#i have so many little plot ideas for them that i need to flesh out some more

[undead-supernova]

Boring! / Masterlist

(part two here)

Playlist

pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

plot: despite being intimidated by your confidence, Eddie decides to try and talk to you (and it pays off)

warnings: drinking, men acting weird, reader being sure of herself and extroverted, Eddie being a little subby 'cause he's a cutie pie, making out, no smut

wc: 2.4k

inspo: this last week I have become obsessed with Lil Mariko's music, specifically Don't Touch, Boring, I'm Baby, Hi, I'm a Slut, etc. I was inspired by her attitude and her sound to create a reader that I don't ever see but want! I include some of her lyrics in here as dialogue so go check her out and support her thanks!

(can you tell I'm a slut for girlypop trap metal/screamo? also wow I love this so much)

Eddie was a sucker for going to parties alone.

It wasn’t like he tried to, but considering all his other friends ended up at other colleges, Eddie felt compelled to at least try to meet people. But it was for naught, just a bout of self-sabotage and eye rolls at himself. He would end up sitting by himself on a beer-stained couch, drink in one hand and a joint in another. Bitterly filling the house with smoke. And, Jesus, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even spoken to anyone.

But then…well…

“Wow, what a sad bitch. Too bad money can’t buy you a personality. I’d buy one for you, but I won’t. You’re just so fucking lame.”

You threw a drink in some guy’s face, laughing hysterically as you watched him practically growl in anger. With a hand on your hip, sharp nails grazing a short silk dress, you looked like a wild lioness in an arena. Like you were ready to take a bite out of this dude and revel in his blood. Chew on his pound of flesh.

“Slut!” he shouted.

“Awh, thank you!” you exclaimed, your grin almost maniacal. Glossed lips somehow glimmering in the dim lighting. “Too bad you have to fucking grope women in order to get one to notice you.” Another laugh left your lips. “I should get a goddamn restraining order on you, shitdick.”

It was in that moment that Eddie fell in love with you.

Well, okay, he didn’t actually fall in love with you. But, god, he knew he could.

You were just so sure of yourself, always in control of the situation at hand. A dominating presence that commanded whatever room you were in. It was this magnetism that drew him to you, never leaving his sight whenever you showed up.

No matter how many times he had a knee jerk reaction to get involved when men wouldn’t keep their hands to themselves, you were always one step ahead. He’d watched you slap someone, kick them in the shins, in the balls, and even landed a nice right hook. All in your short dresses and six-inch heels. All sparkly and put together. 

It made him weak, utterly susceptible to whatever it is that made you so alluring. This feminine rage, this disdain at the idea that women couldn’t be impolite. You let it be known that that was far from your mind. It wasn’t even defiance—it was just you.

And no matter the genre, you were moving and laughing with your friends. Practically gassing each other up as you grinded on one another. Eddie would take another six puffs of his joint, trying to let the smoke billow enough that he wouldn’t keep checking you out. But it was to no avail.

It was this itch in his brain, something only you could scratch. And he didn’t even know your name. No knowledge of your major or your preferences or whether you’d think he was as pretty as he found you to be. He thought it would always be this way.

Until Eddie thought that enough was enough. It was another Saturday party that you’d shown up to. He was back on that couch, back in that uncomfortable, stuffy attitude. You were standing around with your friends, finishing off a red solo cup and reapplying lip gloss over your lipstick. Carefully, methodically. 

It was a crime and he knew he needed to commit one himself before he’d regret it.

“Fuck it,” Eddie muttered, pushing himself off of the couch and heading towards you. Smoothed out his hair, checked to make sure he still smelled good. Made sure his rings were straightened.

It felt like some kind of fate, the way your friends moved over to refill their cups as he approached. How prophetic, being able to get your attention with just a turn of your head. Put your hands on your hips.

“Uh, hi,” he started, immediately resisting the urge to wince at his awkwardness. Where the hell was his game? Did it run away because it was you?

You tilted your head, looking him up and down before smiling. Smiling. “Hi, there.”

“I’m Eddie.”

You giggled, looking slightly confused as you gave him yours. But in the smile that came after, he could tell you were amused. 

“Hi, Eddie,” you said after your introduction. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Well,” he started, trying to formulate a sentence. “I’ve seen you around and I thought you seemed cool.”

“Oh, yeah?” you egged on, raising an eyebrow.

He silently nodded.

“I like your tattoos,” you complimented, still grazing his body with your eyes, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Eddie felt so exposed, so vulnerable to your gaze, nearly desperate for you to look him in the eye again. It would be easier than whatever you were starting to do to him.

But instead, you touched his left forearm arm and he froze. Literally froze. 

“What’s this one all about?” you asked, tapping it with your pointer finger. Goosebumps flooded his arm as you traced it with the digit, your nail scratching at his skin. It was the most recent addition, a fiery red dragon with spurts of fire flicking off the sides and a black D20 wrapped inside its tail. 

“Uh,” he started, blinking a few times as he tried to regain his composure. “I got it a few weeks ago. It’s, uh, a D&D thing?” 

He didn’t mean for it to come out like a question but, to be honest, if you kept touching him like that, he was really going to embarrass himself. Well, not him. His dick. How pathetic.

Your eyebrows lifted again. “D&D?”

“Yeah, Dungeons & Dragons.”

“You know, I’ve heard of that,” you said with a small smile, removing your fingers before crossing your arms over your chest. Leaned back, sized him up. “But you should tell me more about it.”

“R-really?”

“Yeah, really,” you replied with a chuckle. “Tell me about this thing it’s holding. What is that?”

“Well, it’s called a D-Twenty. It’s a dice that has twenty sides and, like, when you roll it, you get any number between one and twenty. It’s one of those things where the dice have rules and if you get below a fourteen, you’re destined to fail but if you go above a fourteen, you’re more likely to succeed. But then if you get a one then it’s called, uh, a critical failure. Automatic fail, you know? But if you get a twenty—”

“Hold on,” you said, holding up your hand as you glanced behind him. “Give me a minute.”

Eddie watched you walk past him, frozen in place. He’d really lost his chance, hadn’t he? He should’ve known better than to let himself actually talk about D&D. It was stupid! Absolutely pointless! A girl like you would never want to listen to someone blabber about a fucking fantasy game.

He should’ve known better.

The sound of your heels felt deafening as you stalked up to a guy and snapped your fingers in his face. "You've been staring at me for, like, a fucking hour. Can I help you?” The guy just stared. “Like, what's your problem? If you get near me, if you try to touch me? I swear to god, shitdick, I will take my Louboutins and castrate you."      

Blubbering like a goddamn fish, the dude scratched at his head, clearly trying to come up with some kind of retort. “Hey, don’t fucking say shit to me when you’re putting it all out there for free. You expect guys to not wanna fuck you when your ass is out?”

Eddie’s fists clenched, ready to throw a punch before you had him beat.

“Yawn,” you moaned, dramatically stretching your arms out like you were getting ready for bed. “Can you shut the fuck up? I’m falling asleep listening to you. You’re so fucking boring.” 

He stopped talking. The douche bag actually stopped, opting to stare at you with wide eyes as you absolutely annihilated him.

“You’re just talking to yourself at this point. Like, seriously, you’re fucking boring. Don’t talk to me."

That was when Eddie turned away, reasoning with himself that he lost your interest. He was just gonna be next, another weirdo that didn’t deserve your time. And, to be fair, he’d get it. Hell, he’d leave you the fuck alone forever if you said so. But he still had a grip on his pride, tucking his tail and ready to flee.

Eddie nearly gasped as he felt a pull on one of his belt loops, unable to process in time when you tugged him back towards you, face dangerously close to his. Your eyes tracing the lines of his lips as he struggled to breathe.

"Excuse me?” you nearly whispered. “Where do you think you're going? I didn't say you were boring, did I?"

“Ah,” he breathed, his heart racing as your grip tightened on his jeans. “N-no, I guess not.”

That earned a smile from you. “Exactly,” you said, louder this time. “Keep talking, pretty boy.”

As Eddie kept explaining the dice, you took his hand, holding it over your shoulder as you guided him back over to that couch he had been sulking on. Not once did he stop rambling, feeling compelled as you gave him little “mhm”s and “oh, yeah?”s that sounded like goddamn moans. 

Nearly pushed him down to the cushion, crossing your legs as you actively listened. Actively listened. 

Only interrupting when you lightly touched his long locks and asked, “Is this okay?” 

And he nodded, stunned at you asking for his permission. Then you were telling him to keep going. With your pretty fingers wrapping around one of his curls, eyes nearly starry as he went along.

God, where did you come from? And how could he ever be the same?

“You’re so cool,” you said when he’d finally decided to shut up. “Really smart.”

“Nah,” he scoffed, trying to keep the heat from rushing to his cheeks. “I just have, like, specific interests.”

“That you know everything about,” you pointed out, pressing your pointer finger to his cheek. “I don’t think I could memorize all of that.”

“Well, what do you like?” he asked, now feeling more sure of himself. 

You chuckled. “Is this when you ask me what my major is?”

Eddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes, all too aware of the stereotypical conversation starter. And to quote you earlier: Yawn.

“How many guys have tried that?” he wondered. “And how many did you kick in the face?”

That earned a grin from you, something all proud and appreciative. Like he cracked some goddamn code. 

“Too many to count,” you responded, shaking your head. “But because I think you’re sweet, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m undecided. I think I could look into art history or literary analysis. I just want to make the right choice before I commit to it.”

Eddie nodded, feeling electricity begin to sparkle in his chest as you went into detail about your favorite female artists and poets, how you’d spent the last few months becoming obsessed with analysis. How you pictured it as a web of tangled strings that you meticulously unraveled. 

And the more you talked, the more he yearned for you to keep going. Keep filling his head with your thoughts and ideas. 

Then you said the one thing that brought him to nirvana.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked.

“Absolutely,” he answered immediately.

And then your lips were on his.

And it was a magical experience to have your lipstick flood his mouth, growing feverish as the flavor faded and he could now only taste you. 

Now, Eddie didn’t consider himself to be submissive, per se. But he certainly had no problem letting you lead the way, wrapping his curls in your fingers, your nails, and tugging him wherever you wanted. Gnashing teeth, the little moan that escaped your mouth as your tongue curled around his. 

And if his boner hadn’t been visible before, he knew damn well it was now, especially when your other hand met the back of his neck, your nails painstakingly slow as they scraped down to his shoulders. A whine left his lips, all shaky and high-pitched. A fucking whine in the middle of some party at some loser’s house.

But it only drove you further, biting his lips and whispering, “That’s a good boy, hm?”

He gasped. And as if you knew the embarrassment was starting to pool in his stomach, you threw your leg over his waist and returned the noise. Moved your lips to his jaw and raked your teeth over his neck.

And when Eddie had enough strength to open his eyes, he nearly groaned again at your exposed thigh, dress rising up over the curl of your ass. But Eddie felt nervous to touch you, felt nervous to let himself indulge. Not when you hadn’t given permission. 

You weren’t delicate, he knew this. A woman with the power and grace of royalty, waltzing around parties with all that intelligence; all that bark that also bites. 

He wanted you to be his.

Putting his hand on your shoulder, you backed away. Stared up at him through your eyelashes, lipstick smothered around your mouth.

“I, um, I know, like, you may want to go somewhere, but,” Eddie began to stutter, trying to get the blood away from his cock. Focus, focus. “I’d rather take you out on a date first.”

And that’s when he saw you grin. It wasn’t all dominant and flirty. No, it was something genuine, all bashful with your shoulders turning inward. Was he…did his words leave you shy?

“You want to take me out on a date?” you asked.

“Of course I do. I’ve wanted to for a while now.”

“Um, I’d really like that,” you said with a nod. “Keep telling me about that game, though,” you demanded lightly, taking your thumb and attempting to wipe your lipstick from his mouth. He started to try and return the gesture, causing you to giggle. “‘Cause I have some very important questions.”

The rest of the night and early morning was spent spilling knowledge into one another, always listening. Always finding each other’s lips again, quiet whispers of Is this okay? and You taste really nice and Would you keep talking?

When the night ended and he drove you back to your dorm, you made a promise of dinner and a trip around a museum. Made him promise you three times before he gave you a wink and a chuckle.

And it sounded damn near crazy, but maybe Eddie really was in love.

thank you for the lovely divider @strangergraphics :')

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hi Hal!

Congratulations on finishing all the requests (there were so many good ones!!) and thank you for opening them up again!! I’m excited to see what you have in store for us with all your other projects, bestie!!! 😊😊

I was unsure of who to request at first because there are so many good ones but then I saw Hesh’s name and an idea hit me.

If you’re ok with it, could you possibly write one for Hesh where the reader is part of the Ghosts has been taken/captured by the Federation and after some time, they get intel on where she is so they go out to rescue her and she and Hesh are reunited? I don’t know if you want it to be a pre-established relationship or one where they both admit their feelings after they get her back, so I’m leaving it up to you. But I need a little rescue/reunion fic to fill the void in my heart that the ending of Ghosts made.

As always, feel free to change it up as you see fit and do whatever you want. I just think that Hesh deserves more love and I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing Riley again (aka: the best dog in the world)!!

Thank you and remember to take care of yourself and I appreciate you and your work!! 💕💕 Love you, bestie!!!!

Lengths Of Love

PAIRING: David 'Hesh' Walker x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd loved Hesh for as long as you can remember, and you'd pulled him out of trouble for even longer, but you'd never had the courage to tell him how you feel. Until you do. Until you're being dragged away from his broken body.

WORDCOUNT: 10.7k

WARNINGS: Major spoilers for CoD: Ghosts, heavy angst, blood, guts, descriptions of wounds, canon-typical violence, weapons and firearms, death, torture involving: drugs/hallucinogens, physical violence, mental stress, talks of PTSD, anxiety, paranoia, rescue fic, best friends to lovers plot, wounds that would 100% kill you that you live from (plot armor fr), etc.

A/N: Bestie, I don't know what you put into your prompts, lmao, but I always end up writing so much for you!! Thanks so much for sending something in <3<3

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The beginning of the end started with good intentions and one statement. 

“You hear this? It’s Rorke. He’s here. They’re evacuating on the train system below.” Hesh’s green eyes darted to you and Logan, his painted face a collection of rage and surety. The three of you were, in an instant, in agreement of revenge—there was no question as to what had to be done. Merrick couldn’t stop you, not on this. 

