” The last words slip out like a hiss, a disgusted edge in his tone. “S’gonna be a long day for you down here. Scream all you want; ain’t nobody around worth a damn to hear it. You got a better shot at rubbin’ the skin off your wrists than gettin’ out of that rope.”

Paloma snaps, her control breaking in a flood of panic and fury as she yanks at her restraint, her wrists burning as she curses him, calling him every name her mind can summon.

The words pour out in a desperate torrent, trying to cut him, to provoke something human out of him, anything.

But he stays silent, barely flinching, his face a mask as he gathers his things, turning his back on her without a word.

When the cellar door finally slams shut, it echoes through the basement, and her last shreds of resolve crumble as she sinks into sobs.

The thoughts come in fragments, jagged and bitter, cutting her deeper than any wound.

The way things were left with her father—how they’d argued and he looked at her with that final, dismissive silence, like she’d become a stranger for daring to chase her own life beyond their town.

The love that took root so unexpectedly, so completely with Javier. He came into her life at the perfect time, pouring a rare, tender kind of intimacy into her soul; the kind that made her feel seen for the first time in her life.

He was a good man who’d endured his own share of hardships —and she let their last conversation end in anger and frustration. She’s just like her father.

Perhaps if she had told him the full truth about how she came across her mother’s past, she wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

This mess—it’s her inheritance. Not a blessing like August wants her to believe, but a curse Calmana left behind, the forced sins of her mother she didn’t choose but can’t escape.

Her suicide is starting to make more sense.

It all makes her feel like a lamb at slaughter, her life never really hers, and now her blood and body are an offering to feed whatever he believes she’s meant to bring to life.

The promise of an explanation later on hangs over her like a guillotine. Does she even want to know? Will it make a difference?

She got herself kidnapped by trusting them all, falling for August’s romantic words and impressive knowledge. All of his lies. She’d thought she was smart enough to see through him, to keep a grip on her own heart, and instead, she’d unknowingly let him manipulate her.

Sloane was right—she is the helpless damsel she always denied being, someone who hadn’t fought hard enough to save herself.

Paloma has to believe she’s got people searching for her, that they’re smart enough, relentless enough to find her before night falls. She has to cling to that hope, however fragile, because right now it’s all she has.

Her cries fill the empty space around her until exhaustion claims her in silence.

The basement is her prison as the sun traces its lazy arc above.

The day drags on in a haze of stale air and the natural sounds of bugs chittering about. On occasion, she’ll hear people walk by or see their shadows through the small windows.

She's trapped here, the only visits marking the hours coming when Gabriel brings a bucket for her to relieve herself—like she’s some kind of animal—or sets down a tray of food she refuses to touch.

“You need to eat,” he says, setting the tray with her dinner on the floor. His hands working on cutting the thick rope binding her wrists, each tug and scrape freeing her a fraction at a time.

“What’s the point? M’gonna die anyway,” she mutters, exhausted but still pissed. “Won’t matter if I’ve got a full stomach or not.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not goin’ to die, Paloma. You’re too important to all this. How haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Oh, forgive me if I haven’t picked up on all your twisted bullshit,” she snaps. “You all speak in fuckin’ tongues and riddles. No one’s told me a damn thing that makes any sense.”

At last, the final fiber of rope snaps, and the weight drops from her wrists. She lets out a low, relieved sigh as her arms fall to her sides, stiff from the hours of suspension.

The ache in her shoulders is intense, and her wrists are lined with red from the coarse bondage.

“Don’t try anythin’ stupid,” he warns, his voice low. “They might not kill ya but they’ll hurt you in ways that’ll make you wish you were dead.”

She doesn’t doubt it, so she reins in her impulses and instead glances at the food, the bitterness slowly giving way to resignation.

If the chance to escape comes, she’ll need her strength. She takes the cup, drinking greedily, barely noticing the water spilling down her chin—it’s just a relief to feel the dryness ease, something grounding in a nightmare that feels endless.

The meal tastes dull, but she swallows it down anyway, each bite a fight to hold onto her sense of self, to stay sharp.

Gabriel watches her with that quiet, unreadable expression.

“I tried leavin’ years ago, when August first started buildin’ the group.” He looks down, his mouth pressing into a grim line. “But he caught me at the train station. Gave me the ass-beatin’ of my life. Locked me up in a shed in the middle of the woods for days, left me there until I learned my lesson. I swear, I lost every bit of myself in that dark place.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “After that, I never thought ‘bout leavin’ again... not until he got his sights set on you.”

Paloma’s chewing slows, her eyes flitting over to him, reading the conflict etched in his expression.

For August to treat Gabriel, his so-called “brother,” with such brutality to keep him in line... it makes all too much sense now, why he is August’s silent shadow, obeying every command.

“His obsession with you is different. Everythin’ suddenly became different. He has this way of makin’ you submit to him that gets me wonderin’ if all this Eurynomos shit is actually real.”

The twisted loyalty, the deep-seated fear that’s tangled around them like shackles, intertwined with stories of divinity.

She’s barely scratched the surface of what August is capable of.

“That’s terrible,” she whispers, sympathetic to what he’s been through. “I’m sorry... ‘n I get why you’re scared, but there’s two of us now. We could make a run for it, slip away while we have the chance.”

Her food is forgotten as Paloma edges closer, her gaze steady and imploring. For a moment, he genuinely considers their escape.

But the heavy, thunderous creak of the cellar doors breaks through the moment, both of them jerking apart.

She scrambles backward until her back presses against the cold, damp wall, her heartbeat racing as Gabriel stands abruptly from his stool, his face hardening again.

It’s only August this time, his usual shadow—Sloane with her biting sneers—thankfully absent.

He strides down with a bag in one hand and shower supplies in the other, eyeing her like she’s some prized possession he’s been itching to inspect.

“Unrestrained, ate her dinner, and didn’t even try to run? My, my. Little dove, you’re such a good girl.” He passes the items to Gabriel as he steps closer, and she hates the way she’s wedged in a corner, wishing she could melt into the wall or skitter away like a mouse.

He crouches, gently moving the gauze out of the way, his sharp gaze examining the stitches worked into her head wound. “S’lookin’ better already. Now, let’s get you a shower. I can smell you from here, and, sweetheart, it’s not exactly appealin’.”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks, the cruel curve of his lips almost congratulatory. “There she is. Glad to see that fire hasn’t died just yet, my love.”

