#hurricane excerpt

[akindofmagictoo]

manuscript search tag game

thank you @klywrites :D

my words are radio, comfort, ocean, food

radio

comfort (Hurricane draft 3) (theella snuggles!)

The moon, high in the sky, cast a soft white glow over the castle battlements. Theo snored softly beside her. She smiled and turned gingerly over to curl up against him. Though any movement made her ribs throb, and she almost lay down on her broken wrist, it would hurt whatever she did. She might as well pretend like she was comfortable. She might as well lie close to Theo like she wanted to.

He draped an arm over her—still asleep, she was sure—and she snuggled closer, her breathing slowing back down. She was safe here.

ocean (Hurricane draft 3) (hahahah i’d almost forgotten i wrote this in)

Theo awoke to find himself staring up at bare wooden boards. He’d had a headache earlier, but it seemed to have mostly subsided. That was nice.

His view of the ceiling was interrupted by the golden-eyed girl he’d seen earlier. He didn’t remember much of that interaction, if there had been one at all, but unfortunately he did remember the first thought he’d had when he saw her, when the rational part of his brain had not been around to debate. He’d mistaken her for a mermaid, on the evidence that she was in the ocean and that she was beautiful. He hoped his embarrassment wasn’t showing on his face as she peered curiously down at him.

“Aella! I told you to give him space.”

food (Hurricane draft 3) (Laila my beloved)

Just up ahead was a food storeroom. While Laila had been guarding Aella’s cell, she’d seen no evidence that the girl was being fed. No one had brought food, no one had taken any away. There had been a water skin hanging in the corner of the cell, but no food. She briefly wondered if Anvindr had plans to feed her later, if he was merely withholding food as a punishment, but she didn’t care. Four days was too long to leave anyone without food, whatever she’d done.

@talesofsorrowandofruin @vellichor-virgo @etjwrites @lowslore @muddshadow your turn, if you so choose! your words are presence, impose, grace, imagine

[feltpoetry]

“after he broke my heart, i began writing about him. i wrote and i wrote and i’ve described him as a hurricane, a drug, my universe. now that i’ve moved on, i don’t see him in that way anymore. he wasn’t anything above ordinary, he was just a boy. a boy who didn’t want to be with me and that’s that.”

excerpt from a book i’ll never write #781

[achilles-lycoris]

A storm has blown through and left not in its wake

Rains and winds blowing

Ripping through trees and fields

In the aftermath we have been cut off from the outside world

Power and water a thing of the past

We have gone back in time suddenly

Now we spend our days locked in a haze

Some clean the streets

Others play old games to pass the time

I myself trap myself upon the pages of books

Distracting my brain from the harsh reality

Of the darkness all around me

Candles and flashlights flicker

I dream of the worlds I have been cut off from and am forced to make my own

I know not when it will all return to normal

I can only pray to whichever gods will listen

And hope that the darkness will soon be conquered

-Achilles

[a-chuffed-floating-panda]

Scrapped excerpt of a love in the eye of the hurricane

Fire Lord Yosor had sent his guard to check up on his son throughout the day. Not that he didn't trust the children, he could tell that four of the air nomad children, odd as it felt to think, could hold themselves in battle and defend themselves if needed. This was more for him and his nerves. The guard would come back every time looking awfully bemused and he would report.

“They’re chasing after a bird, Sir.”

“I think one of the red pandas that sat perched on one of the girls shoulders exchanged a rice cake for a piece of cloth and now they’re chasing it down thinking it was stolen, Sir.”

“They saved a koala sheep calf that had fallen into the river, Sir. I was about to intervene when The Prince helped with a quickly thought out plan.”

[unspoken-words-fromthe-storm]

I now know what it's like to lose a part of yourself

One you didn't even know to exist.

Instead of a warped reflection in a mirror

It's every midnight laugh to escape his lips

Every curve and roll of his spine

Rising and falling in his sleep.

Every lazy kiss

As short as it is deep.

The touches start to fade

Like the sunbleached photo on my dash.

You long to hear 'I love you' first

So he's not just saying it back.

There's dinner on the table

The only sounds are forks scratching plates,

And the occasional grunt or groan

When I recommend a date.

Whatever our souls may be made of

I thought his and mine were the same,

But judging by my loveless life

It was all just one big game.

[oftenwantedafton]

Older - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content

Excerpt -

He notices you right away.

New hire, young, fresh out of college. Energetic. Enthusiastic. A breathless sort of rambling when you talk for long periods of time that he finds charming. Pretty. He’s not blind.

He can’t imagine you’d be interested. Too many decades between you.

You can’t know the wanting that overwhelms him some nights.

Also available on AO3

He notices you right away.

New hire, young, fresh out of college. Energetic. Enthusiastic. A breathless sort of rambling when you talk for long periods of time that he finds charming. Pretty. He’s not blind. Neither are the other men in the office. He hears the talk. In the bathroom. The breakroom. While waiting for the elevator to exit the office building. A married employee has you trapped against the corner of the lobby. You’re politely deflecting. He isn’t getting the hint. In the old days, when he’d used his real name, he would’ve killed the man without a second thought. But it’s not the old days. It’s the new. So he uses words instead. Still threatening. He’d never liked the man to begin with, his opinion after he’s harassed you dropping that much further. He sees the relief in your eyes when your coworker moves away.

He doesn’t follow up on this. Doesn’t use it as an excuse to make any advances towards you. He can’t imagine you’d be interested. Too many decades between you. He’s gone gray. Laugh lines starting to set in. Arthritis in overworked joints. He’s getting old and he absolutely despises that fact. So he remains polite and leaves it at that. You can’t know the wanting that overwhelms him some nights. When he finally surrenders thinking about your soft looking lips and your delicate hands. Climaxing embarrassingly quickly. In the shower. In bed, then back up to the bathroom to wash up afterwards. Looking into the mirror of the medicine cabinet. Pride still in the eyes, the shoulders. But he feels the passage of time leaving its mark on him.

Easter. You have no way of knowing what the headband with rabbit ears does to him. On anyone else they’d be childish, silly. On you they make him want to hunt you. Teeth sinking in. Predator and prey. He bites the inside of his cheek until bone severs the tissue and he tastes copper. Wonders what you’d taste like. Your mouth, the soft pink flesh between your thighs. You hand out plastic eggs to the other employees, to the job hopefuls. Candy. Other assorted trinkets for those with children at home. The one he’s handed has a little flocked rabbit pin. He shouldn’t be so touched. It has a place of honor on his desk beside his keyboard.

Another new hire. Young man. Attractive. It’s a tradition in the office to go out one Friday night a month. The new employee learns this. Inquires if you’ll be attending. Your eyes look to the middle aged man. He’s never gone. Maybe tonight he’ll change his mind.

***

He doesn’t like to drink. Impaired judgment doesn’t suit him. So he nurses a soda instead. The bar is loud. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Yes he does. There you are. The young man talking to you again. He wants to chase him off. But there’s no reason for it. No impropriety this time. Why shouldn’t this nice young couple be together?

You make your way to his side, abandoning the new hire. Darts in hand. A challenge. His aim is flawless. A dartboard in the security office of his previous job. Target reached each time. He counts the number of drinks you imbibe. Insists on taking you home. You surrender easily.

He drives you home. You’re still living at home with your parents. Working on saving up to pay off school loans. Your hand curling around his forearm when he pulls beside the curb. You don’t know the reason why he always wear long sleeves, of course, despite the hot, arid Hurricane weather. Can’t know the scars there. Relics from the past. He can smell the bar on you. Sour alcohol and stale cigarettes. Wonders what flavor the pink gloss you’d reapplied tastes like. He puts the car in park, then walks you to the door to make sure you’re safe.

Goes home and showers and lies down waiting for sleep that never comes.

