#perhaps i should have written this when i was less tired perhaps it would have been a bit more coherent

[ayjadasblogforeverything]

Fic Writer Q&A

Can you imagine that *I* got tagged at a *fic writer* q&a? Yeah, me neither! Thank you, @sirenofthegreenbanks!

Perhaps I should precede this with saying that I barely write, I have published 5 works or so. And when I write, it is very short, perhaps because I am a mathematician, perhaps because I talk so much on a daily basis. My longest work is <1k and three of the five works are drabbles (like, the old school 100-word pieces). Also, I can ironically already feel that this is going to be an essay. You were warned :)

How many WIPs do you currently have?

I usually don't have WIPs, or if I have a WIP, I usually only have it for a few days, as my pieces are very short. I have fragments that I wrote for myself that I do not intend to publish. There will not be progress there, so they are not WIPs. But currently I actually have not only one, but two fragments that I would consider WIPs! That's infinitely more than on average!

Which one are you finding the hardest to finish?

Most of my fics so far are based on more or less stupid jokes and are in general light-hearted, funny or cracky. I think in general, I find it hardest to write earnest stuff to a satisfactory level. Perhaps that is because that might be inspired by me projecting, which leads to things being too out of character. Perhaps I just find it hard in general to hit peoples' voices, which might have a greater impact in serious topics. Perhaps it's also that writing always feels like a striptease of my soul and I deal badly with the perceived vulnerability that it brings, which is worse when it is about more serious topics. So out of the two WIPs I have, I expect the one that deals with some insecurities to be the one that is harder to finish or to finish to my satisfaction, even though it is the shorter one.

What does it usually look like when inspiration strikes for you?

Öhm. If it is about how I find inspiration, I don't know. It either comes or it doesn't, and I am very chill about that because I am very much not ambitious with my writing. Once I have a situation in my mind, I aim to note the gist of it down on my phone, but I am a master procrastinator but also forgetful, so that will take some time.

Then if I feel like I want to get creative and challenge myself at some point, I look up my list of ideas and pick one that feels doable at the time. (Rarely, I sit down immediately to write up a first version, but it needs to be a special idea for that to happen.)

Do you curate playlists for each fic or is your process different?

No. With the length of my fics, it would take way longer to curate a playlist than I would have time to listen to it.^^ I tend to not have any music on when I am writing or only music without lyrics. I think I wrote the last few drabbles late in the night when I procrastinated going to bed or something and some invisible force possessed me to open my document with my drabbles and I just started writing and stopped when I had a decent not-quite drabble. I was just in this pretty weird, awesome mood you sometimes get into when it is in the middle of the night and you don't know what the time is even if you check the clock and you feel like you are the only alive thing in this world and it is just somewhat... tranquil? I tend to not be in the mood for music in this state of mind.

Do you go balls to the wall and write as you go or are you more organized?

With the length of my fics, there's no other choice but balls to the wall XD. I think this is also a big reason why I prefer extremely short formats - you don't have to plan. Sometimes, I picture the entire situation in my head and collect a few phrases I could use beforehand so that most of it is already in my head, in case that counts as being organized.

I used to have a list in my mind of situations that I wanted to collect in a longer fic, but I think by now, I forgot it all. Damn. Why did I not write it down? But then, the fic would never get written because I am still not creative enough for a some overarching plot to my collection of situations.

Overall, I feel like I am not enough of a writer to answer these questions, actually, but for that, I wrote a lot I guess XD

Of course, I am curious about @deneb-al-giedi's answers. And about everyone else's that wants to talk about their fic writing process.

[grison-in-space]

I'm genuinely sorry, I was really tired and couldn't think of the word that mad pride movements use. I'm new to all of this. I thought you would be more open to it because you've reblogged from radical leftists (anarchists and communists both) within the past couple of weeks and they're all for Veganism afaik. The argument that all brains are different but equal and should be treated the exact same is a primary aspect of mad pride from my understanding, and that speaks to me about animals just having different brains, and that they don't deserve to be exploited and killed for us just because they're different. I'm not spamming people with it, but I was inspired by an ask by a nonvegan and started asking popular bloggers why they weren't vegan to open up conversation and potentially change people's views on animals. If I've made you uncomfortable I'm sorry, though I admit I'm really confused by your standpoint. You do know that the only reason communism hasn't succeeded is because of America? Anyway, sorry again, I'm also autistic and I didn't mean to dismiss your legitimate dietary needs. Can I recommend acti-vegan's posts? While I understand that you can't go vegan, perhaps their blog will at least help you understand our points, they're much more well-written than my asks and they have plenty of legitimate science resources at hand. Thanks for listening, I'll take your advice into account. I'm not trying to not listen, it's just frustrating because so many people say they get it but they don't change, and if they truly got it they would, you know?

Okay, I get that you didn't mean to be offensive, and fuck knows I shouldn't throw stones when it comes to forgetting specific words. (This happens to me fairly frequently; it's a thing.)

The argument that all brains are different but equal and should be treated the exact same is a primary aspect of mad pride from my understanding, and that speaks to me about animals just having different brains, and that they don't deserve to be exploited and killed for us just because they're different.

So yesterday I actually wrote out and then deleted a whole paragraph to the effect of "part of my deep, deep frustration with animal rights activism hooks into my commitment to the phrase 'nothing about us without us,' because I frequently see the same kinds of emotional projection without making the effort to listen to animals on their own terms from animal rights activism groups."

The first thing I need to make clear to you is that this--veganism and animal rights activism (ARA) more generally--is not new to me. I am in my mid-thirties and I have never had a job of any kind that did not revolve around animals in some way, I've spent time in rescue spaces and vets and universities, I'm queer and I have spent most of my life in leftish progressive circles, so it's kind of hard to miss.

Essentially, you are proselytizing to me as if you were a newly baptized evangelical convinced I had never heard of Jesus, because if only I had heard and understood his holy word, I would be converted instantly to his light! It's not any less irritating when the belief system isn't explicitly a religion.

More under the cut, because this one is long.

Disclaimer one: Veganism isn't synonymous with ARA ideology, but it's deeply entangled with it, and ARA ideology drives the movement of veganism as a (theoretically non-religious) ethical decision. And I object very strongly to the framework imposed by ARA activists. When I say I am not vegan, I am saying that I have considered the ethical framework that underpins veganism as an ethics movement and I have deliberately rejected it.

The second piece of context you should know that when I talk about being a behavioral ecologist, I mean that I'm a researcher who works on animals and that my framework is rooted in trying to understand animals in their own natural ecological context, without necessarily comparing them to humans. There's a lot of ways to study animal behavior you might run into, including attempts to understand universal principles of behavior that transcend species (animal cognition) and attempts to understand how to better treat animals in human care (animal welfare). You know Temple Grandin? Temple Grandin is an ethologist (the field that gave rise to behavioral ecology, also focused on animals within their species context) who worked on animal welfare (finding ways to make slaughterhouses less stressful to livestock, among other things).

Third point: my profession also means is that I work directly with animals--in my case, currently mice--and that I do not think research with animal subjects is wrong as long as all efforts are made to ensure maximal welfare and enrichment for the animals involved. This is another major bone of contention politically between my entire field and ARA groups, and you should know that I have also spent my entire professional career under the shadow of, well, people who care strongly enough about those ideas to invade my workspace and potentially seize my animals and "free" them into a world they do not have the tools to survive in.

So there's where I am coming from. Let's get back to what you're saying. Here, I'll quote again in case you have the same crappy short-term memory I do.

The argument that all brains are different but equal and should be treated the exact same is a primary aspect of mad pride from my understanding, and that speaks to me about animals just having different brains, and that they don't deserve to be exploited and killed for us just because they're different.

Point the first: Even within humans, I don't think that all brains should be treated the exact same. Especially in a disability context! After all, what is an accommodation if not an agreement to treat someone differently because they need certain things to access a space? Accommodations by definition fly in the face of this "treating everyone the same" understanding of fairness. I think all (human) brains are equally valuable, and I think all brains are worthy of respect, but I do not think that it's wise or kind of me to assert that everyone should be treated in the same way. For one thing, I teach students. If there's one thing teaching has taught me, it's that a good teacher is constantly assessing and adjusting their instruction to meet students where they're at, identify failures of understanding, and keep the attention of the classroom.

Point the second: animals do have different brains from humans. That does not mean that animals are inferior, but it does mean that they are alien. There's a philosophy paper, Nagel, What Does It Mean to Be a Bat, that you might find illuminating on this front. Essentially, the point of the paper is that animals have their own experiences and sensory umwelts that differ profoundly enough from humans' that we cannot know what it is like to be a different species without experiencing life as one, and therefore we must be terribly careful not to project our own realities onto theirs. That is, our imagination cannot tell us what a bat values and what it experiences. That is why we have to use careful evidence to understand what an animal is thinking, without relying on our ability to identify with and comprehend that animal. I have watched ARA groups deliberately encourage people to shut their reasoning brains off and emotionally identify themselves with animals without considering within-species context for twenty years. This is a mainstream tactic. It is not an isolated event and for that reason alone I would be opposed to them.

Point the third: there is a definite tendency in lots of people to care deeply and intensely about both animals and people who are seen as "lesser" in status--children, poor people, disabled people, etc--just as long as those groups never contradict the good feelings that come from the helper's own assessment of themselves and their actions. In humans, when the "needy" point out that some forms of help are actually harmful, the backlash is often swift and vicious. This is why animals are such an appealing target of support and intervention. They can't speak back and say "in fact, you are projecting my love of this frilly pink tutu onto me, and I think it's uncomfortable and prevents me from walking." They can't say "I kind of like it better when I don't have to worry about getting hit by a car, actually?"

(By the way: this is also why it's offensive to compare disabled people to animals, because this is generally done at least in part to silence the voices of disabled people speaking for our selves and our communities. We have access to language, and we use it, thank you.)

All forms of animal welfare intervention going right back to the founding of the first RSPCA have been incredibly prone to being hijacked by classist, racist, and otherwise bigoted impulses. This is because animals offer an innocent face for defense that conveniently cannot criticize the actions taken by their champions, and they therefore provide a great excuse for actions taken against marginalized members of human society. Think about the very first campaign the RSPCA ever did, which was banning using dogs as draft animals: a use that is not inherently harmful to dogs, which many dogs actively enjoy, but also one that was specifically used by poor Londoners and which in fact immediately resulted in a great butchery of the dogs that Londoners could no longer afford to feed rather than allowing poor people and their dogs to continue working together. No one was, of course, challenging the particular uses of dogs or any other animal favored by the wealthy. This kind of thing is so, so, so common. Obviously it doesn't mean that all interventions to prioritize animal welfare are inherently bigoted, but it does mean that we have to be critical about our choice of challenges.

On top of everything, the animal rights activist movement's obsession with "exploitation" is a function of the idea that humans are sinful or otherwise Bad in how we interact with animals by definition. For example, take the chicken rescue near me that is so obsessed with the possibility that some human somewhere might benefit from an animal in their care that they implant every hen they adopt out with hormonal implants such that the hens no longer lay eggs--a function that is normally a natural byproduct of a chicken's reproductive system, fertilized or not. A mutualistic relationship involves both parties benefiting, and that is the case for an awful lot of human relationships with animals. In general, the idea that associating with animals is a thing that can only harm animals rather than being a trade between two species to enrich one another is all over these groups. It's just so myopically focused on human shame that it prevents practical interventions that might benefit everyone, and often promotes interventions that don't directly benefit animals but sure do make humans miserable. For example, this kind of thinking is why groups like PETA are absolutely awful at effectively rescuing unwanted dogs and cats: they think pets living in "bondage" with humans are an essentially sad outcome, rather than one that might be mutually enjoyed by all parties.