With a vice-like grip, his hand latches onto her arm, dragging her up to her feet and across the basement to a sad excuse for a shower—no curtain, nothing remotely resembling privacy, just exposed plumbing and mildewed tile. He shoves her into the cramped space, gesturing at her with a command that chills her: “Strip.”

Her stomach tightens, and she squares her jaw. “Turn around.”

A laugh bursts from him, sharp and mocking. “You think you’re in any position to make demands? You may be special, darlin’, but that don’t mean you’re runnin’ shit. Now strip, or I’ll tie you up and rip that little outfit off myself.”

She grits her teeth, fists clenched. “No.”

His smile vanishes, replaced by a darker, crueler expression.

In a flash, his hand is around her throat, shoving her harshly against the slimy tile, the back of her head meeting the hard surface making her cry out in pain.

Her breath snags as his grip tightens around her neck, the cool press of a switchblade grazing the scar on her hip, making her pulse hammer in her ears. “Don’t push me,” he growls, the blade’s edge nicking her skin just enough to sting. He knows exactly where she’s sensitive, and he revels in her flinch. “I’ve told you—I don’t like hurtin’ you, but I will if I have to. Strip. Now.”

He releases her, the air rushing back into her lungs, making her cough.

Her hands tremble as she peels away her clothes, starting with the long, flowing skirt that puddles around her ankles, leaving her in just her underwear and camisole.

August’s eyes rake over her, and his silent demand pulls at her last nerve.

She swallows back her tears, fingers shaking as she slides the straps off her shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor and then stepping out of her underwear, kicking the pile aside.

Now entirely naked, her arms wrap protectively around herself to shield what she can. She looks away, the sting of indignity making her skin crawl, willing herself not to cry.

August steps forward, adjusting the shower’s dial, and the pipes clank and groan as water finally bursts out of the rusted shower head, icy at first. She shivers, her teeth clattering, and only once the water turns warm does the chill ease up.

A snap of his fingers brings Gabriel closer, setting the shower supplies within reach. August then places them at her feet, his mocking gaze never leaving her as he drags a worn wooden chair up, seating himself like a perverse audience settling in for a show.

Paloma doesn’t move, clinging harder to her body, her nails digging into her own skin, praying he’ll lose interest and turn away. But he just smirks. “Don’t be shy, P. Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.” His tongue drags over his lips, blue eyes glittering darkly, drinking in her discomfort.

She would rather die where she stands than have him touch her, lingering his hands over her body like a wolf savoring his meal. Slowly, reluctantly, her arms fall to her sides, shoulders curling inward, as she begins to wash herself.

The hot tears mix with the water streaming down her cheeks, each drop hiding the sobs she’s swallowing.

August’s stare trails over her figure, his smirk deepening every time she flinches under the weight of it.

He doesn’t hide his hunger, watching her every movement—the rise and fall of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the sway of her shoulders as she soaps herself in silence.

Gabriel’s eyes stay firmly on his boots, shame evident in his posture.

Finally, she shuts off the water, chest heaving as she swallows down the humiliation, covering herself again and feeling his satisfaction lingering in the room like a toxic cloud.

A towel lands at her feet, and she grabs it, pulling it around her trembling frame, feeling like her skin might crawl right off her bones.

“Got this dress made just for you,” August says casually, standing then pulling out a white dress and red flats from a worn bag. He tosses them onto the chair he’d just been sitting in, not making any effort to move or look away, and she swallows back the lump in her throat.

She’s barely holding herself together, her fingers fumbling with the towel as she dries off, eyes darting between the two men.

One won’t meet her gaze, too timorous, and the other stares at her with lecherous eyes.

She slips on the dress, it’s something she would’ve picked for herself under different circumstances; calf-length, delicate ladder lace along the trim, cap sleeves, and three charmeuse red ribbons that match the shoes.

But the beauty of it feels like a cruel mockery against the ugliness of this moment.

“You look so beautiful,” August purrs, “Get a good look at yourself.”

She’s forced in front of an antique mirror, the glass warped and cracked, but she can still make out her reflection.

The dark circles beneath her eyes, bruised skin, the way her hair clings to her damp skin, the faded pallor of her face against her outfit—she looks like a ghost.

His hand slides to her shoulder, pushing her hair aside as he leans in, trailing his nose against her skin and inhaling deeply. “You smell like summertime.” He presses his lips to her neck, and bile rises in her throat.

Then, he pulls back, her mother’s cross pendant in hand, fastening it around her neck with a satisfied smile.

Her heart clenches once she sees it. She’d left that at Javier’s, tucked away safely with all the other things she moved out of her childhood home in preparation for their big trip.

The thought of August being in his space, doing God knows what, gets her alarmed. “What did you do to him?”

August looks momentarily confused by her query, but then his smirk grows as he eyes the pendent and sees that look in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch your precious narc. He ain’t been home all day. He’s out there, sniffin’ around for you like a lost dog. Thought about killin’ him, but… I think he’d suffer more thinkin’ he failed you. Just another life he couldn’t save, huh?”

The words press against those bruising, sore spots on her heart. She scowls, throwing back as much defiance as she can muster. “You wouldn’t get close enough to try.” Her voice trembles, but she knows Javier and what he’s capable of.

He just shrugs, the malicious glint in his eyes unwavering. “Maybe not. But Sloane?” He grins, knowing how even mentioning her gets under Paloma’s skin. “Now, I think she could.”

He doesn’t give her time to respond, moving to bind her hands again, this time in smooth silk restraints that feel uncharacteristically gentle against her wrists.

Time moves in slow motion, she becomes unresponsive, like a melancholic statue, as he brushes her hair, fussing over her appearance as if she were some doll, changing the gauze over her stitches.

Her hope of getting out of this has diminished. Gabriel won’t help her and August has run the two men competent enough to figure this out in circles, so tangled up in deceit to find her.

The evening melts into night, shadows deepening when he finally leaves, just to return moments later with a steaming cup of tea that smells rancid and earthy, like decay.

“Drink up.”

She shakes her head, refusing it, but he pries her mouth open, forcing her to swallow the scalding liquid. It’s bitter and burns her throat, her tongue singed as she swallows unwillingly.

“See? Wasn’t so bad,” he taunts her, wiping away some of the remnants that spilled from the corner of her mouth.

The effect is immediate; her mind hazes, thoughts swirling, until her body feels sluggish, as if it is no longer tethered to her.

Just as her vision starts to fade, a red, body-length veil is draped over her, the fabric casting her world into blood-hued darkness.

