#writing like a madman

[blamedestiny21]

To add to this, it's also when I read things a day later... Other times tho it's like a deity wrote it and not me but most times I'm like huh? What happened here?

when the scene was great in your head but now you see it on the page…

[misteria247]

I'm realizing that Stan is actually incredibly smart. Like in a Ford kind of way to some extent.

Like yes Stan's street smart and life smart but he's also got the smarts that Ford's praised for. Because he had rebuilt the portal and figured out his brother's notes and equations.

Like do you know how hard math is on Ford and Fiddleford's level of expertise??? How complicated and delicate it is????? Especially the kind that brings portals to life???? And Stan figured it out. Had taught himself to read and comprehend these difficult things. Difficult things that requires college degrees in science and mathematics.

And Stan did this on an incomplete high school grade level of academics.

That's fucking nuts. Sure it took 30 years but he learned it. By himself, can you imagine how frustrated he got, teaching himself Ford's educational level??? Using his mechanical skills of fixing his car to be up to par to Fiddleford's impressive craftsmanship????

And I can just see how Ford and Fiddleford react post apocalypse. Ford doing equations and science stuff and talking while Fiddleford listens and gives his input when Stan pipes up unintentionally and puts his hat into the ring. And it's mathematically sound?? And these two men are just blown away cuz what the actual hell?? Ford's immediately questioning Stan, wanting to hear his thoughts while Fiddleford watches impressed and Stan's mortified and a bit overwhelmed. Or Fiddleford working on something and Ford's watching him when Stan points out a better way to make a part work and Fidds is like omg thank you Stanley??? And Ford's looking at his little brother dumbfounded and itching to bomb him with questions and whatnot.

Stan never knows peace afterwards.

[fishcalcart]

Selkie!stone showing off his teeth >:)

[thephantomsdream]

Simon with a collar on, held by a leash and head thrown back as all he does is slam into you, your sweet praises filling his ears.

"Good boy." You'd moan, feeling his big cock fill you up as you just take it. It's all you needed, your sweet baby to fuck you from behind as you disconnect. And good thing you had an obedient man that did anything you wanted eagerly.

"You feel so good, baby." He'd groan at your words and look down at your thick ass bouncing with every slam of his hips into you, watching his cock spread your cunt again and again. He'd grab a handful of your ass fat, growl like the filthy animal he was and slam harder, earning a good scream from you.

Filthy fucking girl. He'd spit out if he could, but it didn't matter. He was just as fucking filthy, collared up, leash in your land pulling him towards you, owning every fiber of his being, ordering him to slut himself only for you. You owned him anyway. Yes, you fucking did. With every order, every touch, every glance, he was yours to command.

And he thrived when you did. Simon was made to be your dog, your rabid animal that only you could take and tame, even if at times the leash was for decoration, since taming him seemed to be the last thing you wanted.

Rough, dirty, filthy, all he had to do was pound your cunt and manhandle you. As he just was, lost himself in your core, mind dizzy, no other thoughts but you, his owner, mistress, love.

And as he watched you throw your head back, he put his hand around your throat to keep it there. The moan he got from you drove him wild, just as the way you pulled the leash onto you, making him lean down, glue his torso to your back as he still fucked you raw, rough and good.

"That's it, baby. Give it to me harder." Orders whispered into his ear as he held your throat still, by his head, and braced himself, spreading his legs for stability and plummeted, his heavy breathing hitting your ear.

And as you threw your head back, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, you saw it in his eyes, the way he was lost into the passion of the moment, teeth gritted and sweat falling from his temple. He was reduced to his most animalistic instinct, all he truly craved the moment you put that collar on him.

Lost in your dripping cunt, you smiled at him, your temple touching his, feeling his other hand take a handful of your tit and groan, the vibrations of his chest hitting your back, cock burried deep inside of you.

"My sweet baby." You coo, feeling it arrive. A wave of ecstasy as your whole body burns in heat, and he feels it too, as if connected, and bites into your neck, slurping on the sweat and meat, one objective in mind. And while all he chases was you cumming and creaming his cock, he agrees with you. He is sweet, isn't it? He slams into you, hearing your whines. He's being so good for you, isn't he? He slams again, his grip on your throat tightens, and so does your cunt around him. He's your good boy, yeah? He felt it, your pussy spasming. You love him, don't you? He drilled harder.

And as you finally came, screaming like a desperate whore for him, he saw you fall to the side and smirk at him, dizzy, breathless, heavy tits lifting and falling with each of your pants. And you looked up at him, smirking, knowing he isn't done. He kneeled on the bed, panting hard, waiting. Cock hard and wet, your cream at his base and pre-cum leaking from the tip. And he waited.