Rorke had made one of the most dangerous decisions of his life, and that was underestimating the Walker boys and their partner in sinful crime. 

“Harp,” you look away from the body of the warhead as it enters the atmosphere, locking onto Hesh’s hard eyes; the ones that had grown steadily colder since the death of his father, Elias. But it wasn’t just him—the patriarch had been close to you as well. The knowledge of his passing, witnessing it as the rope restraints seared into your flesh, had lit an all-consuming fire in your gut.

Like hounds, the scent of blood had hit the air. 

“Let’s get the bastard. Now or never,” you ease out, and Logan darts his gaze down to you from behind his balaclava. 

“Damn right,” Hesh barks, nodding firmly to you.

Anyone would have missed the way your gaze lingered on him as he darted off and began rushing down the stairs from the control room, Logan ever quick at his heels. But they wouldn’t have missed the way your breath pushed out a soft sigh as your eyes kept locked on the back of Hesh’s head as you followed after. 

You’d been childhood friends since practically infancy, a neighbor to the Walkers. It was natural that Hesh would grow to be the object of your daydreams ever since grade school; a constant and digging knife into your heart when he’d repeatedly pick other girls over you.

But such was life. 

All that mattered now was bringing down Rorke, silly love could wait.

“Merrick,” Hesh yelled down his line, the world outside this building rampant with open war. “The missile’s away and we’ve got a lead on Rorke, we’re going after him!” 

The white double doors meet the three of you as you all rush to them, and the panicked man’s voice flashes down the line immediately. 

“Negative Hesh! You three get back here and return to the rally point. We’ll track him down together.”

You call, “Isn’t an option, Merrick. We can’t let this one go.” 

You and Hesh ram your shoulders into the doors, Logan darting through first with his weapon drawn down the hallway. The brunette’s and your shoulders brush in a jostling of gear—pulling the back as your eyes lock. Cold light seeps from overhead, metal under your feet clanking in-key.

You look away before Hesh agrees and levels with the Ghost over the line to push your point. “Sorry, Merrick. Your mission is complete…ours isn’t.”

Federation heads pop up from behind makeshift barriers of barrels and other stacked items and as you all enter and clear rooms, alarms blare with the ferocity of fighting lions. Hesh keeps by your side, offering you openings that you greedily take as another soldier falls with a stiff twitch of your finger on the trigger. 

Darting behind cover, the man slams to the space beside you, calling over above the noise and the whizz of bullets.

“How long till impact?!” You shove a new clip into your FAD, brushing sweat and blood from your cheeks, smearing patches of your own paint. 

Glancing at the watch on your wrist, you hear Logan pushing the line. You dart out of cover to help—locking onto hostiles and backing up the younger brother with quick feet.

“Eight minutes, Hesh! You got a plan that doesn’t leave me with scorched hair?” He finds it in himself to laugh, clocking a soldier to your left and riddling him with bullets. 

“We need to get to that train, Harp. Don’t worry—I’ll kiss the burns away for you.” He rushes past and sends a smirk over his shoulder. You’re left stunned for a second, wishing that the teasing tilt to the older brother’s words was more than that. You blink, and the feeling is forced away.

Later.

“Keep pushing, Logan,” Hesh moves on. You all sprint down descending ramps, farther and farther underground with every step; adrenaline building to a breakneck level like weight slowly being added over and over to a chest. “We need to get to Rorke!” 

You didn’t want to tell him, but, while revenge was on your plate as well, this was a very reckless idea.

As you grab for a grenade from your belt and jerk on the pin, you chuck it down the way and call out a warning to the boys, who, like a well-oiled machine, dart and wait for it to detonate. Bodies fly, bloody splashes of torn limbs, and three Ghosts materialize from the smoke with masked and painted faces; eyes like fire and veins boiling. 

“Fire team suppressed in 3-1,” Hesh shouts through the line as you slide your knife into a man’s eye, his goggles breaking in a shattering of glass. “Advancing to loading bay!” 

There’s a large elevator ahead for transporting crates, and all of you jog inside as the gate creaks shut.

Merrick’s stiff voice replies, “Roger that.”

Silently, you click into the channel and mutter out as a moment of relative peace coats your body like a blanket, even if for a few small seconds. 

“I’ll keep ‘em safe,” a small twitch of your lips, “Commander.”

A deep and unimpressed voice wafts into your ear with a large sigh. “Know you will—just remember to keep yourself safe in the process, Kid…Don’t do anything stupid.”

You shift your gaze to Hash and find green already staring at you. Blinking, the man quickly darts his vision away and after a moment you turn your face back down to the connection and huff through a burning epidermis.

“Haven't you heard?” The elevator shows the train as it descends down, and you call to the boys, ‘six minutes’, with a firm voice. 

“Stupid seems to follow us three everywhere.”

Hesh points as the figures of more soldiers walk around below. “There’s Rorke’s train, straight ahead!” Sure enough, the worm of black and gray metal extends to your eyes across the large room

“He’ll be on there soon. Logan, take left.” You order and the brown-eyed man nods from beside you, shouldering his rifle and checking the clip. “Hesh?” 

“Taking right—you got Point, Doll.” He stares at you, licking his lips. “Clear the way?” You tilt your head at him as the elevator jumps to a stop, the barrier sliding away. It pains you to look away.

There were so many things you had to tell him. Too many things. 

“Always.” Shiting your face forward, you take a breath and take notice of points of cover, scoping the room in three seconds flat. Screeching wheels and alarms ingrain your eardrums. “On me.” 

As you head out first, fire the first bullet, the two peel off in opposite directions, Hesh only sliding up beside you and uttering into your ear.

“Be safe.” 

That comment makes you want to be anything but, if only he’d whisper into your ear like that again. 

Clearing the room, you can’t get your mind off the fact that this crush was overtaking nearly every part of your life—years of quiet agony and staying your tongue in fear of losing what great friendship you had. 

The stock set into your shoulder recoils with another burst of fire, Federation soldiers scream in pain, but you barely register over the shadows in the sides of your vision. 

“Damnit, Hesh,” you growl, bullet grazing your shoulder as you grunt and slip behind a concrete divider. 

“What’s that?” Your eyes widen comedically. Shit…had you forgotten to close the line? 

“Eh,” you clear your throat, grimacing at the small sparks of pain in your shoulder. “N-nothing.” 

There’s a bout of silence and then a panting voice, rough and growing more serious. “You alright over there, Harp?” You can’t even respond before Hesh quickly continues. “I’m comin’ to you. Stay there.”

You violently shake your head, although he can’t see it.

“Hesh, I’m fine! Keep right and clear that hallway.” 

There’s a deep grunt. “Fine, but if I see one scratch I’m makin’ Riley chase you down the Base when we get back.”

If we get back.

You roll your eyes with a growing smile, steeling yourself and slamming your weapon to the top of the divider before locking onto your targets. “Please, we both know he loves me too much for that.”

“Most I’ll have to do is put a treat in your pocket, Sweetheart.” His sly smirk is heard easily, and you swallow tense-like and breathe shakily. That low drawl in his tone left you more distracted than you could ever get used to. “Hell,” There’s a struggle over the line before the shink of a knife meeting flesh. A breathless chuckle that leaves your gut swirling. “Maybe I’ll just chase you down myself.”

Logan coughs over the line and you have to click off before you scream. Your face flares up until your ears ring and you have to duck behind your cover again before you get metal right to the forehead. 

Behind the barrier, you glare at the floor.

When did general teasing get so hard for you? Jokes and jabs carrying weight—since when? Sure you’d liked—more liked loved—Hesh since before all of this, but you’d carried on well enough. 

“Fucking hell,” you grumble, shaking your head to clear it and rushing. 

The brothers pop through the side hallways to flank the enemy, taking out the one or two hostiles that were still breathing after you level your barrel with the last standing head; firing with a burst of gunpowder.

“Train’s leaving, let's go!” Hesh screams, waving an arm quickly at you, walking backwards on quick feet. “Harp, C’mon!” 

You chuff, hopping the divider and sprinting as the metal object speeds up—there’s a moment where you fear you might miss it, Hesh and Logan both forced to hop on even in your absence.

“Harp!” Green eyes flash, one hand on the railing and the other extended out. 

“On it!” Snapping, you slam your palm into his and feel his strong fingers curl to clutch you. Logan grabs your collar and helps; the both of them easily yanking you over just as the wall of the tunnel engulfs you all in illuminated shadow.

Back meeting the train’s body, you pant and chuckle as Logan shakes his head, amused, and pats your shoulder. You wink at him jokingly. 

“Good save there, Walker Number Two.”

Hesh grabs the side of your neck, looking you over as he leans back with a breathless chuckle at the title for his brother. He blinks quickly at your shoulder, eye narrowing before he reaches out and looks at the blood on your gear.

“You mind telling me what this is, Doll?” You make a nose in the back of your throat as the smell of his musk hits your nostrils; the deadly concoction of his scent and his digging gaze.

Stuttering, you huff. “Eh…bullet graze?”

You’re leveled with thin lips, but Logan grabs his brother by the upper arm and peels him off you, motioning to his radio as the train gains even more speed. Wind whips past your face as Hesh clears his throat, quickly avoiding your eyes. 

The man’s splotchy paint shows his red skin under the darker pigment. 

“Merrick, we’re on the train,” he speaks, shifting past you without another look. “We’re going after Rorke.”

“Solid Copy.” You watch the brunette walk away and hold your breath, though you don’t know why—heart beating not just because of adrenaline. 

Embarrassment breeding in your stomach, you ignore Logan’s knowing stare and push off the wall, rubbing at your bleeding shoulder with a stiff hand. 

—

You break a man’s neck against the wall, hand on the back of his head before you slam it into the hard metal. There’s a crunch of bone and a broken rattle before the broadcasted feed from the screen on the train’s panel spits out a message in panicked Spanish to the already deceased men.

“Evacuation protocol C is in effect. All personnel secure cargo and supplies—”

Hesh interrupts ahead of you as you let the body drop, scowling at the heavy sound of its dead weight. At his angry voice, you perk and tune in.

“Tell Rorke we’re comin’ for him.” There’s a quick shove from the other end of the feed, the previous man disappearing as the individual that takes his place makes your eyes go to slits. A great growl like a wolf echoes from your heart and seeps from between your clenched teeth. 

Rorke’s scarred face appears with a smirk and a cocky voice.

“Why don’t you just tell me yourself?” You look at your boys, more concerned for them as you watch firsthand the trauma the death of their father brought them. 

Logan holds his weapon tighter, fixing his grip. Hesh is a bit more direct. He leans closer to the screen, bearing his teeth like a dog and snarling with rage and hatred.

“You’re done, Rorke.” All of a sudden he peels back a fast fist and sends it careening into the screen—making a shattering of glass and a hard thud emanate deep into your bones. 

Blinking quickly, you tense as it happens, not expecting that. But as soon as you try to make sense of it, the brunette is already banking off to the side door, calling a sharp, “Let’s finish this!”

He grabs the side of the train car and wrenches on the handle, grunting and pushing with all of his might.

“Hesh,” you try to reason, stepping in now before things get too hot. “We need to think of a plan before you rush into things. This could get us in a heap of shit that we might not be able to get out of.”

It’s like he doesn’t hear you, and you spare a glance with Logan for help. But he, too, has already joined his brother with a swish of gear on the handle. With one great push, the door opens to the outside brightness, making your face turn away for a moment. 

Along the far expanse of open sand dunes outside; mountains flanking the bridge this train flies across, you get the perfect view of a warhead meeting the ground in an explosion of fire and death. It bursts far across the valley, and you cover your eyes as the sharp ball of light burns your retinas. 

The shockwave hits moments later, and Hesh says easily as the train shakes and squeals like a metal pig, “Looks like Icarus got control of the rods!” The boys step out onto the platform along the train, and you have no option but to follow. “All that’s left is Rorke, let's go!”

“Hesh,” you try again, hissing out his name, and you’re graced with a quick glance.

“Harp,” he comments, “what is it? We can’t wait any longer—”

“What we can’t do is go in blind!” You shout above the wind, legs stanced to help you stay up. Green eyes twitch with confusion, perhaps even a little hurt. 

“Blind? What are you talking about, we push forward and take what’s owed.” You know how much this means to him—to Logan—but there was a point where pride and stubbornness outweighed sense. This was dangerous, especially for Hesh. 

You were always the one to keep him level; keep him from becoming too much like his dad. 

You’d promised that old bastard you’d look after his boys, albeit in a teasing sense, but to you, it had been a stark vow on your soul. Logan was a brother to you, and Hesh…Hesh would always be more, but that only made your love for them both grow. 

“You keep those two from getting in their heads, you hear? They mean well, but there’s no one I trust more than you to level them out, Harp. I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your folks would be too.” Elias had said that, and when he died you bottled it up and used so much force that coal had turned to diamond. 

You would keep Logan and Hesh safe. Safe, and level, and not hard-headed. 

For as much as you secretly loved your brunette, he sure was stubborn as all hell.

“If you want out, Harp,” Hesh calls to you, gritting his teeth. “Just wait back in the train car. This is something we can’t put off like everything else—this ends now; today. I’m not letting Dad’s killer survive.”

“Son of a bitch, that’s not what I’m saying!” You’re quickly losing your standing. Logan jogs ahead to scout, time ticking. “Hesh, you know that I loved Elias as much as you two did—not one is denying that this needs to happen. I'm with you. But this is too damn dangerous! We can’t rush into this without a plan of attack; of exfil! Do you even know how we’re going to get off of this thing?!” 

Hesh had been isolating the few days he had on the U.S.S Liberator, keeping to his room. The man idolized his father and put him on a pedestal of gold even when he was a teenager. He’d even pushed away from you, which all together was unheard of. Logan had nearly had an aneurism when you’d come back to the cafeteria and shook your head in disappointment after trying to get him to open his door. 

The two of you told each other everything. Always. That was just…how it was.

But the man that Hesh had donned the skin of was not the man you loved.

Hesh glares at you, eyes going alight with anger. 

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t be holding me back.” He turns and runs after Logan, leaving you behind in the open air as the train banks left and right with the sway of the bridge. 

Staring. Barely breathing. Mouth parted and eyes wide. 

When the man is at the end of the current train car, having to jump a small distance to the next, he pauses. His back is tight, and under him, his feet shuffle. 