***

The career counselor doesn’t typically frequent the break room. He prefers the privacy of his office. But you do. So there he is, nearly daily now. Your blossoming smile of greeting that warms something deep inside. He reprimands himself internally. Acting foolish like this. Getting soft in his old age. He should visit the restaurant more often. Get back to the work, the research. Remember the end goal. You’re moving to sit beside him. Handing over a brownie you’d baked yourself. It’s another Friday. You ask if he’ll be going out with the others to the pub again. He declines. You shrug and say you won’t be going either, then. He curses inwardly. He should have said yes. At least it would be an excuse to spend more time with you. Now he has this opportunity. You’re both free. He could invite you somewhere. Where would you want to go? Where could this possibly go? The moment passes unclaimed.

***

You invade his office early one morning. Seeking coffee. The offering in the break room just doesn’t taste the same, you claim. The sunlight streaming through the blinds surrounds you, outlining your figure, setting threads of hair aflame. He watches you lift the steaming glass pot and fill one of his stoneware mugs he’d brought from home. He doesn’t think coffee tastes as good when it’s in a disposable paper cup. You add a spoonful of powdered creamer and tear open two packets of sugar. Stir the drink for long moments. Were you hesitating? Waiting for something? His mouth is dry, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. You leave and he realizes he’s never seen you drink coffee even once before this.

You return with the cup rinsed later. Fingers brushing his as you hand the mug back. Shy smile. A look up through lashes. He’s so much taller than you are; taller than most of the other people that work in the office. He sees you eyeing the rabbit you’d gifted him still sitting on his desk. Words unsaid pressing against the back of his teeth. Fingers twitching. He aches. He wants. You’re already gone.

***

Lunch break. Knees colliding under the table. Arms brushing. Your bare one warm against his sleeved one. Your chairs ludicrously close together. There’s no way people haven’t noticed. Aren’t talking. Ugly rumors that he wishes were true. He has to suppress the urge to hand feed you. To dip his fingers between those lips, to have you lick them clean. The ache worsens. He needs you. Desperately.

You tell him your parents will be away on vacation for a week.

Just like that, just a light mention. A thread of possibility dangling in front of him again. He’d heard you’d rejected that handsome young man’s offer of a date. You’re not quite as popular now. No longer the shiny new girl. You follow the declaration of your parents’ absence up with saying you don’t like being in the house alone. There was his window. Offered right up on a platter. He’d be a fool not to accept. He remarks he’d be happy to come over if you got too afraid. Matching your light tone. Eyes much heavier. Weighted gaze. You ask for his phone number. Slide a napkin over for him to write on. It’s the wrong texture, his pen tearing through the thin material. You offer your palm instead. He holds it steady as he writes, cupping that soft hand for support while the black ink marks your skin. Your eyes on him. Seven numbers that take an eternity to write. He doesn’t want to stop touching you. He hears chairs dragging across linoleum. Lunch is over. He reluctantly releases his hold on you. Time to get back to work.

You call him that night. Your voice so small on the phone. Needy. You sound even younger. He doesn’t hesitate. Drives to your house. Doesn’t even need to knock on the door. You’re waiting there. For him. He still hasn’t changed out of his work clothes. You’re wearing a camisole and matching pajama bottoms. Pretty violet. The door closes behind him. Your breathing a little rapid. Hair still damp from a shower. He steps forward just as you move towards him. A collision somewhere in the middle. His mouth crashing against yours. Nothing tentative. Lips firm and assured. Tongue expert against yours. He’s imagined different versions of this moment. Fantasized. Now reality. As soft and sweet as he’d envisioned. He’d forgotten the feel of young skin, firm and full and smooth. So different from his own. Those calloused engineer’s fingers tracing all the soft places on your body. Between your legs. Warm and wet. Slick spread over your clit. A needy whimper. He’s on fire. Tastes his fingers. Heavenly nectar. He needs you to be sitting somewhere, or lying. He wants his face between those thighs.

Living room couch nearby. The closest surface. Pressing you down into the cushions. Palm against your breasts. Stroking peaked nipples. Straps of your top eased over shoulders. Mouth sucking each one. Your hips arching up to assist in sliding your pajama bottoms and panties off. His knees protest the feel of the hardwood floor beneath the thin area rug. He ignores the discomfort. Fingers working inside of you. Plucking. He’s used to handling tiny, delicate components. Necessary with some of the animatronic parts. Manipulating your body. Finding the correct frequency. Attuned. His mouth on your pussy. He loves the sounds you’re making. The feel of your fingers in his hair. Tell tale tremors along your thighs. He wonders if you ever touched yourself like he had, unable to resist the thought of this. Cumming with his false name on your lips. What if he told you his secret? Took you to his shuttered restaurant. Walked among the decaying remains. The workroom. Experiments. Research. The piles of journals. He still prefers the written word. Faster. Spilling words, spreading ink. Your noises louder. Shaking violently now. The burn of hair being pulled. How different you look after being taken apart. Mouth slack and wide. Pupils blown. A wild, untamed thing.

The snap of vertebrae. More aged protests. Sitting beside you now. You’ve got his pants undone. Straddling his hips. Lithe, agile. Cock guided inside the glistening depths. The little gasp of surprise. How full he’s stretching you. Your fingers laced behind his neck. Your face bending to his. His wide hands brace your hips. You fuck yourself down onto him. Lift. Drop down. Rocking. His hands now spread across your bouncing cheeks. Sheathed. Freed. That alias tearing from your throat. That’s who you’re fucking. The polite middle aged career counselor from work with the penchant for rabbits. Not the other. Not the restaurant owner, engineer, former husband and father. Not the murderer. But it wasn’t all his fault, was it? Not really. Not when you consider all the ramifications. What the other had had. Flaunting it constantly. He’d wanted it, too. His fair share. And look who had triumphed in the end. He was still here. The other not. So.

He’s thrusting up into you. Rough. Driving air from your lungs. Skin slapping together. All these years and he’s still so bitter. But you’re so sweet. Candy lips. That gorgeous tight pussy snug around his cock. Your face hovering above his own. Saliva drizzled onto his waiting tongue. The pretty way your mouth falls open as you cum again. Faint ripples becoming turbulent. His own release pulsing inside. Wounded sound of pleasure moaned against your fragrant skin.

Holding you in his arms in the darkness. You ask him to stay.

He has no intentions of leaving.

[daddywright]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY APOLLO JUSTICE 🥳 I'M GONNA WHUMP YOUR ASS LIKE IT'S 2013!

In all seriousness, to celebrate our favorite orange lawyer, I've decided to reward everyone who's commented on "it never rains" lately with such lovely words of encouragement with a big-ass excerpt for the latest installment of pressureverse. I hope you enjoy it!! It's been coming to this point for a long time, and it's finally here. To the star of the show, I can only say... it's gonna be rough, buddy. Happy birthday!

Read below for the excerpt!

Miles

"Phoenix."

Low, distracted humming pauses over the sound of a bubbling saucepan. "Hmm?"

"Is tonight a special occasion?"

A spate of blinking as Phoenix turns to look at him, cheeks vibrant from the steam. There's tiny red drops of tomato spattered onto his shirt, and the counter is a familiar mess of half-used ingredients. It's Friday evening, after all, and on weekdays that keep him at the office late, his arrival home tends to greet him with a hurricane coastline in the kitchen. Luckily, Trucy is absorbed watching television in the living room, or it would be a category event.

"Huh? Special?"

His mouth threatens a smile watching the cogs spin in his husband's eyes, seeking potentially overlooked data, and he edges close to gently tap the wine bottle in Phoenix's left hand.

"Given that you're no fan of reds, one can only assume you're intending to treat me. Unless, of course, your intent is to make pasta sauce with a two hundred dollar French vintage. Either way, I'm flattered."

"T- Two hundred dollars?" Phoenix wheezes, eyes bulging at the bottle in his hand. His own smile breaks at the confirmation of ignorance, and he swallows a small chuckle as Phoenix carefully places the wine onto the countertop like it's a loaded gun. "Why do we even have wine that expensive?"

"It was a gift from the Japanifornian ambassador of Borginia. I'm sure it's a fine vintage, though it may be wasted in a bolognese."

"Jeez," Phoenix mutters. Without warning or opposition, his head tilts to thump against Miles's shoulder. "Well, I’m glad I didn't open it yet. I would have drowned myself. Or bribed Trucy to help me cover up the crime."