I'm tired and my meds haven't kicked in, so I'm not currently going to handle the communism thing except to point out that while the US absolutely did destabilize a number of leftist regimes in South America and Africa, Russia and China between them have certainly not treated their own people kindly, either (and more so their own client-nations, as with the former members of the USSR). Please do some reading about the Holodomor and Lysenko in Russia (and frankly all of the details of Stalin's regime) and the Cultural Revolution in China in particular. Khmer Rouge might be worth looking into, too. I am not saying the US's hands are clean, you understand, because they are not; they're as steeped in red as anyone else's. What I am saying is that for people living on the ground, communist revolutions have this nasty habit of turning into bloodbaths and arbitrary slaughters. Do not let your distaste for the US's bloodsoaked imperialism (which, yes, is and was bad) let you fall into the trap of becoming a tankie.

And if you don't know what a tankie is, you really, really should take some time to learn.

[seelestars]

☆ the emortia flower. (jiyan angst)

a/n : i tried looking for a flower similar to the emortia, hopefully this white hyacinth is close enough hehe (*´∇｀*) i haven’t written in a while so sorry if this isn’t that good

“that’s such a silly idea! we’re both dying together of old age in the future, so there would be no need for me to plant a flower here for you!”

oh how it felt like yesterday when you were innocently naive and optimistic.

regret and sorrow seeps into every bone of your body. why would you say that? there was so much more you wanted—no, needed—to say to him. even if they were as little and mundane as where you should go for your next date, or something as big and important as your future together. you should’ve told him everything on your mind. there was never a need to wait.

because now, you don’t even have the chance to wait to tell him anything.

as you were planting the seed into the soil, you felt your tears you were previously unaware of fall into the ground and soak the earth. you could feel your lips and fingers trembling as you covered the seed with soil, kneeling there with puffy eyes. you were sure you’ve been crying for a long time, as you could feel your eyes and face burn painfully. yet… nothing was more painful than losing him.

“…of course. how silly of me.” jiyan had given you a slight nod, his brows slightly furrowed as he smiles fondly at you. though at that time, it was clear he had wanted to say more.

perhaps you both were the same when it came to that. always trying to wait for the perfect opportunity to speak your mind.

you wished both of you were braver, more confident when it came to voicing your thoughts.

maybe then, him slipping through your fingers would’ve hurt less.

you remembered it as if it had just happened a minute ago.

his limp body in your arms as you sobbed, hugging him tightly. “why would you take the hit for me?! you’re so stupid!” you cried, sadness and frustration filling your voice as you look at him. you couldn’t understand how he was still smiling gently at you, even though he was in so much pain.

“i’m sorry for being so stupid, then. i’m afraid… i won’t be able to make it up to you.” jiyan coughs, the blood from his open wound dripping onto your hands. he weakly puts his hand over yours, softly caressing your knuckles as he looks at you with tired eyes.

“no! you can’t die here! just… just wait! i’ll bring you to a medic!” your eyes widen at his implications, panic feeling your voice. …but unfortunately for the both of you, you were currently both on a mission where it just the two of you. the city was quite far from here. you knew it was likely you wouldn’t make it back in time, but you still naively held onto that hope.

with that, the life began draining from his eyes as he whispered his last words to you. “…i… love you. may we… meet.. again… in the.. after life.” immediately, you felt even more tears flow down your cheeks as you sobbed into his lifeless body.

life was cruel.

you should’ve seen it coming. after all, he was a general. positions like that usually came with a hefty price. you wished you had spent more time with him. you wished you had never lashed out at him over things you now viewed as insignificant. you wished you helped him more. you wished you had told him “i love you” more.

you could only smile sadly at the seed. he had told you of its name and meaning once, and you couldn’t forget about it since.

emortia, the flower he bred himself. the word meant both departure and return. it was a resilient flower, similar to how he was. but of course, all flowers wither in the end. all you could do now is make sure to take good care of this flower you planted in his honor.

[melancholic-and-delusional]

hi hi !! i would like to take part in your event ! but first of all congrats for reaching 150 followers !!!

can i request a fyodor x fem!reader with fluff prompt #4, nsfw prompt #2 and kink #7? thank you !!

Thank you so much for requesting! <3 I hope you enjoy what I've written!

Soft and Gentle Fyodor <3

Fem!Reader

Word Cound: 1.4k

Fluff Prompt: "I wish nothing more than to hold you close right now."

NSFW Prompt: "You look so beautiful, darling. I'm afraid I won't be able to control myself any longer. "

Kinks: soft and gentle sex

It was the middle of the night, and Fyodor was still awake. He was in his office, standing in front of a few computer screens. The purple shine they were producing was the only light source in the room. His eyes looked tired as he moved them to look from screen to screen. The clicking of a mouse could be heard, as well as the occasional typing on the keyboard. You can't say the man was especially happy to be doing this. He could be right next to you right now, cuddling you, receiving your praise for his hard work, but no. He had to do it. He needed to.

But how could he do it in peace when his mind was preoccupied with the thought of you? He can't focus, so, therefore, he can't do his job properly. That was his excuse. He turned off all of the screens, standing up from his chair, which creaked as he did so, and made his way out of the dark room. He walked down the hallway, heading towards the light he saw coming from the kitchen.

Upon entering the room, he squinted his eyes in an attempt to block the direct light that was coming from the switched on lamp on the ceiling. Once his eyes had finally adjusted, however, he noticed you were standing right there in front of him. You didn't realize he was behind you because you were wearing your headphones and were completely engrossed in whatever you were doing.

He stepped towards your figure, peeking at what you had in your hands. You had come to drink your vitamin pill. You placed it inside of your mouth, grabbed a glass of water, and quickly chugged it down. You gulped and turned around, only to see Fyodor's tall frame was behind you all along. He chuckled as you jumped from surprise and took off your headphones.

"Did I scare you?" he questioned as a smirk graced his face.

"Yes!" you replied, still clearly annoyed.

He smiled and went in to cup your cheeks, kissing your forehead gently.

"Have you finished your work yet?"

"Not yet... I'm just taking a little break," the man was too prideful to admit that he simply missed you. He was thinking of a subtle way to convince you to dedicate your whole attention to him for the entire night. He wasn't the type to beg, and he much preferred getting what he wanted in less needy ways. He reached towards your hand, bringing it close to his mouth and laying a soft kiss upon it. You were in no way an idiot, however, and you managed to see right through his confident facade.

"Did you miss me that much?"

Fyodor chuckled once more.

"You know me too well, my dear," he said and placed his hand on your back. Then, he started leading you toward your shared bedroom. "Why don't you come entertain me for a while, hm? I'd love to spend some quality time with my dearest"

"Of course," you nodded as you let him take you away from the kitchen, switching off the lights on the way out.

The two of you walked down the dimmed hallway and entered your bedroom.

"My darling," Fyodor began, hoping that you'd be up to for what he was about to offer you, "I think that we hadn't had the chance to be intimate recently and I would love to give us this opportunity," he continued, trying his best not to sound too desperate.

"If you want to have sex, you can just say so. It's no use trying to hide your intentions, Fedya"

Chucking, Fyodor replied:

"Very well then... perhaps I should attempt a more direct approach?"

You looked at him, but before you could make eye contact, he grabbed you by the waist and slowly began to move you towards the bed. He pushed you onto the soft mattress, climbing on top of you. He hovered over you, smirking at your expression. To say you were taken by surprise was an understatement.

Your partner leaned down to plant a passionate kiss on your lips. You kissed him back and ran your hands through his dark hair. Pulling away, he took his shirt off in a swift move. Slowly, he began pulling your own blouse over your head and then threw it onto the floor. Pulling back once again, he pecked your lips and slowly started trailing towards your cheeks, ears, jawline, neck, and eventually collarbones. From time to time, he would stop on one spot to suck a hickey onto your skin and then continue again.

Eventually, he reached your bra. He looked up at you as if he needed your permission. You nodded, and he unhooked your bra in an instant, revealing your naked chest to him. He returned to kissing you, grazing over your nipples ever so often to tease you. As he reached your belly and finally the waistband of your sweatpants, he pulled away to slowly take them off together with your underwear.

As you stood completely revealed before him, you squeezed your thighs together, feeling somewhat shy despite having done this before with him. He was watching you while he was taking off his own pants and also boxers.

"You're so beautiful, darling. I'm afraid I won't be able to control myself any longer."

Now that the both of you were naked, he leaned down again, smiling at you. Yet another kiss was shared between you before he grabbed a hold of his hard dick, slowly placing it inside of you.

"Is that okay?" he asked to make sure you were comfortable.

You smiled and replied with a quick "yes" before wrapping your arms around his neck, lightly tugging at his stray strands of hair. He began to pound into you, setting a slow and sensual pace. His hands moved towards your hips, and he held onto them. You let out a brief gasp as he did so, and he chuckled in satisfaction. One of his hands trailed down to your clit and he started rubbing gentle circles around it.

A few minutes had passed, and the room was filled with soft moans and gasps from both parties. Fyodor was still towering above you, just this time his hand was squeezing the fat of your breast, and his other one was gripping your waist. You were below him and were receiving each of his passionate thrusts. The both of you were looking into each other's eyes, and you felt your highs nearing.

A few moments later, Fyodor pulled out from you and jerked himself off a little before spilling his load on your stomach. He placed his tip on your clit and began moving it to help you reach your climax as well. Not much time later, you came and he leaned down to kiss your neck as you calmed down from the orgasm.

He lay down next to you and pulled you closer to him. Burying your head in his chest, he sighed in contentment and began playing with your hair. He felt so comfortable with you. He was so vulnerable right then and there that there was no point in holding back his affection towards you any longer. Softly, he mumbled the words:

"I wish nothing more than to hold you close right now"

You couldn't fight back the grin that crept upon your blushing face.

As Fyodor's heavy eyelids began to close and his breathing became even slower and calmer, he whispered, "I love you," and you felt his hands slowly conclude their movements along your scalp. He drifted into sleep surprisingly quickly. You said it back to him but got only a light snore in reply. It was strange, really. Usually, Fyodor would wait for you to fall asleep first, and then he would finally rest, but today, he felt too tired. It wasn't so often that he would let himself be this soft and lovey-dovey, so seeing him in this light was definitely one of the greatest pleasures for you. In fact, you were the only person he'd let his guard down around like this. Indeed, you were special.

[szlez]

Stay - destiel fanfic by ani_ona and me with my fanart Feverish

Written for https://sicktember.tumblr.com prompt. Dean & Cas

Stay

It was Sam, who noticed first. Knowing every muscle of his brother's face and years of studying every one of his tiniest expressions helped, but at the end of the day it was due to that unexplainable connection between the two of them. The strange force that made his time at Stanford less enjoyable and more sleepless. So now he just knows that something is wrong with his brother. And when Dean orders his beloved chili fries and doesn't suck in every last bit in a matter of minutes, Sam and Cas exchange worried looks.

Their case is solved, dinner finished, and they are in for a 9-hour drive home. Another cue that something is not just as it should be is when Dean decides to let Sam drive after an hour and doesn't take a shotgun seat but joins Castiel in the back instead. When Sam glances in the rear mirror, he sees his brother's head resting on the angel's shoulder and the intense stare of the blue eyes.

Dean doesn't wake up the whole ride home. Cas somehow manages to arrange him into a more lying position, with his head on the angel's lap. Sam would have smiled at the sight if he wasn't focused on keeping his eyes open and on the road.

They reach the bunker at dawn, and Dean lets Castiel maneuver him out of the car and down the stairs.

“Get him to his room,” Sam says, his voice hoarse from not using and tiredness. “And I’ll bring some supplies.” Cas just nods and adjusts his grip around Dean's waist. He is taking off the hunter's shoes, when Sam comes in with water and some pills.

“Looks like he is going down with something…” Cas murmurs, letting the back of his palm touch Dean's cheek. He frowns and crouches beside the bed to lightly press his lips to Dean's forehead. “Definitely. His fever is high.” He whispers, now real concern lacing his voice.

The gesture looks a lot like a kiss. Dean would undoubtedly freak out if he was awake. But now Sam is too tired to analyze it further.

“Make sure he drinks a lot. And takes these once he is conscious enough.” he points to the meds. “Want me to stay with you?”

