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morgana-ren · 4 months

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What would gortash and Durge be like in bed?? I always like to imagine a on the path to redemption Durge, who is perhaps slightly more submissive now than they were. Allowing Gortash to absolutely be the rough dominating tyrant he is. No touching, no whimpering, no begging no nothing without his permission. Sit there in some tacky gold chains and warm his cock. If he ever so much as feels that cunt of yours twitch he's denying you for the rest of the night.

Be a good girl, get on your knees under his desk and Open that mouth. let him rest his cock on your tongue while he does some paperwork. Ah ah, no noise, no swallowing, he needs to concentrate.

I think before the mindflayer parasite there whole dynamic was alot more blood and teeth, both fighting for control, but now he gets to have them how ever he wants with all the control. Finds their attempt at being good a little pathetic but their memory loss makes them oh so vulnerable and gives him the perfect opportunity to sink those manipulative claws deep.

They wouldn't drop to their knees for him then, but they will now. He'll make sure of it.

Oh, before the parasite? It would have been a show.

Two powerhouses; the deserved chosen and avatars of Gods-- Rival Gods. Sex is power, and it is a struggle-- it is a fucking fight at the best of times, and the bedroom was an arena between two titans vying for complete and total dominance. Neither would kneel or bend for the other. They would take and claw and battle for the right-- and it's always a stalemate that ends with blood on the bedsheets and one swearing vengeance for underhanded trickery to their cackling counterpart.

Banites do not kneel before Bhaalists; Bhaalists do not bend for Banites. Both command an unyielding air of dominance. Around and around and around it goes. You only get what you can make them give you, and boy, is it convoluted when two mortal bodies want nothing but to sink fang, claw, and cock into each other but the Gods looming behind them demand acquiescence.

Oh, it was great fun for Gortash. There's something simply charming about having a bedfellow comprised of stone and steel and iron will that would not bow before his command. A never-ending game where the prize is always just out of reach-- just beyond the slip of his fingers. He found his consolation prize on the occasions he was able to force her on hand and knee and swaddle himself deep in the confines of her tight, wet body, the furious fires of her rage only serving to warm him with every merciless cant of his hips.

--Yet, there is something so overwhelmingly blissful about the victory of finally cradling her newfound vulnerability in the palm of his metal-laden fingers.

Fire and fury and death incarnate though she may be, she is as a lost little lamb on exile from her flock. Her shepherd has abandoned her, and so she wanders back listlessly to the last place she felt known-- straight into his grasp.

She is a weapon, honed to a fine edge, and there will be matters to attend to later, but for now, he intends to savor his victory.

She remembers little of herself, and knows even less, but he is more than happy to fill in the blanks of her memory-- rewritten to his whims, of course. Poor dear, so lost and alone, it must have been terrible. Those urges that claw and shred at your insides, being shorn of your sanity little by little as it skelters lost behind you, blown about by tumultuous winds of your profane blood.

He will keep her safe and secure, his hand to Bane-- but she must do as he says. Doesn't she trust him? Isn't he the only one she trusts? The only constant she remembers even as her memory was cruelly lobotomized and hollowed away? Surely there is some part of her that knows she can trust him. Is that not why she found him again?

She may not remember, but her body certainly does. She no longer fights the cries caught in her throat, nor does she stiffen the exquisite arch of her back. She takes him without guilt-- without fear of reprisal-- and it is something marvelous to behold.

She is unchiseled marble; an eager, emphatic little thing he shall turn into his own personal work of art through tender hand and discipline. Her mind is a blank book and he shall fill in the pages as he sees fit. As he has cared for her, she too shall care for him to his precise needs. He will make sure of that.

There is something utterly intoxicating about taming a pure predator. She will take him into her mouth but she wouldn't dare bite down to gnash at his flesh. She will not snarl or snap as he wraps a hand around her exposed throat and squeezes. She will not retaliate with claw when he strikes her and warns her to watch her tongue. She only nods, raw need and desire exposed like a tender nerve now that her scales have been shed away.

The golden collar is a gift. A reward for being such a good girl. After all, she always was, wasn't she? She has picked up excellently right where they left off, and she is so proud as he clasps it around her neck. Never mind the chain, my love, it is there to ensure you are safe; that you do not stray too far from where he might protect you.

She takes to her lessons like an obedient pup, and she doesn't seem to notice as the chain becomes shorter and shorter still.

He could not have imagined the resplendence of the sight of her eagerly on her knees, looking up at him with doe eyes and a wet, slack lip, and surely Bane must be pleased as he feels glory lapped upon him as a wave washes over sand. Bhaal's only beloved daughter turned into a concubine of Bane. He uses her in every blasphemous way that his mind can conceive of-- and he is a man of remarkable mental capability.

He has become adept at penning a missive as he cradles her in his lap, and she remains hushed with a perfect, practiced silence as she rides him slow and deep. He cannot have distractions, after all, and if she slips and becomes a little too emphatic, he corrects the behavior swiftly. He is so terribly proud of her ability to take him well into the hollow of her throat, suckling and laving through his throbs. He is expressionless and cold and she has learned to tell from body language alone when to slow her wicked tongue and when to drive herself to gagging.

He had always craved to have her in unconventional ways-- ways she would not entertain when she was of sound mind, how degrading-- and when he now demands she bend for him and beg him to take her there, she does. Her squeals and cries through bitten lip are wondrous, but the way she begins to steadily grind back against him, coaxing his fingers to fist in her hair or encircle her throat, begging him harder and deeper and to make a mess of her is his crowning glory. He practically ruts her ass into dust, driving her into the mattress in his unrelenting lustful haze until the noise surely reaches Waterdeep.

This proud creature brought to ruin just to serve him.

His, his, only his. Any way he needs her, any way he wants her.

There are still bits and pieces of her inside her rattled mind. Dusty remnants of a malevolent, domineering life once lived. The way her tongue swipes across her teeth to lick the crimson from ivory after he 'corrects' her. The flash of fire in her eyes when he commands her about, ripping her back by the hair until she cries in ecstasy from his treatment. The snarl of indignance as he tugs at her chain, demanding she crawl on hand and knee to placate him--

--and he would have it no other way.

A prize easily won is no true prize, and the beloved blood of Bhaal is his pride and joy. She is a lioness, and he would not see her forget it. He taunts and teases her to snapping only to put her back in her place at his feet once more. He stokes those fires deliberately, only to suffocate them with his presence to remind her that she breathes for him and him alone.

His perfect pleasure vessel-- and perhaps more. It's so terribly hard to think as she whines and croons beneath him, demanding more and more of him as he withholds deliberately. His spoiled, bratty little cockdrunk darling has forgone her throne of blood to sit her exalted behind somewhere far more convenient and pleasurable to him.

Still, she must be kept in line. She takes far too easily to demanding. A hissed word, a few bruises and a bit of blood leaves her glassy-eyed and pliable once more. Open legs, open mouth, open heart.

Oh, her daddy would be so utterly humiliated if he could see the things the Banite makes her scream for. Sometimes, Gortash hopes he can.

#morgana and friends #gortash x durge #tav x gortash #predictably inappropriate so read accordingly #mentions of... everything #again I am my own warning #i imagine he can do the 'no touching' thing for all of 4 minutes and then loses it #I can do a fleshed out story if that's better #I more of.. outlined it

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mytalemyworld · 3 months

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I don't have enough time to talk about the episode (there were some parts I love but also some parts I found sloppy) however this scene is engraved in my mind and heart forever. I can't stop thinking about it.

From the beginning to the end… How the feelings were portrayed and how they were in character and yet showed so much progression. How they were soft yet intense. Just like everything about them.

Alaz: Can we talk? Asi: No. Alaz: I didn't come to fight, Asi. I came to talk this time. Please.

Like this was the beginning (more like the end of me), the way he was begging so they could talk…he's always convincing and she has always a soft spot for him when he is desperate but after everything he knew he was extra soft here.

Asi: So?

He was nervous about how to start the conversation, became insecure about how she would react. He knew one wrong word choice could make their fragile relationship worse…His whole body language, his all eye movements…This was the first time we saw him like this.

Alaz: Look. I know what we are is too ridiculous. It's mostly my fault. Asi: Mostly? Alaz: Okay. (*) Let's say all my fault.

I smiled at his adorableness here.

(*) "Okay" makes sense when it comes to clear translating. But actually he said "oldu" which is usually used when someone asks for you to do something as their wish or command and you are like "okay I'll do it".

She wanted him to be sincere and he was like okay I will be and he kind of owned his mistakes here.

She is Asi, he can't beat her but since this doesn't make him uncomfortable anymore, since he's at peace with his feelings now, he just accepted it and smiled.

Asi: What's going on? There's something off with you. Did you come here to overcome your fears? Alaz: You're right. I am the coward one in this situation. I was scared of your stength. You're always so strong, even when I hurt you, you never break down. Whatever I do, it doesn't matter, you always stand straight in front of me. It's like you're wearing a steel armor…that's what I thought. Since I couldn't beat you, I attacked more. I didn't even stop to think once why this girl was wearing this armor. Asi, for the pain I've caused you- Asi: Stop right there. What pain? Where did this come from? You caused me pain?

We finally saw the continuation of the talk between the siblings. (Honestly, I didn't like the way Çağla told her he was scared of being in love with her. I think this conversation should have happened between them, not like this. But anyways.) When after he'd said "I didn't even stop to think once why this girl was wearing this armor." she waited to hear something different. Not his "I caused you pain" talking.

She outbursted.

Every time she chose to trust or wanted to believe him he proved her wrong. He broke her heart. Even when he looked so sincere. But since she can't afford to suffer because of him she completely builds her walls around again not allowing him to enter anymore.

Her pride is stronger this time also she hates being weak.

It was more like she was talking to herself here. She wants to convince herself, "you've been through so much, how could he bring more suffering, he's such a spoiled brat who has everything in this life, who just sees everything as a play, even you, come to your senses, don't fall into this trap again, he's not worth this pain".

She was arguing, telling how he had no idea about the real pain but this time he wasn't in pain because of his guilt.

This is the face of someone who has realized what she has been through.

This time he was in pain because she was in pain. Not his feelings were on the spot, this was only and only about her.

Now he knows how to love.

Alaz: I am sorry. Asi: Don't be. Don't say sorry. You're being Alaz, as always.

Like you can clearly see she doesn't trust him. He says sorry but will forget what he said the next day and hurt her again.

But then boom! He pulled her and hugged.

Touching is his love language, when he can't explain what he feels, when he can't console someone with words, when he feels like words are not enough and since he knows lack of physical touch between people when they need it makes one more misarable...

And also here…when embracing her was also a need for him he didn't think twice.

She needed that hug too, you know. She closed her eyes and hugged him back slightly.

Asi: Let go. Let it stay messy. You can't put them back together.

He has the opposite effect of "healing" so… They are not good for ecah other, she means. She might be broken but he's the last person to make her feel good. Not anymore at least.

I mean, if he could express what he'd done or what he couldn't do, they would get back on track. Because they could talk once and share what they feel. Then everything went downhill, they lost what they had.

But she will choose to believe him again and this time he won't disappoint her. He will fix what is broken between them.

They're just so heartbreakingly beautiful. The way they fell in love with each other is so beautiful. I just can't get enough of them.

#yabani #asi x alaz

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soleilnomoon · 2 years

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HEYYYY 2/20 REQUESTS!! LETS GOOOO

ice cream sundae, nougat, neapolitan rose, ice cream cake with honey and caramel!!! for trafalgar law as I'm a one trick pony

give us the pirate x marine angst!! the tension!! the forbidden love!! getting caught by Law and forced (not really, reader wants this badly but has an act to uphold) to play his lustful game where reader ends up throwing out the act in the end and just wants him, and he gives and makes them stay on his crew after!

"don't think I'll let you run back to your shitty marine corps, you're staying with me. but first, I need to punish you some more for all those times you've stopped my crew..."

"oki bb, whatever you say~💅✨😘"

let's pretend i didn't take 100 years to finish this request, however!!!! i had so much fun (i love enemies to lovers sfm, as u know ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡) so sorry it took forever, but it's here at last. i hope you enjoy bc i def had way too much fun writing this.