“I need to see it again.”

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose at Romeo’s request, fingers then pressing hard against his closed eyes as the footage gets rewound.

It’s the only evidence they have—a single security camera capturing what transpired. The grainy video shows her crossing the street, pausing, and then August and his accomplices stepping into view. She runs, disappearing off-camera for what feels like a lifetime, before being dragged back and shoved into the bed of the truck.

Each time Javier watches, another shard of him breaks away.

Romeo shifts beside him, watching the screen with unrelenting focus. He’s insistent, searching for anything, some small clue to pinpoint where they went.

Javier, though, is at his limit, fighting the urge to hurl the screen across the room.

“Romeo,” he begins, a little strained, “we’re not going to find anything new here.”

“We missed shit before. Can’t afford to miss anythin’ now.”

They’d spent the whole damn day combing through the trio’s hometown, hoping for any piece of intel, some breadcrumb that would lead them to the group’s hideout.

The search had been maddeningly fruitless. Fayette’s local authorities helped spread the word, but there was nothing, no tracks, no whispers, no real leads to follow.

Every registered address tied to the three was a dead end. Their only childhood homes, a trailer park, had burned down over a decade ago, leaving no trace, no history to sift through.

Everyone close to them—parents, guardians—were either dead, in prison, or admitted. The few family members with any sense had cut ties long ago.

“They were hellraisers,” the retired sheriff had muttered. That’s all the town could say, the simple acknowledgment that the trio had always left destruction in their wake.

The only useful piece of information they dug up was that August had left his job at a local grocery store to work for some woman, an outsider no one really knew.

She’d shown up, taken August with her, and he’d returned a few years later with a more hardened resolve, recruiting Sloane and Gabriel.

After torching some local acreage and serving time for arson, they’d vanished from Fayette until the recent spree of murders started.

“He’s been planning this for a long time, Romeo. They knew how to hide; they’ve done this before.” Javier mutters, frustration simmering in his tone.

They’d tried running a partial plate of the truck, only to come up short once again.

Javier moves near the blinds, unable to keep watching her kidnapping, glimpsing the sea of people that make up their search parties gathered in their too small department.

The faces blur together, civilians and first responders alike, all waiting for direction.

“It’s probably best if you go to the hospital and get Harper’s statement. She’s cleared to talk, right?”

Romeo takes a beat longer to respond, clearly grappling with his own anguish. “Yeah. Got the official call ‘bout ten minutes ago.”

“If anyone’s got something to give us that can break this open, it’s her.”

The room is quiet except for the low murmur of voices spilling in. The tape finally ends and Romeo’s gaze falls to the corner of his desk, where a lone photo of Paloma sits; she’s grinning with his cowboy hat perched high on her head, radiating joy.

He stares at it like he’s trying to draw strength from that moment, then he slowly picks it up, pressing his lips together in thought, handing it over to Javier.

“Here. This is the one I used for the flyers.”

Javier swallows hard, taking it, his thumb grazing over the image, his own heart sinking. This is the Paloma he can’t let slip through his fingers, the one who belongs right here, laughing and safe. Not wherever she was now.

Romeo’s tone holds firm determination. “Do what you gotta do. For her. You understand me?”

Javier just nods, no words left to offer in the face of everything unsaid.

The sheriff lets out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that speaks of too many hours awake, too many close calls, too many second chances lost to bad luck or timing or whatever fate is left to them.

He grabs his jacket, slinging it over his shoulders, steeling his expression as he leaves the office, moving through the throng that instantly swells around him.

They close in with questions, worry, and hope—all of it colliding in one tense space.

Seeing them converge on Romeo, Javier takes a steadying breath and steps out right behind him, his presence commanding even in his silence.

He straightens, letting the authority in his stance speak for him, his gaze hard as he begins relaying their plan with swift, unyielding precision.

The world tilts and sways as Paloma returns to half-consciousness, vision still muddled from the drugged tea that has her head feeling like it’s filled with lead and limbs sluggish.

She’s seated upright in an ornate, over-decorated chair with her hands still bound in front of her. She tries to blink away the fog clouding her mind, but the red veil over her face continues to shroud her vision.

Her stitched wound throbs faintly, then suddenly, she’s being lifted and carried by four indistinct figures.

The swaying motion makes her sick, but she’s too weak to cry out, her voice nothing more than a ghost lodged in her throat.

She starts to feel the dampness of the humid Texas night pressing into her skin, the scent of flowers floating in the air, sickly sweet as it mixes with the distant smell of incense.

She’s paraded down a candlelit path where kneeling figures line the walkway, bowing in silent reverence. The sound of murmuring voices hums around her like a distant, dreadful lullaby.

Finally, the procession stops, and her chair is lowered to the ground.

Her surroundings feel unreal, like a fever dream she’s trapped inside. A dark shadow moves in front of her, reaching to pull her to her feet. She tries to make out their face, but it’s just a dark, hollow blur.

Her legs tremble as she takes a few shaky steps, guided by an iron grip that steers her from the soft earth to a hard surface. Somewhere to her right, she hears a voice—August's—so sharp that it almost makes her ears bleed.

“We have to capture this moment.”

Paloma’s body is positioned, hands adjusting her like she’s an ornament rather than a person. She can barely keep her knees from buckling, her body swaying as they try to hold her up.

Her mind is a mess, every thought tangled, every movement slow, as if she’s moving underwater.

She falls, just as she hears the flash of a camera, her legs finally giving way, but hands grip her before she hits the ground, lifting her, steadying her as her head lolls to the side.

Then, in one swift motion, the veil lifted from her face.

August stands there, close enough that she can see every cold line in his face, conforming into possessive delight.

He’s dressed to match her, red bows on his collared shirt, the same lace design on his pants.

Her skin crawls as his fingers trace the side of her face, his voice a leering purr. “My special little dove.”

He pulls her close, spinning her so that she faces their creation in her honor. The white marble gleams in the halo of the candlelight, surrounded by a sea of blood-red spider lilies, their spindly petals stretching out like claws.

Candles of every size and shape cast their shadows over the altar, illuminating the intricate carving of their emblem, miniatures and other offerings strewn about.

“All for you,” his lips brush against her ear.

The hands surrounding her are unyielding as she’s lifted and maneuvered onto the cold slab, the hard surface unforgiving beneath her back.

Her wrists are freed only to be tied again, the silk binding each one to a small stone pillar at each side.