There’s a moment you hope he’ll turn around and come back, take you into one of his hugs, and squeeze the life out of you. It wouldn’t be such a cruel way to die, you think, to be held in his arms. 

But the next moment you see the back of his head shake, and he jumps over to the next section, not even giving you a second glance.

You don’t want to admit how long you waited there, your mind jumbled and confused. 

Don’t take it personally, you try to tell yourself, sucking down a breath before slowly walking forward. He’s hurt. Grieving. He didn’t mean it.

Rationality was a tool of the level-headed, and you were anything but that nowadays.

Over the line Hesh’s voice makes you flinch as you slowly follow after, train car after train car.

“Rorke must be at the front of the train!” You step over dead bodies and lend merciful bullets to the ones still writhing, boots coated in crimson. Following a trail of wreckage with stiff lungs. 

Stay out of his way? Fine, you could do that.

You stayed back from the head-to-head fighting, laying covering fire and keeping off the comms—whenever Hesh managed to look back at you, you simply moved on to the next hostile. 

Eventually, you all ended up on the rooftops, the boys far ahead and yourself blank-faced at the rear. Logan was acting more concerned than Hesh was, glancing at you constantly in confused worry. But it was very much short-lived.

“Incoming!” The right side of the railcar bursts with fire, and you gasp before grappling for the opposite side of the train, keeping you there before the swaying beast leveled out. “Helos. Take cover and take out the gunners!”

You scoff, quickly making your way behind a connector joint to lean your back against it and catch your breath. Two helicopters fly alongside the train, Logan already firing at one, and Hesh…your eyes narrow with annoyance. Hesh was already running ahead of the pack, his low grunts and growls over the line giving way to his impatience. 

You click your jaw and try to remind yourself that this is the same man who held you close during movie nights and carried you to bed when you fell asleep. Made you waffles when your boyfriend in eighth grade broke up with you on Valentine’s Day.

Stitched your wounds before he gave them a teasing ‘kiss better’ and looked up at you through dark lashes. 

You wildly shake your head to force yourself back to the present.

The gunners are harder to hit not only based on wind and distance alone, but on the erratic movements of the pilots. It’s several clips before you down the second Helo, and Logan’s follows immediately after as they both collide and ram into the mountainside.

You both share a glance and rush after the misguided brunette. 

At the end of the train, only the engine remains. 

“Clear!” Hesh relays, jumping down from the roof of the railcar and hurriedly walking to the white door, leaning against the wall. “We’re at the last car, Logan. Rorke’s pinned, he knows we’re comin’.”

You gaze down from the top as Logan follows, silent and brooding. Your hands along your FAD tighten under your gloves. You don’t even look at the man. 

“Merrick, do you copy?”

“Copy, Hesh.”

“We’re moving in on Rorke.” You slide him a look, seeing him glaring those pretty greens into the ground. “If you hear the word “Checkmate”, you will fire on our position! Confirm?” Your eyes snap with horror, heart lurching.

Surely, you hadn’t heard that right.

Merrick’s voice echoes your frozen confusion. “Say again, repeat your last.”

You jump down and stagger for a moment, barking out a harsh, “What the fuck are you doing?” Inside of your chest, your heart rampages like it never had before. “That’s suicide!”

He was going to kill everyone to bring down Rorke, and you get no answer beyond a clenched jaw and a quick side-eye.

“You heard me, Merrick, on “Checkmate”, hit this train!” The connection is cut and Logan gets into position to shoulder the door open, you watch, stuttering. 

Hesh levels with his brother, “We can’t take any chances, Logan. Even if we fail, Rorke dies.” Panic builds, and you’re taking quick steps forward.

You keep those two from getting in their heads, you hear?

You have to stop them, you have to drag them away—but even you know that deep down the only thing that will stop these two is a bullet. 

Eyes snapping back and forth, you only get close enough to try and snatch at Hesh’s arm right as he finishes a countdown of three; at the end, Logan kicks down the engine room door with a violent connection of his boot.

Even with the drop on the three guards inside, it doesn't stop the bullet from ripping through your lower side, preoccupied and distracted yet again. You yell loudly, balking back into the door frame and hunching over as blood spurts out of you. Hesh’s head whips your way immediately, jaw going slack and a soul-deep hysteria takes over.

So now he pays attention.

“Shit, Harp!” So little time. 

Logan can’t take care of the last remaining Fed soldier by himself, and in a large act of self-sabotage, that very soldier just happened to have a missile launcher. 

The entire left engine explodes—the train jerks; everyone is sent in a back-and-forth motion, first hitting off the last train car before being sent right back through the engine room entirely. A transference of force gives you whiplash as your head bounces off the door frame. 

The world goes blurry, body hitting and slamming through layers of glass and pain before the control room is suddenly where you end up, using the body of a stunned guard as a cushion. 

There’s a second of muffled gunfire, struggling and yelling—and then it all comes back into focus like a sniper’s scope being correctly sighted. You gargle an expletive and shove the guard under you back down despite the searing heat in your side and head; struggling to unsheathe your combat knife as the world tilts. 

Hands push at your cheeks, grip at your neck futilely, but when you get the blade out and struggle the hands down once more, you hammer the point into his throat with a thump of your boot pressing for purchase on the floor. 

The man spasming, you push off of him and slam to the ground, coughing in great lung-shattering segments.

“You can’t win, Rorke!” Hesh’s voice brings you back from the swirling, and you hear your blood patter to the metal floor like rain.

“Shit,” you mutter, gasping for air. 

Gazing up you see Rorke holding Logan in a chokehold, free hand pointing a gun at Hesh. Your eyes bulged, trying to push onto your knees and reach for your weapon as you saw Hesh continually looking away from the target and worriedly watching you. His hands at his sides are loose, but when you lock eyes with him, they clench and shake. 

“It’s over—” He tries, but the loud gunshot bounces off the train’s enclosed space. You’re yelling before you can think, darting forward and leveling your gun right to Rorke’s head as Hesh’s form collapses to the ground.

Standing on unsteady feet, you pant and stumble, but the devil’s brown eyes hold you captive. Rorke smirks as you guard Hesh behind you. 

“Well, well, well, seems the girl’s just as promising as you, eh, Logan? She’s the other one who slipped her binds in Las Vegas.” He laughs. “Look at me, I’m surrounded by young talent.” 

“I don’t exactly care if you are or aren’t,” you growl, shuffling to keep Hesh even farther behind you as you instrumentally cough again. Your legs are wobbling. “Just that you put my fucking friend down.”

“You willing to die for him?” Rorke looks demented, with his scar and his intimidating build. Whatever torture he had been through to make him like this—a Ghost killer—it had worked perfectly. There was no coming back from this. He whistles lowly. “That’s some loyalty you have there.”

His mind was dead to all else.

You don’t hesitate in an answer, even as the man behind you grabs your leg, trying to move you with a wheezing breath.

“H-Harp,” his spine moves in a cough. “Don’t…please.”

“Always.” Interest alights in those dark, tiny eyes. Logan tries to give you messages with his gaze, but you ignore him. Ironic. “That’s not something I’ll break on. Unlike you.”

“Shit, Kid,” there’s a grand laugh, “now that’s heartless…but good,” Rorke glances at Hesh, raising a brow and chuckling. “I’ll love to see the look in his eyes when I—”

“Checkmate!”

“Checkmate confirmed.” You look down at Hesh and see him watching you, his gaze open and bare. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, but all you can do is watch. 

There’s no time to think.

“I love you,” you confess in a fleeting moment of bare nothingness, blurting it out. “I’ve loved you.”

Hesh’s body entirely halts, jaw slowly slackening in horror; something shifts behind his eyes but before he can open his mouth, a rageful bark bullies the smooth tone of his throat back.

“What did you do?!” Your form is bodied into the controls behind you, colliding as you snarl and are forced to recover. With a snap of your finger, you fire a shot into Rorke’s foot. 

He yells and whips his wrist back, slamming the butt of his gun into your temple. 

As the bridge ahead of the train explodes, Hesh drags himself to cover your body, muttering into your flesh words you cannot name as the darkness sets in.

“It’s over,” Hesh speaks grimly to Rorke, turning to look at him silently as he presses your head into his chest, sharing a nod and thin-lipped look with Logan still stuck in his arm. “It’s over.”

“Shit, Son…” The train gets thrown and broken in a wave of utter destruction and rebirth; and through it all, Hesh never lets go—not even when the water below comes up to meet you.

—

The beach’s sand is coarse, and it sticks to your gear with a fervent hold. To your skin, the paint, and blood, for the moment washed away as hands dragged you from the water, small puffs of breath and whimpers greeting you. 

“C’mon, Sweetheart.” Hesh. And he sounded frantic. “C’mon, open…open your eyes, dammit. Please, you just told me the best thing you possibly could. Please.” 

Water slips off your neck, and as you’re weakly lying back, propped against a rock, hands slip to your cheeks, moving the skin as a barely conscious body tries to make you wake up. 

A forehead hits against your shoulder, a deep groan of pain emanating from the man who grips at your gear.

“No, no, c’mon,” Hesh can barely keep himself sitting up, bloody and broken. Logan had to drag him from the water not seconds prior, and in turn, Hesh had grabbed what little strength was left and helped him get you. “Logan!” Green darts to brown, and the older brother pleads in a broken voice, “Help me!”

You bend your head forward and cough up blood and water, shoving Hesh away from you so you can collapse on your side and expel your stomach.

“Harp,” the man quickly mutters, dragging himself over and grabbing your shoulder to keep your face out of the sand. “Fuck, okay—it’s okay I’ve got you.”

“You,” your voice cuts out, and you shake as you gasp and sputter, “A-are a fucking idiot!” 

Hesh chuckles, and you feel his head hit off your arm, his struggling breath. “God, I know. I know, Sweetheart.” 

Logan crawls over to you, pushing you back against the rock and grappling for his medical pouch as Hesh patches into the comms. You grunt and look down at the younger brother, head swirling in colors and ears pounding with your pulse. 

“Merrick, do you copy? Merrick, come in.”

“Hesh! Hesh, is that you?” You weakly smirk at the shock and relief from the tone, letting your head tilt back as Logan hurriedly packs your gunshot wound with gauze. You wince and stare at the sky—blood infectiously tinging the sand below you. 

Hesh tries to help too, but you and the man are in far worse shape than Logan. The older brother’s shoulder leans into yours heavily, and you shift your eyes to the side as they flutter.

You haven't forgotten what you told him, what you confessed, but right now pushing back the black in the sides of your vision was more important.

And Rorke. What had happened to Rorke?

“Yeah,” Hesh watches you, face screwed with concern. “Yeah, I’m with Harp and Logan. We’re…we’re alive. Rough shape, but alive.”

“And Rorke?” You hold your breath.

“Dead.” Logan ties off a quick tourniquet and your spine tightens in agony, hissing out as your nerves spike with electricity. The brown-eyed man spares you a sorry glance but you shake your head in dismissal. “He’s dead.” 

Out in the water, the enemy warships are firing off missiles inland, some smoking and others already sinking. Merrick gives you the news as Hesh brings a hand up to your chin, tilting your head his way. You go willingly, skin on fire from the scrape of his gloves. 

Logan moves back, having done what he can, before he collapses back into the sand, panting with an arm over his stomach. His older brother’s forehead bumps into yours, eyes stuck. 

“Copy that. The Federation is in full retreat—the rest of the payload is inbound to finish the…”

Whatever else Merrick relays is lost and Hesh’s lips splay over yours, his nose letting out a long breath and body sagging, dead-weight. Cheeks hot and mind running, you let instinct take over and reciprocate, quick fingers pulling at his vest straps.

“Since when?” He asks, breathless when he moves back an inch. 

“After you introduced me to your first girlfriend, Cassie Albrook,” you smile, eyes crinkling. “Seventh grade. The one with the black hair? God, I was so jealous.” 

Hesh chuckles deeply, body jerking as he kisses you again, pulling back and holding your cheek in his hand. His eyes are wide and open.

“You mean to tell me, I could have been kissin’ you all the way back since seventh grade?” Your face moves with pure love, flesh going soft—even the pain diminishes somewhat. 

Merrick’s voice still gruffly moves down the line, and the last bits of his sentence are heard. 

“...Sit tight, Recon’s comin’ for ya.” Everything was looking up. 

Missiles slam into the Federation ships out in the water, the sudden burst of liquid and fire making Hesh briefly cover you with his side to protect you from the shockwave. When you turn to look, nothing but sinking metal remains. 

“I’m sorry,” Hesh tells you, and you don’t have the energy to pull away from his neck as you let your head rest—the thumping of your brain and the calming shadow of his form giving way to believe you had a concussion. 

“Hm,” you hum, letting him continue. His voice echoed in his breast.

“I…I’ve been an ass these past few days, weeks, I shouldn’t have said what I did—wanted to take it back as soon as I turned away from you.” You close your eyes and sigh long, sarcastic even now. 

“You owe me dinner and a movie, then I’ll see if I can forgive you.” Hesh chuckles, nose pressing down into your scalp. He kisses you there as water falls from his chin.

“Sounds like a plan, Doll.” The man lets himself rest, curled around you and waiting for the recon team as the sand and the water move. “I love you too…just so you know. Long time.”

Your failing mind lets off a scoff. But a happy one.

When you wake again, not remembering when you’d fallen asleep, it is to the sound of screaming. 

“Logan!” You jolt up and have to place a hand on your head to stop the pounding. Hesh is struggling to move, fighting to get to his younger brother who you turn as quickly as you’re able to face. “Logan!”

Your face voids of blood. 

Rorke is dragging the other man away, pushing him to the ground as Logan tries to fight like a dog on his back, with only one arm working properly. Growling, you try to stand—body falling and sliding right back down as Rorke kicks Logan’s combat blade from his hand, walking over to you and Hesh. 

He stands and pants, limping from your shot to his foot and a hand across his abdomen in obvious pain.

“Look what you did,” Rorke motions behind him to the still-falling missiles being disposed of from space into the ocean; atop the wreckage of what Rorke had been a part of. Falling to your side, you leave behind a raging Hesh who attempts to move and get to Rorke while you go to Logan. The devil wheezes and points from you to the boys, forcing a grunt of approval. “You’re good.”

Hesh is shoved back by a ruthless boot into the rock, and you snarl, coming over to Logan and his very broken arm as he weakly writhes on the ground. You place your body over his and bare your teeth as if a beast. 