6.5k words (i know omg, i know shhh), fem reader, nsfw, 18+, mdni; angst angst angst, fluff? don't know her; she doesn't exist here. smut, obvy bc that's what i do ૮₍˶ •. • ⑅₎ა enemies 2 lovers, babey. feat. cutesy things like alcohol, public exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), pussy slapping, lil bit of nipple play, other stuff probably; idk law is a mean bitch bc he can't handle his feelings; reader is a marine who has zero self preservation obviously. both of them need to shuddup and kiss. (if u see spelling/grammar errors no u didn't; also the section in italics is a longass flashback i'm not sorry).

“because i am the kind of woman who leaves scars” — anaïs nin

ONE, TWO, THREE

when you received your promotion earlier on in the year, you assumed the higher ups would loosen their leash and let you do as you please. to your inevitable disappointment, they haven’t; you learn this the hard way when several thick stacks of documents are left for you to review on your desk one brisk morning. you scoff, fight the urge to set them on fire, and plop down on the cushioned chair. with your boots propped on top of the desk and feet crossed at the ankles, you close your eyes and sort through the running list of tasks you need to complete before you can set off for the new world.

it's never your intention to think about trafalgar law, but somehow he always finds a way to sneak into your thoughts throughout the day. agitation works its way slowly through your veins, teeth clenched as you grind them against each other. it’s even worse at night, where you find yourself twisted in your bed sheets, tossing and turning, plagued by dreams where his hand wraps around your throat almost too easily. instead of fighting him off, you’re always breathless and mesmerized, lips parted and wanting — his amber eyes holding you in place, seeing through all your thick layers and steel walls that you’ve erected to protect yourself.

no one’s ever penetrated them before and survived.

it's terrifying and unsettling that you always wake up panting, trembling fingers clutching the front of your shirt desperately, sweat pooling around your temples, curls frizzing from the humidity. you fear that your heart is beating hard enough to incapacitate you and you clamp your hand over your mouth as if it’ll prevent you from screaming out in frustration. if you keep your eyes closed, you can still feel his hands around your throat; if you keep your eyes closed, you can ignore the guilt that accompanies those dreams and tread the dangerous path towards impossible fantasies.

an unsteady tightrope that you tackle head on — one foot in front of the other, blindfolded and nervous, unsure of what awaits you at the end.

there’s nothing abnormal about a marine trying to figure out a pirate’s next moves, but your case is a little different. irritated at yourself, you kick your feet off the desk and knock the documents over; the pages float through the air and you laugh as you ignore the mess. you suppose you’ll sort through it all later. the transponder snail rings loud enough to startle you, but you take your time answering.

you pop a mint into your mouth and chew thoughtfully, not bothering with pleasantries as your voice denotes your irritation. “what is it?” you’ve never been one to be polite when speaking to other marines — no matter the rank; and since your mood still hasn’t lifted, you don’t bother pretending.

“oh, absolutely not,” you grit out, brows furrowed, a frown settling on your lips. the commodore refuses to let up, berating you for your past failures and reminding you that as a captain you need to be setting a proper example for your subordinates. right now, the commodore was not happy with you; and if he’d let you explain the situation, then maybe he wouldn’t feel so inclined to lecture you like a child.

“right but—” you’re cut off by another long diatribe of his and the longer he speaks, the angrier you get. “well if you’d listen, then i could—” again, you’re unable to get a word in; you try several times over to no avail. irritation swells inside of you, an itch you can’t quite scratch yet; you clutch the receiver tightly and end up hanging it up once more foolishness is spewed your way. it’s ridiculous that headquarters wants you to drop your current mission and focus on capturing law. they refuse to let you shirk any responsibility as you let him escape the last time you crossed paths. you knew the decision would come to haunt you, but you didn’t think it would be this soon. and while you had a very valid reason for letting him go, you still can’t forget the last thing he said to you before slipping away. it follows you around throughout every day, an unrelenting reminder of your incompetence.

weakness is not an option, even if the enemy in question tends to throw your world into chaos whenever he sees you.

FOUR, FIVE, SIX

you’re nursing your fifth shot of vodka when trafalgar law approaches you; the pub is dingy, overcrowded, but popular. you’re not much of a fan, but the alcohol is cheap — business is always booming. since you typically don’t wear a uniform regardless, no one seems to recognize you — it could be the fact that most of the patrons are drunk or exhausted or a combination of both. you’re too damn tired to make any arrests so you drink to your sorrows and ignore the ache on your face and shoulder.

he slides into your booth, opting to sit right next to you, leg bumping against yours without a care. you cast a sharp glance his way, scowling as you knock back the shot. there’s something off with him tonight; he’s much too relaxed — in all the years you’ve been pursuing him, you’ve never seen him with a devil-may-care attitude. until now.

“bold of you to assume i won’t take your head right here and now,” you say lightly, alcohol sitting heavily on your chest; you’re sure that that’s the reason why you suddenly feel out of breath, but you steel your features in his presence and trace the tip of your finger around the rim of your shot glass. you observe him through your lashes, eyes trailing along his jaw, admiring the distinct features that you can never tire of. if he was uglier, then you’d have no problem dealing with him. but he’s not. it pisses you off.

law pauses, mulls over your words, and tilts his head as he studies you. “that’s the thing,” he leans forward, crowds your space until you back yourself against the wall, wary and critical as you narrow your eyes at him. if he gets any closer, you might not be able to resist whatever nonsense he’ll tout your way. his voice is unnecessarily hypnotic, but if you voice that out loud, he’ll never let you live it down. “you’re not in a position to act right now.” how he knows that is beyond you, but you suck your teeth and roll your eyes.

“don’t test me, i’m not in the mood.” not that you ever are in the mood to deal with him, but he doesn’t need to know that. “now, leave me alone.” you’d rather ignore his presence altogether, but he’s doing that thing where he makes you squirm under his gaze; you try to hide it, but he catches the movement, eyes dipping lower as he takes in your appearance.

it's hot out and you opted for something breezy and short, sleeveless and stress free. you blame the vodka for bringing an uninvited heat to your face when he leans in again; and you blame the vodka for not giving you time to defend yourself against his sorcery. because that’s what it is — that’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway — why else would you inhale deep enough to commit his cologne to memory.

absurd. foolish. this sort of behavior will get you killed.

and yet—

he snorts — a surprise to you both — and coughs to clear his throat. “what will you do if i don’t?” you almost slap him, but keep your hands balled into fists, nails sinking into your palms to keep yourself grounded. it’s not the words that get to you, but the rich timber of his voice drips onto your skin, permeating through the layers, its huskiness mixing into your blood.

his is a voice you’ll never forget, and you hate that so fucking much.

frowning, you fold your arms against your chest, cheeks slightly puffed, that heat still lingering on your face as you try to steady your heartrate. his eyes are hawkish, raking over your body in broad sweeping motions; you watch his throat as he swallows, and suddenly you’re very aware of his proximity. you’re both silent for a long moment, but when you part your lips to speak, you choke on your words as law tugs on your plump bottom lip with his fingers.

you stare at him incredulously, but you don’t move; normally you tell him off, give him scathing words and go back and forth until you’re both too tired to continue. to make matters worse, your tongue darts out and briefly flicks against his finger. a harsh current of electricity shoots up the length of his arm, making him retract his hand quickly. he gives you a hardened stare, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing before muttering something under his breath. you catch the words, “ridiculous” and “unnecessary” and “how irritating.”

you want to point out that he’s the irritating one, but you’re still reeling from what you’ve done. shame settles onto your shoulders, makes it hard to move around. so you order another drink. you half-expect law to leave, but he doesn’t, which is strange. very, very strange. you don’t bother talking to him but find that you can’t ignore his presence any longer. his knee presses against your thigh and he leans against the palm of his hand while his elbow is propped on the table. always silently watching, crafting contingency plan after contingency plan — you’re a wildcard that needs to be dealt with. swiftly.

it must be an act of pure possession that forces him to snatch the shot glass out of your hand and chuckle darkly when you try to grab it back. the words that fly out of your mouth are tart yet welcomed; he’s comforted by that sort of behavior, because it’s predictable. and it’s your predictability that will allow him the chance to escape with his crew. when he brings the glass to his lips, you feel your annoyance reach its peak.

“don’t. you. dare.”

it's your drink, he needs to get his own. granted, you definitely don’t need to drink anymore; but you’re committed to wallowing and throwing a pity party that you don’t want law to interrupt. the vodka floods his senses as soon as its in his mouth, you watch in horror as he finishes your drink, a small smirk prancing onto his lips when he places the glass down. he’s testing your patience, you know that, however it doesn’t stop you from grabbing onto his shirt, fisting the fabric as you bring your face close to his.

“the fuck did i just say? what is your damn problem?” your anger is rolls off of you — lethal and toxic, spreading through the air — but it only furthers his interest in you, although he’ll deny that later on. he’s not sure why, but he grabs your chin roughly and runs his tongue along your lips. your breath stills, and you wonder if maybe this is all a dream; since you’re properly distracted, he releases your chin and grips your neck, long fingers pressing into the sides. firm enough to make you gasp, but not hard enough to cut off your breathing completely.

you can feel your pulse skyrocket, and while you try to keep calm, you can’t; not when he traps your bottom lip in between his teeth, not when his other hand runs along the inside of your thigh, and not when you inhale sharply and lean forward to kiss him impulsively. you completely take him off guard, as he fully expected you to fight him a bit more. law rubs his thumb along your neck before squeezing it again, slanting his lips against yours, tongue stroking hotly and licking inside your mouth. you were upset he took your drink, but you can taste the alcohol on his tongue — it’s more potent than the other five shots you downed previously.

his hand inches higher, fingers gliding underneath your dress, goosebumps pricking your skin mercilessly with every swipe of his tongue. you place your hands on his chest, the warmth from your skin nearly burning through his clothes. this is a mistake; he knows it, he should’ve left you alone — but he knows that’s easier said than done. besides, you’re one of the few constants in his chaotic life right now. he kisses you to sate his growing appetite, but it’s not enough; if anything, it only stokes the mania that he keeps locked away. ravenous and unyielding; he knows better than to open that door just yet.

your lips are softer than he imagined, plush and inviting, supple enough to stir certain feelings that he continues to ignore. his annoyance still lingers as his arousal builds inside of him; he didn’t think you’d be this pliant, didn’t think you’d allow him to squeeze and caress your thigh like that. in all honesty, you just aren’t thinking; he’s taken that away from you — all your logic and sound judgement — and when the tips of his fingers graze the front of your panties, you let out a soft whimper that nearly makes him forget himself.

he swallows all your doubts and worries, gives rise to a feverish madness that whirls inside of you; turbulent, accosting in nature, a force to be reckoned with. he only meant to tease you, but in return he set himself up for failure; his cock strains inside of his jeans, the front pressing painfully against his half-stiff length. if he doesn’t stop soon, if he doesn’t find a way to purge you from his system, he might never be able to stop touching you.

law’s fingers stroke along the front of your panties, the fabric growing damp as he rubs firm circles on your clothed cunt. you nearly leap out of your skin, whine pathetically against his lips, legs spreading as he applies more pressure. a small voice in the back of his mind reminds him that he’s wasting time, but when he tugs your panties to the side, when his long fingers work their way inside of your needy hole, he forgets himself. your walls are warm and tight, and squeeze around his fingers as soon as he starts to move them.

the pace he sets is slow enough to annoy you, but you moan against his lips, he plunges his fingers deeper — enjoying the way your pussy clenches around his fingers with each thrust. impulse coats your tongue, makes you kiss him wildly to gain control of the situation; your hips roll forward, desperate to chase the high that is just outside of your reach. he pulls away, chest heaving, eyes darkening as he keeps moving his fingers; you’re left in a daze, fury rising at your inability to resist his charm and at the shameless way you let him handle your body.

it's pride that prevents you from calling out his name, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you stifle the wanton noises that rattle around the back of your throat. because he’s determined to not let you have your way, he plucks his fingers out of you and admires the way your slick wetness drips slowly down the length of his fingers. appalled and embarrassed enough to want to hide forever, you look around to make sure no one is paying any attention.

“wipe them off,” you whisper loudly. law looks at you briefly, an idea forming as he pulls you close and swipes his fingers along your lips. they glisten under the dim lighting, and you can feel a flush take hold of your entire body. before you can say anything, he licks the remainder of your arousal off his fingers and then licks your lips again.

“sweet.” he blurts it without thinking — more so an observation than anything else, but he berates himself internally for not keeping the comment to himself.

your thoughts scatter, a shiver gliding down your back as you watch him with widened eyes. it doesn’t take long for your brain to start functioning normally again, but the residual embarrassment will stay with you for the duration of the night. after smacking his hand, you scoot away in the hopes of ridding yourself of the moment. absently, you lick your lips, mind replaying that small series of events over and over, tipping your sanity over the edge.