"Aww, baby. You aren't done, aren't you?" You coo and tease, adjusting to lay on your back and spread your legs, then with a quick movement of your wrist, you pulled the leash towards you.

"Come here, puppy. Fill me up good, yeah?" It was all he needed to hear before he descended onto you.

[ceruark]

I love your entwined au! Nothing like political intrigue with a dash of yandere, simply scrumptious. Your phainonposting has me curious on how you would incorporate the amphoreus cast into the au.

anon when i tell you this ask literally got me out of bed this morning… like i was laying down scrolling through tumblr and then i saw this and got a rush of adrenaline…

thank you so much for your kind compliments! i have certainly been thinking about it. i haven’t written anything formal because i haven’t yet played through most of amphoreus, but things have been happening upstairs. oh the wheels have been turning.

allow me to indulge you a bit ;)

cw: yandere themes - obsessive, possessive behavior. "ensnared" - original entwined au post | entwined au masterlist

disclaimer: obviously, tribbie is meant to be totally platonic here. aglaea, anaxa, castorice, mydei, and phainon are meant to be the usual par-for-the-course yanderes.

The palace descends into chaos the moment you get the letter.

Nothing is known about Amphoreus beyond the singular fact that it is a kingdom whose size and power rivals that of the IPC’s vast empire. They’d been under isolationist policy until the recent ascension of one King Mydeimos to the throne, who outlined his wishes in his letter to your kingdom of wanting to connect with other kingdoms and discuss trade agreements and alliances.

You and the rest of your court spend weeks discussing his letter and how best to proceed. There’s a healthy amount of distrust in all of you given that, to your knowledge, you’re the only kingdom to have been contacted by them, and there is absolutely no information on this empire. 

Veritas and Himeko are the most hesitant, cautioning against being the first to make contact with Amphoreus when there’s nothing to be said about their policies, motivations, or military prowess. Too many unknown factors creates far too great of a risk to justify any potential gains to be had from blindly rushing into an alliance.

Welt and Dan Heng, on the other hand, are more open to the idea. They both bring up the fact that your kingdom’s reputation is maintained by your amiable image, and turning away King Mydeimos now could tarnish that and have ruinous implications down the line, especially since your kingdom’s decisions usually set the tone for how others will respond. You’re a cornerstone of the world, and with exceptions such as Penacony and the IPC Empire, many others look to you for how to respond to global relations. Amphoreus may not take kindly to you shutting them out if everyone else follows suit, and you’re still not certain how much of a threat they might be.

March, brilliant young woman that she is, suggests acting as a middleman before making a definitive decision; who doesn’t like a party? You can host a ball in the palace where the rulers of Amphoreus can formally introduce themselves to the world, and any first impressions and negotiations can happen on everyone’s own terms, without all the pressure being on your shoulders.

After working out the details, you draft a response with your proposition of hosting a ball for Amphoreus in honor of King Mydeimos’s ascension and send it off to the distant, mysterious kingdom. The response is signed by “Heir Tribios,” who eagerly agrees to the event and sends their many thanks and behalf of all the “Chrysos Heirs.”

It’s information Veritas dutifully files away for later. He and Dan Heng have spent hours picking apart every last word of both letters you’ve received, gathering whatever meaning they could in an attempt to know what to expect come September, in three months, when the ball will occur.

You invite every ruler you believe is important enough to be present, and that you are on at least civil terms with: Emperor Diamond and all of his advisors; Queen Fu Xuan, Generals Jing Yuan and Feixiao, Lord Yanqing, and Lady Yunli; Lady Kafka and her equally notorious court; Prince Gepard and General Bronya; Queen Herta; Queen Ruan Mei; and—after swallowing your pride—Prince Sunday and Princess Robin.

You wouldn’t admit to it even if you were held at swordpoint, but somehow, Sunday’s presence would make you feel more comfortable that night; despite everything that’s happened between you two, you’ve always recognized how good of a leader he is, and just this once, you’ll appreciate his rather manipulative, cunning nature when it comes to assessing Amphoreus and their “Chrysos Heirs.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, the IPC is the first to confirm their attendance, and for the first time, your palace will be seeing the rare honor of having all ten of Emperor Diamond’s advisors present at his side. The Xianzhou Alliance is next to confirm the attendance of the rulers of the Luofu and Yaoqing, shortly followed by both Queen Herta and Queen Ruan Mei’s attendance. The rulers of Belobog accept your invitation soon after that. You don’t hear from Lady Kafka, but she never formally responds to any invite, anyway. She always chooses to just show up when she feels like it, and you have a gut feeling that she wouldn’t miss something like this.