“No, Sam, I got this, you drove the whole night, go get some sleep.”

Sam nods and leaves, though he feels strange. He's never left his brother's side during an illness. Even as a child, he used to cling to his brother when any of them was unwell. Perhaps it had something to do with losing the only source of safety and care. Now Dean has his angel, Sam tells himself, lowering his pounding head onto the pillow. He is out in a few minutes.

In the meantime, Castiel frees Dean of most of his clothing, careful with every movement, expecting the hunter to shove him away and yell. But he doesn't react more than with a quiet sigh, and feeling his skin radiating unnatural heat makes Castiel worry even more. He tries to wake Dean up, but only succeeds in making him swallow some pills without choking. When the fever is still high, regardless of the meds, Castiel's anxiety reaches a dangerous level bordering panic. What if he is doing something wrong? Or not doing enough? He stares at the pale face of his friend, thinking. Dean would know what to do. He always does. Dean dealt with countless of Sam's childhood illnesses, even more wounds requiring various types of stitches, his father's drunken fits and hangovers. But now it's Dean who needs help, and Cas feels uncertain and incompetent. Afraid that he could make things worse. What is he supposed to do? Should he go get Sam?

Dean stirs in his sleep, and Castiel's train of thoughts is interrupted. He focuses on his friend, whose brow frowns, and his whole body tenses under the covers. Hands grip the sheets tightly and suddenly he opens his eyes wide, staring terrified and unseeing through the ceiling, breathing shallow, quick breaths. What is he seeing, Cas can only guess, but he is afraid he can guess correctly.

“Hey… Easy…” Cas reaches for Dean's hand and feels fingers clutching his wrist like a lifeline. “Whatever you see, it's not real. You are safe here, with me. It's just a dream. It's not real.” Cas whispers over and over again until Dean rests his head on the pillow and falls asleep, not letting go of his angel’s hand.

So until he loosens his grip, Castiel has no other option but to sit down on the floor by the bed and try to make himself comfortable. He feels Dean’s quick pulse under his fingertips and watches an unhealthy blush coloring hunter's cheeks. After what feels like hours the idea pops into Cas’ mind, and he makes a quick run to the sink with a handful of handkerchiefs. As soon as the wet cloth touches hot skin, Dean shudders violently and makes a little sound close to whimper. Cas's heart tightens. He puts his hand on Dean's cheek to calm him down, and the hunter leans into the touch as if trying to find some relief. The angel sits on the bed and cradles Dean's head, wanting to absorb the heat, illness, and pain.

“You are going to be ok, I'll take care of you.” He whispers to the unconscious man and feels Dean's chaotic fear and suffering flooding him, leaving him breathless. He has to do something, anything, to help, and fast. The echo of Dean's headache pounding in his own skull.

Dean is drifting in and out of consciousness, never lucid enough to hold a real conversation, just searching the space with glassy eyes that close with relief once he makes sure Castiel is with him.

“You are not alone,” Castiel tells him, knowing very well that Dean won't remember anything. “You won't be anymore.”

Hours go by and Castiel fills his time with wiping Dean's face, trying to get some water into him, changing cold compresses, and constantly checking the temperature. With zero improvement so far. Why is nothing working?

Finally, Cas knows he can't delay it anymore and a decision has to be made now. It's been hours and they haven't made any progress. Dean is exhausted and completely out of it from pain and fever, and Cas can't look at his dry lips and glistering, unseeing eyes any longer. It's time to take serious steps.

Dean is heavy. The dead weight of his nearly unconscious body is hard to carry. But not for the angel, who lifts him with ease, just like all these years before when they were leaving Hell. Castiel carefully lowers his trembling burden into the tube, and Dean immediately curls into a tight ball, shivering uncontrollably. Cas starts the lukewarm water and strokes Dean’s chest and back,

“Easy… try to relax” he murmurs, enfolding the hunter's arms. “This is going to help, you will feel better soon, just relax.” And finally, Dean does. Once the tube is filled, he straightens his legs and seems to be drifting off again. He slides a little and would go under if it weren't for Castiel’s grip.

“I’ve got you,” the angel sighs softly. “Don't worry, just relax and rest” he whispers, gently rubbing his chest and stomach in a slow circular motion.

This could be so much fun in different circumstances, Castiel thinks to himself, taking in his lover’s slim, muscular figure under the clear surface… What is he thinking about?!, he scolds himself immediately. It's definitely not a good time for such things. He has to admit to himself that he appreciates the sight before his eyes, though. 

Returning to the bedroom is surprisingly difficult because Dean, now somewhat conscious and wrapped tightly in the biggest towel the bunker can offer, insists on going on his own. This proves to be not the best idea when after a few steps his legs fail to support him, and he is forced to accept Castiel's outstretched arm reluctantly. 

The angel doesn't speak much now when Dean is able to comprehend what is being said to him. Helping Dean change into fresh clothes, and passing him pills and a glass of water, Cas carefully observes his patient, not daring to think that the worst is over now. Once Dean dozes off again, his fever rises a few degrees but only to break after a few hours, leaving the hunter drenched in sweat, weak and tired but finally fully awake and aware of his surroundings.

Seeing Dean putting on his T-shirt without help convinces Cas that his job is finished. He stands up slowly, mutters some “I’d be going” and turns to leave. That's when his hand is gripped one more time this night.

Cas catches Dean’s gaze lucid at last and though the man doesn’t utter a sound, the angel can hear one word, clear as a bell: Stay.

[eddiebrockrambles]

I identify as a mess who desperately wants to come across in a masc way, but is reactive and emotional and has too many diagnoses to know what the hell is going on.

I walk like I’m in pain and I probably am but who knows anymore.

I care about everyone and the world far more than I should. I try to help and more often than not end up in trouble cause I said what needed to be said and won’t back down if there’s an injustice.

I’m stubborn, I fail at self-care.

I hurt, I get blamed, and I can’t advocate for myself anymore. I exhausted myself fighting.

I cope by being a bratty masochist, embracing the pain, embracing thoughts I shouldn’t have, but ultimately relinquishing control —albeit after a fight, stubborn and ‘unwilling’— to someone who cares more than I do about my preservation and permanence. Each hit, each kick, each pull against the restraints —I want it to mean something.

In the line of fire, I’d rather step in front of someone than step on top of someone.

I ask too many questions. People before profits.

I dissociate, am too serious, get lost in thought with furrowed brow.

I yearn to give into the self-destructive thoughts. I love the thrill but fear the fall. I wish I could stop being afraid.

Sleep is not restful.

So, when a symbiote offers to merge, to heal, to care, to keep you on your toes, to hold and heal and take control for a moment?

Yes. I may fight and I may struggle, and it may not always be perfect, but I would give up my autonomy when needed. And that, perhaps, is why there was no acute rejection. A perfect match. A perfect host.

Do pathetic, masc, masochistic people like Eddie actually exist?

Well, I’m less cool, but might fill a gap in the market.

I’ve found the closest being possible to Venom, and I’m so grateful to them. But do real life Anne and Dan’s exist?

Sometimes I just want to be walked through a hospital corridor, confused and vulnerable, and be guided by someone who cares —not as a statistic or just as a professional, but as a… whatever Dan is to Eddie.

Please?

This is embarrassing and badly written.

Please ignore me, I’m tired.

[draculasfavoritewife]

Wild Honey

Summary: Gale is one stubborn son of a bitch, but if anyone could get him to open up, it's always been you.

Pairing: Gale Hawthorne x fem!District 12!Reader

Warnings: ANGST. Idiots miscommunicating and falling out. Heavy tension, sensuality, and implied smut at the end. Also by far the most sexually charged eating scene I have ever yet written, SO sorry everyone, that really deserves its own separate disclaimer lmao. Ye have been warned.

I would like to preface this by saying I know Gale stans sometimes receive hate, and while I do not condone his more problematic actions, I do deeply understand why he is the way he is -- most of my favorite characters in any franchise have done morally challenging things, but I will always fall in love with a survivor, and most times in dystopian fiction survival is messy and comes at the cost of someone else's. It is also worth mentioning that I was watching Hunger Games during one of the most difficult periods of my life a year ago, when a loved one's life was hanging in the balance and Gale became the comfort character I turned to in order to cope. He will always hold a particularly fond place in my heart 🖤

tl;dr -- If you don't like Gale Hawthorne, feel free to not read. No reason to be mean to anyone :)

*Takes place during Catching Fire

He hasn’t been the same since she came back.

That much is clear to anyone two degrees north of blindness. But it could be anything, really. His work in the mines is draining on both body and soul, the added responsibility of being the Everdeen family’s sole provider as well as his own would exhaust anyone.

Yet Gale Hawthorne is probably the only one who could still be standing tall at this point, his proud stride never faltering, shoulders broad enough to hold up all of Panem if he had to. 

The man’s just tired, people say.

Tired and angry at the world, let him be. 

What else is new?

Gale has been wearier than a young man should be and angrier than most could know for as long as you’ve been part of his life.

It’s not that. 

No, it’s the sadness darkening his gray-blue eyes and the new tightness in his full lips that you see setting in whenever he looks at her. Whenever her eyes dart away to seek out Peeta’s instead, or stare straight through him at the phantoms of horrors he would never quite understand. You see him reaching out more often, trying anything and everything to bridge the yawning rift that has opened up between him and Katniss ever since her return, and see how with each misplaced gesture, every time he tries to be soft, another piece of him turns to stone inside. 

And it breaks you, to watch and know you can do absolutely nothing about it. 

You’re surprised to find him hunting alone the next time you go out beyond the fence; you would have assumed she was with him as she usually is. You’ve known Gale at least as long as she has, but perhaps the fact that you don’t rely on him for sustenance has made the two of you less likely to travel together.

And besides, whatever complicated relationship the two of them had, you had never wanted to insert yourself into that mess. 

But for whatever reason, today he is alone, anger and something deeper sharply visible in the movements of his nimble fingers as they field-dress a wild turkey on the floor of the small clearing you’ve emerged into, his brow furrowed and mouth harsh. 

You say nothing for several minutes as you pull your bow and quiver from their stash, testing the pull of the string, fiddling with a crooked fletching on one of your arrows. Your relationship has always been different from what he has with Katniss — you would be lying if you said you weren’t sometimes jealous of how much time she gets him to herself, but you also doubt that he talks to her the way he does to you.

There are pros and cons to not needing him in the same ways. 

“What?” he snaps when you’ve stood there too long; he knows you’re too efficient to need that much time to prepare your gear. 

You shoulder your bow, staring down at those heavy eyebrows, long ebony lashes, and the rainy-sky eyes that are still stubbornly avoiding yours.

“I don’t know, Gale. You tell me.” 

He sighs, long and annoyed. “You’re gonna stand there all day if I don’t, aren’t you.” 

You give a noncommittal noise and make a show of leaning against a tree to keep watch for Peacekeepers while he finishes his work. 

The thanks you get for that is little more than a grunt. “Well don’t get comfortable, I’m almost done. And keep up — I still need more than this or we’ll have a lean few days.” 

“When have I ever not kept up with you, Hawthorne?” You raise your eyebrows at him, playfully miffed. 

There it is, the cocky smirk that pulls one corner of his pretty mouth slightly higher than the other. “That a challenge, Spark?” 

You roll your eyes in mock disdain of the nickname he’s used forever (“because you’re small, but I know you’ve got a blaze in there somewhere” he’d half-teased). “Why, are you gonna try and run away from me?” 

It’s his turn to shrug. “How badly do you want to talk, I guess?” He’s loading the bird’s carcass into his satchel, wiping off his hunting knife and preparing to head out. 

A quick grab and you’ve shouldered the bag instead, ensuring he can’t abandon you now without also abandoning his prize. “Pretty damn badly, I guess.” 

Gale huffs a breath out through his nose. “God, you’re stubborn.” 

“Look who’s talking.” You brush past him, aiming for a deer trail that takes you through some hidden haunts that usually yield rabbits and even some bigger game on occasion. “Now come on, spill. You’ve been acting more pissed than usual, and that’s saying something.” 