Her ankles follow, strapped to the pillars near the end of the altar, legs bent slightly and spread, leaving her trapped and exposed.

Her breath quickens, each ragged inhale catching in her throat as the reality of her fate crashes down with brutal clarity. The red veil is drawn back over her face.

Tears blur her sight, mixing with the snot and sweat as she starts to sob, desperate cries spilling from her lips, pleas tumbling out in a desperate stream that echo out into the vastness of the field.

“Please… please, let me go. You don’t have to do this, please.” Her words come out strangled and slurred but she’s ignored. She jerks against her restraints, each movement growing weaker as the drug saps her strength.

August stands before his followers, his voice low yet electrifying, every declaration steeped in reverence and simmering triumph.

“For centuries, we have waited in the shadows, prayed in whispers, bound by oaths that our forebears swore. Those before us dreamed of this moment, yet they were weak, too fearful to claim what was rightfully theirs. We will not repeat their mistakes. The bloodline of the first, the birthing bloodline, flows through her veins, and she is ours. Eurynomos will have a body made of flesh and bone, a place in this realm, because of us.”

Paloma shakes her head side to side, desperate to block out August’s devious words. Just as a surge of strength flares within her, sharp fingers dig into her shoulders from behind, pressing her back down, anchoring her in place.

Through the haze of drowsiness, her blurred vision lands on Sloane, looming over her with a short, black veil shrouding her face. Beneath it, Paloma can make out an expression as evil as it is watchful.

“No more dreams. No more consuming or offering flesh that rots before dawn. Our devotion, our patience, has led us here. We are the last of our kind—the ones who bring forth the new age. Now is the time for fulfillment. Now is the time to step into the eternal night and bring our deity home.”

His gaze sweeps over the bowed heads, the flicker of candlelight dancing in his eyes as his words coil around them like a vow.

Sloane relinquishes her hold, seemingly fading away.

He approaches her slowly, each step deliberate, his hand drifting up the length of her body. His fingers come to rest on her cheek, stroking gently, almost reverently.

August leans in, his nose brushing against hers, and without a word, he presses his lips to hers, a slow, possessive kiss over the sheer material of the veil.

She wants to pull away, to resist, but she’s trapped within herself, her will slipping as though he’s holding the reins to her very soul.

When he pulls away, his voice lowers to a rhythmic timbre, the words twisting together in an incantation she can’t understand.

Each syllable makes her sink further into delusion, the compromising position heightening her vulnerability.

The weight of her own helplessness crushes her as she lies there.

Suddenly, the speaking stops. An unnatural silence blankets the moment, thieving sound until it’s just her shaky, pitiful cries. Even the cicadas quit their insistent chirping.

Paloma blinks, barely able to see through the veil, but she watches August step back until his figure is swallowed by the darkness beyond the altar.

She shivers as a chill wind flows over her body, extinguishing the flames around her and plunging her into the night, save for the heavy, luminous moon hanging full and merciless above.

Two glowing eyes flicker into view at the far end of the clearing. They hover, eerie and inhuman, watching her with a predatory patience.

A twig snaps in the shadows. Her breath catches. Another snap, closer this time.

Blood rushes in her ears, but above the pounding, she hears something else—labored breaths, thick and wet, the sound too guttural to be human.

Her body locks up and quivers as a shadow casts up to the very heavens, emerging from the backdrop of trees, its form towering and monstrous. It seems to stretch endlessly, merging with the dark sky above, as if it could reach out and seize the lunar sphere.

Paloma tries to scream, but her body is frozen, paralyzed in a state of unholy dread.

Her eyes widen, tears leaking silently, her throat closing tight as the figure moves forward.

The dark, hulking mass leans over her, and she feels something press down on her belly, then sharp claws caress her bare legs, creeping upwards, scratching at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

Her chest tightens as if she’s having a heart attack, fright coursing through her like poison. She can’t breathe, feeling herself teeter on the edge of consciousness.

Black spots swallow her field of view as her eyes roll to the back of her head, and in that instant, she’s slipping away, her mind yanking her away from this horror, casting her into the darkness of her own making as she loses herself, the terror too great to bear.

#pedro pascal #javier pena fanfic #javier pena fic #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #javier peña x ofc #javier pena x ofc #narcos fanfiction #ppcu fandom #ppcu fanfiction #feels wrong tagging this as smut so i won't!

35 notes · View notes

coffeetank · 10 months ago

Text

Build CHARACTERS!

Every time you write a book, you're creating a journey for your reader. Your main characters are the medium through which this journey is carried out. Your readers see the events in the book through your characters' eyes. Thus, it's very important to have characters that feel human, even though they might not be (if you're talking fantasy).

Now, of course, if your writing fantasy and your character is a dragon or some mythical fox, they won't act the way a human would. But that's the best part about making characters, you can give them layers. No matter the circumstance, every character will have a way of responding or reacting to it. That's where your characterisation comes in.

Here are a few things I do to make my characters, well characters:

1. MORAL CODE:

Your characters, regardless the genre, are the immediate connection to your readers. Fantasy or not, they'll be carrying the story. So they need to have a set of values that they follow. When you're affixing a moral code to your characters, first take an example setting. Suppose, you've created a character named A. Let's say A is a man and a detective by profession. Now let the main event of your story be a case of murder. Obviously, there's going to be an investigation. Let your detective (A) find out that the victim, who is a woman, was a sex worker. After the victim's body comes back from a forensic search, let there be signs of sexual assault. Now conventionally, as a detective, A is supposed to jump into action and go above and beyond to find the culprit and bring justice. But here is where you can add a characteristic that isn't conventional. Even though A is a detective, make him look down on sex workers. That would mean that A believes that the victim probably 'asked' for whatever happened to her. Your character needs to have a moral code so that they can ignite some sort of feelings in your readers. This moral code further also revs the whole process of character development. In a nutshell, a moral code is a set of beliefs that your character has which can either be agreeable, or questionable, or both. We call them the white zone (virtuous/agreeable), the black zone (evil/questionable) and the infamous morally grey zone (both).