Penacony’s acceptance is penned by Sunday himself—you’d be able to recognize his flawless script anywhere. At first glance, his letter seems cordial and polite, but you know Sunday, so you’re able to read between the lines; he holds the same reservations you do, subtly responding to the doubts that you, too, had expertly hidden into the verbiage of the invite you sent him, one that had differed slightly from everyone else’s. 

Something bitter twists deep inside you at the thought of how easy it is to slip back into working seamlessly with him as you did so frequently as children and early adolescents, how even after putting so much effort into distancing yourself from him, you still end up relying on him in some way, because he’s familiar, and you two know each other as well as you know yourselves.

The taste of iron sits heavy in your mouth as you file his confirmation away with the rest.

When the day of the ball finally comes, you are surprised—one, to find out there are so many Heirs (and these are just the ones that have agreed to be here, there are still more in Amphoreus), and two, because they’re actually… nice?

Well, most of them are. At the very least, none of them seem to be outright threatening, like Lady Kafka. The first one you meet is a spry child with bright red hair and a blinding smile who introduces themself as Heir Tribios, but insists on being called Tribbie. Their manner of referring to themself in plurality is a bit… odd, but you don’t dwell on it too much—you’re certain Veritas and Dan Heng are already doing that for you.

Tribbie then introduces you to a well-built man decorated in countless battle scars and a warrior’s regalia. You’re a bit pleased to find out that this is King Mydeimos; you have a high level of respect for leaders who have actually fought to protect their empire. Though he’s the sitting ruler of Amphoreus, you come to learn quickly that he doesn’t consider himself higher than the other Heirs, and governs the kingdom equally with them. 

You find yourself quite taken with all of the Chrysos Heirs. After getting past her initial wall of wariness (that you can’t really blame her for, given your own hesitance), Aglaea proves to be a warm, comforting presence whose honesty is refreshing and appreciated by someone in your position. Anaxagoras can hold a conversation with you of such high caliber that you haven’t experienced with almost anyone before, perhaps not even Veritas. Castorice’s sweet nature comes through to you even with the distance she insists upon keeping, and you find yourself smiling to yourself every time she eagerly approaches one of the many animals kept on the palace grounds. You also somehow always get dragged into Mydei and Phainon’s banter, finding yourself laughing yourself breathless at the two’s antics, which you end up wrapped up in when they argue around you, refusing to budge from their places at either side of you, for some reason.

They’re the center of your attention throughout the entire ball—so much so that you don’t even notice Aventurine’s arrival, or perhaps, even more egregious, you don’t notice Sunday’s arrival.

Perhaps, if there weren’t so many of them bombarding you, you would be able to take a step back and realize that the opposite is true: you’re the center of their attention. They seem to be switching between occupying your focus, leaving you oblivious to the way Aglaea and Anaxa speak in hushed whispers to each other behind your back, a dark cunning revealing itself in their eyes, or the way Phainon and Mydei stand just a bit too close to you, closer than any other ruler present in the room who’s been familiar with you for years would dare to stand. With her distance, you don’t notice the way Castorice wards off anyone else at the ball who tries to approach you, or the way Tribbie distracts onlookers by eagerly introducing themself and answering questions about the vast kingdom of Amphoreus.

But you do notice Veritas standing in a secluded corner of the ballroom, willingly conversing with Sunday and Aventurine.

Terror is a frigid, biting thing as it courses through your veins—but you hardly have time to process it when Phainon is already placing a hand on the small of your back, inquiring about the palace’s grand gardens that he’s heard so much about and guiding you away from Aglaea and Anaxa before the words “fated one” can reach your ears.

[chanrizard]

31.12.2024 + bonus: new year new emotional little skz huddle

[phoenixkaptain]

Reading the novelization of A New Hope already changed how I saw Luke as a character but Splinter of the Mind’s Eye is going one step further and making me question the very fundamentals thought to be obvious about Luke.

Like, Luke is, for lack of a better term, a nerd. He studied languages and cultures -

“”Yes,” Luke admitted modestly. “I used to study a lot about certain worlds, back on my uncle’s farm on Tatooine. It was my only escape, and educational as well. This,” and he indicated the creature resting a massive long arm on his head and shaking him in a friendly fashion, “is a Yuzzem.””

-he wants to study more languages and cultures-

“Empty doorways beckoned to him and he was tempted, very tempted, to enter one of the ruined structures to find out if its interior was as well preserved as the outside.

This was not, he reminded himself firmly, the time for playful exploration. Their first concern was to find a way out, not to go poking around this ancient metropolis. However wonderful it was.”