"That seems somewhat drastic," Miles hums, absorbing the warmth of Phoenix's cheek through his dress shirt.

“Two hundred dollars,” Phoenix repeats, with fervor. Miles doesn’t voice the thought it might have been worth the entertainment of his panic, knowing it will earn him a night of mockery over his perspective on personal economics. Contrary to popular opinion, he does know how much basic items should cost at the supermarket.

“Anyways... how was work?”

“Nothing unusual,” he replies, as Phoenix straightens up to resume his food preparation. His mouth twitches, weary, as Phoenix reaches for a knife and begins to start chopping an onion, already skinned and halved on a nearby cutting board. “Though... Franziska called today.”

“Yeah? She wrap up that arms-trafficking case yet?”

“Of course,” he says, dismissive— as if it would pose an obstacle— and pauses. He listens for the sound of the television in the next room, blaring familiar orchestra, and continues. “She didn’t call to talk about her work.”

Phoenix’s chopping slows, but he doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”

His stomach prickles with apprehension. “She’s growing... impatient,” he says lowly. “As you can well imagine.”

Phoenix’s shoulders form a tense line. “...I can.”

He still doesn’t look Miles’s way, chopping slow and steady. Miles shifts his jaw.

“She was accommodating, acquiring those records for us last month. But she is not a woman who appreciates being left out of the loop. Especially when she has suspicions about its connection to her work on the taskforce.”

Suspicions with ample justification. The progress she’s made with Interpol in the last few years has been more than impressive— contract killers have been a particular bone in his sister’s jaw ever since the Engarde case, years ago, and hounding the shadowy trails of men like De Killer has driven her to remarkable success with a taskforce under Interpol’s umbrella. Olga Orly’s testimony before her conviction had drawn Franziska’s predatory eye, and Miles had welcomed it, given the threat that woman could have posed to his family.

However... Franziska hasn't been apprised of all they've uncovered, and capable as she is, she’s begun to suspect as much.

It's been a point of contention. For several weeks, in fact. But Phoenix is a stubborn man.

Miles watches him silently stir the sauce, and quietly readies his own stance.

The facts being what they are, he understands Phoenix's point of view. Whoever hired Orly to murder Zak Gramarye did so to keep him from sharing information about Thalassa. Since the trial, they've examined seemingly every angle of the incident that led to her supposed death— but in the months that’ve passed since, finding any leads has proven more difficult than it should have been. Even with Kay’s best efforts, it’s increasingly clear that information about Thalassa has been wiped clean from nearly every avenue of government documentation— a feat that shouldn’t seem possible, given the fame and notoriety that the Gramarye family achieved at the height of their success. It coincides, however, with what Orly had implied during the last moments of her trial— that the person who hired her was someone of extreme political or financial influence.

Someone desperately wants Thalassa to stay buried. They have no evidence to suggest who, or why. They haven’t even been able to verify that she is alive, as Zak claimed. All that’s certain is that the truth is something that a certain party is willing to kill over, and because it’s all they know— because they are grasping at straws against a shadowy danger, and have been for months— he has made concessions.

He had reluctantly agreed, when Phoenix first told him, that the truth about Thalassa should be kept secret from Trucy. Not because she needed to be shielded from the possibility, but because they knew her too well. Trucy wouldn't be able to resist searching for her mother on her own time, and that posed an unacceptable danger. Loath as he was to conceal such a critical thing from her, he and Phoenix agreed her safety was paramount, with themselves still so much in the dark.

As a result, he’s grown accustomed to dodging his daughter’s earshot, in recent months. He despises how habitual it has become. However, as of today, he’s determined his agreement to secrecy will no longer extend to their other loved ones.

“It's time," he says, to his husband’s stubborn back. “At this point, she’s going to be furious that we didn’t tell her what we discovered sooner.”

“Miles,” Phoenix says, and the unspoken slant to his voice— the we’ve talked about this layered within—makes Miles’s stomach clench with irritation. “... You know how I feel about this. It’s not—”

“Do you doubt my sister’s capabilities?” he interrupts, before he can hear the same justification he’s heard a dozen times before. “Do you consider her untrustworthy?”

“No,” Phoenix says pointedly, knife stilling, “you know I trust her, so don’t try to make it sound like—”

“We are making little headway on our own, and she is a talented investigator,” he presses, pride rankling. “I understood your hesitation, at first, but—”

“Hesitation?” Phoenix issues, voice edging on a hiss. “I’m not being hesitant, I’m thinking about safety here.”

“Franziska can look after herself. She is more than capable—”

Phoenix puts down the knife, hard enough to clack against the cutting board wood. “We still have no idea who we’re dealing with or how influential they are. Just because Franziska’s Interpol doesn't mean she's untouchable. Besides, the more people poking around into Thalassa, the more likely we are to tip them off!”

“We are less effective on our own,” he counters, voice flinty. “And if our investigation brings danger to our doorstep, we’re putting others at risk by keeping them in the dark.” And it speaks to the core of what’s been eating his conscience, for months on end— not just the deception, but the potential danger that comes with it. “The people we trust to ask for help— they deserve the facts as we know them.”

Phoenix is stiff, now, staring into the boiling pot of marinara sauce. Shoulders squared. Muscles bunched in his jaw. Miles hates it. Hates the tension and anger coiled in Phoenix’s body, hates that he erased the calm he found when he came home. But he isn’t willing to bend anymore.

“I can’t,” Phoenix grits out. “I can’t be— I can’t put them in danger, Miles.”

“I am not asking your permission,” he replies, cutting, and Phoenix’s nostrils flare. “Just because you hide the truth from your sister, doesn’t mean I will lie to mine.”

Phoenix’s head snaps his direction, and they finally meet eyes. “That’s not fair,” he says, oversharp. “Goddamn it, Miles. You think I like this?”

“I think you’ve confused silence for protection,” he argues, glacial, and when Phoenix visibly reels back, eyes alight with it, he strikes first. “And I am just as guilty. Because I have allowed you to do so.”

Phoenix’s open mouth stalls, face flickering. Miles feels his stomach roll under the emotion on his face, having spoken the realization he’s been turning over in his head for days. He knows— has always known— the kind of man that Phoenix is. And that kind is a fool.

A stubborn, reckless, determined fool. A stalwart of belief. A man who triumphed with his mastery of evidence, on their control and righteous reveal. A man who would work himself broken to help someone who needed it, and who would suffer every burden in silence, if he could manage it. Even if the cost was great. Even if his sacrifice was unnecessary.

Miles is guilty of the same mistake that others have made, when it comes to his fool. Guilty in assuming that because Phoenix is capable, it means he is right.

He is capable. So much so it has put stars in Miles’s eyes. But he can be blind, too, in that what others might consider selfish, Phoenix finds responsible.

“I have allowed you to carry this,” he says softly, “because I was willing to do what I thought you needed, after the trial.” For you to feel safe. So you didn’t feel powerless. “But I cannot call fighting on your own what you need.”

“I... I’m not on my own,” Phoenix says, former anger cut in half in his voice. I have you, it means, and affection sweeps warm and painful into his chest.

"No,” he agrees. “But they aren’t children, anymore. Franziska and Maya neither need nor want your protection, if it means you do not have their support. And the same goes for your proteges.” Slowly, he reaches out a hand. Phoenix hesitates, only to sigh and take it.

“Look at me.”

Phoenix does. Their fingers slowly tangle.

“They act in your footsteps. Do you want them to learn this habit? To feel too afraid to ask you for help, out of concern for your wellbeing?”

Phoenix stares at him, hand warm in his, and closes his eyes. “...Damn it,” he whispers. His expression fractures. “...I hate when you’re this right, Miles.”

“You hate when you are wrong,” Miles corrects bluntly. “But that is something we both can be forgiven for, on occasion.”

“M’sorry.” Phoenix’s fingers tighten around his hand. “I— I shouldn’t have made you choose. Between me and Franzi.”

“It was not a choice. It was a strategic delay. I was always going to inform her.”