“go away,” you say again, as you try to quiet the thundering beats from your heart. you squeeze your thighs together, ignore the way the ache keeps growing, and hope that whatever spell he cast on you disappears once he leaves. you’re surprised that you can formulate coherent statements, as you’re still trying to sort through the haze from your arousal and your rising anger. “you had no right—”

“relax, relax,” he says nonchalantly, shoulders loose as he grins devilishly at you. “you’re making quite the scene. i’m sure you’d like to keep your identity hidden in here, right?” you swallow back your retort, eyes roaming around the pub as you take in the various pirates that have gathered there. he makes a solid point. if you cause a scene, you won’t be able to fight them all; you’d certainly try, though. he can tell. brows knitted closely together, you consider your options, but ultimately decide to back off.

“fine.” it’s difficult for you to let things go, but you don’t need anymore broken bones; your subordinates are still resting, so you can’t risk putting their lives in danger all to shut trafalgar law up. “are you done? can you leave, now?” because it unnerves you that he still hasn’t moved away.

the issue is that he doesn’t know how to leave you alone; he hates the power you hold over him, the one you wield without trying. and then you have the nerve to act clueless; he’s certain you know exactly what you’re doing, and he won’t believe otherwise. still, he shouldn’t linger any longer, because if you decide to change your mind — which, he suspects, could happen if he pushes you hard enough — then he’ll draw more attention to himself than necessary.

he takes the initiative to slide out of the booth and regards you coolly, that stoic mask he’s infamous for returning in full force. with a tilt of his head, he says, “we’ll play again another time, firefly,” and strides out of the pub without looking back at you. once the night air hits his face, a burst of clarity follows; it takes a lot for him to keep walking, to inhale through his nostrils to calm himself completely. by the time he reaches the polar tang, he’s agitated all over again. his crew mates know better than to ask questions, and he motions for them to start preparing the ship for the next voyage.

if any of your subordinates find out what happened, you’ll be ruined. still, you can’t say you detested any of it — if anything, you feel more invigorated than before.

SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE

that memory drives you to act; reminds you that you have a mission to uphold, that as a marine you must prioritize the safety of the public over whimsical fantasies about a man who intentionally tries to catch you off guard whenever possible. if the commodore caught wind that you not only let law escape, but that you kissed him too. you gather the scattered documents together and sift through them quickly; you know what is expected of you. if you don’t catch law soon, they’ll demote you; and not that you care about promotions or titles, there’s a certain level of freedom awarded at your status as a captain.

you refuse to give that up.

it doesn’t take long, but you gather a small group to travel with you to the new world; they’re not the bravest, but they’re stealthy and creative. you don’t need brash idiots who will run into battle without thinking things through — not that you have room to talk, you’re much more reckless than you let on. it takes a little more than six days to reach your destination, a lovely island full of lush plants and flowers, with lively towns and villages. you reach the island before the heart pirates do and bide your time until they discreetly dock along the coast.

it's been two months since the last time he saw you and he’s yet to find some semblance of peace because of it. while law prides himself on being able to multitask, to be able to think several steps ahead of his enemy, he can admit that you tend to divert his plans without even trying. insomnia prevents him from properly resting, although that’s due to the way his thoughts are often haunted by the memory of your lips on his. if he closes his eyes, he can still picture the way you struggled to keep quiet, the way your pussy kept sucking his fingers back in; he should be disgusted and ashamed, except he’s not.

and even as fatigue settles over his bones, weighs him down, chaining him to his bed, his mind still won’t let up. it’s because he hates you, that his cock won’t let up. he hates how you can’t seem to take a hint, hates the way you insist on chasing after him, and hates how you defy his expectations every single time. it’s almost always late at night when he dreams of you — writhing underneath him, skin littered with bite marks and bruises courtesy of the brutish way he handles you — and he’s always startled awake, desire coiling around his legs, restricting his movements as he fists his cock.

it's out of hatred and annoyance, it’s what he keeps telling himself — even after he bites his fist to keep from moaning out loud — but the lie gets harder to tell as the days go on.

bepo takes note of law’s change in demeanor, confers with penguin before confronting their captain with his theories. law sighs loudly, irritation coming to a boil, festering underneath his skin as he tries to listen calmly.

“i’m staying one step ahead,” he says smoothly, flipping through a medical textbook and ignoring the pointed looks from shachi; he’s read this book before, but they don’t need to know that. “what do you think will happen if we don’t eliminate her soon?” his notoriety has caught up with him; there’s very few islands he can frequent openly without having to worry about the navy catching him. not that he actually worries about that, but still. it’s rich, though, coming from him — and bepo almost points it out but refrains when he catches the look on law’s face, the one that chills him to his bones, makes him shrink back and keep quiet for the duration of the morning.

law grinds his teeth together, ignoring the guilt that plagues him; it’s not bepo’s fault, but he’s on edge and doesn’t see a clear way out just yet. he instructs his crew to scope out the area and set up camp; he’s not too concerned with any navy interference, but one can never be too careful on the grand line. it’s intentional when law loudly announces that he’s heading to town alone, already discovering one of your subordinates before carrying on; he leaves his first catch behind for his crew to deal with, while he waits for you to find him.

you don’t know why you thought this would be easy; infiltration is your specialty, but with this lot you’re not able to be as discreet as you hoped. you’ve had to shush a few of them several times already, much to their annoyance — although, they don’t voice that out loud, instead opting to mumble under their breaths to one another instead. you don’t care, though; you’re focused on the mission at hand. you follow law as quickly as possible, going from street to alleyway — but when you take the wrong turn, you can’t find him anywhere.

it's suspiciously quiet around you, which is when you notice that the others are nowhere to be seen. great. just great. you’ll have to scold them later, but for now, you’ll just do the job your damn self. after an hour of searching, of combing through the crowds of people in the hopes of spotting law, you nearly give up. a familiar hand grabs onto your arm and pulls you into a nearby alley. you stumble and law uses the momentum to shove you against the wall — weathered bricks crumbling as you look up at him. anger courses through you, but before you can act, he smiles slyly and confusion takes hold of your face.

“before you say anything,” he starts, voice smooth and intoxicating, “your men are being held captive.” it’s not that he cares enough to tell you, but he thoroughly enjoys the way desperately try to steel your features to appear unaffected by his news. “they’re not your usual crew,” he muses out loud, eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out if he’s missing something.

you simply shrug, opting for nonchalance — even though you can feel your heart leap out of your chest when he moves closer to you. “what can i say,” you pause, lick your lips, mind racing as you try to buy some time, “i have a lot of men under me.” an unintentional slip of the tongue, one that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him; mostly because he now has an image of you fucking other men and he doesn’t like that. at all. jealousy prompts him to keep your wrists bound together, the restraints digging into your skin as he drags you back to the shore. he could’ve easily transported both of you to the polar tang, but he wants to teach you a lesson instead. you struggle to keep up with his long strides and curse at him behind his back; although it’s mildly entertaining to him. at the thought of running, you remember his previous threat — that he’d fuck you publicly, in front of your men and his — and behave. somewhat.

your skin flushes at that, your mind wandering as you consider your options; if you let law have his way, you’ll be proving the commodore right. you refuse to let that old bastard have the last word. you don’t realize you’ve made it to the ship until you see your men being held hostage by law’s crew. if you can slip away from law long enough, you might be able to help them escape — and, as if he can sense that very thought, he glances over at you sharply, dark brow raising, almost as if he’s challenging you to do just that.

you doubt you’ve ever hated anyone as much as you hate him right now.

“two options,” he says suddenly, voice permeating the air, menacing and matter-of-factly, “i let you go and eliminate your men.” you make a face at that, the frown semi-permanent as you wonder if the second option is any better. “or, i let them go and keep you.” he hadn’t meant to say it like that, and bepo gives him a knowing look that he conveniently ignores. the answer is clear-cut, and, without hesitation, you tell him to let your men go. he smiles at that — every bit as devilish as they say — and while he half-expected your men to bargain, to plead for mercy, they don’t.

it rubs him the wrong way for some reason.

“that eager to get rid of her?” he asks them, and they remain quiet before voicing aloud the opinions they were only brave enough to tell one another. apparently, you rub people the wrong way with your polarizing views, contrary opinions on most political matters; you always need to have the last say, and while you do your best to fight on what you believe is the right side of justice, you only do so on your own terms. the men you chose for this mission never had faith in your plan, and it could be because the commodore manipulated them into double-crossing you.

is it pathetic that you didn’t see it coming? you can’t blame them for bailing, but a bitter taste seeps up your throat as you try to stay focused. law gives them three minutes to get out of his line of sight and they push one another as they scurry away. he’d threatened them earlier too, that he’d kill you if they breathed a word to headquarters. they believed him — he could tell from the way their eyes widened, from how their shoulders tensed, and from how their hands shook. he had no intention of killing you, of course, but they didn’t need to know that.

you watch them retreat and let out a humorless laugh; it’s cut short when law leans in to say, “checkmate, firefly. time to play.”

TEN. TEN. TEN!

aboard the polar tang, law endures endless questions about why you’re still alive, but law insists that he has a plan — he always has one, even though his current one is unraveling slowly. he hadn’t planned on you caving, but he assumes this is a ploy on your part so that he can lower his guard. even though he removed the restraints around your wrists, it doesn’t matter; you know you can’t escape him now. you’ll have to bide your time until you can find an opening.

it's rare for law to venture into his room before nighttime, but he makes an exception to interrogate you — or, that’s what he tells his crew. you know nothing good can come from the two of you being alone together, but you’re currently at his mercy, hoping whatever he has in store won’t be too painful. he leans against the wooden desk in his room, arms folded against his chest as he watches you — eyes hawkish, tracking your movements with precision.

“strip.”

you blink at him repeatedly, even laugh and shake your head. “absolutely not.” you know you’re in no position to try and barter your way out, but you’d like to try anyway. law, however, doesn’t give you the opportunity. he closes his eyes, inhales sharply before repeating himself — the command latches onto your skin, burns you alive once he sets his eyes on you again. you don’t think you can refuse him the second time; not out of fear, but because he’s giving you that same heated look he gave you month ago in the pub.

you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter, that you can follow whatever asinine rules he’s set for this “game” and take your time undressing. it’s that audacity that makes him want you badly, the desire nearly taking hold of every rational thought in his mind as he takes in your hips and thighs. you inhale deeply, do your best to remain in control, but feel your nipples harden under his intense gaze, turning you into some blushing fool.

“get on the bed.” he’s never shared his bed with anyone, so this is all quite new for him, but he doesn’t voice that out loud and instead takes pleasure watching the way you comply without much of a fuss. you move to the center and before you know it, law’s pushed you onto your back, hand gliding down your stomach, fingers hovering over your pussy. if you inhale deeply enough, you’ll be forever consumed by him — and you’re having great difficulty trying to convince yourself to keep on fighting.

this isn’t exactly a part of his plan, but as he’s a quick thinker he’ll improvise on the way. you should have more self-preservation, but law flicks his tongue against your pert nipple before sucking on it selfishly. you let out a startled cry and place your hands over your mouth to keep from making anymore sounds. you refuse to let him have that satisfaction, but the longer he teases your breasts, teeth grazing over your skin, the quicker your anger fizzles out. you know better than to keep indulging, to stop this before it’s too late, but your mind grows hazy once he spreads your legs and instructs you to grab onto the backs of your thighs.

despite not being a connoisseur of the fine arts, law admires the way your slick arousal glides down your slit; he wonders, briefly, if you still taste the same. you’re much too aware of your own breathing, and when law’s mouth hovers over your pussy, you almost lose your mind. “don’t move,” is all he says before running his tongue in between your folds, making your hips buck against him. “what did i just say?” he glances at you, his cock stiff beneath his pants, making it difficult to concentrate. you swallow hard and nod at him, steadying your breath as he slowly crafts a very crude love letter on your pussy with his tongue.

in between strokes of his tongue, he tosses questions your way, fully expecting you to answer as you keep holding onto your legs. in the span of two minutes, he’s already extracted a few deep confessions from you — ones that he pockets for later, to investigate further — but you’re beyond caring at this point. your body burns as you try not to move, chest heaving, teeth biting down on your lip hard. it becomes impossible to pay attention to his words, and your wetness clings to the insides of your thighs as law continues to antagonize you in the best way possible.

you’re not sure how long you last like that, but when you sift through his dark hair with your fingers and tug hard, he pulls back to give you a look before slapping your pussy. the shriek you let out quickly turns into a moan when law pinches your clit. “don’t be a brat,” he warns, voice gruff and husky. your legs shake when he slips two fingers inside of you, tongue circling and swirling around your throbbing clit, as he thrusts his fingers in and out. your stifled moans annoy him, he tells you as much before sucking harder, fingers scissoring as your walls squeeze tight. his erection is partially to blame for why he's acting irrationally, but it’s also very much your fault too.

the last time he had his fingers this deep in your pussy, you had to keep quiet, but now? he’s interested in hearing what other sounds you can make.