2. OPPOSING QUALITIES:

This is by far the most interesting advice I have ever received. Opposing qualities are actually simple – it's one quality (that's good) and it's inverse (which is a flaw). What you do here is, you give your characters a good/admirable quality and then you give them flaws based on those specific good traits. Some of these that I have used are:-

helpful :: people-pleaser (you character helps others but at the same time seeks validation from others, thus only helps people who validate them)

confident :: cocky (you're character is confident, but they often come off as cocky in situations requiring humility)

perfectionist :: obsessive (are they a perfectionist or are they just obsessed with having things go their way only?)

supportive :: nosey (sure, they support all their friends, but they also tend to poke their nose into everything which makes them ignore or overlook people's boundaries)

straightforward :: rude (they are straightforward and don't shy away from speaking their mind which is good; however, they end up saying things which could be harsh or hurtful)

reserved :: unfriendly (character can be introverted and reserved too, but sometimes they get away with being outright hostile all in the name of their introvertism)

protective :: possessive/controlling (this is easy to confuse as both parties involve an exceptional amount of care for their loved ones, but ask yourself - are protective and possessive really the same?)

practical :: ignorant (one of my favourites; is your character just level-headed about stuff? or are they just heedless to others' emotions?)

There's so much more you can do with this one! Use as many traits and their inverses as you wish! This tip really helps a lot (speaking with experience)!

3. BACKSTORY:

Probably the most important part of making a character. Everyone has a backstory. You. Me. Most importantly, your character. Backstories as just significant events that alter the mindset of your character. It can range from something minimal to something grave. It could be a cup of coffee or it could be a traumatic experience. The experience could be personal or they could have been an observer; anything works as long as it affects them and hits their weak spot.

The following questions are important to frame a backstory:

• how does your character think?

• what is their moral code? are they in the black zone, the white zone, or the grey zone?

• what are their emotional fears? how do they deal with them?

• what is their level of emotional maturity? do they have any form of issues (trust, attachment, etc)?

• how was their childhood? how were the parents? how were the sibling, the relatives or family friends?

• was their school/college life good? did they have any life-altering experiences?

• what kind of friend circle do they have?

Answering these questions will help you get to know your character even better. Thus, making it easier for you to create your character for your readers.

4. THEIR EMOTIONAL ENVIRONMENT:

Your character has a family, or doesn't. Maybe they're an orphan, or grew up in a foster home. Evaluate what type of effect that may have on your character. Was the foster family abusive thus making your character too shy and timid? Or was life as an orphan so difficult that they learnt to be hyper-independent?

Include their friend circle in this. What type of friends do they have? Are they friends with the good kids? Or the bad kids? Or is it a mixed group? If it's a mixed group, then further focus on how the differences in opinions has an influence on your character. Use your character's emotional surrounding to build their functioning.

If you've come this far, thank you! Do let me know if these tips seem helpful/have helped you!

- Ashlee.

125 notes · View notes

bunybunn · 4 days ago

Note

it's so blatantly obvious how hypocritical dream is being with the situation that's been unfolding the past few days because like??? "i hate when people make false allegations of me without evidence" and then accuses tommy of child labour without evidence? tells sarah simons that he doesn't want her to be attacked but does nothing to stop his fans?? i've noticed you're very articulate and perceptive regarding this so i wanted to ask. HOW and WHY do dream stans keep supporting him like i truly cannot fathom how 😭😭😭😭 best wishes from someone who enjoys your posts a lot

Why and how is pretty easy, they don't want to listen to anything that would mean that they are not in the right by supporting Dream and they also have Dream providing them excuses. Viewers tend to mirror their favourite content creators after all.

Although to be fair it's something you actually see with fans of any person that turned out to be an asshole or just literally a criminal. The idea is to grab whatever excuse they can to justify why they refuse to stop their support. Think about that one Wilbur's fan saying that the biting was consensual therefore it doesn't count. If you know the situation and use your logic you should realize how insane that was to say by that person.

Dream stans are especially fascinating since Dream is feeding in to the idea of parasocial relationship with his fans. He made a phone number his fans could text and Snapchat account that allowed them to communicate with him and feel like they were closer than they were. Then you have they way Dream was responding to both fans and people who criticized him on Twitter. This makes it easy to trust him and be devoted to him.

The second important thing is that Dream makes himself sound logical so if you don't have any other context and he and/or his friend group is all someone is watching it's easy to take his words. Additionally he often makes himself a victim by saying that everyone else are either lying or attacking him. The us vs them mentally can make a perfect excuse to ignore any arguments that don't fit the narrative they know.

Of course not all Dream stans are the same, I feel like with the reputation that his fans have it became welcoming to group of people who don't need convincing, for example during dsmp it was a perfect place for abuse apologist. In case of people like that they simply resonate with his arguments and don't see how he could be wrong.

I believe that it is likely that Dream enjoys having fans like that as it means he don't really have to take responsibility and still be see as the good guy in those people eyes at least.

#dream situation #dream neg

20 notes · View notes

quantifiableconnections · 9 months ago

Text

I just finished watching Skam (Norway) today and let’s just say I’m not kidding when I say this is one of the BEST shows I’ve ever watched. I did take a lot of time to watch all the seasons (spanning over one year) but I enjoyed each and every moment of it. Well, some a little less than others. Hence, I have some thoughts and please forgive my yapping.

Okay so Season 1. I actually liked it quite a lot. The acting was good, and it gave a nice start to the whole story.

The getting together of the girls was the highlight obviously, but I really liked the portrayal of Eva in this, as a kind of lost teenager who doesn’t have a lot of direction in her life and is mostly dependent on her boyfriend.

I did think the Isak plot line in this was a little badly done, but I guess it was necessary for the big reveal in the end.

I think the fact that Eva was able to resolve things with Ingrid was very unrealistic, considering they had literally been besties and she basically stole her man. But really idk.

Talking about Jonas, he was majorly gaslighting Eva during the season so I think their relationship was a little immature. Classic right person wrong time.

Penetrator Chris is SO HOT. Especially in that mf smoky eye makeup istg. But he’s a giant asshole and we do not support him.

Season 2. Okay. First let’s start with the showstealer. Eskild my man. I don’t think Eskild is appreciated enough in the whole series but I absolutely love him!! He is so mature, and is such a good friend. I love the dynamic between him and Noora and even him and Linn.

Now let’s address the elephant in the room because why not? I did not like Noorhelm all that much. William never had much of a character development and we never get to see him expressing a lot of emotions. I forever stand by the opinion that Noora was too good for him. Many people talk about William’s support of Noora’s decision to not have sex, but really, that’s like settling for the bare minimum that can be expected from a decent person.

I think the dickhead of a brother had more personality than William. So in conclusion, season 2 did not really impress me but I’d watch it again for Eskild.