A humorless huff. “Okay, sure. But you waited. Because I asked you to.”

“Yes.” It’s unnecessary, to say what he meant by doing so, but Phoenix’s fingers squeeze around his regardless.

“I know I’ve been... paranoid, lately,” Phoenix admits, face shadowed with regret. “I— It just feels like. I don’t know. Like if I take a breath, then—”

Miles’s chest cramps. Phoenix hasn’t taken on a client himself since the trial, too focused on supervising Justice and Cykes and spending the rest of his time following leads on Thalassa. He’s noticed certain habits worsen. More often, his husband’s hand seeks the inside of his coat when they leave the house. More often, he wakes to find their bed empty. And it’s just one more reason why he resolved himself to tell the truth to Franziska.

They need to resolve this as quickly as possible. Not just for Trucy’s sake, or to catch a murderer, but because he’s reached his own limit. For dead-end leads, for withheld truths, and for the dark circles that have made a permanent home beneath Phoenix’s eyes.

"We will keep doing what we can,” he says. “But now, we will have more help.”

“I’ll call Maya tomorrow morning,” Phoenix says, sighing. “She’s gonna rip my head off.” Miles says nothing, because it is true. “I hate making her worry, Miles. Especially with all this tension going on between her and the Khura’inese envoys...”

“If you do not inform her, Franziska will beat you to it,” Miles says, to curb any chance of cowardice, and Phoenix grimaces.

“Ugh.”

With Phoenix on the ropes, he maintains momentum. “And your juniors?”

Phoenix shifts uneasily. “I... don’t know. Athena’s still adjusting and I can tell something’s... bothering her, right now. And if I tell Apollo, he’ll have a meltdown, and Trucy will be able to guess we’re all keeping something from her. It’s bad enough just we are. I want her to have them to turn to, if the worst happens and she’s...”

Heartbroken, he doesn’t say, and Miles feels the guilt of it lance across his stomach. “You have a point,” he admits, unhappily. They are, the lot of them, remarkable in their abilities, but even the single day he spent with the capability to sense falsehoods had proven overwhelming. There was a time in his youth that he wished more than anything that he was better at understanding and relating to other people. But the older he becomes, the more he realizes his own challenges are far more preferable to the burden of understanding too much.

“But if the time comes,” he begins, the memory of Apollo Justice awkwardly wrapped in Phoenix’s arms blooming in his mind, “don’t discount their—”

“Shit,” Phoenix yelps, and Miles blinks to the distinct smell of burning. “The sauce, oh my God, I forgot to stir it—”

“Daddy.” Trucy’s voice comes, worried, from the living room, and Miles watches Phoenix fumble with the gas, muttering curses.

“Yeah, sweetie, I’ve got it, nothing’s ruined—”

“Daddy,” Trucy says again, but there’s no relief in it. “Papa. I think you need to see this.”

They both frown, glancing at one another. Phoenix shuts off the stove, and they abandon the kitchen for the living room, the sound of a newscast filling Miles’s ears as they draw close.

“Truce?”

"Daddy,” Trucy says, turning from the TV. Her face is pale, ringing alarm bells in his mind. “Something bad happened downtown. I saw people talking about it online and turned on the news and...”

Miles turns to the television, the reporter’s voice increasing as Trucy dials up the volume. A reporter, standing in front of what looks like the GYAXA center downtown, above the headline at the bottom of the screen—

TRAGEDY AT COSMOS SPACE CENTER.

“...Coming to you live from the scene, we have the latest report from investigators about the terrible tragedy that took place at GYAXA mission control, moments before the long-anticipated launch of the HAT-2 space missile.”

Trucy gasps, and Phoenix draws in a quick, horrified breath. The name is familiar but Miles can’t immediately place it, attention locked onto the screen.

“Early this morning, authorities were notified that two devastating explosions had rocked the facility. The base is under lockdown after emergency responders were cleared to enter to rescue staff members on site. Currently, LAPD can neither confirm or deny that the fallout was a result of catastrophic failure or criminal act, but sources say that there has, in fact, been an arrest made. Though we are still waiting for final confirmation, we can report there has been one confirmed casualty.”

“Please,” Trucy whispers.

“GYAXA Director Yuri Cosmos released a statement moments ago, confirming the identity of the staff member lost to this tragedy.”

The screen flickers, and an older man stands at a podium draped in the GYAXA flag. His stern, aged face is layered with grief.

“It is with deep sorrow and regret that I must announce the tragic loss of one of our brightest and most talented young pilots. It is our hope that the authorities can get to the bottom of this senseless tragedy, so that we can honor the life he lived, and acknowledge his contribution to humanity’s dream of transforming the next frontier. My condolences go out to the friends and family of one of our best, taken too soon. GYAXA Flight Engineer Clay Terran... may the stars welcome you home.”

“No,” Trucy croaks, a horrible sound of denial. “No.”

Horrorstruck, he watches the portrait fill the frame. A young, familiar face, smiling into the camera, holding a helmet in hand. A face he’s seen at Christmases, birthdays, and graduations. A face he’s seen grinning at his child, making her squeal as he swung her around, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Oh, God,” Phoenix whispers, and he turns to see grief, decimating his husband’s face.

Sobs break into his ears, Trucy covering her eyes and crumpling in on herself. Miles watches, paralyzed, as Phoenix moves robotically to her side. She grasps fingers in his shirt, weeping.

“Daddy. What—what do we do?”

Miles’s heart closes shut. Phoenix’s face breaks, stroking their daughter’s hair.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice cracking. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry—”

“How do we tell him? What do we do?”

Trucy looks up, and her face cuts a wound in Miles’s chest.

“Polly,” she says, and beneath her grief is a horrible desperation. “We have to go get him, Daddy. Polly.”

Watching this new pain dawn on Phoenix’s face, Miles feels his heart break cleanly in two.

xXXx

Phoenix

He knocks, then lets himself in.

He pockets the spare key by the door, quietly leaving his shoes near the shoe rack. He pads barefoot over linoleum, and there’s a mew as Mikeko chirrups quietly at his arrival, weaving around his ankles as he moves through the living room.

The apartment is dim and quiet. No lights, the last of the blue hour soaking into night. In the living room, the TV flickers over the news. It’s the same channel he last saw, with images of flames burning over Cosmos, and the reporters’ mouths move in muted silence. His heart climbs and calcifies in his throat.

He keeps going. Passing the hallway, drifting into the kitchen where Mikeko trots ahead of him.

He steps inside, and finds the cat curled at the feet of his owner. Apollo stands in the kitchen, barefooted. His back turned, hair curled damp on his neck from a recent shower.

He’s staring at the sink. Doesn't turn at the sound of footsteps.

Phoenix swallows. “Hey,” he says. Soft and low so there's no chance of surprise, in case his entrance wasn't heard.

Apollo doesn’t respond. In the silence, he can say nothing. He stares at Apollo’s back, throat closing shut.

That sweatshirt’s too big for him, he thinks faintly. Makes him look small.

Slowly, in heavy heartbeats, he watches Apollo take in a breath. Straighten his shoulders.

“I was going to meet you there.”

The sound of his voice makes Phoenix’s stomach sink.

Level. Steady. Completely untouched.

Oh, kid. He sucks in a breath, and he lets it go. “...Meet me where?” he asks.

“The station.” Calm. Too calm. “They arrested someone.”

His heart clenches, and then he understands. God, he does.

“Apollo,” he says, the whole name, and Apollo finally turns.

“I need to see them.”

Apollo's face is colorless. Empty. His gaze is unfocused, and in the dim light, his eyes seem—

Red. Mercury red.

“I need to see them,” he repeats, voice hollow. “Whoever they are. I need to know.”

Phoenix lurches a step forward. “Kid—”

“I need to know why. They'll tell me. If I see them, I can find out. Even if they don't want me to.”

His irises burn and burn. Unblinking, molten. Dread sparks in Phoenix’s stomach, almost afraid. Afraid that what's come over him is something Apollo doesn't have control of. Rattled, he finds himself stepping forward, intent to eliminate the distance between them—

Unfocused eyes find him and sharpen, sending a jolt through his heart. Their color drains to muddy brown, and Phoenix stills, breath caught in his throat.