Luke wants to know about people. He wants to know about cultures and creatures and he wants to be able to communicate and…

He really just. Is a great Jedi. He jumps between Leia and danger and he befriends the Yuzzem the prison guards thought would kill him and he wants to explore the creepy abandoned ruins of a civilization long past and he uses Anakin’s lightsaber underwater to cut the stem of a lilypad they use as a boat and he comments that the rock formations are almost too beautiful to cut down and he knows how to work Imperial explosives and

He’s a Jedi, man. He’s a Jedi. He’s been a Jedi this whole time, before any of us even knew what that actually meant.

[birrdies]

“when I say you are killing me” (desert duo one-shot, 2.6k)

Every inch of his climb is agony. White-hot and endless, it ricochets through Scar’s body as if it bought an expressway pass through his veins like a highway. Would it have killed Grian to get an apartment on the first floor? Hell, Scar would even take something on the third or fourth-floor if he had to. Anything would be better than dragging himself, slowly and painfully, up twelve flights of rickety metal stairs. In the snow. In the middle of the night. Bleeding.

Scar’s having a bad night.

Blood dribbles between the gaps of his fingers. It’s slower than it had been, but each heave up another flight of stairs blinds him with pain and sends a few more fresh droplets of blood sliding down his middle. His shirt (whatever tatters remain of it anyway) and pants are wet and tacky, sticking to his skin like a perpetually wet bathing suit as he tries to climb the rest of the way up to Grian’s apartment.

The fire escape is an old decrepit fixture of rusting metal mounted to the brick siding with nothing more than a few loose bolts and a dream. It groans beneath his weight, the barest shake of wind causing the metal to ripple and shudder. The metal saps the warmth from his already cold, pale fingertips. He’d had gloves, but had to get rid of them as they were soaked in blood and not all-that conducive for climbing-under-the-influence (of blood loss). Scar’s not afraid of much, least of all heights, but he chooses each step up the fire escape carefully, muscle memory a crutch as he drags himself past open windows with the lights still on. Last thing he needs is another broadcast claiming HotGuy is nothing but a petty creep with a penchant for B&Es.

By the time he reaches the twelfth floor he’s shaking from head-to-to. Each breath sears through him, rivaling the sharp-edged pain of lightning, setting him alight. It burns through him, the aftershocks never ending as he pulls himself upright and grasps onto the edges of Grian’s windowsill. A pained whine catches between his teeth; he refuses to let it out.

Curled up at Grian’s windowsill as he peeks through the drawn curtains at the warm lamplight cascading through the glass, Scar finds the painful climb was well worth each and every second of agony. No better minded than a moth drawn to a flame Scar leans in to rest his forehead against the glass, the warm, golden glow from within Grian’s apartment beckoning him forward. Inside, Grian’s sitting at his desk around a cluster of books and papers strewn around as if a bomb had gone off. His hair is fuzzy and curled at the tips, as it always is whenever Grian lets it air dry after a shower. His shoulders are hunched and the sides of his face are illuminated by the blue glow of his laptop screen. Even through the glass Scar can hear the incessant clacking of his keys as he furiously types away at whatever assignment he’s working on.

It takes Scar more than one try to build up the courage to disturb him. He looks peaceful (or about as peaceful as someone working on a lab report can be), and Scar knows that peace will shatter the second he knocks, the second he barges in, yet again, on Grian’s evening and sweeps him up in his vigilante shenanigans.

Scar’s bloodied hands grasp onto the windowsill, red streaks staining the chipping white paint like a crime scene out of some gruesome horror movie Grian would have him watch. He winces at the sight; it’ll be a nightmare to scrub out. He’ll have to remember to buy Grian dinner one of these days to make it up to him and hope that Grian will have the heart, eventually, to forgive him.

“Grian,” he mumbles, startled to find his voice nothing more than a gravelly rasp. He reaches to knock, but his arms are as stiff as uncooked spaghetti noodles and don’t listen to a word he has to say. With a huff of frustration, Scar pitches his weight forward and thumps his head twice against the glass. The dull ache through his forehead is nothing compared to the feverish burning tearing through his chest and stomach.

Inside, a shadow bolts across the floor. Grian’s cat, Maui. In his chair Grian twists around at the sound. He’s wearing his glasses— Scar’s heart drops low in his stomach at the sight— and squints through the darkness to see Scar sheepishly waving at him through the glass, his breath fogging it up just enough to be seen.

He unfurls himself from his chair and comes to pry the window open. Scar comes face-to-face with his heart-patterned pajama pants, two sizes too big and pooling around his ankles. Wait, are those Scar’s?

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Grian is asking before Scar manages to start dragging himself in through the open window. It’s only for the briefest millisecond, in Grian’s ignorance, that Scar can be grateful for the starless, moonless night. The dark shields him not only from the prying eyes of neighbors, but from Grian’s scrutiny. In this dark he can’t see the blood, can’t see the tears in his shirt. In the dark, he might just look a little ruffled, no worse for wear than he usually is after a busy night patrolling. In the dark, he and Grian can pretend, albeit for only a second, that everything is normal.