“don’t close your mouth, i want to hear you.”

if you weren’t so captivating and alluring, he wouldn’t have any issues; but there he is, slurping on your pussy like the delectable piece of fruit it is. it’s a rush, really, and he doesn’t stop you when you roll your hips again, enjoying the shameless way you buck against his mouth. you’re not sure if it’s the way he holds onto your thighs, fingers digging into your soft skin, or if it’s the way he moans against your cunt, that insatiable hunger raw and feral, turning him into a man possessed. you tug on his hair again, harder this time, crying out as your orgasm brings a deep shudder through you. law doesn’t let up, tongue lapping at your wetness, not bothering to wipe it off his chin.

you watch him through your lashes, face growing hot as you watch him take his clothes off too. you’re not sure what comes over you, but you pull him down for a sloppy kiss, tongue brushing against his as he rubs the thick head of his cock in between your folds. he knows that if he doesn’t fuck you soon, he might just die. or, something close to it. the kiss is all tongue and teeth — fervent and sensual. you taste yourself on his mouth and completely forget that things have gone a little too far.

and just when you think you’re close to having the advantage, he bites your lip hard enough to draw blood and flicks his tongue out; it’s a sharp, coppery taste that fuels him to kiss you all over again — a euphoric delirium, deadly and carnal. you drag your nails down the hard planes of his chest, taking your time to commit each dip and curve of his muscles to memory. rather than let vulnerability catch him off guard, he grabs your face and runs his tongue down the length of your throat.

that lust-filled haze guides you onto your knees, ass playfully rubbing against his stiff length; he grabs you roughly, teases your entrance, and inches his cock inside of you before snapping his hips against yours. law burrows his cock into your puffy pussy, your soft, gummy walls clenching as he pulls out and slams into you all over again. your moans bounce around the room, swirling around his head, making him light-headed.

his girth is every bit as imposing as he is, but you take it without much issue, hips rocking against his, fingers grabbing at his bedsheets as you arch your back. law slaps your ass before fucking you harder, watching the way his cock disappears into your pretty pussy with every stroke. you feel another orgasm approach, his thrusts brutal, but delicious, making your toes curl as you shamelessly moan his name. if he was a better man, he’d take his time with you, let you get acclimated to his size, and hand you the reins.

but he’s not; he’s a pirate, after all.

he grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you towards him, leaving behind open-mouthed kisses on the side of your neck and jaw. his hips stay close to yours, strokes getting faster and rougher, pussy squelching loudly, but you don’t ask him to stop — if anything, you keep chanting more, more, more. he dips a hand in between your thighs and rubs your clit, making your body convulse, voice growing hoarse from how loud you’re being.

when you cum you’re nearly incapacitated, eyes rolling back, cunt fluttering around his thick cock, squirting as his hips knock against yours. a merciless, unrelenting tempo, one that has you melting under his touch. he doesn’t last much longer, his cum thick and hot as it pours into you, dripping down his length as his hips slow down. you can hardly move, legs completely giving out, body like jelly as you plop down onto the bed. he runs a hand down his face and looks at you, a warmth invading his chest, making it hard to breathe properly. to combat that ridiculous feeling, he tells you that he’s far from done with you and that he has no plans on letting you return to the navy. if you had more sense, if you weren’t as obsessed with trafalgar law as he is with you, then you’d find fault with his words.

he tells himself he’s doing this to teach you a lesson, to punish you for all the times you’ve interrupted his journey, but he knows the truth — and, after seeing this side of him, the one where he’s completely tossed aside that mask he wears, you also know too.

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vault81 · 1 month

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Hi, a little bit new but I love your fallout OC's! For the 60 questions, how about #3, #41, and #55?

Welcome!! and thank you sm! It makes me so happy when people end up loving my lil blorbos!!! (you didn't specify which oc so im gonna do all 3 if that's ok?)

(60 OC Questions Ask)

- [3] What emotion is the hardest for them to deal with?

Jack: For Jack I would say the emotion he has the hardest time with is anger, not just because he hates feeling angry and the way it affects him physically, feeling dizzy, tensing up, trembling etc. The thing he hates most is the way he deals with it (or doesn't) he's the kinda person to just bottle up those emotions until they go away themselves, not having a healthy way of venting them out. Which, sometimes, leads to him just exploding and lashing out at people he isn't angry at! Of course, he'll immediately feel bad for doing so and apologise (cue bear hug and tearful apologies) This being said though, Jack does not get angry easily! You really have to try to get him cross, the best you'll usually get is annoyed! I also think the older he gets, the better he'll get at dealing with this.

Eliza: In Eliza's case, I'd definitely say the one she has the biggest time dealing with is guilt, overwhelming guilt. She's worked hard at building up her spiky, flippant exterior, but underneath all that is someone who cares deeply for the world and the people around her! And because of this she's always being weighed down by guilt, the guilt of never feeling like she's done enough, that she's letting her friends and family down. But most of all, she feels guilt for the way she's left things with her father, before she could apologise for the way she treated him as a kid, and forgive him for abandoning her. And the guilt of abandoning Arthur Maxson, the person she swore she'd protect from the Brotherhood and that she'd always be there for.

Stephen: I'd say Stephen's hardest emotion to deal with is stress, he's carrying so much on his lil shoulders! Not only does he have to find his nephew Shaun, he's the General of the Minutemen, Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel, a Railroad Agent and (Part-Time) Detective! He has so many fires that are all demanding his attention, he's stretched thin all over the Commonwealth, not to mention the fact he's also dying and only has a limited amount of time to do all this. He's lucky he has Danse and all his friends to deal with this, but it does take a massive toll on his physical and mental well-being. Danse encourages, forces him to take breaks the first time he gets sick from all the stress.

- [41] What’s their usual morning routine?

Jack: he is very much a lazy morning person, you will not physically get this man out of bed before 10pm (if you even try he'll drag you into bed with him), would lounge in bed for as long as he can before he has to get up. He'll drag himself to the kitchen before having breakfast lunch and running out the house while brushing his teeth, because odd's are that he's definitely late for whatever he had going on that day!

Eliza: She is very much a morning person, like early morning person. Most days she'll be up by 4/5AM, it doesn't take her long to wake up either (she's an insomniac too, so chances are she probably hasn't slept) after a quick cold shower and skin care (mainly around the scar where her left eye used to be) she'll be fed, dressed and out the house to start the day!

Stephen: I'd say Stephen is also a morning person, but not by choice. As much as he would love to stay in bed cuddling Danse, he has an entire militia to run. He probably has the quickest morning routine compared to the others, very rehearsed to be as efficient as possible so he can be on his way quicker! Wakeup -> Shower -> Get Dressed -> Leave. He finds it easier to just skip breakfast all together (it also makes him feel nauseous in the morning) Danse probably ends up joining him during this routine so he actually gets ready properly.

- [55] How long does it take for them to make a new place feel like home, and what do they need for it?

Jack: I feel like for Jack, a place can feel like home pretty quickly, as much as he travels and is constantly moving he can really settle in and make a place his. He mainly does this by making a place smell like home! He probably doesn't look it, but he's big on scents! Likewise, he needs for himself and his home to smell nice, or he can't properly settle in. I feel like he'd stick to more basic scents though for his home, so it'd probably smell like Vanilla or Fresh Linens, anything that'll remind him of his time in the Vault.

Eliza: for Eliza it takes her a while to warm up to a space and make it feel like home, like Jack she's always travelling and on the move. So why bother decorating if she's just going to move out in a week or so? It'd probably take her a couple of months to finally really settle into a place long term, she does this with clutter! Eliza is a hoarder, if she feels like anything has some kind of value, be that monetary or sentimental, she'll keep it! This means over time, her home will just start filling with clutter. To her, it makes the place feel cosy and lived in.

Stephen: for Stephen, I'd say he's more middle ground, doesn't take as long as Eliza but also isn't as quick as Jack, give him around a week or 2 before really settling in. And for a place to feel like a home to Stephen, it needs people! What's the point of having a home if it's empty? So he fills his home with friends and family! It ends up being a communal meeting place for his friends, always full of laughter and conversation. It adds a certain warmth to his home that Stephen just can't be settled in without! (It being in central Diamond City helps too)

#fallout #oc asks #oc; jack #oc; eliza #oc; stephen #kpssmithwrites #again thank you for the ask!!#it was a lot of fun writing this!!!#i've been writing for Jack a lot lately so it was nice to include the others!#also it got really heavy for eliza's in question 3 lmfao #i had to cut that one backk #that's for another post lol

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iron-hearts-ablaze · 2 months

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Karlach and her survivor's guilt.

The first of a two-part psychological deep-dive into Karlach.

Part 1: survivor's guilt Part 2: c-PTSD

I will preface all this by stating I am not an expert in the field of Psychology, but I do however have a BSc Joint Honours in Psychology and Counselling, as well as a higher education certificate in Embedded Helping Skills (forms of therapy). I studied these conditions, as well has having first-hand accounts. I have access to, and use, papers accredited by the British Psychological Society.

All of what I'm about to discuss is my own personal insight, it is not aimed to insult anyone in any way.

To start. What is survivor's guilt? The DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition) describes survivor's guilt as a symptom of PTSD. It occurs when someone believes that something they did/did not do led to the deaths/harm of others, and a strong feeling of guilt behind being the survivour of a traumatic event.

I will, soon, go over the full list of symptoms of c-PTSD specifically, and how Karlach fits them, backed up by quotes and events in-game. However, I wanted to look more into survivor's guilt (henceforth shortened to S.G) due to my headcanon that extends Karlach's personal mission in the game. It is possible to have PTSD without S.G, and vice versa. However, I strongly believe Karlach has S.G as a SYMPTOM of c-PTSD, not just it working on it's own.

Karlach doesn't fit ALL side effects of S.G, however she certainly fits the following; feelings of helplessness, mood swings (specifically angry outbursts), flashbacks (cut from game, but I headcanon she does have them on this blog), difficulty sleeping, obsessive thoughts about the event (she frequently brings up Gortash/Zariel/Avernus etc). These naturally stretch out into her possible diagnosis of c-PTSD as well, but like I said, I'll go more in detail on that in another post.

It's well known at this point that a lot of her content was cut. But an interesting idea still has breadcrumbs within the game, concerning the Foundry and the Steel Watch automatons. Specifically, her connection to them.

When Karlach interacts with a Steel Watcher, it mistakes her for one of them. Albeit, an outdated model. It's quite well known that what was used to create Karlach eventually became the Steel Watchers. I feel, that if this part of Karlach's story was expanded upon, we would see her realisation fully. That she most likely would feel responsible for these machines.

Except they weren't always machines. They were once people. Their brains and hearts now used in these automatons. I theorise we would have had a profound moment for Karlach where she realises just how many people Gortash has killed, following the blue print that Zariel gave to him. The one that created her.

The Steel Watcher's would not have existed if she hadn't been given to the devil. They are an evolution of her machine. They are connected to her. She kept her soul, and most of her body. They did not get that chance.

I feel Karlach would have already struggled with S.G prior to this. She wasn't the only one Zariel tried to experiment on - she was just the only one to survive the tortures. So many others died before she was 'created'. Only to find out that it wasn't just in Avernus, but happening in Faerûn too? She would feel responsible.

She would no doubt think if she hadn't existed, these people would still be alive. She would want them to be at peace, unlike herself. Power them down, free their biology from the metal and - if given the chance - possibly even bury them all. To allow some kind of rest, and to make sure anyone after Gortash could not pick up where he left off. Burn everything down after that.

It is advised that anyone struggling with S.G to allow themselves time to grieve - however Karlach says so herself she is either "off, or go-go-go". She has not had TIME to stop. So she could also take those feelings and move them into something positive, i.e bury the body parts. She would also need to practise self-forgiveness. Which, as someone who regrets some of the things she did in Avernus and certainly regrets working for Gortash - will not happen any time soon.