“Hm. Very funny.” He easily lifts his own hunting gear once more and falls into step behind you. “Hunt first. Talk later. I’ll be even more pissed if we scare off our dinner.” 

You turn and give him a brisk nod, grinning to yourself when you face forward again. 

It may not sound like much, but that was practically a promise that he will talk to you eventually. 

And you’re nothing if not patient enough to outlast him. 

The times the two of you have hunted together, your ambition and his tenacity tend to be a deadly combination, and as luck would have it, a rare buck deer had crossed your path today, resulting in an even more substantial promise of survival than the turkey. As the two of you worked quickly to prepare the carcass for packing it out, you could feel the tension ebbing away between you, could tell by the way Gale’s strong shoulders relaxed and his jaw unclenched that the immediate worry of ensuring his mother and younger siblings had enough to eat this week had faded.

He would never say as much out loud, but you know it keeps him up at night when they do go hungry, can imagine how he must pace the floors of his house at night, cursing himself for falling short of the herculean standards that the loss of his father set upon him.

He should be able to sleep somewhat peacefully tonight, knowing they will survive another day thanks to him. 

“That was a good shot,” he says after a while of working in silence, and there’s a deep-running warmth threaded through his tone. “You really slowed him down.” 

You shove his shoulder, making him laugh and then scold you for jostling him with a knife in his hands. “Not so shabby on that killing shot yourself, Hawk-eyes. You’ll have food for awhile.” 

“You’re not getting away without some of it,” he insists. “It’s as much yours as mine.” 

And because you know refusing Gale an act of service is a surefire way to start an argument and guarantee his sullen silence again, you agree that you’ll take a sizable portion back to your family when the two of you head back. Placated for the time being, he finally lets his tongue run — about how he’s managing in the mines, what his siblings have been up to, how even in the midst of his exhaustion, he still lives for the end of the work week when he can escape to the forest again. There are new themes of thought that surface and submerge like fish between his words, murmurs of rebellion, thoughts of standing up to the Capitol at last, but they are hushed and quickly moved on from. 

No matter how much you might support him, he doesn’t want to worry you too much yet. 

“What about you and Katniss?” you finally prod, trying to ignore the familiar jolt of envy that tastes so sour on your tongue whenever you say their names together in the same breath. 

He stills; when his eyes flicker up to yours again they’re guarded and cold. “What about me and Katniss?” 

“Well, she’s conspicuously not here with you.” You flick flyaway hairs away from your face in irritation, the damp air making them cling to your skin. “Don’t be like that, Gale. I’ve been your friend long enough to not deserve your cagey act anymore. Let me in. Please.” 

He stares up at you for so long from his position kneeling on the forest floor, you standing over him, pleading him with your eyes to let someone else shoulder part of the heavy load he carries for once. And you’re struck by those traitorous thoughts again in the silvery silence — how unreasonably lovely he is, with that sharply angled jawline, and those softly curving lips, that thick dark hair you’ve always secretly wanted to tangle your fingers in as he leans down, your name on his tongue and a teasing glint in his melancholy eyes — 

“I think I made a mistake,” he finally mutters. “I know I can’t understand fully what she’s seen or who she is now, but is it completely wrong of me to just wish things didn’t have to change?” 

The man who means more to you than anything has never looked more lost and uncertain than in this moment of admission, and you sink to your knees in front of him, suddenly overtaken by a wave of softness that takes a second to fully process. “I’m sorry, Gale, I am. We all change, and I know how it feels to wonder if someone still cares or not.” You shake away your own uncertainties you’ve been having ever since she came back and he’s been chasing her attentions around.

“It’s only natural to want to pick up right where you left off, I get it.” 

His gaze sharpens, though the rest of his face remains calculated and unreadable. “Have I been ignoring you lately, Spark?”

It seems like a genuine question, as if running back through the last few months in his mind he now acutely senses your absence from them. 

You reach out, trailing the tips of your fingers ever so lightly down his cheek. The gesture isn’t novel, you’ve used it to comfort him before, especially when you aren’t sure how much physical contact he wants on a given day, but something feels different about it today, some electric shiver passing between you that makes his mouth twitch and causes you to pull your hand away as if shocked. 

“I need you too, Hawk-eyes,” you murmur, almost under your breath. “I need you.” 

To your dismay, the intimate moment abruptly ends; he tears away from the echo of your touch and is on his feet again in an instant, eyes now pale and hard as ice as he smolders down at your upturned face. 

Reeling with confusion and hurt, you try to understand what just happened. “Gale, wait! What did I —?” 

“It’s that damn word,” he half-snarls, but you hear the raw pain bubbling beneath his attempt at anger. “Need. My family needs me, the District needs me, Katniss needs me to be there when she can’t find what she needs from anyone else. Everyone needs me, Spark.” 

You stare wordlessly into his face, silently begging him to help you understand. His eyelashes glimmer with droplets from the mist and maybe something else, the anger draining away as quickly as it had appeared. 

“I would just like to be here because I’m wanted for once.” 

He’s gone in only a handful of long strides, the undergrowth rattling in his wake. 

And you’re left alone in a space all at once too cold and quiet, wondering what the hell it will finally take to make it through those impenetrable walls and at last touch his solitary wounded heart. 

The sun has sunk lower in the sky by the time you find the fallen tree beside the stream and discover its unexpected bounty. You’re not too far from where you left the deer, knowing neither you nor Gale can pack it out by yourself, but far enough away to give him space if he goes back there first. 

He and his prickly attitude leave your thoughts momentarily, however, when you see the bees returning to the gutted form of the dead tree. Where there are bees there might be honey, and your mouth waters at the distant memory of that sweet, energy-filled delicacy. You swiftly fall to the work of building a small, smoky fire and holding the billowing branches underneath their main entrance, waiting for the buzzing to slow and finally fade out before carefully peeling away some of the cracked wood and extracting your prize, leaving a piece behind of course for the hardworking insects to enjoy themselves. 

Wrapping the majority of the honeycomb in leaves that you know are safe to be in contact with food, you settle at last in a spot looking over the water, ready to enjoy a taste of your labors.

Closing your eyes, you let the first drop of sun-warmed sweetness land on your tongue, and the sound of appreciation that escapes your throat is shamelessly suggestive of something else.

So you freeze for a second in horror when Gale’s familiar voice rumbles through your senses. 

“So is this your little secret, or were you planning to share with me?” 

You compose your thudding heart and suddenly hot face, glancing up at where he now towers over you, arms crossed over his broad chest and a wicked smirk on his handsome face. By the high-tilted eyebrow that asks a sensitive question without really asking, he definitely heard you, and he wants you to know that. 

So you hold eye contact with him, even as the thick honey continues to drip down, painting your tongue in cloudy golden shades of wildflower sugar.

And to your gratification, you don’t think you imagine the way his eyes dart away ever so briefly, or how his own tongue runs across his lower lip. 

“I was gonna share,” you finally say, your own voice coming out slow and sticky after swallowing. “But I didn’t know where you’d run off to.” 

“Hm. I’m not convinced.”

He lowers his tall body to the ground beside you, reaching for your piece of honeycomb, and because he seems to have let go of his earlier flash of annoyance, you let him take it, gaze now glued to the entrancing picture of him as he opens his own mouth and lets the sweet amber substance drizzle between his parted lips, tongue lifting to capture any stray drops that threaten to escape. 

“Don’t be selfish,” you tease, but it comes out strangely heavy, and something kindles deep in your chest as his eyes slide sideways to pin themselves to yours.

It’s an oddly incriminating image almost, though you couldn’t name why, to see him stare you down like that with fresh honey glistening on his lips and fingers; he, however, doesn’t seem to feel any such sense of indignity. 

Without a word, he holds the waxy section out once more, his free hand coming up to your face so that his thumb gently coaxes your lips apart again. 

“You want more?” he asks, a silky hum. 

You have no idea if he’s even talking about the honey anymore, but you nod anyway, too breathless at how close he is, how much bigger he is than you. 

So he complies, trickles the comb’s gleaming goodness into your mouth with an intense focus that you can hear in the roughness of his hot breath as it washes across your skin. His chest is inches away from yours, one of his muscular thighs resting between your legs. You’re aware that your own breathing is turning shaky, and you gasp softly when a splash of honey rolls from the corner of your mouth and starts running down your face. 

Gale is quick, but not quick enough, and though his other hand catches some of the rogue rivulet, he can only watch as the rest rolls to your chest, landing on the stretch of exposed skin right at the tops of your breasts, a single drop of gold hovering just above the scooping neckline of your black shirt, daring him to take some sort of action to solve the predicament he has caused. 

His eyes move up from the now very rapid rise and fall of your chest to your widened, startled gaze.

You look like a wild animal he’s surprised on the hunt, and he now finds that he fiercely hopes whatever comes next doesn’t spook you away. 

“Can I?” he whispers, honeycomb now forgotten and set aside. 

You nod your assent, keeping your focus fixed on his face. 

A hand approaches your body with all of the steady patience you’ve seen him exercise when stalking his prey, and the touch of two fingers to the delicate skin below your collarbone is warm and gentle. His hands are beautiful too, broad and long-fingered, the veins that hint at his great strength clearly delineated in the low-slanting sunlight.

You watch like a fascinated outside observer as those work-roughened fingers swipe the honey away, a shiver fluttering across your flesh as you feel the way he smoothly follows the swells of your bust and the dip between. 

He catches the tremor he caused and pulls away, looking back up at your face even as he licks the honey from his fingertips, and you wonder what’s running through his mind, and if it’s nearly as incendiary as what that simple action sends through yours. 

“Alright?” 

It’s a one-word question that leaves his mouth as something like a purr, though you sense the true concern behind it.

He worries he’s gone too far, and he’d never forgive himself if he pushed you into anything you didn’t want, no matter how small. 

He cares about you too much for that. 

“Yes.” You blink and gather your scattered thoughts. “Better than alright. Gale…?” 

He leans even closer, bringing your faces only a mere breath apart.

The blue-gray eyes have gone as feathery soft as mist in the early morning, and the sight makes your chest ache with something you cannot quite name. 

“You didn’t get all of it. I’m still sticky.” 

Gale searches your expression for confirmation, wary of his next move. “You know what you’re asking?” 

Your hands are on his chest now, and you can feel that despite his much more outwardly collected demeanor, his heart is beating just as hard as yours. 

“I want your help,” you tell him firmly, and you feel the way that simple word, want, finally pierces his armor, makes him twitch like the bite of a gnat. 

So he bends down, and the moment his mouth connects with your chest, time stops. 

It’s a lightning strike, crackling through your entire body. 

His lips are cool, chilled by the evening air, and they’re every bit as perfect as you’ve always imagined. You could stay there forever in the mesmerizing trap of his kiss, but the addition of his sultry tongue, sweeping a slow track along the path his fingers had gone only a few minutes before, is what fully unravels you, sending his name from your own mouth in a whine and prompting one of your hands to slide up his neck and into his hair — and it, too, is everything you’ve dreamed of, dense and wild and begging to be tamed by your grasping desperation. He growls in surprise at the unexpected sensation of your fingernails, but you feel rather than hear it, the vibrations of his voice thrumming deep inside your body. 

You know the entire exchange must only take a few minutes, but it seems like an eternity that he’s there, sucking the honey trail from your skin, his still-sticky fingers leaving behind more prints that he also endeavors to remove. You pull his body closer to yours, until it seems you breathe one breath, share one heartbeat as he rocks you back and forth with the barely restrained desire to push you over until he can cover you completely. 

But it can be deadly to lose concentration in the woods, especially so close to nightfall, and regretfully the pair of you pull away in unspoken agreement, staring at each other and trying to understand fully what just happened. 

“We should get a move on,” Gale finally huffs. “That deer won’t carry itself.” 

Temperamental, taciturn Gale.

Always concerned with the practical side of things. 