Eva hooking up with Chris?? The guy she cheated on her ex with? Can’t say I like this.

Season 3 is SO well done. There’s no question about it. I love Isak’s slow acceptance of his sexuality. From being a closeted gay guy who made homophobic comments to fit in, to a happy and out gay guy in a relationship.

Absolutely adore the boys. Jonas, Mahdi, Magnus. I especially loved Magnus and his take on the whole situation.

Eskild coming in and stealing the show yet again?!!

Emma and Sonja are VICTIMS. As much as I love Evak, they fucked their girlfriends over pretty bad and I hate them for it. Also, Emma is soooooooooo pretty.

The story of Even. His whole character portrayal. The picturisation of his mental issues. Chef’s kiss.

Minute by minute??? Are you trying to kill me here??? It is SO wholesome and they both have matured so much, especially Isak, dealing with his sexuality plus his boyfriend’s mental issues so delicately.

Their chemistry. Their chemistry. Their chemistry.

Sonja should NOT have apologised.

Overall, this season is tied with the fourth as my favourite.

Season 4. Sana is my favourite character hands down. She is portrayed so well, we see all her insecurities, beliefs so beautifully.

Yousana is my favourite couple. Evak is a close second.

The understanding between them, the intellectual conversations, the level of maturity. Just wondrous.

I did think the whole situation with the russ bus was overdone. I never really understood why Sana was so involved with it in the first place. This could easily have been summed up in one episode leaving time for more Yousana development.

Yousef is such a green flag omg. He’s literally the cutest out of all skam boys( my opinion). I just wish he had more screen time.

Elias and Sana??? Whatever bits and pieces we got to see of their relationship were GOLD.

I. Love. My. Girls. So. Much. I just wish Sana was shown interacting more with all of them, not just Noora. Also Yousef and Noora working together to thaw Sana??

I canNOT stress this enough. Yousef and Sana are the best couple ( besides Evak obviously). The chemistry, the flirting, everything was done so right that it got me blushing furiously through the screen. And they managed to do all this without showing any kind of physical contact. Just lovely. The way they counter each other’s opinions with such delicacy and respect makes me believe that they are definitely going to last.

The situation with Even and Mikael and all the balloon squad boys should have been given more screen time.

The way Sana’s faith and her relationship with her family were handled are commendable. We see the dilemma, the cogs of her brain working, and how she accepts her fate and doesn’t sway from her beliefs. I strongly believe that her and Yousef will handle their differences maturely and still come out to be a strong couple.

I SWEAR SHE AND I ARE SOULMATES?????? Cutest shit I’ve ever seen.

Sana and Isak’s friendship means so much to me. In Season 3, we see her rising above her opinions and respecting homosexuality. Here we see Isak figuring Sana out and helping her see beyond her strong opinions. And wdym Sana??? You are best buds.

Okay. The last episode. I absolutely loved it. It’s one of the best season finales I’ve ever watched. We go into the lives of all the girls and some of the guys too. I literally teared up at the Eskild and Linn part!!( idk why they still address Chris as penetrator Chris when his face is literally on the screen like people we know it’s not our girl?? Idk I find it extremely funny). I wish they had shown more of Vilde and Chris’ friendship in the past and not just the final episode. The Even part was absolutely incredible. His insecurities, his fears, and we see him pacifying Isak and not the other way around. Yousef texting Sana from Turkey?? And saying he’ll take her there?? My heart melted.

I literally don’t think Noorhelm is going to last long even though they have reconciled. Something just seems off. Joneva is back??? Didn’t really like the buildup but I guess they could be a good couple as they are more mature than the last time.

Okay. So that sums it up more or less. My favourite was season 4, closely followed by season 3. My favourite characters were Sana and Eskild, they were just so amazing. I related to Sana fiercely all through the show.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk. Feel free to give your own opinions please!!!!

#skam norway #ramblings #skam noora #noora sætre #vilde #sana bakkoush #isak valtersen #isak x even #noora x william #sana x yousef #yousef acar #jonas noah vasquez #eskild

49 notes · View notes

dreamsky-sapphi · 1 month ago

Text

Listen to me yap about this song being Mahiru core (i dont like twt word limit)

youtube

I'm not sure what the show it was made for is about but I've been a fan of Kohana Lam for a while now and this song was also composed and written by Scop (notably made Irony, Crier, and recently Suresure for Project Sekai)

I'm not good at analyzing so I might just sounds like I'm making super obvious comments but this means so much to me

The main thing about Mahiru is her low self esteem, and here I also think about how she never managed to place number one in previous competitions (if I remember correctly)

She knows very well that life is unfair and it's not just her being the victim of it, but she still holds on the hope that she might get what she wants eventually

I initially thought of the word "expectation" here as the weight of wanting to make her family proud and the fact that she is the oldest sister, so the one who needs to be a model for her siblings, and thus putting a lot of pressure on her shoulders. But it can also be the expectancy of her wish becoming true, and I'm thinking about her wanting to perform Starlight with Karen as co-stars. She knows that Karen isn't really motivated (before Hikari arrives) and that Maya and Claudine would get the lead roles again, so she might have tried to shake off that thought, but we've seen in the first episode that she still thinks about it and didn't lose hope

---------------------------------------------------

Mahiru often gets blinded by her insecurity and the fact that she believes she isn't as good as others to the point she straight up thinks she doesn't even deserve to be where she is right now

But in the end she was always lifted back up by someone who reached out to her and helped her remember the reason why she even stands on that stage, her first reason being her grandma and then later Karen

---------------------------------------------------

I was heavily brainrotting here because they explicitely use terms for acting on the stage. Even if Mahiru's worries are easy to see, she still tries her best to hide it and if she feels like she needs to cry she does it where no one can see

I know I'm pretty literal here but you get it

---------------------------------------------------

Mahiru was already comparing herself to others before, but staying with Karen probably toned it down and distracted her enough to not think too much about it

But once Hikari came and Karen started to change, she was left to overthink on her own again, accepting that she is weak and can only compare herself to her friends

She wouldn't want her friends to worry about her in any way, but Karen spending more time with Hikari when she was used to being her partner probably left her to feel lonely, and my take would be that it could end up to a point she'd wish someone would see that she isn't feeling well

And no matter how hard she could try to not think about it, she just can't

---------------------------------------------------

This chorus is kind of similar to the first one but I like the last line a lot and this is mostly just how I perceive Mahiru about this