Karlach has the air of denial about her and her mental health. S.G is just a part of that, festering until it can be addressed. Which, in-game, never happens. So it will continue to eat at her.

In this portrayal, I acknowledge this part of Karlach, even if the game wasn't able to due to cuts.

#ooc; ~mama k~#~headcanon~

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sophia-sol · 6 months

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Paladin's Faith, by T. Kingfisher

Any book by Ursula Vernon (the author behind the Kingfisher penname) will have certain features, and those inherent features are ones that keep me coming back book after book to everything she writes. I love how she does worldbuilding, and I love her practical get-things-done heroines, and I love how everything's always grounded in the odd specific annoyances of what it would actually be like to be in the fantastical circumstances she writes about. And she does SUCH good road trips! So many opportunities to run into fun NPCs and cool regional worldbuilding!

I'm not quite the right audience for her paladin romances, unfortunately -- I think because I just get too irritated by the depth and breadth of their ability to feel guilty about absolutely everything. But I keep reading them because I'm having fun with everything else anyway, and because the wider arc of the business with the dead god fascinates me, and we get a bit more about it every book!

This book, though, feels to me a little less successful than the previous paladin romances in the series. It feels a bit too much to me like several different books squished into one, I think, instead of like multiple strands of the same book, and I just don't love all of those books.

There's the one where Marguerite is trying to get herself free of the Red Sail by finding the missing artificer and leaking the plans for the salt-making mechanism and thereby destabilizing the economy of the whole region, and there's the one with the Dreaming God's paladins and the Saint of Steel's soul-scarred ex-paladins dealing with the demon who wants to be a god, and there's the one about the romance between Marguerite and Shane.

The first one is a perfectly good spy plot, not really my go-to genre of book but fun enough, and I do enjoy the temple of the white rat being willing to meddle in these things.

The second one is FASCINATING to me and I want to think about the implications forever and I want more details!!!

The third one is….yet another guilt-ridden paladin romance………also featuring a spy who doesn't trust anyone but just KNOWS in her HEART that she can trust HIM and he's the exception to everything about how she's conducted her life. It's just really really not my kind of romance story. Also both of them are extremely allosexual and are continually having their higher brain functions disabled by how attractive the other person is and it just seems comically over-the-top to me, an ace person who Doesn't Get It. (okay I AM charmed by the type of kinky not-quite-bondage that Shane turns out to be really into when Marguerite is like, ok I gotta find SOME way of achieving good sex with this guy who can't get out of his own head about anything.)

I'm sure the romance part of the book is good for some people! but that's um. not what I read Kingfisher romances for, surprise surprise.

So let's go back to the demon who wants to be a god, shall we? I was FASCINATED by Wisdom and by what demons are. And by the implications of what a god is, too, tbh.

Wisdom seems to genuinely care about its followers to some degree, has figured out how to live as a part of the world, has thoughts and feelings and motivations and relationships and goals. It's definitely been doing some worrying stuff, but is it any more evil than a really powerful human can be? What ARE demons, and what makes them appreciably different from gods, in the end, in this world? They clearly CAN have comparable types of bonds with humans if they so choose, and some gods are definitely terrible if I'm remembering stuff from previous books, so why couldn't demons have the possibility of being basically okay.

And what is Hell? It's the place where demons are from, and it's the place where paladins can bind a demon to never be able to leave (if they're powerful enough to manage the binding), and from what little we hear from Wisdom about it, it seems like an undesirable place to be. Wouldn't most folks kind of suck in some respect if their entire prior existence was in a place like Hell?

I really hope this series is going in a direction of non-evil demons tbh! maybe even….some of the major gods today having previously been demons? Maybe the saint of steel was a demon and someone murdered him because of that!

anyway my increasing pro let-demons-be-people agenda means I feel weird at the end of this book about Shane taking up with the Dreaming God in the end, the god who is well known to be virulently anti-demon. Is this god unambiguously a good guy and nothing else?

I'll be very curious to see where this whole plot continues!

#paladin's faith #t kingfisher #ursula vernon #book thoughts #sophpost

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vendettavalor · 6 months

Text

The Truth Will Set You Free

It feels like an ending.

A happy ending.

He has everything he could ever want. His old friend. His guardian angel. He's found her, and unlike before, he doesn't have to risk forgetting about her again. He can help her now the same way she helped him. Offer her the comfort she offered him. He's no longer the same helpless child he was before, always needing guidance and protection from the harsh reality of his life and needing to be taught how to be strong and adaptable. Now, he has the opportunity to help her - to teach her to be strong and adapt to this strange new world she finds herself in. And now, he can offer her his company as she tries to navigate things for a change.

It's a perfectly happy ending.

But... it still feels like something's missing. Like this isn't the end. Like there's still something he's forgetting to remember.

What happened before?

Gabby doesn't like bringing it up. When Jonah asks, she offers him a sad smile and simply says. "you were just a child, Jonah. A child who had to make a very grown-up decision. But it's okay now. It's in the past."

For some reason, that doesn't comfort him. He trusts Gabby. He trusts her completely, and he knows that she wouldn't keep the truth from him if it wasn't for his own good. But despite her good intentions, her words do little to quell the creeping sense of guilt that arises when he thinks back on all the little clues scattered throughout his old VCR recordings of her. He knows he shouldn't pry. But... he has to know. Gabby won't tell him. And he already knows better than to ask his mother.

But... what about his godmother?

A knock at the door of his makeshift studio draws him from his thoughts. Speak of the Devil. The door swings open to reveal Rayn. She's still got her coat on, which means she's likely just come in from a long shift out on the streets. She hasn't even had a chance to take her hat off but out of habit, she does so to offer him a tired smile and a soft, "I'm back, Jonah. How's everything going down here?"

"Good." He responds with a smile of own, watching as his godmother stepped in to tidy up a bit.

When he'd brought up the idea of using one of the basement suites in her agency's building for a personal project, she seemed to hesitate. She asked if everything was okay at home. After a moment spared to think about it, Jonah admitted that, truthfully, he didn't know. His mother seemed to catch on quickly to what he had been trying to do and things had been... tense, to say the least. It was part of the reason why he didn't want to ask her about what happened. It seemed like she had gone great lengths to try and erase the past from their minds just as Gabby had. He wasn't going to chance opening is mouth and lighting the powder keg. The last thing he wanted to was to lose his mother too.

Seeing how he didn't respond immediately and seemed to shrink a bit at the question, Rayn simply nodded and brought him down. She offered him one of the empty suites and let him set it up as his own little apartment. The designated office area ended up being where he put together his setup - this time, with a bit more organization. Suffice to say, that ended up being where he spent most of his time now.

"Um... aunt Rayn? Can I ask you something?"

Sensing the reluctance in his tone, Rayn paused her current task - tying off the bag of garbage she'd just pulled from the office basket - and glanced over at him.

"Of course, Jonah. You know you can ask me anything."

She was always so kind. So open. His mother had once said she could think of no better person to name as his godmother after everything she did for them. What had she done for them again? He couldn't remember...

Sucking in a breath, Jonah tried to steel his nerves. The cartoons on the screens beside him freezing up as if suddenly tense went unnoticed. Here goes nothing.

"Do you know what happened?" He asked, instinctively shrinking into himself in anticipation. Of what, he didn't know. But his hands were trembling, and his chest felt tight, and he felt afraid. Why? He knew Rayn. He knew she would never hurt him. So why did he feel so anxious suddenly?

A beat passed between them.

"About what?" Her tone betrayed her suspicion. She fixed him with a look that said she knew what he meant, but she wanted to be absolutely sure.

"I-I mean... did something happen? When I was a kid- with dad- I know mom and I weren't always." Fuck, he was tearing up. He was stuttering and stammering and he didn't know how to say it. He was nervous. Why was he so nervous? Why was he so afraid? Why did he want to run away and hide? Beside him, Gabby's hands press against the screen. She wants to help him but she can't. She's worried for him - but there's nothing she can do. Nothing she can say.

It feels like an eternity before Rayn finally answers. She steps closer, moving to kneel down by the edge of the couch. Jonah struggles to catch his breath and wipes at his eyes, muttering out apologies. Rayn just sighs and reassures him it's alright. That this kind of response is normal. She gives him a moment to calm himself down with slow, deep breaths. Once he's certain he's come down from the sudden wave of panic that overtook him, he nods to her. Rayn's eyes study his face for a moment, ensuring that he's grounded enough before her shoulders slump.

"How much do you remember?"

It's a question that takes Jonah aback. Not only from how gentle but blunt it is, but because the answer is... barely anything. The tapes... Gabby's responses... "I remember a man. My father, I think. But I don't see him... It's more like a shadow. A shape. A... An outline. It's weird. I can't remember anything concrete. I just remember feeling angry. And... Afraid."

Rayn nods and lets out another sigh.

"I knew your mom before you were born. We lived in a group home for girls when we were young but we fell out of touch. I didn't see her for years until one day, I saw her name on a report that had been left on my desk." A pause. "This was back when I was still working for the precinct."

Jonah nodded in understanding.

"A neighbor had called in a noise complaint. An officer went to investigate but found nothing. The report was going to be archived but... well... I had this weird feeling in my gut that said I should followup. Thought it was too much of a coincidence that the name sounded familiar. So, I went. I met your mother. She was about... oh, four months along with you. We reconnected, talked over tea and coffee. I learned that she'd joined a church, found a good Christian man to marry. But as time went on, it seemed that her life was becoming less and less the fairy tale that it seemed."

"How?" He dreaded to ask but he had to know.

"Your father. I hate to judge or generalize, but he was just... one of those types. The kind of man who prided himself on having the perfect image even if the story behind it wasn't so glamorous. Out in public, he was The Perfect Ideal Christian Man. Loving wife, beautiful baby boy, devout and unwavering in his spirituality, thriving career as a sheriff. But behind closed doors, he was... well, you're old enough to understand now. I don't have to sugarcoat it. He was a drunk, Jonah. A violent one at that. Your mother, she tried to downplay. Said he got a little mean. But the truth was, he was abusive. He grabbed her, yelled in her face, spat on her. And when you were born, it only got worse."

At that, Jonah shrunk back once more. There it was again. That creeping sense of guilt. Curling around his bones like ivy, growing up his spine and around his neck, threatening to choke him.

"Was it... my fault?"

"No," Rayn was quick to correct him. "No, Jonah. It wasn't your fault. It was never your fault. But... when she realized it wasn't going to get better, she called me one night and told me she wanted me to be your godmother. In case anything ever happened to her."

"Why would anything happen to her?"

Rayn paused once more and leaned back, trying to think of how to phrase it in a way he might understand. It took her a moment, but eventually, she found an answer. "...I tried to tell her to leave. I warned her that these situations don't get better and for her own safety and yours, she needed to leave. But she was scared. And I don't blame her. These sorts of cases don't normally end well, and the most dangerous period is when the victim tries to leave. Your mother knew that. Her greatest fear was that she would leave, or try, and he would find you and kill you to punish her. So she stuck it out - hoping, praying that if she stayed, she might be able to at least protect you from him."

For a long moment, it was silent. Jonah sat on the information she'd fed him, rotating and turning it over in his mind like some sort of strange puzzle which held a key inside. A key that would unlock his memories and reveal the truth to him. The full truth. But... there was still nothing. His father was still a shadow in his mind. Just a hulking silhouette radiating only fear without context. And as he remembered Gabby's words to him, he suddenly felt sick.

"Someone was willing to die to keep you from harm."

That was when the anger came.

"People knew. They had to! Why didn't anyone help us?!" Jonah couldn't help the growl that escaped him as he clenched his fists. "Mom must have called the police at least once. Why didn't anyone stop him?!"

"No one believed her." Rayn said, and the genuine sadness in her eyes extinguished any fire in Jonah's aching chest. "Police only arrest bad guys, Jonah. And how could a police officer ever be the bad guy? He had everyone convinced that he was a good person. That he was a fine, upstanding man of God and that she was just a crazy, hormonal woman dealing with some post-partum issues. He effectively had her trapped. Cut off. Isolated. And if she left, the whole world would have been against her."

From the explanation there suddenly came a heavy sinking feeling in Jonah's gut. His godmother had never been shy about vocalizing her issues with the police before. Whenever he asked, she'd spoken very candidly about the fact that there was an issue permeating every branch and root of the greater institution that made up law enforcement: corruption. Brotherhood.