No more words are exchanged between the two of you as you pack up the day’s yield and slip back into the somewhat relative safety of the Seam. The meat is stored away at Gale’s house (he knows you’ll come back for your share, or else he’ll find you and force you to take it) and at last there is really nothing more left to do, so you step out the door and into the lengthening shadows. 

When you look back, however, he’s still standing there in the doorframe, and there’s a tentative curiosity written across his face, a reluctance to have this be goodnight and goodbye until his next free day. 

And you could lie and say you don’t feel the same way, but you and Gale have never lied to each other. 

“What?” you tease, echoing his demand of much earlier. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it again and shrugs helplessly. “I…I don’t know, Spark. Where do you want…this…to go?” 

You ponder that, taking in the familiar sight of him with warm fondness. He looks tired, shoulders slouched and face smudged with gray dust from the mines, but there’s something different there tonight, a fragile hope behind his resting sullen expression, some aura about him that pleads with you not to leave him alone tonight. 

Even a man as strong as Gale Hawthorne has his limits. 

So you give in to temptation. 

“The washtub at my house is bigger, you know. And we both could use a hand cleaning up.” 

He steps down from the threshold to follow you back to your home. 

You know what you’re really offering to him. 

And so does he. 

When you wake with first light, he’s already long gone. Only the dip in the other side of your worn mattress remains to suggest another body was actually there. 

You’re not surprised, and not really hurt. He has his job to get back to, after all, a family to feed and a whole village to look after. But you wonder briefly, after having watched him fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you and his face hidden in your chest, long eyelashes leaving butterfly kisses against your flesh, what it would be like to watch him wake up, too. 

You imagine his eyes are even prettier then, hazy with sleep and not yet hardened to withstand the day’s toils ahead. 

Last night feels like a strange dream of lukewarm water and skin on skin, sporadically interspersed with starkly clear images of his well-muscled form and those clever hands traveling across the width and breadth of yours. When you close your eyes you can still feel his heavy weight on top of you, pressing you deeper into the mattress, and you feel oddly empty and untethered now in its absence.

Only the dark blossoms his mouth left behind on your body and a selection of new — but not unpleasant — aches tells you that what you shared was in fact as real as this morning. 

What it means going forward, you don’t know. 

But you don’t regret a single moment of it. 

As you dress and prepare to head out for the day, your mother’s voice calls you into the main room. “One of the younger Hawthorne children brought you something — said it’s from your friend.” 

You see it there on the table, a folded scrap of rough paper and a single daisy, still fresh enough to mean he probably cut it on his way back to his house. 

A small smile creeps across your lips as you unfold the note. 

Spark — 

I don’t want this to be just a one-time thing. At least, not if you feel that way too. 

Sorry I had to go. I wish I could have stayed. 

You may not need me to survive, but you made me realize something. 

I need you. 

— Gale 

Hastily re-folding the paper, you tuck it away into your shirt pocket, close to your heart. 

Stubborn Gale Hawthorne. 

He’d never been much of a talker, so you know just how much those simple three words at the end of his message really mean. 

For the man who needs no one to admit he can’t go on without you?

He might as well rival the old poets in their epic declarations of love. 

Gale is much like the wild honey that started all of this, you realize, as you snatch a piece of the comb on your way out into the harsh world beyond. Once you manage to get past his defensive sting, there are so many intoxicating flavors to taste within. 

And whatever he still needs to work out with Katniss…. 

He doesn’t want this to be a one-time thing. 

[generalsdiary]

Sunday x gn!reader

word count: 1.3k

description: crackfic, written for shits and giggles, reader with a trailblazer mindset (and a crush on Sunday)

A Halovian man being your first sight in the morning isn’t something you signed up for. Against the opposite wall is another bed, his bed and he is sitting up, much like you are. His usually brushed wavy hair is now messy and his wings are ruffled, making his head look much like a bird’s nest. His eyes look sleepier than his usual tired ones and yet he still looks… beautiful. Perhaps it is his halo that framed the puffy eyes and untamed hair.

“Morning” Sunday voiced. It almost angered you. You finally got your own room except you had to share it. A frown colors your features. Maybe you’d frown less if you were waking up in his arms-

“Morning.” You decide to answer. Being that pretty when waking up should be a crime. And he should be punished for it. Yes. Punished. You nod to yourself. Sentenced to cuddle with you every night until the universe ends. Sounds good. Must talk with the judge.

Aw shucks. If you had woken up earlier, maybe could’ve touched the feather, and felt how soft his wings might be to touch. This…crush on him is sometimes making you think you’re a stalker. You shake your head.

Being distracted by your sneaky evil plans you get jumpscared by Sunday suddenly standing next to you in his long white pajamas and reaching out to your hair. “What are you...” he pulls a white feather out of your hair.

“I apologize, I had a restless night and it seems a feather fell your way.” Your eyes widen. His feather fell to you? Are you even allowed to touch it? Aren’t only significant others allowed to touch Halovian’s wings and therefore the feathers?

“Is it mine now?”

Sunday was slightly stunned. “Sorry, what?”

“It was on me. Is it not mine now?” your words a met with a head shake.

“No, it is still my feather. I do have to prune my wings soon…” Sunday sighs, visibly rethinking his plans.

“So no feather?”

“No feather.”

Sunday smiles softly at your simple disappointment, something was endearing about you. He left soon after. Claiming the first use of the bathroom.

Given the size of the room, it more often than not provided the usage of a living room to the other Nameless. Many nights are spent playing board games. In which you either made Sunday your archenemy for the night or did your best to have him as your partner in a 2v2. Either way, you enjoyed his attention.

“Pay up, angel” you smirked as Sunday’s figurine stopped on your hotel-built street. Sadly, he doesn’t take the loss sorely, as you had hoped he would. With a sour smile and nod he counts the owed money. “There you go, and I shall make sure to not step on your property again.” He smiles with that same head of the Oak family smile. It just makes you want to squish him, or punch him, or kiss him. You’re unsure. All of the above? All of the above.

Despite your empty complaints, born out of other reasons rather than disliking the man, Sunday is a good roommate. Clean, organized, always remembered where he placed something or where you left something. On the other hand, he will make you stand trial if you even touched anything of his. Moved by a millimeter- he knows. Moved a bit and returned to the exact spot- he knows. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d have assumed he had placed cameras in the room. Alas, you know better.

Standing said trial included him glaring at you with a piercing gaze and accusatory eyes. Terrifying to anyone from Penacony, exciting to you because you point your finger at him and take a few steps back, “Do not read my mind- hey, no, nope! I do not consent!”

Sunday sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I wouldn’t read your thoughts without your permission moreover I do not need to use such powers. It is obvious that you meddled with my personal items.”

“I borrowed a pen!”

“You have pens.”

“I ran out of ink.” You crossed your arms across your chest.

“Ink?”

“Yeah, ink.” Your insistence caused another heavy sigh from the not-so-tall man. Your mind couldn’t help but wander to other valleys of imagination; other versions of the same sigh. Or would he pant, gasp, mumble your name… Enough, he is staring at you- Aeons forbid he was reading your mind, your eyes widen in fear.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” A bold question you posed to Sunday. You smirk to yourself, proud of your blunt nature.

With avoidant eyes, he answered, “No. Why?”

“Do you wanna know what it is like?” Your chance to shine has come! Aeons have shown mercy upon thee and you shall grasp this divine chance! Avoiding the ever-sleazy love confessions and complicated discussions of who likes who and how much. Yes, another victory is almost in the palm of your hand!

“I am perfectly aware of how it would feel, soft and eh- intimate. Just a moment… are you offering?” Sunday tilted his head subtly and both of his wings twitched. Given your constant observations (blatant staring) in the shadows (your room) you know that twitch means he is flustered. How cute, it makes you want to squish his little cheeks and boop his nose UGH-.

Your tummy fills with a wave of nervousness and anxiety. Aeons, they have failed you! Where did the boldness go? A warmth envelops your cheeks and you exhale, “Yes, I am offering.”

Bit of stumbling back and forth and you were kissing him, what a delight. Wait, hold on- you, YOU were kissing HIM? The Sunday? The head of the Oak family? …former head of the Oak family. Oh shit. Your buzzed out sensations all kicked back in at once; his gloved hand cupping your cheek, his nose pressed against yours, the faintest cologne that you could only smell if you stood really close to him, and of course, his lips. The soft feeling of your lips meeting in what was a prolonged peck. You can’t expect an inexperienced man to just jump in with tongue kissing now can you? Nonetheless, it felt better than anything you could have ever imagined and you did your best to suppress the small whine that threatened to escape you when he pulled away.

The softest shade of crimson colored his cheeks, “Was that okay?” Sunday shyly posed the question.

“Can we do more?” A moment of bravery! You are a lion! A mech that only Welt mister Yang himself could’ve built! Yes, Aeons have truly blessed you! Except the softness of your voice matched his and you sounded smaller than a kitchen mouse.

“You didn’t kiss me just to show me how it feels, did you?” His golden eyes scanned yours.

“No” Your heart was beating fast, preparing for the run of its life- treadmill time! Or it was your imagination which was running once more with the image of him making small noises as you two kissed…

His left wing twitched- happiness! Your earlier observations come in clutch once more! They should call you a super secret ninja spy! A ninja spy capable of finding out even the most secret of the enemy’s information!

“Then I suppose we have matters to discuss.” Sunday proposed with a small smile, his thumb slowly caressing your cheek.

Aw shucks. Just the thing you tried to avoid, albeit necessary. “Can we kiss for a bit more before that?”

Sunday warmly laughed at your question and nodded, offering a consolation prize, you have rolled an 8 for a Charisma check, he leaned in to kiss your cheek.

There will be more kisses, surely. If not you will file a complaint with the room manager (you) about your unfulfilled needs.

[get-caitjinxed]

Passed your page like 7 times bc I didn't know you changed your profile

Anyway came to ask what do you think the characters smell like? I'm trying to write and I suck with imagery/writing in general so you know trying to add to it. Smell is one of the senses I hadn't written but wtf does Caitlyn Kirramen smell like????? like flowers? Clean????? Bit of sweat???? I can't 😭

Also if you have writing tips you'd share please do 🙏

hehe sorry about that lol! i was getting tired of the other one, i'll try not to change it again 🙇‍♂️

this is the part where i have to admit that i'm terminally single and i don't have a great understanding of what other people smell like 😭 i don't think i'd even be good at describing how i smell? but in caitlyn's case i def think she would wear some kind of subtle perfume - nothing too extreme or too sweet, but just enough that you would be like "oh shit, she smells good". possibly smthn floral? 🤔 and then depending on the situation, you could go for some kind of fresh laundry smell bc i assume she keeps her uniform (and the rest of her clothes) as clean as possible. but also gunpowder! if she's been shooting, ofc. and if she's been running around in a fight, sure, sweat, maybe a little blood, etc. if you're going for the hextech rifle, i feel like i see a lot of people describe the scent from that as being a sort of ozone-y smell that lingers after a burst of energy

and if you're writing her with jinx, maybe she carries around a bit of residual grease/oil/paint/metallic smell 😏

my overall tip for this would probably be to go do some research on perfurmes ig? this is some advice i should also take myself. gotta become a real jeremy fragrance type

AS FOR OTHER WRITING TIPS... i'll just rapid fire off a few:

when you're writing dialogue, try saying it to yourself out loud if it feels weird. your own voice might not match the character you're writing, but this is mostly to check and see if it sounds natural at all (sometimes i will literally talk to myself out loud and do voices if i'm thinking up a scene)

don't be afraid to interrupt dialogue (even mid sentence) to describe what a character is doing as they speak (or even how another character is reacting to something)! em dashes and ellipses are your friends

if you've written out something and it's just not working, don't be afraid to delete several paragraphs and dial it back. there are so many times were i get balls deep into a scene and go "this is NOT it" and delete everything i just wrote

less of a writing tip and more for brainstorming: when i'm stuck and i can't think of where to take a story next, or how to write out a specific plot beat, i just go for a walk and listen to music! this has been my brainstorming process since i was like 10 years old lmao and it's always worked well for me. sometimes you gotta step away from the word document and do something else for a while

your writing is always better than you think it is! i will post stuff and be like "wow this is garbage" and then have folks come along and tell me it's the best thing they've ever seen. you are your own biggest critic, so try not to be too hard on yourself!

also to anyone who is newer to writing or just starting out, write whatever the fuck you want! actually this applies to any experienced writers as well. don't feel like you need to write fics for other people! 90% of what i write is extremely self-indulgent and the other 10% is for my friends bc i know they'll like it. if you try to pander to your audience, you'll just make yourself miserable and you won't enjoy what you're doing. i'm churning out so much fic bc i genuinely just love writing caitjinx 🥺 everything i do is for me first

[pseudowho]

Hello Haitch,

I'm sending this to both you and Mr Haitch, so if you are seeing double that's why. I don't know if I'm looking for advice, an opinion? Maybe just talking to either of you will provide me with solace. Please bare with me as I write this - and you read - as words are not my strong suit.