Despite feeling hurt about a certain situation, she might believe that she shouldn't feel sad. She has a loving and supportive family, great friends, attending a good school, and people looked up to her. I think that she could believe it's too selfish of her to feel sad about wanting something (be Karen's co star) when she has a lot, despite her low self esteem

Again, this isn't exactly canon but I think this could fit this way

---------------------------------------------------

This, this is just episode 5 to me

This part of the song is the first where it sounds different, and rushed. A part where Mahiru's feelings reach a peak, and also the moment before slowly accepting things and especially herself

This song is so perfect already with the lines "Afraid of the shining light (Hikari), even the flower (Karen) that bloomed so beautifully"

Hikari came in their lives and Mahiru was absolutely horrified by the possibility of losing Karen, and Hikari was shining starting the moment she arrived. But despite that fear, Karen became more radiant. She wasn't lazy anymore and only started blooming and Mahiru can't deny that she was indeed beautiful

"The passing days won't stop. Even when I reach out, I can't get there. I can't remember with who I am now"

Mahiru's feelings are a mess and these lyrics display that despair so perfectly. She wished she could go back to when she felt like she had something and she can't stop time from passing by

For "Even when I reach out, I can't get there" I think about both how she can't have Karen for herself anymore, but also her goal to be the one at the center stage, since she never had reached top 1 before. But in her context, being center stage would be the equivalent of being with Karen

And that despair and dependence on Karen truly made her forget about her own shine

(unrelated she looks so cute)

---------------------------------------------------

Starting here, Mahiru learned to accept herself as she is

She didn't fully change of course, she can't fully get rid of her inferiority complex and she will still have times she will cry, but she knows this is just how she is and she can't do much but still try her best

"The light shines on the back of my singing life" I like to think this can either be interpreted as having moved on from her past with Hikari, but also as her knowing she has her own brilliance

"I want to be someone who can extend a hand" Now her goal is to become the sun, pretty much an exact way of showing her new goal

---------------------------------------------------

And finally, the last lines only reinforcing her acceptance and that she works hard to be able to reach her goal and become the one who shines the brightest

She isn't afraid to admit she is weak and it isn't a problem as long as she continues to stay kind which includes having to push your friend several meters off the ground

I like that "The flower that bloomed so beautifully" comes back, because even if she moved on after episode 5, she's still very much in love with Karen and I really like the detail of thinking about her again

And well, the last three lines only add up to how she continues to work hard, both on her low self esteem and to stand brightly on the stage

---------------------------------------------------

I know I might have said too obvious things bc the song is pretty direct and fits Mahiru so perfectly

I really like that it matches so well with the different steps in Mahiru's life in Seisho, from the moment she managed to get in, the moment Hikari came to Seisho, Revue of Jealousy and finally the movie/post movie

I've known this song for a bit and I already associated it with Mahiru before but thinking about it made me brainrot so bad I just wanted to make a whole post about it

I love Mahiru so much and this meant so much to me (i can't deny that some parts might have been self projection)

Don't have much else to say, I love Mahiru

#revue starlight #tsuyuzaki mahiru #song analysis #she makes me so ill #sorry if i sounded dumb #Youtube

19 notes · View notes

racinggirl · 1 year ago

Text

Collision of hearts - 01

Lando Norris x OC (Fayenne Jackson)

word count: 2k warnings: none notes: I hope you like the first chapter, please let me know what you think about the piece at the end, I'm planning on incorporating that a lot more! Any way of feedback, whether it's positive, negative, in the comments, in my asks, as a reblog in the tags is very very welcome <3 If you want to be added to the taglist, read the bottom of this post 🧡

masterlist (will be up somewhere this week)

prologue

next part

🏎️ = Lando

⛸️ = Fay(enne)

⛸️

‘’You go first, I don’t want to be the one falling through the ice, that’s cold!’’

I let out a soft chuckle as my friend, Melanie, stood at the edge of the lake, a scarf around her neck, gloves around her fingers as she looked from the ice to me, very quickly. See, I loved to skate, it was something I used to do when I was little, something to escape the world for just a moment. No, I wasn’t a professional skater, I wish I was, though. I started on some home-made skates my father made me for my 6th birthday. I fell, a lot, but that’s part of life. You fall, get up, fall again, and keep trying till you get better and better, and that’s exactly what I did.

I’m 23 now, and my best friend is holding her phone with her right hand, positioning it so she’d capture the perfect content for when I’d fall through the ice.

‘’It’s been freezing for almost a week straight, Mel, the ice is thick enough!’’ A smile appears on my face when I hear the metal of my skates touch the still untouched ice. It was a beautiful sound, soft, but it pierced through my ears like it was the only thing I could hear. A few steps onto the ice, and I slowly turned around, watching how Melanie slowly put away her phone.

‘’Damnit, that would have made some great content to be fair.’’ She looked over at me with a smirk, a playful one, because I knew she didn’t mean that.

Melanie, she has been my best friend ever since kindergarten. We basically grew up together, only under very different circumstances. We finished primary school together, and even secondary school. However, after that, she went into a different direction for her career, one my parents would never allow me to take. She started modelling, and I was lying when I’d say I wasn’t jealous of her. She started of doing a few shoots for some of her boyfriends at the time. I know what you might be thinking, but Mel would never do THOSE kinds of shoots. She wasn’t your everyday influencer Instagram model, not at all, she’s smart, and made sure to have a backup while modelling.

‘’Come on! It’ll be fun, and totally safe.’’ I teased, skating around the lake to make sure every bit of the water at the top was frozen. I felt like a fish in the water, but on the ice, and not a fish, because that would be… You know what I mean. I felt like home on the ice. Like I said before, I’m not a professional skater. I’m actually a lawyer. I ended law school this year, and I couldn’t be happier to have finished it and never look into those books ever again. I’m a terrible lawyer, at least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

‘The only way to do great work is to love what you do’

And well, I don’t love it. I hate it, even. I know many people would want to have a law degree, I know many people would want to finally have that paper and help people, help the innocent ones. But that’s the thing, you don’t get to choose who you defend, especially as a beginner. You take every job you can get, and that’s mostly not the one of the victim’s defenders. You’ll have to work with stubborn people, criminals, the so called ‘bad guys’.

‘’Okay, okay, fine, hold my hand.’’ I skate towards my best friend and hold out my hand for her, making sure she would be stable on the ice before we moved on the slippery surface.

‘’You’re doing great, Mel, just remember, lean forward, and focus on where you want to go.’’