But as the pain and dark corners throbbing in his periphery are keen on reminding him, everything is very much not normal.

“I seemed to have lost my watch,” Scar says as he pulls himself in through the open window. Every movement is measured, half-withheld, ginger— everything that Scar isn’t, and he’d be a fool to think Grian wouldn’t notice. He does immediately, because he’s Grian, and he’s never been truly ignorant when it comes to Scar, despite Scar’s best intentions.

Grian steps back with wide eyes. The color drains from his face as Scar holds his weight against the wall with one blood-slicked hand and struggles to stand at his full height. Every inch he tries to stand taller, the more the swelling edges of the wound start to pull and ache.

“Scar?” Grian’s face, usually so warm and vivid, especially under the light of his desk lamp, pales to a near lifeless color. He staggers toward him, hands held out in front of him as if to catch Scar. “Scar, what happened? Are you okay?”

“Right as rain, G,” Scar says, managing a wry smile. “Honest.”

“Don’t give me that.” Grian rushes forward, grabbing Scar around the shoulders and steering him towards the futon in the middle of the room. The second Grian touches him some of Scar’s pain fades, if not just because he has somewhere else to pitch his weight, to take some of the strain off his bloodied, torn middle.

The pair of them hobble to the futon, Grian whispering mumbled nothings as he lowers Scar onto the edge and forces him to sit back with firm hands on his shoulders. Scar allows himself the smallest mercy of relaxing into the cushions, his arms and legs limp at his sides as his head lulls back to rest against the back of the futon. It’s as if every string tying his marionette up, stringing him along, has been cut all at once. It’s somehow blissful and terrifying all at the same time. He’s not sure he’s ever been this roughed up, this exhausted.

And in front of Grian of all people?

Grian, whose face is drawn tight, whose shoulders and jaw are rigid as if he’s been made out of wood. Grian, who anxiously flutters at Scar’s side for a second before disappearing in a flurry toward the kitchen. Scar’s head is too heavy for him to lift, but he hears Grian rummaging and cursing under his breath before he returns just as quickly as he left. In his arms he balances a handful of small dishtowels, a first-aid kit, and a box of blue rubber gloves.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, to himself more than to Scar, as he sits on his knees on the cushion beside Scar and leans over to assess the wounds.

Gingerly he pulls the tattered shreds of his black shirt away from the wound-bed (as much as he can with some of the fabric stuck to his body with blood like glue) and winces at the gory sight. Scar’s skin is torn in jagged ridges, three gouge marks clawed from just under his ribs and down across his right abdomen. Thankfully, the worst of the bleeding seems to have stopped, dark, thick globules of blood already starting to stitch together like wads of hot glue around the wound, crusting on the skin.

Grian examines it all with a crease between his brow that Scar, after all this time, has come to know means he’s irritated. He’s always looked especially cute when he’s angry (part of the reason it’s just too easy for Scar to give into the temptation to push his buttons whenever possible), but the downturn of his lips, the whites of his eyes, reveals something far more serious. Worry. Grian’s worried about him, and maybe it’s the blood loss starting to get to Scar in earnest, but Scar finds he far prefers this sight. He can’t help but smile back at him, even though he knows it’ll likely earn him a punch when he’s no longer bleeding out on Grian’s couch.

“Scar.” Grian says his name as if he’s been saying it for a while, but Scar’s only just now hearing it. “This is bad. Like, really bad.”

Scar blinks down his nose at him, brow furrowed. “You should see the other guy,” he says with a weak huff of laughter. “Stuck him so full of arrows you could call him a porcupine.”

“Scar, this is serious,” Grian admonishes, snapping on a pair of gloves and brushing his hair from his eyes.

“But you’re gonna fix me right up, ain’t you, Doc?” Sar teases, lifting his head just enough to catch Grian’s scowl as he flicks open the first-aid kit and fishes out a small brown bottle.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” Grian says, and there he goes again— detached, analytical, dawning his ‘I’m calm and collected’ persona. He pulls a pair of scissors out of the first-aid kit and tests the snap of them. “This doesn’t look like it was from some kind of a knife—”

“Ravager,” Scar says, gritting his teeth in anticipation. “Jerk got too close.”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Sounds more like you got too cocky.”

Again, Scar finds himself fighting (and failing) to conceal a smug little smile. “You’re worried about me, just say it.”

“I’m pissed off is what I am,” Grian snaps. He peels up one edge of Scar’s shirt and begins cutting away as much of the fabric as he can without disturbing the edges of Scar’s wounds. He winces only when the shirt tugs too sharply on the red, puffy edges of the wound. And Grian, to Scar’s surprise, nearly flinches every time he does.