“Rorke!” You bark. “It’s over! It’s done. Everything you’ve built is dead and recon is on its way for us…you’re finished.”

“Nothin’s finished, no,” Hesh tries to lunge again as Rorke’s body stumbles closer to you but falls into ragged coughs and stays on his side in utter agony. 

“Stay away from them!” The man you’d just confessed to hisses, hand grasping futilely at the sand. Green eyes run back and forth from you to Logan, desperate and breaking by the second. “Rorke! You son of a bitch!”

“Nothin’s ever finished.” Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck, you’re being tossed off Logan and thrown to the side in a cloud of sand, body screaming at you as you yell out loudly. 

Rorke bends a knee to look Logan in the eyes, shaking his head.

“You’d of been a hell of a Ghost.” Yelling, you wrench at the combat knife in your vest, set your feet, and tackle Rorke off of the Walker boy with a feral curse on your breath. 

“Get the fuck off of—” Your leg twists with a defining crack as you’re grappled and thrown off, only able to slice a nice long cut down his jaw and at the beginning of the man’s throat. 

Screaming you hear briefly Hesh’s rageful bellow, his calling of your name in high keens of helplessness. Promises of revenge and justice. 

Breath breaking as tears line the back of your eyes, Rorke comes over you and pins your dominant hand to the ground—you look up and grimace, trying to make your body function. 

Move!

Rorke laughs, great shoulders shaking with glee. He’s fucking demented as he continues his sentence from before your fruitless attack. 

“...But that’s not gonna happen, is it?” The man smiles and you struggle as Logan and Hesh rapidly try to assist. 

“Harp!”

“There ain’t gonna be any Ghosts.” Rorke’s eyes shift to Hesh, and you follow with a sense of dread and horror. The man’s mind had been made up when he turned back around, disregarding Logan entirely in favor of you and your ‘unbreakable’ loyalty. 

The joy it would bring him to destroy you and set you loose after such. Set you loose on Hesh. 

He leans in close to you, so you can feel his breath and his conviction. 

“We’re gonna destroy ‘em together.” 

“Harp!” You’re shoved back, knife grasped and ripped from your hand as your broken leg is grabbed and pressure is applied. 

You scream again, arms carding across the dunes as Rorke begins dragging you backward like a child holding onto a stuffed toy. Blown green eyes meet yours, Hesh reaching out and screaming at the top of his lungs for you. 

But he can’t move.

“Harp!” 

And you can’t feel your fingers. 

“I love you,” you whisper, perhaps for the last time and he sees your lips move. Hesh screams and slams his hand into the ground, Logan stumbling to his knees but immediately dropping back with a small cry. 

And Rorke chuckles.

—

You don’t know where he took you, but you do know the jungle floor is cold and wet, and the mud under your fingernails makes you feel gross. 

What you do know is that the earthen walls of the pit you are in are pointless to try to climb—the top is slatted with a covering of long sticks with wide square openings. You know it’s going to rain by the smell in your bloodied nostrils. 

You know that your leg is broken, your bullet wound is festering through the tourniquet, and your concussion is making you sleepy. 

In your head, you count these ‘knowns’ and sprinkle them like seeds as you stare blankly at the sky far above. Everything aches; hurts. When you breathe, it comes in and out with a wheeze. 

You know that Hesh loves you, and perhaps that’s the only fact you care about. Wherever he is, you’re glad he can’t see you like this. 

Rain patters against your head, the storm clouds finally rolling through. Leaves can be heard shuffling on their branches. You breathe in and out, rising and settling your lungs slowly. 

You can’t break—not like Rorke. 

No matter what he did to you, you can’t betray the Ghosts. Logan. Hesh.

Elias’s words echo as you curl into a tiny ball, shivering and whimpering as your wounds move and pull. 

...I’m proud of you. And I’m sure your folks would be too.

You know this game. Torture. They’ll pump you full of hallucinogens, starve you, beat you within an inch of your life; and through that you cannot give in.

But it’s easier said than done.

In the middle of the night, the top of the pit is pushed away and there are the voices of multiple people that dance above the rain storm. They jump down and in the state you are, there’s nothing you can do to stop them from hooking their arms under yours and hauling you up, limp and motionless. 

The words are in Spanish, and you still can make out some over the commotion and the way your hearing dips in and out. 

“Where do we inject….”

“...neck, I believe…arm could work too…”

“...nasty…was it? I heard…mix of drugs…Who knows?”

Your head is harshly yanked back, and the sharp pinch of a needle digs into your neck, the action making your good leg kick out in panic but there’s little you can do. 

A flood of thick fluid enters your veins and like sap seeping out of a tree some drops exit the wound and mix with the rain weighing down your clothes. They’d taken your gear, only your undershirt and cargo pants still clothing you. 

When they’re done, they let you drop back to the floor, where you flop and smash your face into the mud with a weak drag of your cheek along the sludge. With calls from above, a rope is tossed down and they all ascend. The top is clattered back over moments later. 

Laying still and groaning, teeth clenched, already you feel ten times more strange than before. 

“Ah,” you grasp at your head, which was bursting to begin with, as it gains a looseness to it—the mud below you shimmered with puddles, the chill got colder, and your clothes felt grating against your skin. “Not good. N-not good.” 

You pull at your shirt collar, coughing as your eyes bulge; your heart breaks itself as it immediately can be felt hammering into your ribcage far more sensitive than you’d ever experienced. It felt like your chest was going to rip open. 

Panicked sounds emanate from the back of your throat, fingers digging into your scalp as the drugs carry their venom through your blood. 

Your wounds blazed.

You start screaming, babbling for nothing, and pulling at your flesh, but the overhead striking of lightning leaves the desperation mute to all but the trees.

—

Hesh stares at you from the corner of the pit, but his eyes are not green. You watch, silent, barely moving, from where you curl into a tiny heap of bloodied flesh. You’d torn at your skin for days; time looped together with more injections and no food. Water you got from the sky.

They had offered soup, but you knew better even as you dug harsh lines into your neck. There were just more drugs in the broth. 

But Hesh. Hesh.

He wasn’t right—didn’t stand like him, or breathe like him; there was something off about his smirk as he watched you gaze at him in an addled stupor.

“Feelin’ good over there, Kid?” Not Hesh. Not. Hesh.

You’re panting, your body sweating profusely in the humidity and so, so hungry.

Not Hesh takes a step forward and his image tilts like the turning of a page with Rorke taking his place, but as soon as it happens it flips back on itself to your Love.

“N-not right,” you hurriedly whisper.

Not Hesh puts a hand to his ear, kneeling down in front of you. “What was that, now?” A long chuckle. His voice is…is…deeper. Your eyebrows flinch up and down. “Who do you see, Sweetheart?”

“Hesh,” you whimper out. “Hesh, what are you talking about? What’s going on? I…I feel like I’m…I’m twisted inside out.”

“Hesh, huh?” The man looks to the side, smiling. “Well, that’s better than I expected. This’ll be fun.”

“W-what—” A fist connects with your face and you get catapulted into the wall. Before anything else, your stomach is kicked, making your call of alarm get forced out as a gasp as your clotted bullet wound reopens in a great tear. A large hand grips you hard by the chin, snapping it forward to stare into those wrong eyes but the familiar face of Hesh. 

What was he doing to you?

“H…Hesh,” you can’t even stutter out his name before you break down into coughs and gagging; tears rolling down your cheeks, and blood and mud everywhere.

“Yeah, that’s right. You just keep lookin’ at me.” You dry heave and push at his hands, fingernails digging into his skin to create crescent moons. “Keep lookin’ at Hesh.”

—

It’s three months of the same, and you can’t go on anymore.

You lay in a near comatose state on the ground, flesh completely covered in mud and open wounds—maggots eat at your dead skin, wriggling deeper. Not having the heart to pick them out, or even move the few non-broken fingers you have, you lay in blank agony. Pain so deep you can’t scream or make a single noise. It would make it worse; it is making it worse. 

Breathing is becoming a chore.

“Is today going to be the day?! God, I sure hope so.” Hesh looks down from over the edge, fiddling with another syringe of drugs. “Enough blood down there to make a fuckin’ painting out of. Shit…You lasted longer than I thought, Kid.” You don’t look at him. At his dark, wrong, eyes. 

“I’m nearly impressed.” There’s a low chuckle and the crackling of branches. 

You close your eyes and try to think of a single kiss and green eyes, but the rest of the image is tainted to you. Your mind can’t call it forward without the corruption of the puppet ahead of you, this shifting specter of mist and smoke.

Memories that used to bring you comfort call to fear and spine-curling hurt. 

This couldn’t be Hesh, you told yourself for the millionth time, but…who else could it be? Your body was too broken to try and work through the hallucinations, to think or rationalize.

There’s a thump of boots and a grunt. Someone coming closer as birds speak far above. Singing. It's the first you can recall another living creature being this close to the smell of infected decay.

 “Now, now, let’s see that neck of yours.” You’re seized and pushed onto your back, head lulling and eyes fluttering. Hesh’s image shifts and bends into another, one you should be able to name but can’t quite recall. It’s hard to focus. “Just one more, and we can fix this. Together. No more Ghosts, huh? We’ll make it right.”

Birds songs. Birds and flying shadows. Rapid wing beats like an eagle or the pound of paws on the ground. 

There is an un-godly snarl and a call of rage. 

“Rorke!” The dark-eyed Hesh snaps his head away, his needle stilling in his grip only inches from your flesh. He’s grappled and ripped away, thrown up and slammed down into a full-body jerk of pure strength not a second later with a cry of shock. “Get the fuck off of her!” 

Shadows roll and wrestle, feral yowls like that of beasts bounce off your impaired hearing, mud stuck in your ears. You think your vision cuts out for a moment because the next there’s a different man gripping your shoulders, slightly shaking you back awake.

Blue eyes like the ocean. Your brow barely twitches in confusion. 

Keegan? 

“C’mon, that’s it. Right here.” A light is taken and directed right into your eye in the fading light. “You’re doin’ great, Harp. Just keep lookin’ at me.” 

The light passes over your blood-coated eyes and barely diolates. Keegan’s lips under his balaclava thin to an alarming degree. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, looking down at you before he darts his vision over to Hesh, the actual Hesh, who’s locked limbs with the former Ghost; fists to guts and primal anger. 

In his haste to get to you, Hesh had damned himself—he’d left no opening for any of the others to get a clean shot at Rorke. But no one could blame him, even if it was reckless; incredibly stupid. 

The man had been on your trail nearly every day since you’d been taken. Barely sleeping, eating little. A man possessed. 

The Ghosts had been half convinced something had taken over his image and scooped out his personality.

“Merrick,” Keegan patches into the secure line, looking back down at you. “Positive ID on HVT, three klicks West. Hesh has engaged—we found Harp.” 

There’s an instantaneous response, worried breath. “Solid copy…how’s she doing?”

“We need MedEvac immediately. She won’t last another night.” There’s a curse on the other end, a loud and quick call to the rest of his squad. 

“Copy! I’ll call it in!” Keegan tries to stabilize you as Hesh and Rorke rip each other to shreds, and Hesh, who had the upper hand in the beginning, is quickly losing it.

“Awe, look who tracked ‘er down!” Rorke snatches at Hesh’s collar and lays two jabs to his ribs—there’s a definitive crack as the younger man shouts in pain. “Young love! So fucking pointless.” 

“I’m going to rip you into pieces,” Hesh bares his teeth, eyes wild and unrestrained. For a moment Rorke looks taken aback by the utter conviction in his green gaze. “And make you choke on your own damn teeth! You hear me?!” 

Ripping away with a tear of fabric, Hesh bends low and tackles the former Ghost to the ground, splaying him out on his back before his fist is snapped back and brought down; again and again and again. 

“Hesh!” Keegan shouts, pressing deeply into your wounds and trying to give you fluids with one hand. “This fucking kid.” The Sergeant gives up, shaking his head. 

Trust had to be given, and Keegan knew that at this moment he had to trust Hesh to hold his own. He needed to keep you conscious. 

“Easy, Harp.” You can feel the cracks in your dry throat as the water seeps past them, and you cough up droplets before the blue-eyed Sergeant tilts your head and helps you. “Easy, Sweetheart.” 

Keegan doesn’t even want to look at your body as the brutal sounds of a fist on bone continue, clothes scuffling and gargled breaths—the savagery and barbarous remnants of mental and physical torture too much even for him. 

“Christ,” he hisses. 

You gulp down water slowly and let it fill your stomach like a brick. 

Hesh reduces Rorke’s face to a mess of flesh and busted bone, sweating and not even stopping as his knuckles split under his gloves or his fingers dislocated from their sockets. His eyes burn, his face goes red—he looks insane. 

He looks like a spirit of utter revenge. 

Only when Logan and Merrick drag him off the spasming body does he stop, but not after he tries like hell to fight out of that hold as well. Whipping around, he attempts to land a punch on Merrick before Logan is forced to put him in a restraint hold. 

Hesh’s cheek meets the mud, face being sunk into it as his right arm is twisted so far behind his back it nearly breaks. The older brother growls, free arm and legs moving—back sliding. 

“David!” Merrick barks at him, face pulled in a sneer, enraged at the man’s lack of sense. “Shut this shit down. Look at her, dammit!” Logan gets bucked off, but the youngest Walker boy has enough sense to wrestle him back down and grab onto his chin; forcing those green eyes to lock on you and Keegan. 

The second he sees you, he entirely freezes.

Merrick sighs out harshly, jogging over to you and already checking in with the MedEvac that Kick’s flying in. There would be no resistance—all the other hostiles were dead. 

“Jesus Christ,” the Commander breathes, kneeling by you instantly and studying your body. 

Hesh’s reaction is slower, but the spread of vile tears burns the back of his eyes. Logan lets him go at seeing this, standing and holding out a hand, but the brunette stays on the ground a moment longer; utterly still. 

Hesh’s mouth opens and closes. 

All at once he’s rushing over and limping up at your side as Merrick grabs more medical supplies from his packs to help you. 

“Oh my God,” Hesh breathes, and Keegan sends him a glance. You’d drank all of the water. “Harp, hey, you’re going to be okay—it’s gonna be alright, you hear? I’m right here, Logan and I are gonna get you home. Back to California, okay? Riley’s waitin’ for you, Doll.”

You flinch at that voice, and Merrick looks sharply at the blue-eyed Sergeant. Their eyes lock, holding for a long moment. Logan’s brows tighten in confusion. 