The police were self-serving, oftentimes more concerned with protecting their own their actually doing their job of serving the public. If an officer did wrong, it wasn't uncommon for it to take years before it was discovered. Repeat infractions that would be giant red flags in any other career would be quietly swept under the rug until finally - finally their came the inevitable sentinel even that broke their sealed records wide open and revealed the rotted, festering guts of the institution, corrupted by greed and bias that never truly disappeared - for it had always been the foundation of law enforcement ever since the beginning. And accountability? Accountability was ghost. Anyone who spoke up about the wrongs of their fellow officers was silenced, either via harassment or termination with the threat of blacklisting. There was not justice in the justice system. She pointed it out in countless cases. Why did it take so long for so many serial killers to get caught? In almost every case, it was because of some connection to law enforcement.

It was even why she had left.

For the longest time, Jonah thought it couldn't be that bad. It sounded like some absurd conspiracy theory. But hearing it now... Now he wasn't so sure. The handle... He thought. Hold it up by the handle. Let me see what kind it is.

Had Gabby been talking about... a gun?

"So... what happened to him? How did it finally stop?" Jonah bit his lip. By now, he was shaking. But the fear was not for anything but the dreadful idea that he knew the answer. And the look Rayn gave him, blank and almost pitiful, did not offer him any comfort. "Please, Rayn, I have to know..."

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking one final breath before proceeding.

"Around mid day, we got a call. I was working that day. My partner just so happened to hear the call as it came in. He heard your address and immediately ran to tell me. I got up to listen in on it. One of the neighbors said they heard what sounded like a gunshot. My heart dropped. I was so afraid. For your mother and for you. My first thought was, oh god. It finally happened. He finally snapped and killed them. My partner grabbed me, told me to get in the car, and we raced over there with three or four other officers. When we kicked the door down I was shaking. I feared the worst. I was so afraid I was going to find your and your mother's bodies..."

There came a pause as Rayn choked slightly. The tears in her eyes betrayed that even now, decades later, that fear of that moment still haunted her. She took a moment to breathe and collect herself.

"But you weren't there. Your mother was still at work and your were at a friend's house. We did a sweep of the house and we found your father in your bedroom, dead. The television was still on, highlighting his body, the half empty bottle in one hand, and his service weapon in the other. We took pictures, collected evidence. Half the station was hellbent on saying your mother did it. That fucking sense of brotherhood. Someone even had the gall to say that if the evidence didn't line up, they'd make some evidence. Ultimately though, we took your statements. Got a time of death. Your mother had too many witnesses saying she was at work for them to try and imply otherwise. And you - well, you were just a kid. And you weren't even home. No one believed you could have done it." There came a sharp huff of laughter as she looked at Jonah again.

"When it was all said and done, they asked me what I thought. I was a the detective after all. Everything came to me. I looked over all the pictures, the statements, the forensic evidence. They asked me what happened. Or, more specifically, they asked if this was a case they could reasonably bring before District Attorney with the intent to nail your mom on a cross." There was a short pause. "And I told them. I told them no. This wasn't a murder. I told them that the gunshot wound was self-inflicted. A suicide."

There's another painfully long moment where the silence hangs between them. The tightness in Jonah's chest is so intense, he feels like his heart might just stop. And the dread... the dread just won't disappear. He sucks in his lips, tears welling up on his lashes as he looks at Rayn again.

"...But it wasn't. You knew it wasn't."

Rayn doesn't answer. But the sympathetic look she offers breaks Jonah completely. He doubles over, letting out a sob and clutching himself tightly. The guilt tightens around his throat like a noose, choking him.

"Did I?" He chokes out, feeling his face growing hot. Christ, he can't even say it out loud. He thinks he'll be sick if he does.

"I'm not going to say you did a good thing, Jonah. But I'm also not going to say what you did was wrong, either." That gives him pause. Through tears, he finds the strength to push himself up just enough to look at her. "You were a child but you weren't stupid. You knew what was going on. You feared your father but you also hated him. You hated what he did to you and your mother. And you knew that one day, it was going to come down to that. Your mother had already resigned herself to the idea that she'd die by his hand. For her, it was never a matter of it but when. It was always going to come down to that. It didn't have to. In truth, something should have been done sooner so that it never should have come that, but it did; you were a child who had to make a very adult decision. Morality or survival- you or him."

Another sob escapes Jonah. It's all but a confirmation. He's a murderer. He's a monster. He killed his own father. Oh God.

Yet as her hand falls on his shoulder, there is a comfort to the weight of her palm. He looks up at Rayn again and for a moment, the guilt is a assuaged, if only slightly.

"I know it's hard to come to terms with. But you weren't wrong for it Jonah. You're not a murderer for defending yourself and your mother. Your father was a monster. A rabid animal, completely out of control, who was hellbent on destroying everything around him. He was going to go down eventually, and he wanted to take everything and everyone down with him. You just took that opportunity away from him. And if it hadn't been you," she moves to pull him into a hug. With his face tucked against her coat to muffle his sobs, he misses the low growl to her tone.

"It would have been someone else."

The words, quiet as they are, offer a slight comfort as Jonah clings to his godmother. His body is wracked by his sobs, making him tremble as the cold horror of the truth washes over him. Even if the memories still stubbornly refuse to reveal themselves from the shadowy recesses of his mind, he does not need the vivid imagery to know that the situation was traumatic. The records have been lost and he may never know what his godmother knows, never see what she has seen. But he does not need to. For he knows how it felt, and that alone will haunt him. Unless...

Unless he knows the answer to just one more question...

He draws back from her shoulder, swiping snot and tears from his face with his sleeve as he desperately tries to meet her gaze just one more time. His lip quivers, voice trembling. He dreads to know the answer, but he has to. If for no other reason than to ease his conscience, or otherwise prepare himself for an eternity in Hell.

"...Am I going to end up like him?"

For the first time in his life, he sees a look of shock on her face. Rayn's deep blue eyes widen and her jaw falls open. It lingers only for a moment, before her risen brows knit together and clasps his face in her hands. "No. No, Jonah. You are far too kind, far too selfless, far too thoughtful, and far too gentle. More so than he could have ever hoped to be." She tells him firmly, pulling him back into her in a tight hug. Jonah hiccups and clings to her in return, desperate to ground himself in her words. Despite the storm of guilt and dread ripping through him, they serve as a lifesaver. Tethering him to reality and keeping him afloat as he threatens to be lost in the swirling, violent sea of his thoughts. Perhaps, after everything, that's all he wanted to hear. All he needed to hear really. That he's a good person.

"You're nothing like your father," Rayn assures him. "And you never will be."

Like the end of the forty days and forty nights, the storm within him finally seems to die. Still he feels heavy and his heart stiil aches with unprocessed guilt, unresolved trauma, and the burden of knowledge. But at least with this truth, he might finally find the solace of letting those old wounds finally heal. With those words, at last, it feels like Jonah can finally breathe.

This is then. This really is all he's ever needed to know.

Now he can have his happy ending.

The truth has set him free.

#// i sat down and wrote this in 4 hours-#( v : live on dead air // angel hare )#drabble : the higher the climb the harder the fall #( cm : jonah whitman )#( ocm : rayn wilder the wolf of the city )#( cm : angel gabby )#( s : angel hare )#tw suicide mention #tw domestic abuse #tw domestic violence #tw child abuse mention

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pearlsoftheparticular · 1 year

Text

notes on chapter 2

Tree imagery is strong on pg 9: "I just thought it would be nice to see how people move into a place and start to inhabit it. Settle in. Maybe put down roots," and later, "He is merely expressing anxieties natural for a boy his age who has just been uprooted from his home in the city..."

Impetus: the force or energy with which a body moves. (pg 10)

Valences: 1. A length of decorative drapery attached to the canopy or frame of a bed in order to screen the structure or space beneath it. 2. A whole number that represents the ability of an atom or a group of atoms to combine w/ other atoms or groups of atoms. 3. Psychological term: the subjective value of an event, object, person, or other entity in the life space of the individual. Also, the pleasantness or unpleasantness of an emotional stimulus.

""This is nice," He says, removing a big clump of her blonde hair from the tines and tossing it into the wastebasket." (pg 11) Oddly, not the last time that hair seems to be a focus in this chapter?

"Nevertheless, despite their purely confessional content, it is not a journal entry but rather an unguarded moment captured on on eof the house Hi 8s that demonstrates Karen's almost bewildering dependence on Navidson." (pg 11) "In that peculiar contradiction that serves as connective tissue in so many relationships, it is possible to see that she loves Navidson almost as much as she has no room for him." (pg 12) [italics added by me for emphasis]

Second reference to hair: "I think Lude started giving one of them a trim, whipping out his scissors which he always has on hand, like old gunslingers I guess always had a hand on their Colts - there he goes, snipping locks & bangs... fingers & steel clicking away, tiny bits of hair spitting off into the surrounding turmoil..." (pg 12)

Galveston is a city in Texas (pg 12, footnote 18)

"The devil's ear" pg 15 - Devil's Ear Spring in Gilchrist County, Florida.

A thought: often, the notes here are used to prove, or at least point out, themes of Navidson's story. Should these be taken seriously? Or dismissed as part of the Fiction, even as red herrings?

"Don't forget to tell them about the birds." (pg 13) - Significant? Foreshadowing of his mother? Pelicans. Esp. considering how he works the tooth/eyebrow scar into the story too.

After the boxing/Birds of Paradise/Russian barge story: "... just looking at this story makes me feel a little queasy all of a sudden. I mean how fake it is. Just sorta doesn't sit right with me. It's like there's something beyond it all, a greater story still looming in the twilight, which for some reason I'm unable to see." (pg 15) Could be another reference to the way he used evidence of his abuse in the story (will come up later), also another nod to "authenticity"/existentialism, possibly proof that Story is starting to effect him. Especially considering how the note began when Karen mentioned the water heater, and Johnny seems to attribute that to his own water heater going out.

Vituperative: bitter and abusive. (pg 16)

"...as of late, many have called into question the accuracy of this self portrait, observing that Navidson may have gone too far out of his way to cast himself in a less than favorable light." (pg 17) This chapter begins with a Mary Shelley quote. Does Davidson consider himself Frankenstein, and the House (or the portrait which comes up later), Frankenstein's monster? It seems he carries plenty of blame/guilt on himself. Especially considering, later on that page, ",.. he also, by way of the film, admits to carrying around his own alienating and intensely private obsessions."

First mention of Delial on pg 17. The name itself could potentially be a mix up of a number of things, purposefully misspelled, purposefully carrying multiple meanings, purposefully vague. Delilah (Samson) seems most clear at the beginning, as seeming competition to Karen. Then misspelling of Belial, which is Hebrew for 'worthless', and the name of a demon in Scripture. Some also point out the similarity to the word denial, which makes sense when this individual is revealed. Someone on an MZD forum back in 2001 once suggested that it was an anagram for "L'ideal", referring to the poem by Charles Baudelaire. Here is a LINK to different translations of the poem. The poem is from Baudelaire's collection, "Les Fleurs du mal".

The "L'ideal" interpretation seems most correct, considering note 23, and the reference to the fake work "Jennifer Caps' Delial, Beatrice, and Dulcinea (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Thumos Inc., 1996)". Delial is Davidson's muse, hauntress, and ideal, just as Beatrice was to Dante, and Dulcinea was to Don Quijote.

Albatross (pg 17) - another bird reference. It is sometimes used metaphorically to mean a psychological burden that feels like a curse. Alludes to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

This poem, and throw-away reference to the albatross, seem significant, because of this:

In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Robert Wealton mentions the poem by name and says of an upcoming journey that "I shall kill no albatross". Coleridge and Shelley were close acquaintances, as well.

Charles Baudelaire's collection of poems "Les Fleurs du mal" also contains poem called "L'Albatros", about men on ships who catch the albatrosses for sport.

SOURCE

"... the house itself, an indefinite shimmer, sitting quietly on the corner of Succoth and Ash Tree Lane, bathed in afternoon light." (pg 18). Succoth: Genesis 33:17, Jacob builds a house at Succoth after his estrangement from Esau. Exodus 12:37 and 13:20, Israel's first camp out of Egypt.

Succoth word meaning: Boothes, to weave protection, weaving.

Succoth is also another name for the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles, or Feast of Booths, where Jewish people stay in temporary dwellings, specifically made out of branches with a roof of leaves, reflecting their wandering and the impermanence of their dwellings.

Impermanence (Succoth) vs Permanence (Ash Tree). Exile. Estrangement.