“Sorry, sorry,” Grian whispers each time, sounding so unlike himself. His face is pale, and if Scar isn’t mistaken there’s the faintest tremble to his hand.

“It’s okay,” Scar says, just as hushed, as if the slightest movement or raise in his voice will spook Grian. “Do what you gotta do. I’m tough, I’m strong. I can take it.”

Grian scoffs and peels a foil lid from the bottle’s cap, dumping a bit of it onto a folded dishrag. “Yeah, okay. We’ll see how tough and strong you are once I start cleaning this.”

“Give me your worst, Doc.” Scar lets his head loll back to stare at the ceiling, taking as deep a breath as his tense, wounded chest will allow. The twinge of pain reminds him to stay awake, has his fingers curling into the fabric of the futon beneath him.

Grian doesn’t give Scar a warning, which he appreciates. The anticipation is the worst part. He grits his teeth and bares it as Grian firmly, but not violently, uses the alcohol-soaked rag to wash away the blood from his torn skin. Scar scrunches his eyes shut and breathes through it, the pain an unrelenting impulse racing through his veins like faulty circuitry gone haywire.

And as soon as it starts, it’s over. Grian sits back on his heels and tosses the now blood-soaked rag to the floor. He wipes at the sweat blistering across his forehead with his arm, taking a shaky breath in as he examines his handiwork.

“It’s not too deep,” he says, sounding the slightest bit relieved. He twists to reach for the first-aid kit again. “You’re lucky I swiped this stuff from the lab. Though I won’t begin to guess why you came here instead of a hospital. This needs stitches, probably.”

“Eh, I’m not worried about another scar,” Scar dismisses, ignoring the small beads of sweat starting to gather on his own brow. He can’t handle Grian thinking he’s caused him any more pain; the only thing worse than suffering as he is now is to watch Grian torture himself over things he can’t control. Like Scar. “Besides, I can’t exactly keep up the whole secret identity thing if I go to a hospital half in costume, now can I?”

“Secret identity,” Grian parrots mockingly, unraveling a bundle of bandages and starting to tack them down around Scar’s middle. “You nearly got gutted, and that’s what you’re worried about. Of course.”

He’s angry. Scar would be an idiot to not be able to see it, and maybe it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. But it’s not the anger that catches Scar off guard. It’s what lingers beneath it: Grian’s gloved, trembling hands, the way he can’t look Scar in the eye more than a second before having to look away, burying himself in sorting through the first-aid kit for the fourth time as if looking for something to help and, just like every other time, coming up empty-handed.

Grian’s scared.

Scar’s known Grian for years now, and over that time he’s been a lot of things. Angry, judgmental, infectiously funny, bright. But afraid has never been a word Scar has used to describe him.

“Grian…”

“Of course I’m worried,” Grian says, catching Scar off guard. His voice is so quiet, so hushed that Scar wonders if he imagined it. Because something so vulnerable and soft sounding couldn’t come from someone as headstrong and impervious as Grian. It simply isn’t possible. “How could I not be? Have you looked at yourself?”

“Hey.” Scar can’t dream of sitting up, but he manages to leverage himself up just enough to reach for Grian’s wrist. He’ll feel bad about staining Grian’s sleeves with blood later. For now he needs to grab hold of him, pull him in close. To reassure him. “I’m fine. I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m in good hands, yeah?”

“Scar,” Grian says, sounding like he’s about to start crying. He curls his fingers into a weak fist, as if to pull from Scar’s grasp, but he doesn’t try it. He only holds it there, waiting. “I’m not exactly qualified. I’m a bio student, not a—”

“You’re doing fine,” Scar insists, caressing the inner aspect of Grian’s wrist with his thumb. There, he can feel the furious pace Grian’s heart takes on at the touch, like his pulse is ready to leap out from beneath the thin layer of skin. He flashes a smile, just to prove it to Grian. “I’ve bounced back from a lot worse than this. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it alone this time.”

[willowser]

ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴ ᴀʟʟ ғᴏᴜʀs. werewolf kiri au.

you wake up under a mountain of furs.

light comes flickering from the hearth and, warm and welcoming as it is—you've no idea where you are.

you don't recognize the inside of the cabin; it's certainly not yours, nor is its layout that of any you’ve seen in the village. it's rather plain, with a singular window and table and chair and small fireplace, empty enough that you wonder how anyone could live comfortably with so little.

outside, the winter storm rages on, and there's a howl that cuts through the air that strikes bone-deep.

all at once your memories come back to you: dragged through town with bound hands and ankles, in only a thin night dress, screaming with all your might as the physician that delivered you into this world tied you to an old pine, along with the priest and the man that sold you blueberries in the spring.