“I—” Apollo blinks. The invisible wall on his face shudders, then holds. “I'll get my keys.”

He moves, walking past him, expression blank. Without a second thought, Phoenix reaches out a hand. The moment he makes contact, Apollo flinches away.

“Apollo—”

“Don't.”

His heart twists. “You know they won't let you in,” he says, trying for reason first. “Tomorrow, maybe—”

“I'm not waiting.” He opens his mouth, but Apollo cuts him down, words coming faster, “He'll lawyer up soon, and then my chance to see him will be gone. I need to—”

“You'll have a chance,” he counters, soothing. “I promise. But the cops won't let anyone in right now, so—”

“Then I'll go find someone who will talk,” Apollo snaps. Finally there's emotion on his face, and it’s fury. “Someone— anyone who knows something. Who they are, how they did it, when, why—” A schism, steamrolled over, “Someone at GYAXA has to know. I'll find out who and then I'll—”

“Do what?” he asks softly. Apollo freezes, face rigid, staring at him with that perilous nothing threatening the edge of his expression. “Pollo...”

“Why are you trying to stop me?” Apollo demands, with sudden volume that’s like a slap to the face. “Are you really gonna tell me that I should hand this off to someone else?”

“No, but I—”

“You’re such a hypocrite.” The word’s spat out of Apollo’s mouth like it’s been poised there a long time. “Like you’d do anything different. You wouldn’t hesitate. Don’t try to tell me to stay put like some stupid kid when I can do something—”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t,” Phoenix tries, strained. Apollo’s been angry with him before, but not like this, and it’s like the ground shifting under his feet. “I’m just saying to— to take a second, take a—”

“I can’t!” Apollo cries, his frayed voice shattering the dark kitchen, and Phoenix has nothing to say. To offer him.

There’s nothing that will fix this. That’ll make the pain any less.

“...I know.”

“Shut up.” His expression trembles, anger splintering. “You don't.”

“Pollo—”

“You don't know anything,” Apollo croaks. “You always act like you do. Like you know everything, like you know me. But you don't.”

His stomach twists like he's been punched. Apollo has always been private about himself, since the day they met. And he's never pried. He thought it would only push the kid away. He isn't the first person Phoenix has drawn close through a few walls.

But maybe he should've tried knocking.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Apollo’s eyes widen, taking shine, and his face cracks.

“Shut up.”

“I'm sorry.” He steps forward, and Apollo’s body tenses as if to run.

“Stop.” Desperate. “Stop it.”

“I'm so sorry, kid,” he whispers, voice thick. He reaches out again, with both hands, gently grasping slim shoulders.

“You don't know anything,” Apollo says, voice fracturing. He leans away, shoulders jerking from Phoenix’s touch, but his feet are rooted to the ground. “Don't— don't touch me, you're not my—”

“Trucy told me to come get you.” At her name, Apollo stills, his protests disappearing. If Apollo can't accept him, there is someone else who he’ll always permit. “She wanted me to make sure you were okay.”

Silently, tears well in Apollo’s eyes.

“I... I don't want her to see,” he whispers.

And Phoenix understands.

Is he the same age that I was? Did I look this young, too?

“It's okay,” he says, voice thin. “She just doesn't want you to be alone.”

Tears slide down Apollo’s face. “... I was,” he says. “Before. Without him. With— without him, I—”

A strangled noise, an awful hiccup of a sound like he can't breathe. And his face breaks apart into something so frightened that Phoenix can't bear another frozen moment.

Gently, he takes Apollo in his arms and drags him close. Resistant hands push at his shoulders, knocking weak fists against his arms.

“No. No, no. Please.”

Gasping sobs. The hands that push him away turn to claws, digging into his shirt.

“I can't. I can't, I can't.”

He holds him when his knees fail, supporting every scrap of his weight.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, again and again. “I know.”

[darklydeliciousdesires]

New story announcement!

Because you beautiful besties did nothing but encourage me, I wrote the thing. I am four chapters into the thing, but I need to edit before I post it!

So yes, meet the new couple of the moment, Adrien Brody and his beautiful wife, Jade Burton-Brody. I wrote Jade as an OFC for a previous fandom, but she stayed with me, so I want to use her again as it dawned on me just how cute she and Adrien would be together, so yeah. Here they are! She's a musician in the metal world, who moves into acting, too. Especially with all the support she finds from her adoring husband.

A particularly long excerpt from the story, too, from a magazine interview they did together which serves as the opening of the story...

“Tell us something about your wife that people would find surprising.” 

He mulls it over for a few seconds, looking to his side at her, laughing as he takes in her raised eyebrows. “She’s actually quite introverted, unless she knows the people she’s with well. Then her volume and mischief amp up considerably,” he begins, which I must say is perhaps the last thing I expected him to reply with. “No, no. It’s completely true, she is. She’s often quiet, an extreme juxtapose for how she appears up on stage with a microphone in her hand, but yeah. The Jade you see performing live is a completely different entity to the woman she is away from it, and I found that out pretty quickly after we first met.”  

It is a stark contrast to the public persona of Jade Burton-Brody, a woman known for rarely shying away from being outspoken and controversial, whether it be her fiercely penned lyrics, or her opinions on the subject matters she holds dear. She was, after all, the woman who advised legions of young female rock fans to, and I quote, “Burn the patriarchy to the goddamned ground.” 

Before me today, though, I do see a much softer side to the screaming hurricane of a woman I familiarised myself with through the scouring of YouTube videos, a woman more than happy to let her husband lead in the questions, always looking to him to reply first. She has spoken in the past of him being her unequivocal strength and support, and I take her back to that, the moment she first met the man she would marry just six months after their first meeting.

“Jade, you’ve spoken about your first meeting a couple of times in the past, but for the record, would you care to share it again?”  

She laughs loudly at my question, leaning into her husband a little, combing her fingers through her hair as she remembers fifteen years into the past. “I screamed in his face, he liked it, and the rest is history.” 

Indeed, such a meeting did seal itself into history, the moment the iconic pair met captured by a photographer pointing his camera in the right direction at exactly the right time, immortalising the moment where the formidable first lady of metal took to the barriers at the Rock and Iron festival, grabbed the hand of the Hollywood heavyweight, and proceeded to scream like a harpy about an inch from his face. “She blew my eardrums out,” Adrien speaks of the moment, “I had never heard anything that loud in the whole of my life!”

Indeed, like it he did, the first stages of their fledgling relationship captured on film while a documentary team were following her and the band, shooting the footage for the 2010 documentary, “The Devil You Don’t Know.” As the footage shows, the actor found himself with a rare two-week break between projects, one of those weeks spent living on a tour bus with the band, unwilling to be parted from the woman he’d struck up such an immediate connection with. 

“I called my manager and told her to shift all my interviews to telephone, rearranged everything for the following week before I flew out to Hawaii to begin shooting Predators, and yeah, lived on a bus with five insane, but adorable women for seven days.” He smiles a little shyly, his eyes warm as he views her. “Didn’t want to let her go.”

When asked if it was love at first sight, he elaborates a little further. “I’ve never believed in that. Too many components have to fall into place for love to bloom, so I don’t think it can be so spontaneous as to simply view somebody and feel such a powerful emotion right off the bat. After that week I spent with her, though. Yeah. I departed from the tour knowing I’d left behind the girl I was going to marry someday.”

And for Jade? “I knew. He was my person. Still is fifteen years on, too.”  

Just viewing the natural ease the couple have around one another cements that, after battling with so much over their years together. They both freely admit they rarely saw one another for the first two years of their marriage, their relationship plagued by media scrutiny, storms of paparazzi, accusations of their romance serving purely as a manufactured PR pairing for publicity, others stating that it was to give Jade greater leverage as she further embarked upon her acting career away from the world of music. One only has to watch the woman on screen to see that she carries enough weight from her own talents to not need the bolstering of her husband’s surname to snare her hard-earned successes.  