So, I'm 19 - almost 20 - ( scary stuff ), and I just feel.. well, is there really a word? Alone; regretful; fucking empty. I haven't even lived through a quarter of my life yet, and I already feel as if it's been wasted. I know that there are still so many years with experiences I will remember in my rocking chair, and I don't plan to go down that route by any means. Because I want to live. But, I'm so tired. People need people, but I am not needed by anyone nor do I have anyone to need. I mean, quite literally one of the people whom I care the most for in this world is in my god-damned head. Of course, I have my family but that's different. It always is.

You're not a therapist, so I won't rattle on any more about this and that because it's not fair to burden you with a stranger's issues - this isn't even half of what I want to scream about from the fucking rooftops though. But, I'd like to say: here and now, that I want to change. And, y'know, I saw this quote once - about change ( it's not something I really feel comfortable with ). It went along the lines of: " I want to do this; But, I'm scared; Then do it scared. "

It'd be nice to not be scared of doing it.

I'll make a deal with you, not that you have to agree. I will message again in a month, maybe two, maybe in a year's time - who knows. An update, based upon what I have written and whatever your reply may be. No pressure, eh?

---

And, finally, one last thing: I would like to express my gratitude for both you and Mr Haitch on this platform - your dynamic, companionship ( both seemingly physical and online ); I envy the love you share. Not to just each other, but to us. Strangers through a screen. I never would have found you had it not been for Tumblr, so I appreciate that and you.

Speak to you again soon (I'll be waving at you behind my screen whenever you two post something new ). x 🌻

Hello little 🌻

While it seems you haven't necessarily messaged for advice, and more, someone who cares to whom you can give updates, I shall say this: I will be thrilled for your update, however long it may be until then.

I will gently advise one thing; endeavouring to be needed is often a one-way ticket to forming toxically dependent relationships. One should embrace being needed when it occurs organically, yes. Rather, perhaps, you could want to be wanted? Being around people who want you, and are largely self-dependent enough to need you less frequently, is very satisfying.

Having an absolute rock, upon whom you can mutually lean, want, and need, is a different matter entirely. I find that people who need to be needed often find themselves used.

Remember that being brave is being scared and doing it anyway. Find your fears, examine them, then punch them in the face. I believe in you.

Before the age of 20, you are for the most part, a literal child. Your only 'job' is to grow up. Every single experience is starting to add up to not only who you are today, but the potential of what you may be. You are barely an adult; you haven't wasted a single moment. Stop berating yourself for this. It's meaningless and will get you nowhere.

Seek happiness and growth, wherever they may be. Do not define success by the standards of another, but by your own. Find the fine line between exceeding your limits and overdoing it.

And for the love of god, stop hating yourself.

Thank you for loving me and Mr.Haitch. I know how uniquely privileged I am to have him.

Love,

-- Haitch xxx

[currebunz]

Ch 10: Fun in Friday

AO3 link

After a shower and much needed restocking, it was time to head out. Roberto had the wheel while you were stuck in the back with Vash and Nicholas. It was usually cramped, the two larger men taking up most of the room. However, this time it felt stuffy. A weird sense of awkwardness hung only in the backseat. You glanced at Nicholas, he did appear any different. If anything, he was more relaxed considering what happened before you left. When you turned to Vash, he was just looking out the window. 

He wouldn’t budge, less the truck bounced a little too hard and caused everyone to shift. You would have lost interest if not for the fact you caught him slipping. You saw Vash turn and try to peek at you, he was really bad at hiding it with the way he jumped. Perhaps he hadn’t expected to see you staring at him. Either way, you were a bit annoyed that he was purposely avoiding eye contact. But that would have to wait for when you could get him alone.

“Where are we going? I don’t see anything” Meryl complained.

“You’ll see when we get there,” Roberto said gruffly.

“What do you mean ‘you’ll see? We should know now” she argued.

“It’s not some place you kids would know” he continued.

Nicholas grumbled when he heard that, ready to join in the argument.

“Well, what about the less traveled? I want to know” you jumped in.

Roberto glanced at you through the rear view mirror and rolled his eyes slowly. He let out a tired sigh, knowing that he was outnumbered in this situation. His grip shifted on the driver’s wheel as he relaxed in the driver’s seat.

“Our destination is Friday, the city of lights,” he finally confessed.

“Friday? I never heard of it” Meryl pouted.

“I haven’t heard of it either” you said as you turned to Nicholas.

“It’s a big gambling hub, neutral territory amongst gangs and vagabonds. The safest place if you are willing to sell your life away to work for some big wig” he explained in his own way.

“No thanks, and no gambling for you,” you said with a narrowed gaze.

“Fine then, I’ll splurge on the women and alcohol” Nicholas sneered.

“Good luck paying with the lint in your pockets” you spat back.

“Alcohol and women?” Vash perked up.

“No, no. Not you too” you pointed at him.

He laughed nervously and held his hands up in defense.

“It also has a water plant, which makes it an exceptional target. That is, if your crazy brother decides to appear” Roberto said to Vash.

“Well, there is always a chance he might…” Vash agreed.

“Then it is for business and pleasure, no need to get so ruffled about it” Roberto said.

“Ugh, it still reeks of ulterior motive…” Meryl groaned.

With the plan finalized, the truck was headed for Friday. Even though the sun was about to set, Roberto continued to drive. In the distance, lights were the first thing you could see. Then large buildings of varying sizes. Then you could hear the music. As the truck drove in, the city was alive with various vagabonds and people. It was much different from the other cities or even the ships.

“Now this is my kind of scene” Nicholas chuckled as he looked out the window.

“It’s a bit loud here…” you sighed.

Meryl was awestruck, looking out the window at the many buildings that passed by. Most of them began to blur together but the bright signs were all you needed to know what kind of business that was in this town.

“Let’s go ahead and get to an inn before they run out of rooms” Roberto laughed.

The hotel was a normal one thankfully, lacking any kind of services outside of lofty beds. This time around, everyone got their own room for some reason.

“I thought we were strapped for cash?” you asked.

“Roberto said this can be written off as ‘work expenses’ but I doubt it” Meryl rolled her eyes.

As odd it felt to take another ‘break’, you had a feeling rest was far from what you would be doing. Everyone met in the lobby for their ‘instructions’.

“Alright, our goal is to find the plant and ask around for any suspicious figures. I’ll head to the lounges to get information” Roberto began.

“For real? It sounds like you are just going to slack off” Meryl narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’re too young to go in anyways so you can stick to the streets” Roberto waved her off.

“I’ll ask around at the gambling dens, maybe I’ll make a killing while there” Nicholas chuckled.

“Yeah, lady killing maybe” you rolled your eyes at him.

“It shouldn’t be hard for me to make it big…” Nicholas trailed off as an idea occurred.

He nudged you toward Vash and smirked.

“Why don’t you go spend time with Needle-noggin? You’ve been glued to my side since we met back up. You two can go on a little date or something?” he chuckled.

“Nick…” you gave him a serious side eye.

“Hm? Me?” Vash pointed at himself.

Nicholas laughed, walking away as he left you alone with Vash. Roberto and Meryl had already left too, leaving you alone with the strange blonde. The awkward air was still there and you had no idea what was going through his head at the moment. Not that he would tell you outright to begin with.

“Wow, I guess it’s just us for now then” Vash said as he rubbed the back of his head and looked up at the neon lights above.

There wasn’t anything that came to mind, leaving you in an awkward position. How were you going to break the ice with him?

“I need a drink…” you sighed and began walking.

“W-Wait, I’m coming too!” Vash followed behind you quickly.

With him being much taller and having longer legs, it didn’t take him more than a second to catch up. He fell into step next to you, looking everywhere but at you. It was a contrast to how he seemed to always have his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t looking. You both stopped by a bar, ordering a drink of your choice. Vash had a tall beer in his hand, raising the glass to you.

“Shall we?” he grinned.

“Yeah” you clicked your glass with his.

It seemed like he wasn’t so nervous around you anymore. After taking your first sip, you looked at Vash.

“Looks like you finally relaxed, I thought you might have had a problem with me” you confessed.

Vash nearly spit out his beer, forcing himself to swallow and hit his chest.

“W-Why would I have a problem?” he asked after clearing his throat.

“Well, you’ve been kind of shy as of late. Did I forget something?” you asked.

Vash felt his cheeks warm up, there was no way he could get around it now.

“I may have…. Heard you in the shower…” he said without looking you in the eye.

“Oh….” you took a sip of your drink and looked at the bar counter.

‘I’m gonna kill Nico’

You clutched your drink and tried to imagine kicking Nicholas in the shins until he fell over. Vash could feel the intense irritation coming from you and laughed nervously.

“I-I don’t mind, we’re all adults after all” he tried to say.

But his chest tightened, he knew why he did mind. He knew how selfish he would be by trying to convince you to not do that…. Or to do it with him.

“That’s not the point, it’s rude to just not warn you or anything” you sighed.

“So, you two are like that?” he asked.

“Not necessarily, it’s just… we trust each other I guess? It’s not like I have any reasons not to and Nico isn’t taking advantage of me. I guess it’s more like a casual exchange” you tried.

You didn’t want to put it into words, you both were supposed to be partners in crime, not lovers. Nicholas made that clear and you were painfully aware that he would be in danger around you after this job.

“Huh, I think I can understand that. As long as you are happy” he sighed.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but you felt a bit confident about this feeling welling up inside you. A sly smirk curled up on your lips and you leaned on the counter a bit. Your finger traced the rim of your drink as you looked at him.

“Do you want in on it?” you asked.

“Yes?! I-I mean what?” Vash stammered as he hit his knee on the counter.   Both drinks shook as he groaned in pain. Your eyes went wide briefly and a small laugh left you.

“I didn’t think you would actually respond, I thought you would have understood it was a joke” you said.

“Ah…”

Now both of you were staring at the counter, red in the face and stiff in the shoulders. You wondered why you said it, it just felt right and you knew Nicholas would have done that in the moment. But it made you feel warm that Vash just agreed wholeheartedly like that. You had no idea he was beating himself up for taking the invite seriously, of course it was a joke! You had only met him like a week ago!

“S-Sorry, that was a joke made in poor taste…” you began.

“N-No! I just… ah…” Vashs struggled to think of a way to salvage the moment.

As the two of you sat there, some gunmen were laughing loudly and approached you both from behind. They threw their arms around you both and raised their drinks.

“Come on! Join in on the fun!” one guy said.

“Yeah, you two are missing out on the best part about Friday!” the other man cheered.

Both you and Vash shared a strange look, wondering if they were trying to mug you or kidnap you.

“What is the best part?” Vash asked.

The two men tugged you both toward the door and onto the street.

“The Don’s parade! All his best girls come out and pick luck bastards for a night of pleasure. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you are, everyone has a chance!” the men cheered.

‘Oh of course it is something like that’ you thought dryly.

“Anyone? Um, I think we’re good” Vash glanced at you worriedly.

“Aw, don’t be modest big bro! Newbies are really popular and lucky! You might even get the don’s best girl!” a man nudged Vash.