Not to jump ahead, but Chapter 3 begins with a quote from Exodus.

Selah.

#house of leaves #mzd

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abidethetempest · 1 year

Text

Rise and Fall Ch 2 Retrospective

General Notes

this chapter was originally split into two parts, with chapter 3 starting during the storm in the city, but i decided to combine them bc chapter 2 felt too empty that way. I had the latter half of this chapter in my mind for like 3 years now, it's one of the few scenes that I've had solid pretty much from day one of the current version of this fic.

The Opening

I feel particulary proud of the character details on display during this convo at the start, I feel like you can very clearly see both Risen and Ghost's personalities and thoughts. Also Risen being kind of a brat is always fun to write. She's just a little shit at heart. The traveling parts aren't really at the quality I wanted, I feel like the pacing isn't great. But I eventually had to put my foot down and call it good enough. Writing another 500 words about my OC walking just isn't my forte. The scene I like most out of this entire opening is the caravan scene. It just came out exactly as I wanted. Ghost is a complicated little dude and they have some growing to do, same as Risen. Their jaded worldview is largely a reaction to the state of the world at current and has a deeper basis in their desire to protect and keep Risen alive, but it's expressed more often as a controlling or overcritical temperment. Local Ghost bad at feelings, more at 11.

The Warlord Scene

hello hi this scene is like half the reason i wrote this fic at all. I've been waiting to write this for AGES. and not to stroke my own ego but I think it came out PERFECT. Risen is a caretaker at heart and seeing people hurt those who cannot protect themselves-- especially children-- makes her pissed. Her intervention is also a culmination of the guilt she's carrying from being unable to help others before now. In some way, she's trying to find absolution for her percieved failures in the past by taking action in this moment. It helps that this Warlord is the same one as from the town as well, so this doubles as a chance for justice in her eyes.

The way Risen fights in this scene is meant to show part of her character: Her belief that her purpose is to bleed and die for others. Why else would the Travaler give her the ability to heal and return from death, after all? She couldn't care less that this will likely end in her death, because to her, her life is worth nothing. She dies so someone else can live. I'm so excited to explore this facet of her character more as time goes on and her beliefs are challenged.

Little tangent here: the scene where the Warlord kills her with a burning maul ties into a headcanon of mine, that the first death a Guardian experience post-revival leaves more a mark, both physically and mentally. After this fight, Risen has a massive scar on her chest and doesn't like being close to open sources of flame.

The scene where she defies Ghost and chooses to break away from their rules was a late addition to this scene but I really like it. I think it adds some steel to her character and shows she's willing to stand up for what she believes in, even when it's dangerous or downright suicidal.

The escape feels a tad rushed but it was another case of "fucks sake just move on".

I LOVE the very end with Risen and Ghost's argument. It introduces some of the central ✨themes✨ of the fic that I'm very eager to explore further.

thats all ive got for this chapter! thanks to anyone who read this far, see you next time :D

#destiny rise and fall au #rise and fall retrospectives #my therapist told me to journal but i write fic instead

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broken-hearted-butterfly · 2 years

Text

Thinking a lot, especially after skipping a therapy session because I thought I would be okay, and because my therapist needed some medical work done.

I am, in fact, not okay.

I've been thinking a lot of things while also remembering that I didn't manage to touch upon everything I needed to in my previous session. I'm thinking about new things about work that distress me, thinking about my own isolation, and overall my mental health and what learning new things about my dissociation mean for me, as well as my general disability.

I physically cannot pick a job that interests me because my primary concern is always whether or not my body has the fortitude to do it. If that passes, then it falls upon my mind to be steeled. I can't have both. It's difficult to say I'd like to do something if I have to wonder whether I'll launch into a migraine, or if my back will seize up, or if sensory overload will catch up to me. I could stock shelves with mild enjoyment from the organization and the repetition, but only if I didn't have to work as a customer service representative as well, only if I didn't have to meet a quota, only if I didn't have to do so for 8 hours a day. If my body can meet the demands, my mind cannot. I barely manage hobbies as I am now, and I dropped all of them completely when I was working, coming home each night and crying before launching into the cycle again the next day. The transcription job would never have lasted, it payed so little it was demeaning. One demanded 8 hours of work per day, with $50 per hour long file rewarded. 8 hours is roughly how long it would take to transcribe an hour long file. I never heard back from the other site. Signing up and realizing I didn't want to do it, realizing that the sign of wanting to cry thinking about the effort involved was likely a sign of thinking how quickly I burn out or tire, and that sustaining that effort is what tore me apart in the first place. I need income, but I don't want to set myself on fire to attain it. I can barely maintain hobbies and feeding myself as is, throwing myself into a job would wrench it all away from me again. I suppose part of it also the idea of this being how things are supposed to be done, you're supposed to have the job and no one likes their job. The grind. Haha, yeah. Just like everyone else.

My general isolation, as well as my past, have also brought to mind how isolated I feel from other people. This isn't anything particularly new, but it's striking especially hard. My sibling sent me art they had intended for my birthday, and I was struck with what felt almost like survivor's guilt; they are still going and seemingly doing okay, but they shouldn't be there. There was nothing I could've done, but it still doesn't sit well with me that they're stuck there. I realized how important it is to hear myself be called by my second name, and how it's something I can only really reveal to a select amount of people around me. I've been thinking about how it (in addition to kin identity) is a good litmus test to see how respected I may feel, starting with the common ground of media, then hitting the silly surface aspects of what he was like and what people thought of him, before hitting the psychological horror aspects of what talking about him in therapy brought to light. I'm not sure if I could even tell the people I live with; if I know someone has a concept of what makes something cringeworthy, then I can't. If this important part of me can't be respected, then how will something like my autism be respected? My relationship with gender? All things that seem silly on some level, but matter a great deal to me and are just as integral to who I am.

I want emotional intimacy, but that's usually associated with romance, which I something I cannot provide and feel uncomfortable with the idea of being involved in. My roommate keeps going on dates, she says she "has to put herself out there". That will be prioritized over others. A friend of 10 years got a boyfriend and then almost never spoke to me again. It feels like I have to deliberately seek out other aspec people because it doesn't feel like I'll get what I'm looking for from anyone else. It feels like I can't be called anyone's first choice, their partner is their first choice. It's jealousy, it's upset at isolation, it's a revulsion towards how the world works for most other people and finding myself at odds with it almost entirely. In a fit of tears I nearly asked someone about the idea of qpps, but stopped myself and instead wanted to wait until I calmed down to see if it was what I'd really wanted. The actual low level fear of having to watch friends get partners and ultimately favor them because of course they would, of course they would, I understand that. It just feels so dismaying how pushed all of this feels.

One friend got covid and is getting every symptom on the list, another friend's parents are getting a divorce. I don't talk to my family, save my sibling. They say it never rains but pours. I have a doctor appointment coming up, and my therapist wants to speak to the doctor, since my last doctor dismissed me as anxious and hormonal. I need to talk about my unknown chronic condition, and my back, and my broken bone that didn't seem to heal properly, the rough dry patches on my skin. The likely connection between my back pain and my occasional neuropathy. The connection between my headaches, my dizziness, the low blood pressure and high heart rate, the heat exhaustion, the way my vision blacks out if I stand up too fast, the way nothing has worked on my pain except alcohol, which causes vasodilation, which very strongly hints at what could be happening. I need to know about my genetic vitamin condition, should I be taking vitamins, should I be avoiding foods, should I supplement? Why has everyone who has taken my blood pressure told me it was good, but now that I'm actually hearing the numbers, I'm knowing that they're too low? 92/60, 102/68. Is it good because it isn't high? My low weight is good because it isn't high? I must be healthy, coming in at less than 120 pounds, because thin is good, low is good, little is good, no matter how much pain I may be in. I'm struggling to find a doctor who will do the absolute bare minimum for me.

I found a term called identity confusion, as a type of dissociation. It almost perfectly describes how I'm feeling. Trying to look it up gave me a lot of results regarding DID, which I know I'm not grappling with. It felt simultaneously victorious and dismaying to find this term; I like pulling things apart to find out what makes them tick, and did so incessantly with all this in therapy. Finding the term seems to have solidified this in a way I'm not fully happy with, however. In a sense, it had felt like there was always someone else there with me when the episodes would happen. There was something almost transcendental about it, but finding a descriptor almost sweeps it all away. Nothing more than a defense mechanism borne of abuse, which I already knew, but some of the mysticism feels like it's been pulled away, as if a curtain was pulled back. I want to be present. But I can't say I'm fully upset by my specific brand of dissociation. I'm not sure I can fully articulate it, but it made me feel quite strongly as I read what I was able to find. Just something I was left to think about.

#🦋💕.txt

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vaguely-concerned · 3 years

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Rhapsody on Seven Days Rhapsody

zenigata has canonically trained his ears to recognize the sound of the fiat starting up. fiat whisperer. fhsjadfask I love you pops (he's mostly here for comic relief in this one but by god he does it so well)

honestly the subtitle of this special could be 'polycule scheduling problems' (also incontrovertible proof that if it ever really came down to it fujiko would 100% get goemon in the divorce. fujigoe folks come get your good fucking food)

- a particularly upsetting jigen's evil exes situation in this one, but at least the dude is arguably kind of handsome and quite clever this time so I guess there's always that. somehow it's so sad to me that the thing he offers (and knows jigen won't turn down) is to 'fix their relationship'. uuuuugh you just know this guy would sometimes stroke his hair and smile at him while they were fucking and jigen's poor fucked up love starved brain looked at that very barest veneer of human care and decency, however feigned, and went and decided that meant he owes him.

in some ways this dude's much worse because he's not stupid or just plain nuts, tho. like jigen honey I know this is not your strongest suit at the best of times but self respect, buddy, don't let people push your buttons like this ;___;

- a lady plants an impassioned surprise kiss on jigen in a flashback near the beginning and HE DOESN'T EVEN TAKE HIS HANDS OUT OF HIS POCKETS AT ANY POINT OF IT fkjhdsjklasfsdaljkh iconic (he did clearly care about her but proooobably not in quite the same way as she did for him huh lol)

yes. indeed. this did happen. more than once, in fact. this whole special is SPECTACULARLY gay, which I know is a high bar indeed for a lupin installment. some of it is in the form of gay jokes but it didn't feel like particularly malicious ones as these things go this time around, if you see what I mean. also fuck you I'm not taking it as jokes it's just nice to have on-screen confirmation that lupin is into goemon's tits as much as fujiko's (great content for most pairings in this tbh)

- this is of course an incredibly silly stupid story, as all lupin iii stories are, and don't let the fact that I found it very entertaining fool you into thinking otherwise, but it feels like there's something real and quite sweet in the running theme around heaven and hell in this one, especially when lupin and jigen have that reconciliation conversation where, I don't know... all the dread and deadness is taken out of it by that sense of looking at someone like 'I know I'm going to hell in the end, but that's okay because I'm going there with you and as long as it's the two of us we could make even that a fucking party'. like yeah, I think that's what it's all about when you get right down to it, that kind of partnership.

(also jigen's stone cold "you can't" in response to riat trying one last ditch guilt trip *chef kiss*. again -- this idea of both heaven and hell as lonely places vs. what lupin and jigen talk about ever so indirectly in that scene after the fire, tho. thoughts. emotions.)

- goemon and taking down a helicopter name a more iconic duo (possibly 'zenigata and crashing them' gets close)

how am I supposed to not be ready to lay down my life for him at a moment's notice. what do you want from me. am I fashioned from cold unfeeling steel? is my heart a lump of ice? am I to remain unmoved by him using a high squeaky voice to make the puppet go 'hai!'????

- this one has some GREAT lupin characterization for me. it's the perfect blend of silliness and competence (and occasional straight up ruthlessness). the god of failing upwards and having fun the whole face-planting way

- still thinking about how, when lupin shoots jigen's hat off in their standoff, it's treated as more of a disarming than if he'd actually, y'know, disarmed him. that part is also the only time you see jigen's eyes in this entire special, I'm pretty sure, which is really emphasized by all the close ups during the scenes where he's realizing just how fucked up his employers are and you don't get access to his eyes at all. sort of like a mix of emotional vulnerability + helping him see clearly again going on here, especially since it's heavily hinted riat brings out old bad habits in him (namely numbness, near-fatal levels of unassertiveness and a light sprinkle of suicidality, what a cocktail).