The brunette seems not to notice it at all, hands finding your cheek before Merrick can give him a warning. Your eyes slowly shift to him before they peel back with fear.

Hesh’s vision goes glossy, clenching his jaw. “Shit, what did he do to you—”

“Hesh!” 

You yell and yerk back, shoving the man off of you with a fear-filled sob. 

“No!” Keegan and Merrick grapple to keep you down, not wanting to aggravate your wounds as Hesh falls to his ass, hands slapping behind him before he hisses and brings them back up. He blinks quickly in confusion and panic.

Logan rushes over and hides him from your view, beginning to understand what was going on. 

“No!” You call again, Keegan having to hold your head into his chest to hide you away. Merrick yells down his comms to hurry the Helo up, and that he doesn’t care about anything else. “No,” your voice gargles off as you sob into Keegan. “Please, no more.”

“Shh,” the Sergeant mutters, looking over his shoulder at a pale and shaking Hesh. “Nothin’s going to happen to you. Not anymore.” 

“Harp,” Hesh whispers, jaw slackened. “I…I don’t…”

“Hallucinogens,” Merrick says grimly, watching you shake and wail. Logan has to look away, his fists clenching. “Who knows what she’s seen. Reckon it wasn’t anything good.”

It’s like he doesn’t hear anything besides your cries. Whenever you gasp Hesh tenses as if he wants to run to you—comfort you the best way he knows how. 

Hallucinogens? He thinks and feels tears dribble down his cheeks as he blinks, rubbing at his jaw and shakily placing a hand over the back of his neck. Logan puts a heavy grip on his shoulder, weighing them down even more.

—

Rorke’s death should have been a time of celebration—of honoring the fallen. Elias Walker, Ajax, and countless others. The Federation was nothing more than broken factions now. Dust to the wind. 

But no one can celebrate when they’re trying to fix one of their own.

You were being kept in the secure medical ward under twenty-four-hour surveillance and around-the-clock care; only Keegan was allowed in, seeing as you were the closest to him outside of Logan and Hesh and had no adverse effects to his presence. 

Merrick had said he didn’t want to risk Logan going in, as it might worsen things. Hesh was taking it hard. 

He just got you back, how was this right? How was it fair that you’d had to go through that right when it was supposed to be over and done with? The man got sick over it, thinking about what Rorke had done to…break your mind like he had. 

Two months. 

Two months of nightmares plaguing him, of your eyes when you looked at him. If Hesh had just been stronger, then that bastard would never have dragged you away on that beach. He resulted in working out more, running laps around Fort Santa Monica with Riley at three in the morning—he grew bags under his eyes. He grew quiet. 

When all of his broken ribs and fingers healed, the artificial wounds, he was offered awards for taking down Rorke; even a summon by the President. 

He’d denied all of them. 

If a medal was going to get you better faster, he’d have taken them in an instant. But he wasn’t that stupid. Hesh was withering, and everyone saw it. He loved you more than anything—more than fame or recognition. The man lay awake at night fearing that you were too cold or uncomfortable in the far-off ward, he was paranoid about your safety. 

More often than not, the nurses found him and Riley fitfully sleeping outside of your door on the hard ground, arm used as a pillow. They didn’t have the heart to move him.

In the last two weeks before the third month of your isolation and evaluations, in his nighttime routine, Hesh finds your door open. 

He stares at it now with a blank expression, fatigue once burning his eyes all gone for a deep and pounding panic. With a hand gesture, Riley halts and sits, and, sensing his handler’s mood, lets his ears go straight up in attention. 

Hesh reaches for the gun in the back of his pants, peeling it out slowly and taking a nearly silent step forward. Ready, his ears strain for a sound…but there is none. 

His free hand reaches for the door, the short sleeves of his gray sleep-shirt bunching. A moment later, he lightly taps the barrier farther out before entering the room with the gun drawn.

He said he wouldn’t get distracted, but it would be a lie to say his eyes didn’t immediately go to you. 

You were there, asleep, curled up on the far recliner chair instead of the bed. Head lulled to the side and knees kept close to your chest. But it was the scars that broke Hesh.

They were large and long—on your face and arms; legs. All moving and stretching like a child’s drawing up your sleep shorts and shirt, disappearing only to reappear somewhere else. Healed over but still fresh.

Hesh drops the gun and turns his body slightly away, staring at the side wall before he takes an unsteady breath. He re-hides his weapon and turns to leave, not seeing anyone else.

Maybe Keegan had forgotten to close the door…he’d have to chew him out for that. Already a dull point of anger was making his jaw clench at the sly older man.

“Bastard,” Hesh mutters.

Before he can exit and close the door softly behind him, he hears a broken squeak of alarm. He halts as you stare heavily into his back—awoken by the sound of nearly silent feet. In a steady motion, the man’s hands are by his sides, open and visibly holding nothing. 

“I was just leaving,” Hesh whispers, not looking at you. His heart hammers. “I’m sorry, I thought someone else was in here—the door was open, okay?” 

Your hands twitch, body still and breath held tight.

“Hesh?” He flinches, eyes closed tight. 

Don’t look at her. Don’t turn around. Leave.

“Are you really…him?” You ask silently, eyes darting nervously around the room and quickly waking up fully. 

It’s a moment before he answers you. 

“Yeah,” he forces out, voice tiny and sad. “Yeah, it’s me, Doll. Just David Walker.” 

Your throat bobs with a thin swallow. Treatment was still ongoing, but it’s not every day you wake up to find the man who you had nightmares about standing in your room. 

Breathe, you have to remind yourself. It was the drugs. Not Hesh. Never Hesh. Rorke.

But you were still scared. 

“I…I need to see your eyes,” you say. 

Hesh turns carefully, staring hard at the floor. His heart lurches, hands going clammy. 

What if she has a setback? He asks himself. What if I mess this up…Shit, Hesh, you couldn’t have minded your own business?

Oh, but he never could when it came to you. 

“Then look at me, Sweetheart.” The man breathes slowly, darting his eyes up to your face. “They only belong to you.”

But your gaze can’t slip to his sockets, only able to glare fearfully into his neck. But this Hesh felt different, more like the one you grew up with—those memories still coming back but tainted; you need to see green, but it was hurting you to think that you might not.

“I’m scared,” you admit, shakily. The man’s thighs tense, but he stops himself before he can go and take you into his arms. That wouldn’t help. “I’m…I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“I’m real. I swear to you, Harp, I’m real. I’m right here and I’ll wait for you as long as it takes. Even if it’s years, I will always be right here.” He pleads, hands still at his sides and going nowhere if you don’t tell him to. It’s like a floodgate opens, months of internal pain and heartbreak spilling out. You needed to know this, even if he never got to see you again. 

“I have loved you since I saw you get jealous over Cassie Albrook in seventh grade and tried to hide it because you thought she made me happy—she could never make me happy, Harp. That was you. That was always and will always be you. I…I can’t breathe when you’re not near me, I don’t know how to act right when you’re hurt. Seeing you hurting is…is…” Hesh’s voice breaks and he falls silent. 

“Please, if you need to look into my eyes, I’m beggin’ you, Sweetheart, please, do it. Even if it’s only one glance.” Your breath is stuck in your throat, tears welling and sliding down your cheeks. 

In your skull your brain pounds, bordering on hysteria and an urge to flee. There was so little that you trusted anymore. Keegan, yes—the nurses and doctors? You had no choice there. 

You knew that the Hesh you’d seen in the pit was Rorke, Keegan had explained it all to you after the drugs had been pumped from your system; you understood that part. But it didn’t make the sickening confusion any better.

Symptoms of severe PTSD, paranoia, anxiety—you’d seen the charts when the nurses thought you weren’t looking at them. 

You still wouldn’t let anyone with a needle anywhere close to you, had to be put under for it. 

But you’d been so lonely here. A simple kiss seared into your mind before the horror set in, a stain of a smile on your lips. A chest vibrating with a content purr. 

Hesh. You want your Hesh back. 

Taking a stuttering breath, your eyes dart upwards. You push through your misty gaze and lock on a color that can only be described as a grassy field of verdant growth. Great open plains of viridescent being—showing you a world bathed in tender belonging. 

Home. 

You sob and rush from the chair on legs that still hurt even now, meeting Hesh in the middle as he takes a step forward and wraps his arms around you. You’re covered and kept in a hold so tight it’s like he’ll never let you go, heart pounding and his face loose with shock.

But he says nothing beyond a loud shuttered exhale of relief, pressing you to his chest and burying his face into your scalp, breathing you in; taking you down like a sinner in church until all that remains is you. Your fingers digging into his shirt, your face in his neck, how you call his name as if calling a ghost back from the dead.

“Oh, my Girl.” Hesh chuckles through the tears in his eyes. “My Girl. I missed you so much, you won’t even believe it.” 

You push yourself into him tighter. 

Riley, at some point, had come to stand in the doorway, his dark beady eyes seeing only the colors in gray, brown, yellow, and blue, though that never truly mattered. Color was only half of the picture. 

And the rest of the image in front of him was seeped with the pigment of love. 

The dog’s tongue lulls from the side of his mouth, and in the air behind him, his tail moves back and forth into a soft arch.

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[ughgoaway]

playing on my mind

content warnings: swearing, referring to Matty as tall (look we all lie for plot purposes okay), dilf Matty and rushed writing... i think that's it? word count- 3.3k ish

a/n: woah this was quick but I am nothing if not impulsive!! this is just a one-shot but if y'all want a series I might do one?? idk it depends on how inspired I am lol. but yes this is just my little blurb-thing from yesterday fleshed out into an actual story!! I'm so glad people liked the idea, I hope this doesn't disappoint <333

(I didn't proofread this so I apologise if its utterly shit </3)

“And off you go! If you need your pencils sharpened or help, make sure you raise your hand! I’ll come to see you!” You say to the group of 30 little balls of energy in front of you. 60 eyes looking up at you might seem intimidating to most, but when it's a hyperactive group of 5-year-olds; the fear wears off slightly.

It was family tree week in your classroom, and you had given your little ones the usual task of drawing their family, each set up with pieces of paper and various pencils and pens to create their masterpieces. Seeing them smile and talk about their older sisters and brothers or how much they love their parents always warmed your heart. 

You originally got into teaching with every intention of working with teenagers. You were sure you shouldn't be moulding such young minds - you were never sure your mind was a very good example. But one test week in a year 1 classroom changed your outlook entirely. Seeing the pure, unadulterated joy on a young child's face was something beyond comparison. 

Getting to watch them grow and develop into little people brought you so much happiness that it could never compare to standing in front of a group of grumpy teenagers. Each teen boy clearly trying to get you over to their desk to “flirt” with you, well as much firting as a 15-year-old boy can do.

Seeing a child come out of their shell, make friendships, and discover their passions made your heart warm in a way nothing else did. So as soon as you qualified you jumped at the opportunity to teach these little ones, this class might be your first but you are sure it will always be your favourite.

And of course, despite what every teacher tells you, they have a favourite student. You were adamant when you began that you really wouldn't have a favourite but then little Annie Healy came bounding into your classroom with a mop of curly hair, untamable energy and the cutest slightly wonky smile you've ever seen. 

She very quickly stole your heart, always wanting to tell you stories and going off on tangents rather quickly, organising tea parties but soon getting distracted leaving you at a small table surrounded by teddy bears giving a toast. Her little body seemed to be filled with enough energy to power the world 3 times over, and you couldn't love her anymore. The idea that she would be leaving your class broke your heart every time you thought about it, despite people telling you not to get attached - you did,

You had just settled at your desk after explaining for the 4th time to Zach that sticking pencils up our noses isn't a very good idea. You ended up telling him if he pushed too far, he'd touch his brain, and soon after that, the pencils stayed firmly in his hand rather than up any nose. If any student was the problem child, it was him. You couldn't hate any student, but let's just say he's given you one too many impromptu haircuts this year to be in line for your favourite.

Soon your real favourite student stuck her arm into the air and wiggled it around in an attempt to get you to see her sooner, little Annie Healy was ever impatient- a trait that is only endearing on her. You quickly nodded and started wandering over, trying not to laugh at her large toothy grin back at you.

“Hi sweetheart, do you need some help?” you say, crouching down to her eye level, flashing a sweet smile.

“Hi miss y/n!” she began, her eyes flittering around your face before landing on your hair, and soon, her hands were stroking your head.

“Wow! I like your hair! It's got sparkly clips in it! You know I asked my daddy for some like that, and he said-” you gently placed a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to stop the tangent before it started. You knew she'd somehow end up keeping you there for 20 minutes, giving you a detailed list of all of her Barbie dolls and their jobs if you didn't redirect her quickly enough.

“Thank you, Annie! I saw your arm wiggling in the air earlier. Did you need some help?” her eyes light up as she remembered why she called you over here.

“Oh! Yeah, I want to write what's in my daddy’s hands, but I don't know how to spell it. Will you help me?” she says, bringing her attention back to her drawing and grabbing the black pencil to continue her work. It's the first time you actually looked at her drawing, and to say you were concerned would be an understatement.

Most drawings of family consist of the same basic elements; a mum, a dad, a sun in the corner, and a house that is wildly disproportionate to everything else.

So imagine your surprise when you look down to see 4 men in what seems to be leather jackets, holding various musical instruments, and a very tall dog next to them.

You blink a few times. Just checking what you're seeing is right. The lineup starts with a tall man holding a guitar, next to a slightly shorter man also holding a guitar with a mess of black scribbles on his head. Next up is a very tall man with drumsticks in his hands and a kit behind him, and finally another very tall man with a beard and a bass. The concern briefly melts away as you consider how impressive it is she knows the difference. In the bottom left corner is a black dog with very long legs and a big pink tongue sticking out, the dog was almost as tall as the first man but you're aware kids aren’t known for their skill with proportion.

No one had prepared you for this in teaching school, there was never a lecture about what to do if one of your kids does a mildly troubling family drawing of 4 men in leather jackets and a horse dog. You try to stutter a response to Annie, but no real words are leaving your mouth. Just a jumble of sounds, each one sounding more confused and stressed than the last.

You flash a look at her only to be met with a confused head tilt and sad eyes. Oh god. She thought you hated her drawing. Shit.

Time for damage control.

You make the decision then and there not to ask her about the details of her drawing, desperately trying not to make her cry. 