Indeed, the pair have weathered many storms and come through them stronger, standing as one of Hollywood’s most illimitable power couples, yet the term is somewhat lost on them both. “We’re complete dorks,” Jade laughs, “we really are. We set one another off all the time being absolutely ridiculous.” 

“It’s true,” her husband confirms, beginning to chuckle right on cue. “Nobody makes me laugh like her. It’s so corny, but truly, she’s my best friend. Deciding to get on that bus fifteen years ago was one of the greatest decisions I ever made.”  

It can be witnessed quite easily, too. It takes only a few glimpses into their respective social media accounts to see the humorous ease they tease one another with, but always with incredible affection. ‘Baby love! <3 Love you too, Morticia!’ Adrien commented on a heartfelt post his wife recently shared to Instagram, a throwback picture of the pair kissing at the 2016 Oscar’s ceremony, where his beloved won best supporting actress for her role across from Robert De Niro in the 2016 blockbuster, Five Marked Men. 

“It took him about a month to get over me with black hair instead of blonde, so I was Morticia for four straight weeks instead of Jade!” she laughs, obviously taking his teasing with good humour.  

“I was so damned proud of her, even though I couldn’t get used to the black hair,” he laughs taking her hand in his. “Always have been. She’s incredible.” 

The story will chronicle their fifteen years together, from their first meet right up until present day. I said I wouldn't do this, write RPF again, but I did. Arrgh! I just have to hope my beautiful people enjoy it now, lmao!!

Also, as well as the obvious faceclaim of Angelina Jolie serving for Jade, I have a voice claim for her, too! Want to hear the scream she hit Adrien with? Here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a98LI-arNS4 And for something a little more melodic to acquaint you with her voice - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQNtGoM3FVU So yes, that's how I imagine her to sound in her chosen profession. Half angel, half demon. xD

I hope you love her as much as I do, guys! Huge thanks for my darling @jemmalynette for the beautiful picture manipulation. Her work is flawless, as always!

[desertfangs]

Hot Pink - Day 1

🪦 Grave Decisions

Armand/Daniel - Post-Canon - 3,031 words

Daniel is off by himself dealing with a personal matter when Armand finds him to make sure he's okay (and doesn't do anything stupid).

Written for @valenfangs for the prompt "Hot Pink," this went in a very different direction than I originally planned. But that's the fun of writing to prompts for me - sometimes things go places you don't expect. I do have more traditional V-Day content coming up in the next couple of weeks.

Short Excerpt:

Daniel sat in the bar, trying to do the crossword on his iPad, except the application kept changing the boxes when he typed and he ended up putting the answers in the wrong place. The whole process was frustrating and not helping to take his mind off things. He missed newsprint and pencils. 

“Are you Daniel?” 

He looked up from his iPad. A waitress was standing over his table holding a tray with a hot pink drink on top of it. 

“I am,” Daniel said. 

The waitress beamed. “Then this is for you.” She set down a cocktail napkin and then put the drink on top of it. 

Daniel instinctively looked around the bar but he didn’t see any familiar faces. Certainly not a shock of auburn hair that belonged to the most likely culprit. He didn’t dare get his hopes up. Armand was busy at Court. And a scan of the room told him there were no immortals in the bar.

“Who is this from?” Daniel asked, annoyed. He wasn’t in the mood for these kinds of games. If someone was trying to cheer him up, they were going about it all wrong. 

The waitress shrugged, clearly miffed at his attitude. “No idea. Someone called in the order. Enjoy.” 

Daniel stared at the drink. It was the week’s drink special, advertised on the chalkboard at the front. Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, so the cocktail was hot pink in color, with a pink curly straw, and a row of bright red cherries stuck on the stick of a small pink cocktail umbrella, served in a hurricane glass. It smelled of grenadine, vodka, and sugar. Daniel could practically taste its nauseating sugary sweetness. He would have hardly touched that kind of drink when he’d been mortal— hello, hangover —but even now, the smell made him feel mildly ill. 

He did another mental sweep of the bar, but there was no sign of an immortal presence. So who’d sent over this abomination of a drink? Someone had to know where he was to call in the order.

He tapped his fingers on the table, waiting to see if the person might reveal themselves but no one did. Daniel made sure there wasn’t some kind of note on the glass or anything special about the contents of the drink. 

And then, irritation building, Daniel stood. He left the bar and scanned the street out front. He was in a suburb of San Francisco, a town that was little more than housing developments. Its small downtown area had a few restaurants and bars but everything closed by midnight. At 11 pm, the streets were quiet. 

He lit a cigarette and pulled out his phone. No messages. He did the time zone math. It was afternoon in France, so no one there was going to answer him now. 

He took a drag on his cigarette and something in his awareness prickled. The presence of another immortal.

Read the Rest on AO3

[theaguanzon]

Many thanks to io9 for the feature! This article contains an exclusive excerpt in the form of Chapter II of THE HURRICANE WARS, so read on to learn more about the world of Lir and its aethermancy and stormships… and witness the clownery as two enemies meet for the first time 🌚

[akindofmagictoo]

manuscript search tag game

thank you @sleepyowlwrites <3

my words are mouth, morning, memory, missing, mask (misshapen, malevolent)

mouth (Hurricane draft 3) (soft theella time!)

“I know.” She buried her face in his shirt once more, though her breathing had steadied somewhat. 

He rubbed her back gently, wishing he could do something more to help, to ease her pain. This didn’t seem helpful, or not as helpful as he could be. “What can I do to help?” he said softly.

“You are helping.” She lifted her chin to look up at him, and forced a small smile. The cut on her lip stretched and she winced, taking another shaky breath.

He freed one hand and brushed his thumb against the cut. As he’d thought, it was mostly scabbed over.

She leant her cheek further into his hand, the corner of her mouth quirking in a half-smile. “That one’ll… heal on its own, I think.”

morning (Hurricane draft 3) (more softness, although this is mostly just Theo “Heart Eyes” Grey)

As they set off through the streets of the town, Aella seemed much happier than she had been the night before. Sometime overnight, or maybe that morning, she’d undone her braid and put her hair in a ponytail instead. The curls bounced as she walked.

Theo was also feeling better, but he suspected it was for a different reason. They walked in companionable silence for several minutes until Aella said, “Nice place. Wouldn’t want to live here, though. Too quiet.”

memory (Hurricane draft 3) (tw kiss mention, romance) (in which Theo Really Wants To Kiss That Girl)

Siren-Aella laughed in the darkness behind his eyes and another memory rose unbidden in his mind. Aella’s face, merely inches from his. That day he’d noticed for the first time the small chip in one of her front teeth when she grinned, even more noticeable when she bit her lip. Her lips had looked so soft in that moment. He’d been seized by the sudden burning desire to kiss her and find out whether they really were, but Marisa had interrupted before he could get the words out.

The same sinking feeling in his stomach was back now, and the heat rising in his cheeks. The disappointment that had followed on its heels had returned, too; it weighed on his shoulders again, but now coupled with fear. He might never see Aella again. What if he didn’t?

missing (Hurricane draft 3) (in which Theo fails his investigation check)

Gold gleamed at him from every surface. Chests of coins, paintings in golden frames, piles of bars. Some piles glittered silver and bronze and copper, but most were gold. Other chests overflowed with jewels in every colour imaginable. A single candle flickered in the corner, not far off burning all the way down, but it lit the whole space. There were gaps, too, though. Spaces between chests like one was missing, empty spaces on tables, scattered coins that seemed to have been dropped.

He saw no plants. Nothing in the room lived; the closest things were the candle and the portraits on the wall. One table had a scattering of dirt across it, but that could have been from anything. Someone might have tracked it in on a shoe, a glove, a shirtsleeve. It meant very little.

mask (Dragonsong draft 1)

They ate mostly in silence, occasionally punctuated by chirps and trills from Enya. Though they were hardly very close to their goal, the air felt tense and strange. Isi suddenly had less appetite. The others seemed to feel it too; Robin ate slowly, picking at his food. Sierra and Holly sat with their shoulders an inch or two apart. SB’s foot tapped nervously, the sound occasionally masked by the crackling of the fire. 

misshapen

malevolent

i shall tag @klywrites @muddshadow @chayscribbles and anyone else who wants to play! your words are match, mere, main, mean

[poindexters-labratory]

With Hurricane, I really wanted Henry and William to have a queer-platonic relationship. Neither of them are the romantic type in my eyes, nor find much value in those sorts of connections. Henry prefers to be alone in quiet to think, and William bombarded with affection that he's not fluent in returning.