WHAT A FUCKING POWER MOVE!! Lupin really went 'I stole your diamond, I stole your hostage, most importantly I stole your man and unlike you I'm gonna treat him right... and I did it all without wearing any pants (they're in custody. zenigata's got them)'

the way riat keeps talking about lupin in relation to jigen is so funny tho he is one step away from pulling out the 'don't worry I'll get you back to the ol' ball and chain in one piece by the weekend buddy' card

- I'm still cracking up about the fact that lupin made jigen come with him to the store where he was planning to buy ice (as in frozen water) and nothing else, apparently just because he wanted the company, and all he seems to have needed to do was go 'hey jigen c'mon I need you for something let's go' with no further explanation lmao. you needy lil shit lupin <3 (adorable to just have them have a cute domestic conversation as they walk through a comically bad neighbourhood haha, lupin's infodumping about an extremely niche yet intense current interest of his while jigen both follows along and offhandedly averts a robbery, and the situation has the definite vibe that this type of conversation happens regularly between them)

- warning that there is some very questionable stuff around an underage female character in this one and while I think they don't quite cross the line into completely heinous territory with it, it did make me a bit uncomfortable in places so, y'know, mind how you go etc.

let's do as the special and end on this

#lupin iii #seven days rhapsody #arsene lupin iii #daisuke jigen #inspector zenigata #goemon ishikawa xiii #somehow I love that lupin has made sure tiny puppet jigen still has the tiepin lol if he can't be anything else he will always be extra #*nervously eyes the ever-shortening list of lupin stuff I haven't watched yet*#I guess there's always part 2 to get through holy shit but they got so much of that made in such a short time??#jigen x lupin #lupin x zenigata #fujiko x goemon

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jacqcrisis · 2 years

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Fallout au was a ride, you're so damned good at writing FEELINGS and doing clever wrap ups of themes n such. I gotta ask tho, cause I'm dying to know, what is Thesus' reaction when Hermes and Charon show up again after all that?

Thank you so much ;3;

And Theseus is remorseful and out of his mind with guilt. He’s not the same cold Brotherhood of Steel Paladin he used to be, and what once could have been an easy bargain for him to make and move past now weighs heavily on him, especially after seeing the effects of his actions. He may not like Hermes or see him as 'part of the town' but key members of the community DO and Hermes' wellbeing isn't his to bargain with.

I like the idea that in the meantime, Theseus has gone to Nyx for the first time in his tenure in Asphodel. He views her as a charlatan at the best of times but he's alway supposed that was par for the course with the zombies. Its something he's gotten into arguments about with Asterius who seeks advice from the psyker, having been well-acquainted with people of such capabilities during his time in Unity.

But Theseus finds he needs answers to assuage his guilt, and Charon hasn't come back in five days, so he goes to the only person who may have some. Nyx is her usual apathetic self but clearly unhappy with the visit and, when asked, is forthcoming about Hermes being alive. She also chews him out for such a rash, unnecessary decision, gives him an earful about his treatment of the post-human residents in her town, and all but threatens to have him thrown into the arena bare-fisted with the albino deathclaw if he so much as even thinks about toeing over the line again.

Despite the assurance Hermes is alive, it's still difficult to believe his eyes when he sees the barge. Hermes isn't only fine, he's completely unscathed, not a single injury or bruise to be found. Since it's only been a week and a half since his run with Ares and given Charon's demeanor on that night, one would have to assume something terrible happened, especially if Charon had killed the man in response.

Theseus is almost simpering when Hermes passes by him to go into the gate, asking how he is and if he had a good trip, trying to placate and play off his transgressions in hope Hermes doesn't know. Hermes is understandably pissed but ignores Theseus, brushing past him on his way to find Asterius, intent on making sure he knows what happened.

Once found, Asterius reveals that after seeing Charon carting off Ares' body, Theseus admitted what he had done, the guilt over the matter too much for his pride. While Asterius was irate and disappointed that Theseus seemed to so flippantly bargain away his friend's well-being, he's possibly the most understanding person in this regard. As awful as Theseus thinking was in a moral sense, they've both made worse decisions in the name of their past loyalties, and, after a day of heavy thought, Asterius cannot reasonably assume he wouldn't have done something similar or the same if he had been the one approached.

Of course, there are consequences. Theseus will continue to hold the title of captain of the guard, but that is entirely symbolic as all actual leadership duties are left entirely to Asterius. It's too valuable for the rumor mill and the safety of the town to have an ex-Brotherhood with working power armor leading the guard, and in the sake of optics, he will remain as such. But now all shift changes and orders will come from Asterius.

Things don't go back to normal for a few months as Theseus leaves Hermes and Charon to their own devices, even going so far as to let Hermes out of jail without much fuss when Meg catches his being a nuisance. He never really apologizes or even mentions what happened, hoping it'll just be forgotten in time as he honestly doesn't feel like he owes either of them that much, even if he does feel guilty. On top of this, Zagreus keeps going missing, and Theseus and Asterius are both tasked with finding him each time, so with the added work, Theseus, Charon, and Hermes go about their lives ignoring each other and no one is complaining about that.

....until Theseus spies a more romantic moment between the two late one night, and goes right back to his petty, thirsty, jealous bullshit like nothing had even happened whenever he's not hunting for the mayor's son. So Charon gets maybe three months of not being bothered, but all good things must come to an end eventually.

#fall out hades au #this is probably how theseus gets charon in the arena #god i love dumbass supreme #i have maybe one other post about him in mind #just for fun #hes in the doghouse for like two months #hermes is happy to ignore him

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hellotvshowtrash · 3 years

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Grief (W.M)

Summary: Wanda unsuccessfully tries to move on from Vision.

Word count: 1.4K

Warnings: loss, death, depictions of Vision’s dead body (nothing we haven’t seen before) grieving, depression, guilt, Wanda blaming herself for Vision’s death. Also wandavision spoilers

A/N: hello! This is my fic for @sventeen-daybreak’s writing challenge as well as the May MCU prompt challenge! Leave a comment/reblog/like if you enjoyed!

Wanda laughs, but it doesn't sound like her. Her ears don't recognize the sound which is more like static than giggles. The man sitting across from her is unfamiliar, some brown eyed, brown haired, bland man, smiling at her like she is sunshine, but she does not want to be sunshine, not to him, at least. She doesn't even remember his name at this point.

His hand is laying on the table, expecting to meet hers halfway, and she looks at it through her periphery. Internally, she battles herself, battles the part of her that laughs at his jokes and wants to hold his hand. She lays her hand gently on top of his, layering his with hers like a blanket that hasn't been used in years. The feeling of her skin on his is alien and her subconscious yells that it's not right, none of this is right, none-

"Wanna get out of here?" The man across from her asks, his eyes gentle and kind, and she knows he means well. Her thoughts aside, this date has been going rather well and if it weren't for her, maybe they could really be something, but this man is not who she wants nor who her heart needs. This man doesn't know the intricacies of Wanda, her heart, her magic. She smiles politely and nods, letting him stand and lead her out of the crowded restaurant. The night is warm and loud, the streets of New York City buzz with chatter and the smell of exhaust.

Still hand in hand, the conversation between them doesn't cease or even pause. Wanda will give credit where credit is due, this man is easy to be with. His voice is American, no accent to be found. No prose while speaking, no poetic bliss. She finds his voice to be velvety and smooth to the ears, but sandpaper to the heart. She realizes he doesn't know where he is going as he walks with her back to her apartment, he's shy enough to not admit that he knows exactly who she is, that she can defend herself perfectly well, but he's chivalrous, he’s down to earth, he’s not blowing his shot.

She smiles as he talks about his family, his sister and her children who are his favourite little kids in the world and how being an uncle is amazing and how someday I'd really like to have a family of my own, y'know? He doesn't know it but he strikes just about every nerve possible in those few sentences and her chest tightens. Pietro, mom, dad, Vis- all in one horrible fell swoop. She takes a deep breath, her smile unbreaking. Chatter continues, mostly one-sided as Wanda pretends to listen to his voice. She isn’t focused on the words he’s saying, just the burning feel of his hand in hers and how wrong it is.

Wanda assumes he’s stalling as they get closer to her building, her dingy one-bedroom apartment is waiting for her, and she can feel the sanctuary she has found there. They approach the building, and he pauses, he’s finally stopped talking and is deliberating on what to say next. Before he had a chance to say anything, Wanda speaks up.

“I had a really nice time tonight, thank you.” She smiles again, it’s small and kind, and she’s anxious to get inside.

“I did, too. Thank you for coming,” he’s beaming now, like he can see their second and third and last date together. He steels himself and pulls her close by her hand, his other cupping her waist. She’s surprised when his lips meet hers, but she lets her eyes close and her other hand rest on his shoulder. He pulls away and smiles at her. “I hope we can do this again, soon. Goodnight, Wanda.” He gives a small wave and begins to walk in the direction he came.

Wanda releases a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, the ache in her chest lessening as she watches the man walk away. She curses herself for not remembering his name, it’s the least she could have done.

It’s a fitful night’s sleep. Not that she ever rests anymore. Her waking moments are consumed with thoughts of Vision and his dull red and grey and lifeless form. How it was her who did it - who killed him- the first time and how he had to suffer a second time. How he wasn’t coming back. Her dreams weren’t any better.

She’s back in the S.W.O.R.D headquarters, staring at Vision’s body and her words come back to her, “I can’t feel you.” Here, those words ring true over and over again echoing through her ears. It is when Vision’s mouth opens in a gasp, and she still doesn’t feel him. Instead, she feels a horrible dread because she’s had this dream, over and over again, and she knows what happens next. Vision’s body is no longer dissected and on different tables, he is put back together in a tangled jumble of wires and sparks, and he’s still dead. His eyes are still blank, he is swaying in front of her in this new black space - what happened to the surrounding lab? - His arms reach for her, and she feels her legs carry her toward him. She still feels the love for him, the pain for him, but she still does not feel him. She wraps her arms around him, around the stitches and the incorrect parts.

Something is different, in this dream. Vision looks down at her with his horrifying eyes, and he examines her, that much she can feel.

“Wanda, darling,” His voice is monotonous and fading, like his program is trying to restart. “Someone else has kissed you.” He observes.

“It was a mistake, Vis, I-,” Wanda begins to speak but Vision’s color begins to flood through him, vibrant red and silver. Her breath escapes her lungs - how could she forget how beautiful he is? He is repaired, whole, made anew and he is holding her in his strong arms, just as he used to.

His eyes are alive now, and they’re analyzing her. They bore into hers and she presses a hand against his cheek, a tear sliding down her own. “When you look into his eyes,” Vision begins to speak and Wanda’s memory of the man’s mocha eyes flash back into view, crinkling as he smiles at her from across their shared table . “Do you think of mine?” His lips graze hers gently, never actually planting. She can’t handle the idea of never kissing him again.

Wanda’s breath has left her lungs and she can’t breathe. She’s drowning, she’s sure she is.

“Vision, he is nothing to me.” She chokes and blinks, and Vision is back to his muddled red, dead eyes seeing her soul. He cocks his head and pushes her away from him, sending her stumbling backward. “Vis, please,” she cries now, a sob escaping her lips.

“This is all your fault, Wanda.” His voice is loud and electric, like he’s speaking through a megaphone at her. She crumples to her knees as he continues to stare her down, and she feels so small. She sobs and cries and can’t look at him any more, her arms wrapping around herself. She can’t make herself look up at him because she knows his eyes will break her. She can’t tell if he’s still there or now as she cries, because she still can’t feel him. Guilt and fear and panic rise up her throat like bile, tasting like blood.

She’s underneath abrasive sterile lights again as the scene changes once more, she’s back in the S.W.O.R.D lab and Vision is lying motionless on the table, pulled apart in chunks. She does not try to feel him again. She knows he will not be there. His words echo around her. “This is all your fault, Wanda.”

She wakes in a cold sweat, her tears streaming freely down her face. She is exhausted and frayed and left alone in the nearly empty apartment she has for herself. She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest, letting her cries come as they please.

She can’t feel him anymore, and it is all her fault.

—

Taglist: @elijahs-wife @dumble-daddy @alwaysfangirlingish @akshi8278 @nikmikaelsonswife @njeancastro316 @brown-eyed-babes

#devs600celebration #maymcupromptchallenge #Wanda Maximoff #Wanda #Vision #mcu #marvel #it’s wanda trying to move on after vision #Wanda deserves better I’m so sorry #wandavision spoilers #I’m sO NERVOUS #also I’m not able to make a moodboard for it rn am sad #fanfiction #wanda maximoff fanfiction

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