Maybe you could go and see her mum in the playground? Yes, that's what you'll do. You'll walk her out, have a brief discussion with Mum, and make sure Annie knows her family isn't 4 men in a band and then leave her be. That sounds like the professional thing to do.

You take a deep breath and smile at Annie, and soon her downturned lips flashed that cheesy grin you knew so well. You tighten your hand on her shoulder and grab a pen, ready to help her any way she needs. 

“Do you mean the word ‘guitar’ Annie?” she gives you an excited nod as you continue speaking, “Ah yes, that's a really hard word for even grown-ups to spell. Let's work it out together, hmm?”

With your mind racing you help her sound it out and label her drawing, even stopping to sharpen her black colouring pencil for her- there's a lot of black for young girls drawing but she's committed to an aesthetic, and part of you respects that.

On the walk back to the desk, you begin practising your speech in your head, trying to figure out how to ask why she’s drawing a band as her family without unknowingly offending mum. Maybe she just really likes music?

You run through your memories trying to think of her mentioning a band before, but nothing comes to mind, Annie doesn't even stay on track long enough to talk about her family. Always seeing something shiny and discussing that instead. 

You flick your eyes to her one more time just to see her animatedly talking with another little girl on her table, her hands gesticulating wildly and her curls bouncing as she tells her story.

The sight calms you slightly, seeing the little girl you know so well acting exactly as she should be. You have the fleeting thought that you might be overreacting, but eventually, you collect the drawings to see Annie had dated her work “1975”. Yup, that discussion with her parents was definitely happening.

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

The bell rings, and you manage to catch Annie just before she runs off into the playground without you, “Hi Annie! I have your drawing from today. Should we show it to mummy and daddy together?” her eyes light up as her curls bounce from her excited nods. 

You walk hand in hand out onto the playground, crouching down you make eye contact with Annie before asking, “Can you point out your mum or dad Annie?”

She nods and begins scanning the playground. You stifle a laugh at the look of concentration on the young girl's face. Her nose is scrunched along with her eyebrows, one hand pulling at a curl by her ear and the other holding yours. Soon, you see her face brighten, and her eyes fill with joy. 

“DADDY!!” is the scream that comes from the little girl as her hand shoots from her head to point to the corner of the playground, she starts dragging you before you even look up but as you do, you feel your heart drop.

As a student teacher, you'd definitely seen some hot dads, but they were still dads. Most were slightly creepy, partially balding, and talked about nothing but golf and their “annoying” wives. You were used to that kind of dad, not exactly this kind.

Standing nonchalantly in the corner of the playground was a tall man. A pile of salt and pepper curls sat on top of his head; untamed but effortlessly and obnoxiously cool. The white t-shirt he was wearing did nothing to hide the patchwork of tattoos that snaked up his arms. The low neck of the top even teased the top of his chest tattoo. Sunglasses sat on his face, they gave him an "I'm too cool" rocker vibe that, for some unknown reason, made you dizzy.

In one hand, he had a lit cigarette, something that was not allowed on school property, but the way his cheeks hollowed as he took a drag had you forgetting that rule completely. He dropped the butt of the cigarette to crush it with his heavy boots before taking a sip of the can of coke that was in his other hand. 

As he noticed you coming over, a dazzling smile broke out on his face. You felt your knees weaken as you tried to brush off how hot he was. 

You then realised you actually had to speak to this man. Fuck. You're not sure you even have a voice currently. If you opened your mouth, you're sure incoherent noises would come out, followed by wild hand motions trying to explain your insane behaviour.

The closer you got, the less you stared at him, feeling too intimidated to keep looking in his direction. This did mean you almost tripped 3 times, but you would rather fall than risk making eye contact with this intimidatingly attractive man.

Annie dropped your hand as you finally reached the man, and she jumped into his arms. He grunted at the force but soon began pressing kisses all over her face, smiling at her uncontrollable giggles.

Quickly, the man noticed your presence and stuck a hand out to introduce himself, “Hi! Sorry about that, you know what it's like when kids miss you. I’m Annie’s dad, Matty.” 

And this is where a normal person would introduce themselves, stick their hand out, and shake Matty’s. Maybe even say their name and start talking, but oh no. Not you. You stood there motionless and just said “Matty” breathlessly to yourself 3 times over.

Time dragged on in the 10 seconds Matty stood there with his hand out. If you weren't aware of how time worked, you would swear you stood there in stilted silence for 10 minutes. 

By some grace of god, little Annie Healy saved you and introduced you, “Daddy. This is Miss y/n. She wanted to come and show you my drawing." 

Matty retracted his hand and pushed the sunglasses that sat on the bridge of his nose up to his mess of curls, just as wayward as his daughters. His deep brown eyes met yours as he tilted his head questioningly at your behaviour. His smile remained wide at you, his tongue swiped over his bottom lip, and you felt your heart stutter. A litany of inappropriate thoughts swirling through your mind.

He quickly diverted his attention back to his daughter, “Oh really munchkin? Is your drawing just that amazing? Is Miss y/n going to send it to all the museums?” he said whilst tickling her sides. You smiled at the pair of them watching Annie throw her head back with erratic laughter. 

Finally, you manage to right yourself and begin speaking, “Right. Sorry about that, long day,” you explain, looking apologetically at Matty, who only nodded and tried to hide his widening smile at your flustered state. 

“I'm just here to talk about Annie's drawing,” you pause briefly and look at Annie in her dad's arms. Not wanting to disappoint her, you form a plan in your mind. “Hey Annie, why don't you go practise some hopscotch! I'm just going to have a quick chat with your dad, okay?”

Before you’d even finished your sentence, Annie was wiggling out of her dad's arms and running off.

“She's got endless energy that one hasn't she?” you say wistfully, staring off in the direction she ran, watching her jump around and giggle with some of her friends.

“Ah like father like daughter, I suppose” Matty says, grinning at your clear love for his little girl. He feels his heart warm at your caring eyes. “So what seems to be the issue? I'm sure you're not over here because the Louvre has asked for Annie’s drawing?” 

You laugh at Matty's joke, perhaps a little too hard. Nervous laughter was one of your less attractive traits, but you try to shake it off and have an actual adult conversation with Matty. 

“Ah no, no phone calls from Paris yet,” you begin laughing lightly, you pull out Annie's drawing and pass it over to Matty and start to analyse his reaction as you finish speaking, “I was just coming over to ask why Annie's family portrait is seemingly a band? I wanted to make sure she knows her family isn't 4 tall men in leather jackets and a surprisingly tall horse dog.”

As you finish your sentence, Matty bursts out in hysterical laughter, folding over as his chortling laughter takes over his whole body. Your face scrunches up at his reaction, your eyebrows are pinched, and a small frown overtakes your features. 

Eventually, Matty catches his breath and looks up at you only to realise how strange his reaction appears. His hand shoots up to your arm and begins to stroke it lightly as he attempts to explain himself.

Each featherlight stroke of his fingers made your breath hitch. You felt your eyes fogging over, and your ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton wool, the surrounding sounds suddenly becoming muted.

A shake of your head brought you back to earth as you fought to focus on the words Matty was saying.

“Oh I'm so sorry, once you know the story you’ll understand my reaction” Matty began explaining with wide apologetic eyes, “basically Annie's mum isn't in the picture, it's just me and my 3 best friends,” he said smiling.

You lightly laugh and say, “Ah I'm assuming they are the man with the guitar, the one with the bass and the other with the drumsticks?” You finish with a teasing tilt of your head.

Matty's fingers encircle your wrist as that smile you've quickly grown to love appears on his face once again at your teasing.

“Yes those are the ones. You see we’re all in a band - hence all the instruments. I always tell Annie that Uncle George, Ross, and Adam are our family. So when you asked for a family drawing...”

“She drew her family!” You finish his sentence for him, staring at his hand and holding your wrist as you do. He quickly drops it, and you curse yourself for bringing it to his attention.

You wrap your arms around your stomach protectively in an attempt to hide your mounting embarrassment.

Matty smiles and starts to speak again, only to be interrupted by you, “Wait I understand that, but why did she date it ‘1975’?”

Somehow, Matty's smile grew again, “Our band is called the 1975. Weird, I know, but it comes from me being young and pretentious with a Jack Kerouac book.”

Before you could respond, Annie came bounding over and wrapped herself around her dad's leg, “Dadddd” she complained, pulling out the last letter to announce her annoyance to the world.

“Annieeee” Matty teased back in the same tone as her, picking her up as he did.

“Can we go home now? I want to see mayhem!!” she said, excitedly clapping her hands as she finished.

You shoot Matty a questioning look, and he quickly answers your silent query, “the horse dog” he says teasingly, parroting your earlier words back at you.

“Okay darling, let's get going then,” Matty says with a grunt, putting Annie down, grabbing her hand, and taking her backpack from her.

“Say bye to miss y/n Annie,” he says, smiling sweetly at you, but you can see the mischief brewing in his eyes.

His eyes keep your attention so long you almost miss Annie's sweet goodbye, “bye miss y/n! See you tomorrow! Can we talk about your sparkly clips tomorrow?” she asks with a tilt of her head.

“Of course, little miss Annie!” You say smiling at the young girl. You focus solely on her in an attempt not to get lost in her father's eyes again.

You watch them walk away but after a few steps they pause, Matty turns over his shoulder and waves with his free hand, “Bye miss y/n” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice and a flirty wink.

Before you can even process what just happened, he's strolling away casually, and all the mums in the playground are silently lusting after him.

A heavy breath leaves your chest as you start to watch him leave.

“Isn't he gorgeous” a voice behind you whispers, causing you to jump and let out a small scream. You hold a hand to your chest and look at your colleague with wild eyes.

“Oh my god, Amanda, please do not sneak up on me like that! I'm fragile” you say, now laughing at your ridiculous reaction.

“Sorry, sorry,” she begins giggling, “but isn't he just so hot? Annie was in my class last year, and I used to count down the days until parent’s evening! I mean, who wouldn't want to sit across a desk from a man who looks like that?” Amanda says, wiggling her eyebrows flirtatiously.

She begins to teasingly poke your sides at your awkward silence, and you quickly brush her off and straighten up, “Amanda! You can't talk like that about a parent!” You say, trying and failing to have any conviction in your voice.

“I can when the parent looks like that!” she says, smiling and watching Matty stroll away.

You huff at her behaviour and walk away, desperate to sit down and process what just happened.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your desk chair squeaks as you sit down behind your desk. You spin the chair and pick up a pen to begin marking some spelling tests from last week, but before long, you give up.

Staring off into space with endless thoughts poisoning your mind, only one thing can come out of your mouth. 

“fuck."

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hey, I love mystery stories and I really want to write one myself but I don't know where to start. A mystery story is just so complex, with all the details and red herrings and subplots and the truth being buried under lies and in little things that many may overlook, and you have to balance it so the answer is not too obvious but also not coming out of nowhere, and I worry about things being contrived. Should I start with writing the truth and basically write the story backwards? Or should I start somewhere else?

Plotting a Mystery

I'm not a mystery writer, but if I was going to write a mystery, I think my plotting would go something like this:

1 - Fleshing Out the Truth - What actually happened, "whodunnit" (if someone dunnit), and what events led to this happening? Imagine the event as it's playing out. What sort of evidence might be left behind as to what really happened? What evidence might be obvious upon closer investigation (looking into things like cell phone data, computer searches, hidden motives, etc.)

2 - Fleshing Out the Back Story - In addition to the events that led up to the event in question, what other back story details are important? What players and situations need to be fleshed out and understood in order to understand the truth of what happened?

3 - Fleshing Out the Clues - Knowing the truth of what happened, as well as the relevant players/back story, what kinds of clues might be evident at the scene of the incident? Would there be any forensic clues like fingerprints, blood, hair, or touch DNA? Would there be any circumstantial evidence, like say a matchbook with a particular bar name on it, a cigarette butt with a smudge of red lipstick, shoe prints or tire tracks? What about clues like surveillance videos, eye witnesses, and apparent motives? Which of these clues do you want to be found by any first responders? Do you want any to be found later by other characters who are investigating?

4 - Fleshing Out the "First 48" - What happened in the first 48 hours after the incident? Who discovers that something happened and how do they make this discovery? How do they respond? Do police and investigators get involved? What do they do? What clues do they find and what do they make of them? Who do they interview? What conclusions do they come to? Who are the possible suspects?

5 - Fleshing Out the Trail of Clues - If there are a lot of clues that stretch out across a period of time and/or space, I would probably plot that out on paper so I could see when/how each clue was left, then think about how and when my characters might come upon those clues. For example, if I know one clue was discarded on the interstate, I know that's a clue that won't be found until later. And, I'll have to think about what led my characters to look there, or how some random person stumbled upon it.

I hope that gives you some ideas about how to proceed, but if you're still stuck, I know there are some really great guides available that will walk you through plotting a mystery.

Happy writing! ETA: See the reblogs for tips and resources from @incobalt who is a mystery writer! :)

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[eustasskiddsprosthetic]

Hey, remember when I said I shipped Lawlulaw? Yeah, I finally have an idea for them!

As I was fleshing this out, I suddenly felt the need to shove in Acelaw and Sabolaw in there so uh that's fun. I wanted this to be Lulaw centered but the moments of Ace and Sabo can be very easily spun into a romantic direction if I wanted and I wanted to be open to having a Law harem!

Welp, anyways, onto the plot I cooked. Edit: I elaborated more on this au here (x)!

I'm thinking of Law as a scientist who studies marine life. He has a huge lab where he collects specimens and spends a lot of time sketching out the intricate details and labelling them. He loves drawing these because it helps him get a clear, objective view of the world. His ultimate goal is to know just what makes the world tick.

He wants to know the inner workings of everything, kind of to compensate for how he barely knows himself and the depths of his subconscious nature. He believes everything has a place. A creature's ever part, every organ, every component is like a gear that keeps the whole system running and Law loves analysing them.

It may or may not be surprising but he actually believes in things like monsters, aliens and cryptids. From his experience, there's so many interesting sea creatures within the realm of science. It seemed a bit rude to dismiss the possibility. You never fucking know.

So that means when he sees a merman washed up one day in front of the beach near his home. He shrugs and says, "Well, he looks better than a drunk Bepo."

From indifference turned curiosity, Law squats down and starts poking this merman with a bit too much force and said merman jolts awake. Law notices how sharp his teeth and claws were. Law knew he would die if he did not approach him correctly.