people you knew and loved. had trusted.

the memories become hazy after a while, darkening with the night that crept in. you remember your body losing its feeling, but not its fear. you remember the violence of the storm, breaking trees and branches and uprooting the forest floor. you remember the horrible and hulking shape of something rising in the moonlight.

the door shoves open then, with enough force to send you scurrying back into the corner of the room. the blizzard tries to rush inside, but a man stands in its way, leaning back against the wood to keep the wind and snow out where it belongs. he's—big, as tall as the frame and just as wide, with thick hair that he's tied back, messy and low.

he's rosy in his cheeks and on the tip of his nose, as bright as the eyes that snap to you the moment you dare to breathe.

he doesn't say anything, at first. the bag of firewood he sets at his feet settles as he turns to you in interest, eyebrows raised. the clothes he's wearing look—old and worn, certainly not suitable for the storm roaring outside, with the holes and tears in the fabric. the boots he has on, however, seem heavy, have his steps echoing when he moves further into the room.

you pull your knees up to your chest and try to shrink away; beneath your thin dress, your skin has pebbled up, reminding you of just how vulnerable you still are.

your fear translates; the man stops on the other side of the little table, breathing in deeply before raising his hands up in what reads as surrender.

"hello," he finally says, and when you don't respond, he places a thick hand to his dark-haired chest and introduces himself as, "eijirou."

he nods emphatically and then repeats himself, as if to reinforce the name. you only grant him a small nod in return—and he smiles. it's wide, stretching across his face, and friendly, authentic enough that you question whether you're as damned as you thought, or perhaps saved.

how did you even get here? the question finally thaws out from the recesses of your brain and you take another look around the room as if the answer lies between the wood or nestled into the furs. this place looks too hand-crafted, you realize, all of it—and the man before you looks like he could move mountains, if he wanted to.

the chains that had bound you were iron-strong and didn't once budge in all your thrashing, before things went dark—but now you are inside by a well-maintained fire, warm and free, and all that remains of your ill fate are the indentions worn into your wrists.

he's still staring at you, the man. eijirou. he's not moved any closer, either, and when you meet his curious gaze, his lips twist and his eyes narrow. a thoughtful noise comes out of his mouth, like he's thinking of what to say or how to say it, and you're reminded that you don't recognize where you are, nor do you recognize him in the slightest.

big as he is, you don't think he could have carried you too far in a snowstorm such as the one still raging outside; are you still somewhere deep in the forest? in a cabin at the heart of the wood? saved by a man that somehow survives with so little out in the middle of nowhere?

"eijirou," you test the name on your lips and he perks up at the sound, attention snapping back to you instantly. you don't know if it's winter seeping through the floor, or if it's in the way that he watches you, that makes you shiver.

finally, he asks, "cold?" and when you nod, he slowly makes his way over to you, carefully, as if approaching a deer ready to run.

—and then he sheds his shirt with a quick shrug and holds it out to you.

you should want to look away, for decency sake, but you're—stunned by it, by him. there's a litany of scars that paint him in odd and worrisome places, but he stands tall and strong before you, unbothered by his own state. unbothered by the eyes that run over the expanse of his bare shoulders, the dark, thick trail of hair running down from his belly button, the ripples of muscle his loose shirt did well to hide.

you take it from him carefully and it's so warm, almost hot, that you press it to your face immediately to chase away the chatter of your jaw. the material itself, however ragged, is big enough to drape over your curled form like a blanket, and so you do just that. it carries the earthy smell of the woods, deeply woven into the fabric; pine and musk and something smoky.

with your cheek still pressed to his shirt, you look up to thank him, at last, but the words still in your throat at the minute changes of his face: still smiling, though sharper now, somehow, and his eyes are still wide with that keen, rapt interest—but the crimson to them has set like the sun and they've grown just as dark as the night outside.

[bratisland]

you working on something or just writing on your journal at the dead of night, orange dim light illuminating the pages as you dont see how soldier boy looks at you. your roommate, the guy that you had sex with maybe two times and then he didn't even properly acknowledge your existence ever since then?

yeah he's looking at you like you hung the damn stars in the sky. he hates this sentimental bullshit and especially with a man but his heart, his goddamn heart wont stop aching every time you look at him with that hurt expression twisting your features.

it won't stop beating wildly like a middle school boy when you both lay in bed, backs against each other. it gets so bad that it hurts. god it hurts so much.

there's nothing he wants to do more than get up, plant a kiss on your nape so gentle you would think you're made of glass and maybe you'd feel the droplets of tears streaming down his face. when you touch him he feels alive, he feels raw, like you see not just beneat his facade but you see and you knife through his soul with your eyes.

but at the end of the day, you're a dude. he shouldn't feel like this, he shouldn't. he pats where his heart is as his breath gets heavy because his heart is aching so bad it's giving him a migraine. not tonight, he can't do it. maybe he can never do it, maybe he'll always stay a pussy confined to ideals others imposed on him.