“Yeah, Monica likes fresh meat after all,” another man sighed.

“Thanks but no thanks, I’m not really interested” you began.

There was loud music as a parade began, well something like that. There was a large float with various women on it. They all waved and blew kisses as the float drove slowly by. Their eyes scanned the crowd and only a few picked people from the mob. You began to slide back into the bar but the men blocked your way back in.

“Don’t be a sourpuss, at least try!” one man stated.

“I’m not interested so won’t that better your chances?” you said as you tried to push past them.

But the men wouldn’t budge, the float was drawing closer and some women began walking alongside it to get a better look at the crowd. You were getting annoyed and felt a slight panic at the possibility of being chosen. You glanced at Vash and saw that a woman was approaching him. She had a sultry smile on her face as she traced a manicured finger along his jaw. You couldn’t hear them but it made your stomach drop.

His eyes met yours and he stared into your eyes. They went wide and he wasn’t paying the woman attention anymore. He wasn’t even paying attention to anything around either of you. He leaned toward you and grabbed your hand, taking it firmly in his before taking off running. You were stumbling behind him, finding your footing as you kept up with him. Vash pulled you into an alley, the walls were so narrow you both were standing chest to chest. With Vash being taller it was more like your face was in his chest.

“Haah…. Hah…ah…” Vash’s heaving breathing filled your ears.

Your own breathing echoed in your ears as you both heard the two men run by looking for you both. You were glad to be away from it all but the parade was still nearby, it was too early for you to let your guard down. You looked up at Vash, regretting it quickly. You both were close enough that your noses were touching. You could see his blue eyes reflect the colorful neon lights that illuminated the entrance of the alley. His shades slid down slightly on his nose and cheeks were slightly red.

“U-Um…” his lips trembled as he realized his hands were on either side of your head.

From the outside, this looked like something entirely different than what he had intended to do. But he couldn't find it in him to move away. He swallowed, drawing attention to his throat. Your eyes flickered down to his lips and throat for a second before going back upward.

“Vash…” your question was more of a call of his name.

It was enough to pull him from his shock and he laughed nervously.

“Haha, I guess I just made my own joke huh? I wasn’t intending to do anything…” he said as he tried to shimmy past you to stand in front of the alley entrance.

You released a breath you had no idea you were holding. You felt your shoulders drop as you saw him look out to see if the coast was clear. While he was busy looking, he missed the way you put a hand over your beating heart. Maybe you had drunk too much after all….

A hand wrapped around your mouth and you felt yourself being pulled into the dark alley. It was too quickly to react as you were soon engulfed in darkness. When you felt the hands leave you for a moment, you swung your arm in their direction. It nearly connected, but it wasn’t a direct hit. You heard the sound of something clicking and soon a wave of shock rushed over you.

“A t-taser?!” you exclaimed.

You gritted your teeth, following the direction of the hooks to see some kind of guard using it. You started walking toward him, ignoring the pain and the shock running through your body. He turned the dial up, panicking at how it wasn’t stopping you.

“What’s this bitch made of?” he exclaimed.

You punched the man, feeling the taser stop. Your body felt like it was made of rubber and you began to lose feeling in your legs.

“Ah, shit…” you said before falling to the ground.

You heard someone approaching you and a gruff voice echoed out.

“You dumbass, don’t tase ‘em! I said to bring ‘em to me not kill ‘em!” the voice growled.

------------------------- Your mind felt heavy, actually, your entire body felt heavy. The last thing you remembered was being tased. You opened your eyes, feeling yourself bound to wood. Your eyes made out the legs of a chair and a wooden floor. As you raised your head, you smelled smoke.

Burning tobacco

“Nico? “ you groaned.

“Who the hell is that? Around here, they call me don Grappa. Forgive my idiot underlings, that’s no way to treat a guest in Friday” a gruff voice said.

Your head was pounding so you just glared at the man. Unsure of what to do in this case.

“I bet you are wondering why I wanted to talk with you, well I would like to explain it over dinner to compensate for the rude trip you were forced into. That is, if you agree to not kick my ass or anythin’” Grappa chuckled.

“I’ll consider it” you grumbled.

“I don’t blame you but I’m bein’ honest, I have some info you will want and I got some questions in exchange. I’ll even invite your friends to come save you” Grappa promised.

Your mouth was in a thin line, so he knew who you came with? Was Vash taken too?

“Why would I do that? I’m not about to play some silly game for your entertainment” you said plainly.

“Aw, it will be fun to tease your friends a bit right? I’ll even pay you, just play along with the kidnapping for a bit just to make things exciting…. Let’s say 1k double dollars?” Grappa said.

“Huh?” you grunted.

“Higher?” Grappa said.

“....Make it 10k” you said bitterly.

“Hahaha! I knew I’d like you!” Grappa’s boisterous laugh echoed off the walls.

[sapphic-agent]

I know this probably sounds egotistical and arrogant and perhaps hypocritical because I am a believer that fans shouldn’t dictate how a story should be made, it should be up to the writer and author of the story how it is written.

But after the hurricane of shit that we’ve gotten to where Bakugou is just now being forced down our throats and the story and focused being ripped Izuku and instead bequeathed to this overrated dick, I don’t care anymore.

I say we should petition that, after MHA has initially died down in popularity, we get new writers to reboot the show to where the main focus is on IZUKU, he gets treated the respect he deserves, and Bakugou isn’t the glorified asshole that gets shoved in our faces and told again and again he went through significant “ChArAcTeR dEvElOpMeNt”. Because I am so goddamn sick and disappointed in Horikoshi right now.

Absolutely! When Isayama was getting all the hate when he ended the AOT manga, I was one of his firm defenders. Even though Gege has broken my heart quite a few times in JJK, I still respect their decisions. I absolutely loved how Shirai ended The Promised Neverland manga even though a lot of people didn't. I'm all for writers making doing what they want for their own stories because usually I can understand why they made the decision. Even if it's one I disagree with, I can comprehend why they took that particular course because it usually makes sense in one way or another.

But what Horikoshi did to MHA is appalling.

He reworked an entire series to focus around one character (who was not the main character and wasn't even originally set up to be the deuteragonist). It was bad enough that Bakugou's development wasn't that good anyway, but why did all the other characters have to suffer? Why did Izuku's character have to suffer in his own series?

Not to mention the plot. There were so many aspects to the world Horikoshi created that could have been explored. This was a story about people not being born equal and had so many facets of this society it could have expanded on: quirkless people, mutation quirks, weak quirks, villainous quirks, exploitation of young female students (Kendo and Yaoyorozu), quirk marriages, child assassins (Hawks and Lady Nagant), corrupt government, etc. But nah, let's focus on and pander to the rich privileged brat who was born at the top of society with a powerful quirk and was literally quirkist.

Not to mention, the story literally forgot Izuku was quirkless. All that time he spent miserable and everything he went through (even outside of Bakugou) just down the drain. He never mentions it and hardly even thinks about it. It just... Doesn't matter. A vital aspect to his character gone just like that. Because if we acknowledged it that would just make Bakugou look bad.

Izuku deserved better as a main character. Izuku's real friends deserved to be the ones at his side, not Bakugou who only just started to not be a dick. I'm sick. And when I'm not sick, I'm tired.

I vote that a ton of fanfiction writers work on rewriting MHA together. Because if they release an official manga that treat their precious Kacchan (barf) as anything less than a martyr, there will be riots

[ohnocreativity]

Not a love story. 

Dystopias aren’t a dating ground for the main characters, unlike what Hollywood thinks.

Dystopian environments should make the main character and reader question everything and everyone. Would they tell me to the government? Would they leave me behind as we run away from infected people? Should I trust them? 

Hollywood focuses too much on love to notice that the economy is collapsing and trust is a difficult and complicated thing while living in a dystopia.

In this essay I will be comparing The Hunger Games, The Maze Runner and between the books and the movies.

In the Hunger Games Trilogy, the books written by Suzanne Collins), there are plenty of instances when the main character, Katniss Everdeen makes it plainly clear that she doesn’t want to have a relationship with either Gale (her childhood best friend) and Peeta (the boy who saved her life when they were young.)

She only wants to save her younger sister, Primrose, and their mother. Anyone else is just a bonus. However, playing the star-crossed-lovers is what managed to save her and Peeta from the first games, because the Capitol (like America and Hollywood) wants to see a love story. After 74 years of having every other type of victory story, romance is perfect for them. “Haymitch is right. Star crossed lovers, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol.”

Katniss Everdeen fully believes in the “eye for an eye” motive. She cannot let go of the fact that Peeta saved her life when they were young, which proves to be a good motivation to destroy the Capital and its ideals of using child slaughter as entertainment. 

Even though everyone in the Capital, as well as real life fans who only watch the movies, believe that Katniss and Peeta’s love for each other is what sparked the rebellion that led to the revolution, that is incorrect.

It was the murder of a 12 year old girl in the first games and Katniss’s grief that made the other Districts realise that they are done watching their children be placed in the awful situation where humans are pitted against each other and are forced to fight for the entertainment of others.

If Peeta wasn’t in the Hunger Games, it would still have a powerful message and Katniss Everdeen would still not be with Gale.

Although, in the prequel of the Hunger Games, we learn that before the 11th Game the Capital people didn’t enjoy watching the Hunger Games, not while contrasting their reactions in the 74th. For them it was as much punishment as it was for the District people.

In the end of the books, it is even shown that Katniss left Peeta. She left both of her love options so she can just live by herself and do what she wanted back in District 12. 

Peeta, like always, came to her. 

Survival takes precedence over romance within the books of The Maze Runner. We see it numerous times. 

In the Scorch Trials, when Teresa betrayed Thomas and still believed that W.I.C.K.E.D was good, that was the answer.

In the movies of The Death Cure, Teressa choses W.I.C.K.E.D again and decides to stay, even so. The romance still clouded Thomas’ decision, he was hesitant to trust Teresa but less so than the others.

In the movies Teresa betrays Thomas on an almost daily basis, it was starting to get very tiring. She kept getting into contact with W.I.C.K.E.D (Although it is spelled WCKD for some reason), ignoring the fact that they have failed so many times at so many things. They were meant to keep the Gladers(or subjects as they referred to them) under control, and failed. They were meant to find a cure for the Flare, but failed. They were meant to save humanity and yet again they failed.

In the movies, Teresa’s faith in WCKD was conflicting with her love for Thomas, but near the end of the books Teresa thought she was saving Thomas.

In both The Maze Runner and The Hunger Games (the movies), people’s main focus is romance. As such the screenwriters must have decided to use that to their advantage and focus on it as well. Perhaps because the real meaning of the books were too dark for Americans to take seriously and probably because when someone goes to see a movie they want to be entertained, they want to be moved by something that is seen in regular life. Cranks and murdered children are often evasive from the day-to-day life of people.

So, what is the real meaning of the books?

With The Hunger Games, I believe its main focus is how easily humans can be distracted by positive media, sparkly dresses and good food. As long as things are disguised by something pretty and something that releases endorphins, it’s ok.  The Capital uses bureaucracy, politicians, social, culture and  media control, that is what makes it dystopian.

With The Maze Runner, the main focus is how easily humans betray one another for “the greater good.” It is easy to be lied to, especially when they want to be lied to.

W.I.C.K.E.D lied to themselves. They believed they could play God with children. There were alternatives that they could have taken, but they were less entertaining to do. W.I.C.K.E.D used bureaucracy control like the Capital, but there wasn’t much media to control over, so they got creative. They used psychology to confuse the main characters, making them doubt everything. Their names, their whereabouts. The Gladers were physically confined into the Glade.

Bureaucracy, psychology, resources, physical and information control. 

Dystopian is described as an unfair society… Like ours.

[theintrovertbean]

Summary: A tale of a Countess who lost her memories, and a magician who remembers more than their heart can bear.

-

My OC, Dara, is trans and non-binary. They use they/them pronouns. They were AFAB, but now they have a pp and a more masculine appearance. It's not relevant yet, but later it will be because I love smut.