"H-hello. I'm Law. Are you okay?"

The merman was visibly confused. Law realised he seemed a bit dehydrated and realised his gills on his neck looked uncomfortable. Law understood. He pointed to the ocean behind the merman.

"I'll take you back," Law said. He did not know how to approach the situation beyond rolling up his sleeves just in case the merman had an allergic reaction to his shirt and very gently trying to carry the creature princess-style.

Law was horrified to feel that this creature was heavy and struggled with carrying him. So much for wanting to be brave. The merman did not do anything to make things difficult—Law just was not the strongest out there. He just stared at Law with literal stars in his eyes. He made a cheerful little sound that was admittedly quite cute.

Law let the merman go when he was just around waist-deep in the ocean. He gently poured some water over his gills, which elicited even more happy sounds. When Law let go, the merman suddenly looked sad and Law felt like a horrible human being.

"Good bye. Take care"

The merman was swimming rather freely in the ocean now and he circled around Law. Law felt anxious. Did he walk into a trap? Was the merman going to attack? The merman did not seem hostile but you never know what these creatures were thinking especially when they were alive.

When the merman stopped swimming, Law took a good look at his features. He was quite cute in the face with large round eyes and an equally large mouth that occasionally broke into a large smile. If he were human, Law would've fallen in love.

"Good bye, it was nice meeting you-"

The next thing Law knew, he was immediately submerged underwater. He could barely breathe and felt himself choke. Meanwhile the merman was giggling like this was all very amusing. Law was knew he would die, if not for something rapidly swimming up and forcibly dragging the merman away.

Of course it was another muscular merman. He looked older than Law's murderer and had dark red accents on his hands and neck. There were spots on his face that looked like freckles. Now this one looked predatory. In human terms, he looked like he was nagging the other merman. Irritated, Law stood up as best he could and punched them both on the head.

Law's murderer seemed annoyed and sad at the violence, while the other one looked mildly impressed. He whistled through his gills. At least Law knew what that meant—it was a fucking mating call.

"Shut the fuck up! You're both annoying me! Go away!"

The black-haired mermen tilted their head to the side at the same time. In the distance, a pale, almost albino merman swam closer. Unlike the other two, he seemed friendlier even with a heavily disfigured face. He laughed as he happily said, "I'm sorry for my brothers, bastard!"

Law was flabbergasted. This was not his day.

"You can talk?"

The blonde merman seemed more surprised than Law. Law would punch him too but he was much faster than the other two in grabbing them by the shoulders and swimming some distance away so they would have to shout at each other. Law's murderer seemed sad that they were separated.

"You can talk, human?" The merman replied. He laughed. "Bitch!" He seemed to say those vulgarities with great childlike amusement. Though, Law would not be surprised to hear that he knew what those words meant and meant them sincerely. He seemed cunning.

Law felt wet, disgusting and thoroughly upset that he did not die. "Why, yes I fucking can! Piss off!"

As Law made his way back to the base, he suddenly heard the blonde merman tell the pervert and his murderer something. They went silent when Law looked back. Three seconds later, they started making loud, hysterical noises.

For God's sake, Law walked away with a ruined morning, wet clothes and the horrible memory of nearly dying. That was annoying, as he walked up the ocean where he was comfortably knee-length. He felt something gently grab his foot.

"What do you want, murderer?"

The merman pouted slightly and fuck isn't that just the cutest thing? He tried to pull Law back but gently this time. Law realised this was kind of like a child trying to make friends. He sighed and squatted down again to meet this creature at eye-level.

"I won't go with you but I'll come back tomorrow morning. Don't pull that shit again, or I'll kill all three of you. Understood?"

That seemed to be what the merman wanted for he smiled brightly and made those happy clicking noises again. He hugged Law's shoulders, licked his cheek quickly, jumped off and swam off with his brothers who seemed more interested in this little guy more than anyone else.

The sight was sweet. Maybe tomorrow morning would be better...

(Also, Law read up on Merfolk. Apparently, they were acknowledged to be legitimate sea creatures only three years ago and there were proper laws to forbid the act of hunting and killing them. Law found it strange that policies viewed them more like an endangered species than human beings.)

(More importantly, Law found out that there were some highly intelligent merfolk could learn human languages. And even more importantly, merfolk use their saliva to mark their territory... Including their mates, whom they usually commit to for life... Huh.)

[arceespinkgun]

The Flaws of the Autobots (and How MTMTE/LL Does Not Portray Them Well)

This is something I've been thinking about how a while—in MTMTE/LL, it's clear that James Roberts really doesn't like the idea of Autobots being unambiguous heroes. I mean, he wouldn't have the systemic issue of Autobots forcing lobotomies and violating people's minds as a major plot point otherwise, and he wouldn't have written Thunderclash the way he did if he wasn't satirizing what an image of a heroic Autobot might be. I mentioned once before that a large number of major villains in MTMTE/LL are or were Autobots, as well.

But something that bugs me a lot is that JRo was a huge fan of the TF UK Marvel comics (I read through the letters pages and he sent in questions multiple times), and many little details and major plot points are taken from them… but in TF UK, the Autobots were already majorly flawed! But their flaws are almost entirely different than what's presented in MTMTE/LL. So I want to talk about what their flaws once were and about how JRo didn't really do anything with these ideas, and in fact ended up writing an extremely lazy attempt to flesh out both sides of the War.

Suicidality

In TF UK, by the end of the continuity, I'm pretty sure every single major Autobot suffered from suicidal ideation, expressed intense desire to sacrifice themselves, or actually did commit suicide. I'm going to list a bunch that I remember, but there are so many more: Optimus Prime (does die), Outback, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Blaster, Scrounge (does die), Jazz, Prowl, Inferno (does die in one timeline), Kup, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Wreck-Gar, Impactor (does die), Fortress Maximus… this is just off the top of my head, there are many more examples and this is a faction-wide issue.

The epitome of this issue is, of course, Optimus Prime. His death-seeking behavior is intense throughout the entire continuity, and at the very end when he dies but then comes back to life—as Optimus Prime normally does—it comes across like he was doomed to life.

"Perhaps even in death there is beauty," —Optimus Prime

Hating the Homeless

A bizarre and disturbing detail in this continuity is that several Autobots—most notably the resistance cell on Cybertron Blaster is part of—hold a lot of disgust for homeless people? They even use the word "Empties" for these neutrals.

No real explanation is given for this behavior, either. If I had to guess, I suspect some awful turning point in the War or something caused a lot of resentment and exhaustion, but we never find out. In "The Magnificent Six!" annual story which is set early in the War, the titular team is trying to save neutral transformers and technically do end up helping them in the very end, so I'm not sure what is going on and this really should have been explored more.

Codependency and an Unwillingness to Meet Challenges

The Autobots sometimes seem to consist of unstable leaders and codependent followers. They have an almost pathological need to serve their leader, and it allows an authoritarian strongman like Grimlock to seize power and terrify everyone. When Grimlock is first in-charge, the other Autobots stop doing their jobs and going to meetings, but none of them want to actually fight him directly and beg Blaster to do it for them and save them. This leads to a death match between Blaster and Grimlock where all the Autobots cheer for Blaster except for the Dinobots!

Even Optimus Prime, the usual leader of the Autobots, has a huge issue in which he shirks responsibilities. He does this repeatedly throughout the continuity, a major moment being when the moment he sees some degree of reasonableness in the Decepticon leader, Scorponok, he plans to have every Autobot surrender unconditionally to him in order to forge an alliance to fight Unicron (lucky for him this worked, imagine if it hadn't)!

The worst damage caused by these issues was caused by Fortress Maximus, however. He became so disheartened by the War that he takes his contingent away from Cybertron to intentionally settle on a planet he knew was inhabited, Nebulos, and then when the Autobots face prejudice and the Decepticons show up, he waffles about fighting for so long that in the end he's reintroduced War to a planet that had supposedly been peaceful for centuries and has destroyed swaths of it.

Prejudice and Ignorance

Several Autobots display prejudice toward various groups, such as humanity or the Decepticons. However, I think it's important to stress that these are not ideas shared by all Autobots. Here's a good example, where Ironhide unfairly distrusts Jetfire and Jazz has to step in to defend him:

Early in the continuity, the Autobots have some negative kneejerk reactions to humanity, and issues with this build up over time to the point that Sparkplug Witwicky wants his family to have nothing to do with the transformers anymore.

Unsurprisingly given some other things I described above, Grimlock is probably the most prejudiced Autobot around. For a long time, he just thinks the Autobots should kill humans who are in their way (the first thing that led to Autobots disobeying him) and he also literally believes that Decepticons are part of some separate, evil race. This is a completely nonsensical idea in TF UK—everyone used to be Autobots! There are no races among the transformers!—that we see characters like Prowl and Hi-Q (Optimus's Nebulan partner) give long impassioned speeches trying to refute, but ultimately Grimlock is kind of rewarded for his prejudice by the narrative which sucks. It's one of my least favorite things about this story, especially when it's entirely illogical—earlier in this continuity, a Decepticon, Carnivac, literally joined the Autobot Earthforce, which Grimlock was in charge of!

Though of course Prowl had to convince Grimlock to let this happen and was the actual one who welcomed Carnivac to their ranks later….

MTMTE/LL and False Nuance

So, that was a lot. I didn't even get to the time Inferno, Sandstorm, and Broadside got excited by a holiday and accidentally trampled a town.

Somehow this is a real thing that happened

You might be curious about how I can root for the Autobots so much and consider many of them heroic and aspirational in the TF UK continuity given all of this. To that I would say that it's two things: 1) overall, the intentions of nearly all of the characters and the faction's philosophy are good and compassionate. They generally believe in the preservation of life and freedom. 2) They are a diverse group of extremely traumatized individuals who have been at War for ages. They would not be flawless. It's shocking that they're as kind as they are, really. They should have tons of issues.

The Autobots also actively try to improve all the time even though they often make mistakes

So what is my issue with how MTMTE/LL handles the Autobots being flawed? Well, the first thing is that JRo did not explore any of the things I just described. He took incredibly minor details like the Matrix Flame of TF UK, but seemingly chose to barely expand on the major themes.

When he did try to explore things like the Autobots' complicated feelings toward organic life, he completely fumbles it. In issue #51, the main cast is debating whether to probably die fighting the DJD to save organic beings, or to save themselves. They talk about how they regret how they haven't focused on saving organics and how they regret it. This is portrayed as a dramatic moment in which Megatron convinces everyone to stay.

But oops, the Autobots already saved and liberated a bunch of organics in issue #12 and #50, and the latter was only ONE issue before this!

Those are some of the few beings the crew of the Lost Light were ever shown protecting? So why are they suddenly acting like they'd never done such a thing just so Megatron can prove how compassionate he's become?

Another, way worse issue that JRo ends up creating is that his focus is on how the Autobots are flawed, he usually puts their villainy first... but he also decided that the Decepticons ran Nazi-inspired death camps and that Megatron alone is guilty for the deaths of 100+ billion people, including many genocides and extinctions and the destruction of entire planets. The Autobots... did not do this. So this means that we're left with really awkward face-offs like this, that I think really showcase what I mean when I say "false nuance":

Also, genuinely, I feel like the evilness JRo added to the Autobots doesn't make anything more complex whatsoever. Is anybody going to look at extremely flat evil Autobot characters like Hannibal ripoffs Sunder and Froid and be like, huh, I really wonder what complex societal factors could result in people like this? And I know in this continuity he's a neutral, but would anyone look at a flat minor villain like Star Saber and think, I wish I knew why he became "The Mad Evangelist?" I have doubts that they would, because there's nothing there to actually analyze.

When there's stuff that maybe could be explored to flesh some of these characters out, it's not. Like evil Autobot Pharma, for example. We know that he was tortured and held prisoner by the DJD who made him harvest transformation cogs in order to fuel Tarn's addiction, and Pharma decided to start killing patients out of fear instead of calling for help and risking being killed. We learn that this situation drove him insane. But... everything I just said is stuff that's just told to the reader. We don't really get to see any of this. But then with Decepticons like Megatron and Overlord (who is a character with basically no redeeming qualities whatsoever in this story), we actually get to see their tragic backstories in flashback form.

When we do see an Autobot villain's backstory, we can look at how it's framed in comparison to how Decepticon villains have their stories framed. With Getaway, who becomes the main villain of MTMTE/LL, we see his origin story because he's telling it to Tailgate... the guy he's grooming.

We have no way of knowing if what he's saying is even true then, right? His purpose is to manipulate.

With Megatron, we have his tragic backstory shown to us as an interlude that's not even being presented to us by anyone but the author, JRo. And with Overlord, we see his backstory because the Autobot, Chromedome, violates his mind and injects a trigger into it. Do you see how these treatments are not equivalent?

Also, in Megatron's backstory, we learn that he has a fear of having his mind violated because characters who would later become Autobots did this to him in an attempt to stop his rebelliousness.

The Autobots nearly violate his mind again right before Megatron's trial, and he's triggered by the thought of that happening.

You know what really bothers me? JRo actually took this trend of Megatron's mind being violated from TF UK. Megatron is mind-controlled multiple times and has several identity crises in those comics. But guess what? It was Decepticons who did this to him.

Straxus and Shockwave (also Unicron later I guess who is a neutral when he turned him into Galvatron) violated Megatron's mind and traumatized him, not Autobots! So instead of exploring flaws Autobots actually had, JRo took a thing that characterized the oppressive nature of Decepticon infighting (and Unicron's desire to make other beings his slaves) and made that a crime the Autobots committed instead!

[everythingmp3]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ✧

adult!Van x fem!reader (smut)

you´ve been dating Van for a while and a heated argument turns into something else, when you can’t hide that her rage is kind of a turn on.

minors dni. warnings: bottom!reader, fingering, slight degradation/domination

(disclaimer: a little longer/more plot, inspired by the few outbursts we see from Van in the show, hate sex if you wanna call it that but also more to it. anyway, I hope it conveys the vibe i was going for! enjoy xx)

fights were a rare occurrence for you and Van. you could count on one hand the amount of times you´d actually gotten loud with each other, but there was a through-line with all the fights, the same issue connecting them all: Van refusing to let you in. there were moments when you could tell that something had triggered a memory in her, which made her shut down completely but she refused to talk about it or accept help. she´d brush it off, isolate, leave you guessing, and it ate away at you every time. it was not something that happened often, but that night it just rubbed you the wrong way and it escalated to a fight. you were standing in the living room, she was by the counter in the kitchen nook, both of you pretty riled up at that point, arguing from across the room.