When they're together, however, aspects change. Henry is more willing and even happy to indulge a hyper and eccentric William, welcoming all his noise and ecstatic energy for good and bad. William, around the other, will embrace Henry's need for a meditative, quiet space, and they'll do their separate activities with the other's company.

They bring out parts of each other that they, themselves, didn't know they had. Henry, cool, quiet, off-putting, controlled, has fight in him. William, first meeting Henry, finds it odd that he has the capacity to care for another person in the midst of his own survival.

Without knowledge of their situation, how they truly feel, and only knowing how they should feel leads to a lot of questions.

Why uproot your life? Leave your only home for a friend you could've just been pen pals with? Why care for a friend the same way someone would care for a spouse? Experience the worst moments of your lives together, as well as the best and the seemingly mediocre?

[EXCERPT FROM A PRACTICE COMIC]

WILL. Are we in love?

HENRY. I think... we're lonely. And we share a common niche. I've never met anyone like me, and you've never met anyone like you. And even if we're unlikely companions, we love the same thing.

WILL. I can't tell if you answered the question or not.

HENRY. Well, you're the only one who's stayed this long.

I'm not in love with you, I'm in love with the fact that you've been here, experiencing life right alongside me.

[librawritesstuff]

So coz a few people have asked, and it came up in @hurricane-eva post about Endeavour’s bad trip in “Canticle”, here’s the excerpt from Inspector Morse “Cherubim and Seraphim” speech

TW (more under the cut)

to Lewis about how Inspector Morse contemplated suicide at age 15, and the AO3 story I wrote imagining that scene from Endeavour’s perspective

LINK TO STORY ⬇️

[proxissima]