[cryptidteaparty]

So sad Jekyll doesn't let anyone into the lab, I just KNOW Utterson would be watching him with fucking hearts in his eyes while he does experiments and explains what he's doing to involve Utterson in some way.

[misteria247]

Imagine-

It's the fall season and Ford's actually getting a chance to enjoy it for the first time in 30 years. He's surrounded by the nibbings who are chatting a mile a minute, telling him about school and about a fall festival coming up. Close by is his twin, who's listening with a soft look. The season consists of these moments, of Ford going on walks with his grand niece and nephew. Or helping them make leaf piles for them to jump in, Dipper and Mabel's laughter always filling him with warmth. In those moments he'll sometimes mess with Stanley, pushing him into a pile and Stan will get a look of mischief and drag Ford with him. The two of them covered in dead leaves and laughing at their messy hair and crooked glasses.

On chilly nights he'll have Dipper, Mabel and Stan surrounding him on the floor or couch. The four of them in warm pjs and fluffy blankets. With movies or stories being shared between them. On frosty mornings Ford wakes up and gets coffee, and Stan will come in shortly after sleepy and needing coffee. The kids join shortly afterwards and they all enjoy a nice breakfast together.

Ford would go to different festivals, where he, Stan and the twins will try different treats like caramel and candy apples. Or take part in stands that sell delicious apple, maple, pecan or pumpkin sweets. He'll get hot chocolate for the kids and strong spiced apple cider for him and Stanley. Every day of the autumn season, Ford enjoys every moment of it, with his three favorite people in the world.

[knightobreath]

the iii style mepad design sucks so i tried my best to fix it while remaining in-style 👍 first time doing an edit like this. it was kinda fun might try something like it again

edit: because not a lot of people have seen this design i guess, original is on the right

[graceofgondor]

charlie thinking ginny looks pretty wearing her rollers is an idea that truly gets me out of bed every day

[marstonsboy]

every time i make any kind of au for rdr it just gets sadder than canon for no justifiable reason. the other day i had the evil thought of “wouldn’t it have been fucked up if dutch actually shot john on that cliff and jack went after his uncle dutch for revenge years later” and now i can’t get it out of my head. what the hell.

[boasamishipper]

Christopher McQuarrie: The very first cut of the movie I did started with Part 2 of the Sevastopol. It was the aftermath of the torpedo hitting, and you see little glimpses of this movie when he's in the submarine. That's an entire scene of what happened in the Sevastopol after the torpedo hit and how they all went into the missile compartment and tried to escape through the missile tubes. If you go all the way back to the first trailer of Dead Reckoning, there's a guy in one of those SEIE [Submarine Escape Immersion Equipment] suits - that's those, those orange suits that the Russian divers are wearing and you can see them frozen in the ice. The SEIE suit is an escape suit that all the submariners have access to in the event of an emergency and they can leave through the missile tubes. One day I'm just gonna make a submarine movie so I don't have to cut everything that I love about submarine movies out because there's so much other movie. [laughs] The original concept of the Sevastopol sequence was the captain and the XO were, along with the rest of the crew, were in the missile compartment. When the ship hit the bottom of the Bering Sea, the submarine splits open and they're ejected into the sea and the only person to survive the Sevastopol was the XO.

Chris Hewitt: Right.

Christopher McQuarrie: And he makes it up in his SEIE - he's badly injured, and he's put in a SEIE suit by other guys. Everyone dies except the XO, who basically regains consciousness as he's floating towards the surface, looking down at the wreck of the Sevastopol below him. And suddenly his back hits something and he turns around and he's under the ice cap, surrounded by the dead bodies of all of his comrades.

Chris Hewitt: Oh my God.

Christopher McQuarrie: And of course, the sequence ends with him - it's a horrible episode of The Twilight Zone, he survived the wreck only to drown under the ice when his air runs out. It was all to tell you the story of how the keys got to the surface. No one cared, and you just didn't need that much of it. And it would - but it was cool stuff that Erik Jendresen and I were really into. And in another kind of movie, you could have told that story. And that's what Mission is. It's a lot of us putting these things in that we're fascinated with and then suddenly going, 'Yeah, the story doesn't involve Ethan Hunt,' and Ethan - it's very much a first person point of view. And then that's what you gotta do. So I originally started with that for no other reason that you had to know what the Entity was and see the consequences of its actions.

[Empire Spoiler Special - Christopher McQuarrie On Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning (Part One), 06:54 - 09:41]