Unlike in the original Arcana storyline, Dara didn't die of the plague. They are alive and (more or less) well. You will find out everything else from the story itself.

It's gonna be angsty. I'm coming for your hearts.

My fanfiction writing skills are a bit rusty because I haven't written any in years, so bear with me and forgive me if it's shit. It's gonna be a full series. Enjoy!

Word count: ~1400

Wounds of Magic, Scars of Love (Nadia x Dara)

Asra was gone.

Well, at least for the time being. It was usual for him to leave at the darkest hour of the night, but regardless of when and how he left, it always left a slight ache in Dara’s heart. The plague brought them closer, but even after over a decade of knowing each other, one of them always had to leave.

But they came back. Every single time, they would find themselves in the same old magic shop in Vesuvia, dwelling over the past and their mistakes.

And of mistakes, Dara certainly had a lot. But there was one, one that would haunt the magician to their grave. 

Dara has lived and Dara has loved, but never as freely as they wished, for their life had always been bound by what they were allowed and what they were not allowed to do. 

And loving Nadia Satrinava was definitely something they never should have done.

The mysteriousness of the dark, foggy night stirred up a melancholic feeling in Dara’s heart. They always drank red wine because white reminded them of Nadia and whenever they thought of Nadia, which was almost all the time, they felt pain that words could not describe.

And yet, in the haze of that bitter ache, there was also a feeling that shined bright like the last visible star among the clouds of the Vesuvian night. 

Maybe if I had spoken the truth…

But they did not. They kept it to themselves like a lying snake and the guilt of what they did will always be in the back of their mind, reminding them of their sin like a curse. 

So Dara raised their glass. A bit of wine never hurt anyone and after tending to the shop all they, they could indulge themselves in a few sips of alcohol, desperately hoping that it might ease the pain.

And as Dara brewed the last potions for tomorrow, they heard a knock on their door. It was not the most unusual of things as people often seek them out at night to ask for their help. Dara wondered what it was going to be this time. Maybe someone cut off their leg again? Perhaps someone’s grandmother died and they were hoping that a talented magician might be able to bring her back. The endless possibilities. Nothing would surprise Dara anymore.

Except one thing.

With a deep sigh, they rose from their seat and made their way toward the door. The stranger knocked again, more urgently this time and much to the magician’s annoyance. 

Why can’t you just wait a moment? 

Surely, it was not that difficult to spare some patience for the tired and overworked magician. Especially at this hour.

But the stranger persisted, sharply knocking again just as Dara reached out to open it. 

And without wasting even a moment, the person stepped in, storming past the magician as soon as there was enough space for her to enter. She said nothing, she just stood in the middle of the room, her eyes searching for something as if she was seeing the shop for the first time.

She had her back to them, but Dara could recognize her anywhere. “Nadia?” Her name unwillingly slipped past their lips and Dara almost cursed at themselves for allowing it. The Countess turned to face them with a look of surprise on her face. “Why are you here?” Dara asked in a voice barely more audible than a whisper. There was pain in their words, years of hurt and desperation. 

“You must read the cards for me.” She was panting slightly, the magician could hear it. She must have come here in a hurry.

Then the door slammed. “No,” Dara said firmly, causing Nadia’s shoulders to jump and then she turned around. There was fear in her eyes, although Dara did not mean to cause it on purpose. But they would not allow this behavior. Not even to her. “I won’t just let you act like nothing happened. Won’t you say anything? You can’t pretend that we were nothing.” 

Vesuvia whispered. It always has, that was just how the nature of the city was. She whispered that during the plague when even the air smelled of ashes and death, a Countess and her magician hid their affair under the black cloak of the night. 

But there was no affair. Dara often wished there was because maybe then they would have fewer regrets. The people said that Nadia and Dara were lovers, but that was not true. If it was, then Dara would have had one less accusation to feel bad about.

It was, however not baseless. 

The Countess looked away in embarrassment. “I would rather discuss this later. I am here regarding another matter.” She told them, avoiding the subject.

“But if it wasn’t for the other matter, we would never talk about what happened in the first place.” The Countess opened her mouth to say something then she closed it, remaining silent. “So?” Followed by her gaze, Dara asked while walking back to the counter, clearly angered and hurt by the Countess’ presence. “What do you want?” 

“Forgive me for the hour, but I will not suffer another sleepless night.” She unwinded her shawl, a rather poor attempt at disguising herself, and despite every fiber of their being screaming at them not to, Dara still found her just as beautiful as on the tragic night of the last Masquerade. “Please, you must read the cards for me.”

Dara reached for their glass and raised it for the second time that night. They swallowed and then spoke to her. “I heard you the first time and I will not do such thing. If you want a reading, you have to find someone more willing.”

“Then hear my proposal. That is all I ask. I require very little of you.” It’s not little if it requires being in your presence. And being in Nadia Satrinava’s presence felt like a thousand knives were turning in their soul. “Come to the palace and be my guest for a while. You will be afforded every luxury, of course, and I will pay you quite handsomely. I only ask…”

“Keep the money.” Dara interrupted her, making Nadia stare at them with her mouth slightly open for a moment. “It’s not money that I’m after.” 

“Then what is it you want? Surely, you would expect some kind of payment for your troubles.”

“You should invest the money in fixing the damage your husband did. I require nothing.”

Nadia only looked at them and then she nodded. “Then I suppose I shall find another way to reward you.”

“I see you don’t understand. I want nothing from Your Excellency.” But that was not true, not in the slightest. From the corner of their eye, the magician glanced at the Countess. If she asked, would they still do anything for her? Would they leave everything behind for even a moment of blissfulness with her?

Yes. Yes, I would.

But Nadia did not protest. She should and in the past, she would have, so why not now? Maybe things were not the same anymore. “Thank you for not turning me away. I understand you have some…grievances. You pique my interest.” Her last sentence makes the magician raise an eyebrow in curiosity. 

But tonight, there was nothing else left for them to say. Or at least Dara was not sure if their heart would be able to take it.

Nadia cleared her throat and her attention shifted toward the door and then back. 

Oh? She was expecting Dara to open the door for her, but after tonight she should know better. Dara took one long sip from their glass before settling it down on the glass top of the counter. And with probably more bravery than all of Vesuvia had, Dara stared directly into Nadia’s eyes, their gaze cold and determined, but also lost and still grieving the loss of something they never had. 

The Countess sighed, disappointed in the treatment Dara was giving her. She could easily order them to behave and Dara would not have been surprised if she said that their services were not needed anymore. But no. Nadia did not take it back. Nadia still wanted to have them. “I will see you tomorrow, then, at the palace. Rest well.” And with that, she walked out of the magic shop, leaving only the ghost of her presence and a reopened scar behind.

[brionbroadway]

Gerard received his last birthday card when he was ten years old.

In one of the servant’s calligraphy, it read: Welcome to double digits: you’re all grown now. Happy Birthday! It wasn’t signed, nor it was addressed to him.

At least it could serve a purpose now. Elody would turn eighteen tomorrow, and Gerard wrote to her in his own clumsy script.

My dearest Elody,

I am sorry I do not have a present for you. I will admit, I have enjoyed our birthday celebrations at the pond so much that I did not think about what they would look like in a castle. More fitting of a princess than what I’ve offered you before, I’m sure. I look forward to it, but not to the judgement of the men who danced with you before I was able to.

Forgive me, Elody, for this is not about me. Though, you can probably tell this card was first intended to for me. You have been grown for longer than you should have needed to be, though some will only acknowledge that once you’re eighteen. I would tell you to forgive them as well, but I do not believe you should.

Elody, I have not written in a long time, but I enjoy writing your name. There is something about marking it on parchment that feels like defining our story. Elody, Elody, Elody, we will fill many pages with our happiness. I am sure of that.

I love you. Even if you were not my true love, and I was still a frog, I would still love you, and I would still choose you. I believe you know that, but it feels important to write it into the truth of our story.

Soon, we will marry, and that is the time to build traditions. Perhaps this could be one, where I write to you every year that I am granted your company. I am sure I will not run out of things to say. I am sure that I will not grow tired of writing your name.

I am sure of us, Elody.

Love, Gerard

When Elody finished reading the card, she looked at Gerard the way she did before she first kissed him. It was a look he saw less and less as the years went on, and so he wrote to her more and more, until he wasn’t sure if Elody even read some of the letters he wrote her.

As Gerard flees the Snow Queen’s castle, he looks for Elody, and finds her weeping on the ramparts.

She cannot look at him at all.

[emeraldembers]

Fic: And Miles to Go Before I Sleep (Daniil, R)

Title: And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Fandom: Pathologic / Мор. Утопия

Character: Daniil Dankovsky

Summary: Day eleven, in which the Bachelor meets with an unfortunate fate. And meets with an unfortunate fate. And meets with an unfortunate fate...

Warnings: Repeated major character death, and related violence.

Author’s Notes: Written for Darkling_Shrike, in honour of their fic Again.

Comments loved and encouraged!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61856731

The Bachelor wakes up in the Cemetery.

He is exhausted, bruised, broken inside and out. He thought he was stronger than the last few days have proven, and no amount of reassurance that "It's just September air" from Burakh or Eva could soothe that sting.

He hears barking, knows he needs to get off the slab. He can't die like this.

But he's tired. He's so tired. And lovers of death always say it's like falling asleep.

Jagged teeth in a stinking mouth tear his throat apart like wet rags, and it doesn't feel like falling asleep at all. It feels exactly like he thought an end like this would - humiliating, pointless, and agonising. He chose Death as an enemy for a reason; no one should end like this.

Again.

The Bachelor wakes up in the Cemetery.

He checks his pockets and curses; taking his drugs, his weapons, that he understands, but the needles? The hazelnuts? Life in this cursed town has reduced him to looting corpses and trash, and hubris has paid him in kind.

He limps towards Grace's lodge, praying that Burakh has performed his duties, but the masked figure on her doorstep suggests otherwise. His own advice to Saburov about the infection haunts him, barring him from entering the sick girl's home, even when dying himself.

Impassive eyes follow him as the still-starving hounds snap at his legs, pin him, take their fill of his flesh. It's no less insulting or painful than the last time, to be reduced to a thing of meat, a resource, a mere body. The lights flicker and fade.

Until they don't.

No. Again.

The Bachelor wakes up in the Cemetery.

Pushing down exhaustion and despair, he forces himself to his feet, makes his stumbling way towards the exit; Aspity lives close by, and as much as she loathes him, she loves the Haruspex. If he can just reach her, perhaps she could call on Burakh, retrieve a bandage or a tourniquet, or something to ease his pain, something to turn even an hour of sleep into something healing.

The soldiers blocking the exit don't pause to speak. He doesn't so much as raise his hands before they fire.

The world spins, dizzying and sickening, a rifle bullet turning his thoughts to bloodied paste. Were he capable of thought, he'd be furious.

This isn't good enough. Try again.

The Bachelor wakes up in the Cemetery.

He limps. He raises his fists. He fights. He dies.

Are you even trying, Bachelor? You're supposed to be the hero of this story.

Again.

The Bachelor wakes up in the Cemetery.

He's exhausted, but more than that, he's angry. Angry at the soldiers who put him here, the Stamatins for leading him to the soldiers, the Powers That Be for putting him in this town at this time, and at Death. Always and forever at Death.

He keeps low and quiet, avoiding the dogs, avoiding the soldiers at the gate, searching for something he can use. Something sharp, something cutting. Something to spite the town itself.

He finds a scalpel, rusty and dull, but better than nothing. He doesn't stop to question how it ended up in a cemetery, not in a town where children treasure blades and needles.

He heads for the exit, takes down one of its guards, and if he were just a little faster, just a little angrier, he might have taken the second, too.

He's close. So close he can almost taste it.

There's a quiet, echoing cough as the lights dim on the sight of him resting a hand over the gaping hole in his chest.

Better. But not enough.

Again.

The Bachelor wakes up in the Cemetery.