Over and Done With

An excerpt from All but One by @aconstantstateofbladerunner... aka the fic with the rawest non-villain version of All Might I've personally had the pleasure of reading so far.

~~~~~

All for One’s ugly mug gazed confidently out the mansion’s floor-to-ceiling window like the untouchable god he thought he was for far too long.  Then he turned around, and sealed his fate.  The greatest villain Japan had ever known’s skull was no tougher than the glass Toshinori burst through compared to the raw force of One for All. 

He went flying, but steadied himself mid-air with some quirk.  “S-so,” he hacked.  “You must be the new pe-“

Toshinori caught the monster’s chin with a right hook.  Then he grabbed with the left. 

He crushed the jaw until it was practically liquid, then yanked what was left clean off.  All for One screamed, raw and unfiltered. 

An energy pulse pushed Toshinori back.  Some lackeys tried to come at him.  Toshinori backhanded a windblast that imbedded them in the walls.

All for One attempted hover away down the hall.  Every piece of glass in the room shattered with the force of Toshinori’s leap.  He went for the neck.  The bastard under his bloodied hands hacked fire and bile.  Shapes and shadows of a quirk danced at the corners of Toshinori’s vision.  Another slam into the floor cut it off.  He grabbed his hair-

Curly.  Dark.  No!

He grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked it off before digging the same fist deeper into his brains.  The marble floor cratered.  A sudden electrical shock loosened Toshinori’s grip just enough for All for One to force-jump away.  But he didn’t get far.  Toshinori was on him before he could even stumble.  He slammed his heel into the beast’s back; his spine snapped like a twig.  Gurgled wails almost drowned out the satisfying sound.

The floor collapsed and they fell into a kitchen.  More lackeys.  More hurricane-force winds.

All for One managed to flip himself over somewhat in the meantime.  He hurled some sort of metal spine.  Toshinori slapped it to the side.  A flurry of smaller spikes was blown away with a snap of his fingers.  He leapt over a fissure in the ground like he was jumping a puddle.  And he landed on the bastard’s knees.

Then Toshinori paused.  Ice crept into his veins.  Here was the man whose existence tormented him almost all his life. 

Jawless. 

The orchestrator behind thousands upon thousands of torturous crimes against humanity.

Head deflated.

The man who murdered my mother.

One eye dangling from its socket.

But there, under his remaining eye, was something Toshinori hadn’t ever noticed in their encounters.  Few and faded, but undeniably there.  Freckles.

The father of the greatest light of my life…

Toshinori hit him harder.  What was left of a face disappeared behind two falling fists.  He pulled back.  The walls around them were starting to melt.  All for One dug his nails into Toshinori’s costume while his skin spasmed, desperately trying to activate the right quirk.  Displaced teeth poked out of a gurgling bloody mass.  He hit him again.  And again.  And again.

All for One stopped swinging his arms at some point.  Toshinori wasn’t falling for that again.  His heel plunged into the monster’s chest, squishing and crunching organs beneath.  He didn’t let up until he was sloshing in a puddle.  Even then, it wasn’t over until all was still. 

So he waited, hovering over what was only a corpse in theory.  Long enough that blood on his face that wasn’t his cooled and crusted.  It was over far before Toshinori accepted it.  He couldn’t accept it.  It happened too fast.  There was a whole strategy ready to go.  He was going to trick him.  Use One for All in one part of his body at a time like Izuku did.  But the bastard just wouldn’t move.  No way it would be that easy.

And yet…

The investigators had to scrape up what was left into a bin. 

[bloodyke]

(aqui esta el articulo en español de CPIPR)

(link to english articule from washington post)

[image ID: the first image is a picture of a road on one of puerto ricos forrested mountains with the headline "Más personas muerten en Puerto Rico mientras el sistema de salud se desmorona." The subheading reading "Pese a las vacunas y a la disponibilidad de medicamentos para el COVID-19, en 2022 murieron 35,400 personas en el Isla, la mayor cifra de los últimos 20 años."

the second image is an overhead shot of various graves located in Puerto Rico, with the headline reading "More people are dying in Puerto Rico as its healthcare system crumbles." The subheading reads "Islanders died of chronic conditions and COVID-19 in 2022 at numbers that surpassed even Hurricane Maria's toll." : end ID]

Excerpt from The Washington Post Article:

AGUAS BUENAS, Puerto Rico — In a purple house along a narrow road in Puerto Rico’s Central Mountain Range, Margarita Gómez Falcón’s breathing suddenly grew labored one March evening. She called an ambulance and began a grim two-hour wait for paramedics to arrive.

Health services across this self-governing island have been deteriorating for years, contributing to a surge in deaths that reached historic proportions in 2022, an investigation by The Washington Post and Puerto Rico’s Center for Investigative Journalism has found.

[....]

The case of Gómez Falcón, 67, underscores the many ways a faltering medical system has contributed to elevated death rates.

[...]

Aguas Buenas, a small, working-class town in the central highlands, had one working ambulance for its 25,000 people when Gómez Falcón called for help, so dispatchers sent a private one that had trouble finding her home in the town’s winding back roads.

[...]

Puerto Rico, with a population of 3.3 million people, experienced more than 35,400 deaths last year. That’s nearly 3,300 more than researchers would ordinarily expect based on historic patterns, according to a statistical analysis by The Post and Puerto Rico’s Center for Investigative Journalism (CPI).

This “excess mortality” — a term scientists use to describe unusually high death counts from natural disasters, disease outbreaks or other factors — resulted in part from a covid spike early last year that killed more than 2,300 people, health data shows.

[...]

The recent jump in mortality is the latest warning sign that years of natural disasters and financial crises have taken a deadly toll.

[...]

“It’s been nearly six years since Maria, and nothing has been resolved,” said Nereida Meléndez‚ a community activist in Aguas Buenas. “Here there are bridges that no one has done anything for. There are damaged highways no one has done anything to fix. Here one says, ‘What about that money they sent us? Where is it? What are they doing with it?’”

[...]

Puerto Rico’s public health system was once the envy of the Caribbean. Then-Gov. Pedro Rosselló privatized it in the 1990s, in what became known as “La Reforma.” Most government-owned hospitals were sold in an effort to control costs and streamline operations. But the opposite took place: By 2006, Puerto Rico’s economy tanked and public debt ballooned[.]

Puerto Rico's healthcare system is crumbling (alongside many other public utilities - one notable such example is the powergrid, as many of you have probably heard about recently due to the massive wave of protests against LUMA the current private company in charge of maintaining it) due to lack of resources and support. This is a crisis that has been building for decades due to many factors, such as the installment of an unelected board of overseers who have control of the puerto rican economy due to the enactment of. PROMESA in 2016, the enactment of ACT 60, a bill that incentivizes wealthy mainland U.S. citizens to move to Puerto Rico due to the increased tax breaks they will recieve that include a 100% tax exemption from Puerto Rico income taxes on: dividends, interest, short-term and long-term capital gains, and an exemption from the local and state property taxes equal to 75%, the withholding of emercency aid and support after natural disasters (the most notable example being the absolutely horrendus response to Hurricane Maria, that ended with the then Governor, Ricky Rosselló, resigning from his position after his sexist, racist, and homophic Telegram messages that included disparaging remarks about the victims of Hurricane Maria were leaked.)

This also includes the contiuned privitization of all aspects of puerto rican life, including the attempt to privatize the public beaches, lakes, canals, and parks in 2020, and the attempt to privatize the Taíno Caguana Ceremonial Indigenous Heritage Center in April 2023, though these are only two of many many many examples.

[vivelarevolution13]

Hello & Happy Monday!

So...for the WIP tag game...I know I'm supposed to pick the one (1! ONE!) that I find most intriguing, but this is like a whole buffet of intrigue, so maybe I can have two? 👀 1) НОЧНОЙ РАЗГОВОР (FIGURE OUT) <- ngl, the 'figure out' cracked me up. Also, late night conversations? Yes, please!

2) what's a nice nutcase like you doing in a place like astoria 1203 <- this just sounds fun...and possibly like the title could be deliberately misleading

Thank you! <3

Hello helloo, happy Monday to you too! (but also Tuesday now I guess. It's a 2-for-1!)

Thank you for the ask, and thank you for indulging me with two (2! it's gonna be so long!) <3

НОЧНОЙ РАЗГОВОР (FIGURE OUT!!!) - Ooof, this fucking guy. I'm glad my stern instructions to myself in the title there were funny, because I do indeed need to FIGURE this one OUT and it's bugging me. It's essentially another chapter that's a part of a larger work (not naming names not pointing fingers but it's. The Work I'm Having Trouble Updating) and it was written a looong while back, which is why it's now a standalone file. I love the premise but I kinda want to tear it down and rebuild it entirely, mostly because I'm still deciding on whether I like the way I wrote the backstory for it. So. It's fun! It's challenging! It's giving me a migraine! The title's from this song about a tired traveler trying to find his way in the night. It's three conversations (Steve+Nat, Nat+Bucky and Bucky+Steve - although they barely talk at all) that happen in the night after a very not lucid, injured Don't-Call-Me-Bucky who's recently remembered the Red Room and also had a pretty rattling encounter with the code words seeks Natasha out in Europe for [redacted] something as a last resort, but instead accidentally walks straight into Steve who he's been staying away from like the Devil Himself since CATWS. And then basically bleeds all over him. (I am not immune to the wound care trope! However, this is unfortunately not that.) A lot of ugly feelings and defense mechanisms are brought up, some painful memories re: the war and the Red Room are brought up, and nobody's having a good time or really knows how to process jack shit. They all communicate/perceive love&protection in wildly different ways, and while all three dynamics end on some kind of natural conclusion it's still a lot of unfinished, unspoken business and just kind of sad. Hurt no comfort that's necessary for there to be the promise of comfort in the future, if you will. Tbh, I really want to finish/reincorporate this one. But it's just so *screams into paper bag*. Anyway. Snippet:

When Steve wakes up the next morning Bucky’s gone, like he knew he would be. Like a hurricane passing through, the foreknowledge doesn’t make the aftermath any easier. And then what? his own voice from so long ago echoes in his head as he waits for the water for Natasha’s tea to boil in the sunny little kitchenette of the motel’s lobby. 16 hours later, he’s watching the blinding stripe of the sun setting over the East River before the plane maneuvers onto the landing strip at JFK. The hell else? Then we march on, ace. We go home.

2. what's a nice nutcase like you doing in a place like astoria 1203 - oh good, thank god! So this one is a bit more fun, but it's only got a few disjointed half-scenes so far. The title is actually one of the most literal ones on the list - the fic does take place in Astoria, Queens, and it does involves a certain "nutcase". Several, even. They really don't get along, and then they almost do.

(Blame my recent rewatch of the Netflix shows for this one. Man. What a golden age that was.)

Excerpt under the cut:

It was easy to clock the combat training before, sure, but up close this guy’s… Keyed up. Wild-eyed, a little, and not in the twitchy way of the three idiots piled up outside by the ruined water hydrant, not just sheer adrenaline stoked by fear and booze and coke. More dialed-in, purposefully ruthless. Hungry. Getting up with an expression like an enraged bull in spite of the beating he just took. Nutcase, Barnes thinks bleakly. Not that he’s in any position to judge — glass houses, all that, but — “What’re you,” he croaks, “some kind of psycho?” “Says the guy who just mowed down six guys without blinking." The man spits, grimacing at the blood that lands on the stark white of the rooftop like it personally offends him. If he notices the similar spray across his busted face, his clothes, his military-short hair, he doesn't seem to give a damn. "Nice going, by the way— my man got away." "And my man's bleeding out on a fucking pool table downstairs," he grits out. He doesn't have time for this. This whole night has been one giant exercise in unpredictability, and the police sirens echoing off in the distance are problem enough without him having to duke it out over and over with some local homicidal moron who might or might not be HYDRA. "You wanna tell me what that's about?" The man levels an irritated look back at him and then shrugs, dismissive. "I don't play with my food." "Your food had intel I've been hunting for two weeks." "Tough shit. Maybe if you hadn't screwed up your goddamn trig—" His lip curls of its own volition, affronted despite himself. What an appropriate time for his ego to announce it's back from the dead and in the mix. How fun. “The hell I did. I don’t miss.” "Is that right? There's some real screwed up drywall down there that says otherwise." His voice picks up an edge of something dangerous, aiming for threatening and landing on feral as he takes a step closer, and Jesus, can he stay down already? "Unless you did it on purpose to let him know I'm coming because you work for the bastard, in which case lemme tell you, you and me have a whole different problem." "I don't work for anybody," he says, probably with more intensity than strictly necessary. "He was a civillian. I don't kill civillians." The words curl acerbic on his tongue. He doesn't. He doesn't. That, of all things, makes the man laugh, a bitter little thing that sounds like it clawed its way out of his throat, and only barely. Who the fuck is this guy. "Oh Jesus Christ, not this bullshit again— how many of you assholes are running around this place, huh?" he says, gesturing a little wildly at him. "You got a fancy catsuit under that hobo getup, too?" It's Barnes' turn to look at him like he's a few marbles short, which judging by all evidence he very well might be. The guy snorts at his confusion, shaking his head. "If you consider that criminal piece of dog shit a civilian, you’re way more out of your depth than I thought, kid.”

but also:

“Self-righteous, God's sacrificial lamb type-of-shit," he mumbles around the mouthful with distaste, staring off across the bridge. "Got himself a stupid fucking title and everything, if you can believe that. Major pain in my ass.” Barnes hums, considering, before taking a cautious bite of his own sandwich. The thick pile of fatty meat and melted cheese breaks apart in his mouth easy with a sudden, almost overwhelming explosion of flavours, his empty stomach singing praises despite the ache in his bruised jaw as he chews. He never thought he’d say this, but god bless Queens. “Catholic?” Castle grunts an affirmative. “Yeah, I have some experience with that.”