Melanie has supported me every step of the way, even when I finished my degree and got a job at the local skate centre instead of being a lawyer, the path my parents set out for me. It was a hard decision, and one that came with consequences, but it was the first time I had actually gone against my parent’s commands. I felt torn, because they were the ones that paid for my university, they were the ones that made all the effort and what did I do? I just chose my own way, my own path, after everything they did for me. I know they want to see me happy, but telling them I wouldn’t be happy pursuing my career as a lawyer was the hardest thing to do, and they didn’t take it well. That’s why I moved out. That’s why I took the job as a skate instructor for the little kids, ages around 7 to 9, at the local skate centre.

‘’I have a better idea, why don’t we grab a hot chocolate and have dinner at my place tonight? I heard there’s this new club opening, and guess who got tickets for the grand opening?’’ She tugged my hands slightly, mostly to keep herself balanced on the ice, but also because of the excitement.

That’s the thing of having a well-known friend, she always knew where to go and where to be, receiving invitations for one of the biggest club openings, and me always being her plus one.

‘’One more round on the ice, and we have a deal.’’

‘’Okay,’’ Melanie groaned, holding my hand tightly. ‘’Fine, but just one!’’

🏎️

‘’What’s up chat! I’m back! I know, three times in a row, pretty mint huh?’’ I positioned myself in the chair, the headphones on my head, a snack on the side, next to my bottle of water. I scan through the chat, trying my best to read some of the comments, ignoring most of them.

The season ended, not the best way possible, but it could have been worse. The upgrades we brought the second half of the season made a big improvement to the car, and I’m quite glad about that. We’re going into the direction I wanted, which is up, and times like these are the moments I’m grateful for the patience I’ve had with McLaren.

‘’It’s gonna be a shorter stream though, chat, cuz I have somewhere to be after this.’’ I take a bite from the biscuits I held on the desk, immediately taking a sip of water after it.

‘Do you have a date?’

‘Where are you going after this?’

‘What are you eating?’

I quickly scan through the reactions, not really answering any of them. I loved to stream. I wasn’t able to do it a lot because of the busy season we had. Because of the busy schedule I had, but right now it was a little more toned down, meaning I had found a few free hours I could sit and talk to the camera on Twitch.

‘’Thanks for all the gifted subs, everyone! Holy shit, I can’t even keep up with them.’’ I laughed, trying my best to thank every single person that popped up on my screen. I never could get used to the amount of support I was getting from the fans. People chanting my name, the thousands of bracelets people would make for me, taking the time and effort to create something for me, it was surreal.

As the chat buzzed with questions and comments, I couldn’t help but smile at the energy radiating through the screen. The support from my fans was overwhelming in the best possible way. I glanced at the clock, realising time was ticking away faster than I anticipated.

‘’Alright, let’s jump into a quick Q&A, chat!’’ I announced, grabbing a handful of questions popping up in the chat. ‘’First up, where am I headed after this? Well, I’ve got a charity event lined up. Gotta give back when I can, right?’’

The chat exploded with emojis and words of encouragement. I chuckled at the flood of enthusiasm, feeling grateful for the platform that allowed me to connect with such an incredible community.

‘’Next question,’’ I continued, scrolling through the comments. ‘’What am I eating? Just some biscuits, nothing fancy.’’ I reach for the packaging of the biscuits, showing them to the camera. ‘’Not sponsored!’’ I joked afterwards.

Time flew by faster than expected, and as the charity event drew nearer, I reluctantly announced the stream’s conclusion. The chat flooded with messages expressing gratitude and excitement for the next stream.

‘’Thanks everyone, it’s been fun! You’re the best, love ya. I’ll catch you in the next one.’’ I said, creating a heart with my hands before I ended the stream.

I quickly gathered my things, leaving the streaming setup behind as I rushed to the charity event.

⛸️

It’s been a while since I went out to a club, especially one where a basic pair of jeans and a nice top weren’t ‘good enough’. The club we were headed to wasn’t your ordinary ‘I’m bored with my friends so let’s go out’ kind of club, not even close. It was a higher-end, new, influencer filled kind of club, one where normal people like me wouldn’t usually get access to. At least, if you didn’t have a model as a friend.

Melanie had been modeling ever since we finished secondary school, she got scouted by many modeling agencies across Europe, but she always chose the one near London, near me. She was like an older sister to me and when times were rough, she’d be there and vice versa.

‘’You know? I’m quite jealous of you, actually.’’ Melanie got me confused by that comment, she, jealous of me, what for?

‘’Oh?’’ I furrowed my eyebrows slightly but remained focused on applying my mascara.

‘’Your natural beauty, your eyebrows, your lashes, and oh my god your lips.’’ She said, sipping her wine as she applied some nude lip-gloss on her plump lips. I knew where she was going with it all. I never had surgery, not once in my life. I never wanted to, because maybe I was a little proud of my so called ‘natural beauty’. I barely wore make up, and whenever I did, it was a simple clear brow gel and a lip balm. My lashes were dark, black, long and they had volume without me having to do anything about it aside from curling them. My eyebrows weren’t black, but a nice dark colour of brown that matched my hair. My lips, never done anything about them, no fillers, nothing. I’m not saying anything is wrong with having fillers, I think it’s beautiful on Melanie, really natural as well, it just wasn’t something I’d see myself doing.

‘’Your lips are so.. urgh, plump, I wish I had that.’’ She says as she finished her make up and moved on to pick out an outfit from her never-ending closet. ‘’What do you think, this Versace dress? Oh, or this Elisa one?’’ She says, holding out two black sparkly dresses.

‘’Left,’’ I start the beginning of my next sentence. ‘’You have gorgeous lips.’’ I say, full honesty. ‘’Yeah, but they’re fake.’’ Melanie says and simply grabs the Elisa dress and starts putting it on, making sure every one of her curves and pros of her body were nicely hugged with the expensive fabric.

‘’Mel…’’ I sighed, closing the tube of mascara, and placing it back in her vanity as I almost always used her make up. ‘’I know, I’m just kidding, I’m just saying, maybe you should start to model too, it’s gonna give me competition, but if it’s you, I can handle it.’’ She teases with a smirk, making me roll my eyes.

‘’Come on, Fay, let’s go.’’

...

taglist

@smoooothoperator @itsjustkhaos @tpwk-cherie @skynel09 @peqch-pie @aphroditeisamilf

a/n: if you want to be added to the taglist, comment ❤️ down below

98 notes · View notes