"you don´t tell me shit, Van, ever! I have told you everything about myself, all of it, yet you don´t tell me anything!" you said, visibly pissed off, she shook her head, eyes intense, hands grabbing the counter for support, "that´s not true. i tell you things all the time".

"you know what i fucking mean, not the things that matter! not the reason you sometimes get that look and space out and get all strange for an entire night. how do you think that makes me feel, to not be trusted with any of it?".

"it´s not about trust, i´ve said this a million times! it´s about protecting you, not dragging you into it!" she yelled, arms gesturing wildly, you just scoffed at that, "bullshit, that´s bullshit Van, i am grown, i can take it and you know it. that´s a lame excuse for your inconsiderate way of shutting me out" you were tired of the same old argument.

she got even louder then, "you have no idea what you´re fucking talking about. the kind of shit i am dealing with, that´s not for you to know, okay, it´s better this way."

"you seem to have no idea what´s better for me"

"oh really?" a sudden quietness to her tone that somehow sounded more threatening, she went over to you then, getting closer. "you think i´m wrong? you wanna know about all the fucking horror in my head? you think that´s what you need from me?", she was almost backing you against the wall then, her eyes burning into yours, her stance solid and unmoving, her chest visibly flushed from the anger. you nodded, challenging her.

"yeah? okay, you asked for it", she became spiteful, it all bubbled up in her then, "what detail do you need, huh? that i survived those 19 months in the woods by fucking eating people, friends, teammates, that i did that", you were staring at her then, your eyes fixed on hers, breath shallow, she was seething, "that they weren´t all natural deaths, that we we hunted them like animals, that we set traps, that we turned into fucking monsters out there, that i know the look of human flesh so well, that i get nauseous when i cut my finger. that´s what you wanna hear, yeah? that i was a brutal evil person, that i am scared i might still be? you happy now?" the pain in her voice was just as strong as her anger then, and all you could do was stare at her, take it all in, the sight of her overflowing with everything she´d left unsaid for so many years, her body practically on fire. in that moment, it struck you, all at once, how her strong deep voice, her attempt to corner and intimidate you, the animalistic look in her eyes, her unusual meanness; it was so different to her usual sweet way with you, that it stirred something deep inside of you. it wasn´t intentional, it just happened, your body, a sudden visceral need, a primal kind of pull towards her. you were trying to mask it but not very successfully, at first she mistook your wide eyes and shallow breath for fear, but then, she noticed it, she knew your body too well not to sense the shift, she shook her head in disbelief, leaning closer to you.

"are you fucking turned on right now?" she hissed, her eyes unrelenting, searching your face for an answer you weren´t willing to give, "you are, aren´t you? fucking hell. here i am eaten up by guilt because i am being a bitch to you and you´re getting off on it??" she was at a loss, she expected disgust, fear, shock, but not that, not the look on your face that you usually gave her when you were extremely desperate for her. "oh, so now you can´t talk back anymore, yeah?" she came even closer then, close enough to make you fully back against the wall, her breath so close you could feel it on your lips, trying not to make a sound, initially she was baffled, then something crept up in her: satisfaction. she realized she had the upper hand, which was delicious after a fight where she felt cornered, you could see it in her eyes, the switch, and you knew you were fucked.

"speak." she demanded in a stern tone, hands on your arms then, pinning you to the wall, it was horrible how hard it was not to moan just from that, your voice wavering as you returned her gaze, "i told you, i can take it.", you did it on purpose and she knew it, that way of wording it, rubbing it in her face, the repetition of earlier words suggestive then because the air was so charged, she pushed even closer to you then, fingers digging into your wrists, restraining you, "oh yeah? is that what you wanted all along? for me to be brutal and make you take it?" emphasis on the last words, almost a kind of disdain in there, "careful what you wish for" she said before pushing her knee up between your legs in one hard motion, making immediate contact with your pelvis, a sensation so violently arousing you let out a pathetic moan, wincing from it, she kept her knee there, not moving an inch, but you were stubborn, trying hard to not give her what she wanted, stifling the other sounds that were forming in your throat, so she moved her knee up against your most sensitive area through the fabric, you were whining then, breaking, losing your composure second by second, a slight grin on her face, not a generous one.

"fucking slut" the word hitting you across the face, she was not into degrading you, quite the opposite, the list of sweet names she called you during sex endless, so the harsh tone as she spat that out made you even more dizzy with heat, with the need for her to just have her way, and by that point she was deeply into the dynamic of it all, not truly angry anymore but riled up, willing to be rough, if that was what it was going to take to make you fold. you tried leaning forward to kiss her, but she let go of one of your hands and put her forearm across your chest, pressing you into the wall to keep you from doing something tender, shaking her head "i don´t think so", you were begging her then, "please just.." , an intense expression on her face as she groped your tits pretty hard, forcing more whining out of you, making you surrender, "jesus fuck i´m sorry okay".

you crying those words out softened her a little but she could tell you weren´t actually trying to apologize, you were just desperate to have her fuck you, which she couldn´t deny, so she wasted no time, "what´s that, i didn´t hear you?" she teased, as she took advantage of the fact that you´d already showered and changed, just loose sweatpants and no underwear in the way, her cold hand on your cunt in one second, a sharp breath in from you at the contact, "fuck you" you uttered, not very convincingly, shutting your eyes, she was only pushed further by that, "oh okay I see" she leaned forward, her hot breath on your cheek then, as she felt how wet you were, practically leaking, not even needing to push her fingers between your lips to feel it slick against her skin, usually she´d be gentle but in that moment she couldn´t be, pushing two of her fingers all the way into you without warning, no mercy, a loud cry escaping you then, immediately thrusting her fingers into you repeatedly, while still having you pinned against the wall, her breath ragged against your skin, her voice low and sultry, "this is what you wanted, isn´t it?".

Van was enjoying it, the power, there was a slight pain from her relentless motion but it just added to your arousal, you´d gotten soaked enough for it to feel good, the sudden change from zero to a hundred, your moans almost pornographic then, your walls throbbing around her knuckles, she leaned down, not to kiss you but to leave bites all over your shoulder, your neck, teeth digging in just enough to drive you insane, "fuck Van" you kept pleading, as she was doing her best to push you towards an orgasm, hitting the right spot, doing so with more force than usual, not wanting you to savor it but to be overwhelmed by it, pleasure as punishment, something like that, your hands were free to move again by that point, so your nails were digging into her back hard as you were chest to chest, she had no words left in her as she felt you cumming against her fingers, increasingly turned on herself, mind blank, groaning so close to your ear it just made you finish even harder, her fingers not slowing dow at all while you felt your whole body shaking, once your grip on her loosened she finally let you go, backing away from the wall, panting, her hand cramped up at that point, collecting her thoughts as you almost collapsed to the floor because your legs were done for, so you stumbled over to the couch, falling down against the cushions, exhausted.

the second Van turned and saw you resting there like that, she felt a wave of guilt rushing over herself, she was coming back to her senses and it hit her like a ton of bricks; that all you were trying to do during the fight was to get close to her, that all you ever fought her on was her unwillingness to let you be there for her during her darkest moments. you were younger than her, yet more patient, more emotionally available, which made her feel awful all of a sudden. she walked over to sit down next to you, giving you some space for a moment, the two of you just sitting there in silence, until she turned to you, reaching for your hand, her voice soft and quiet:

"hey, listen. I think I owe you an apology." you shook your head, "it´s fine really don´t-" she interrupted, "no, no i do. you weren´t saying anything crazy, it obviously just hit a nerve because it was true. i should be grateful you want to help me. sorry, really. i´m fucking stupid sometimes." a faint smile from you then, you slowly climbed over to her, half on her lap then, hands in her hair, "it´s fine. you know, i just wanted to make it clear, that nothing you could say or reveal about your life would make me leave you, ever. but i get that it´s hard to talk about it, so i´m sorry if i forced something out of you." her hands on your back then, under your shirt, caressing you as she stared up at you, enjoying the feeling of your fingers pushing her hair back, "stop that, you´re being too sweet, i don´t deserve that right now, not after all that..", you grinned then, amused "right, after calling me a slut", Van shook her head,"god don´t even-", you laughed then, "didn´t know you had all that in you", she was glad you weren´t truly hurt by it, joking about it, her gaze fell to a spot on your shoulder where she´d left a rather prominent bite mark, "jesus christ i really need to get a grip" one of her fingers tracing it, you shook your head, grinning, "oh, that part you don´t have to apologize for. I think it´s hot when you get like that. as you clearly realized and took advantage of", nudging her as you said this, she smiled then, "i did like seeing that look on your face" she admitted, a grin, "but don´t get used to it, i like this much better", leaning in and placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, your neck, pulling your face down to lazily press her lips against your cheek, your temple, your forehead, hearing you sigh softly, pulling away after a while to face you again.

"trying to make up for something there, Palmer?" you teased, hands on her neck, she eyed you, head tilted to the side, smiling, just taking in the view of your flushed face, "i think i can do better than that if i´m really trying to make it up to you", you raised your eyebrows, "oh yeah?", she nodded, hands on your waist then, pulling you closer, "yes. I´ll have to get on my knees to really deserve forgiveness, don´t you think?", your eyes wide then, impressed by her sudden smoothness, "i won´t stop you from trying", your lovestruck eyes giving away that she was of course already forgiven, feeling her shift from underneath you, pulling you up, "come on then, let´s go to bed" a gentle squeeze on your hand, making you realize that her being rough had its appeal, but would never compare to the feeling of her being all sweet and loving.

it didn´t fail to make her emotional that night; the realization that you truly did not care about what she´d shared with you, that you still saw her as just as worthy of your love as before. it would lead to her spoiling you even more the days and weeks after, if that was even possible.

[atelierwriting]

so you want to build a character 102

written by popular demand of nicole @seasteading’s cat meowing into the mic

so you’ve got a story idea, and now you need to populate it with characters—where do you begin? or perhaps you have the vaguest idea of a character in your mind, but you need a little help figuring out their story. characters are absolutely vital in the story you want to tell, because they’re your readers’ eyes into the world. they experience the story as your characters do. you might even hope that your readers will get attached to them and send you a million all-caps messages crying about the fate of said characters. 

whatever your goals are, here are a few things to keep in mind as you begin.

TRIED AND TRUE RECIPE FOR MAKING THE PERFECT CHARACTER (run them through the mary sue litmus test)

don’t write characters, write character arcs. characters are not static. throughout the story, there will be conflict that should—and will—change your character. the character arc can either compliment the main plot or be that plot. many conflicts are resolved by characters overcoming their own personal or mental battles, or developing in a way that makes a solution possible. the person your character begins as at the beginning of the story will not be the same as the person they are at the end.

think of lord of the rings and how frodo ends up at the end of the story as compared to the very beginning. the struggles he went through ended up changing who he was, and he realized that there was no way he could return to how he was before his journey.

point a to point b. this is one method that i use to write character arcs. i first figure out who my character is and what their situation is like at the beginning of the story. then, i come up with how i want them to end up at the very end. once you have these two points, you can work on how it is possible for them to develop from point a (the beginning) to point b (the end).

along the way, there will be a lot of intermediate points. you can flesh these out as you come to them, and even discover more things about your characters. point b can eventually become point z, or point 1000. how did we go from letters to numbers? who knows! but the journey of character development doesn’t happen immediately. it is a gradual shift.

conflict. pay attention to how your character responds to conflict. conflict can be used as a catalyst for change for your character. when coming up with conflicts, it is important to keep in mind your character’s values and limits. in order for the conflict to feel worthwhile, these two things need to be challenged. it is an ideal situation for development, and even a little angst, if you want that.

character relationships. how does your character view the rest of the cast? if you’re working on the previous point, how might they come into conflict with them? relationships between characters allows the readers to understand more about nearly everything in the story—the plot, the world around them, and in turn, the characters themselves. the way they treat each other can reveal a lot about their own backstories. think about all the ways that they can play off each other, and how this may change as the story progresses, especially when the characters each branch off and develop.

character-driven narratives. if your story is character driven, it becomes even more important that your character motivations are solid and progress in a believable manner. they are the ones enacting change around them—specifically, they will be the ones moving the plot along. think about the ramifications of your character’s actions: how it affects those around them and how it affects the larger picture. then, think about where your character will go from there as a reaction to the things their own choices have caused.

the plot doesn’t just happen. even if you are writing a more passive character, the plot doesn’t magically part for them like the red sea for moses. there are other factors, such as other characters within the story, or perhaps your own character’s desires. of course, this all depends on where you want the character to go from here. you might consider what would make a more passive character less passive, or how else you can ruin their lives to force them to act. either way, plot is something that moves the story forward, not something that just happens to characters.

fundamental character traits. we’ve been talking a lot about how the characters change, but we also need to keep in mind that in some ways these characters must also remain the same. they each have fundamental character traits that will remain by the end of the story. for example, kaz is still the bastard of the barrel at the end of the duology—but he’s opened up more to the crows. the changes a character goes through must be proportional to the events of the plot. they might change a lot, but they must still be recognizable at the end of the story due to the things that they have gone through.

flaws. last but not least, make sure your character has flaws! these can be their weaknesses, things they work on throughout the story and eventually improve upon, or even just character traits that aren’t exactly the best to have—simple facts about them. people aren’t perfect, and your characters shouldn’t be either.

[the-gateway-to-madness]

It sorta bothers me that post-series people are still complaining about 3Below being disconnected from the rest of Tales of Arcadia. For me, it was a refreshing break from the densely-packed fantasy lore and an intriguing peek at the way the universe beyond Arcadia and Earth functions. I liked the character arcs and interpersonal connections. And there was ample room for me to come up with a bunch of my own headcanons, which I love! I absolutely love being able to slot pieces of my own mind and soul into an existing world! I don't like shows where I'm told how every little detail works, that's way too much to remember. Instead I want enough to create an idea of the rules and how things might have gone/might continue to go and fill in whatever else I want.

Also, I think 3Below was SUPPOSED to be a lot more connected before Wizards got cut down. Tons of ideas didn't make it into the limited series run- I remember hearing stuff about Mordred being involved, a lost Krel arc, and I'm sure a lot of lore that would have bound the worlds together more closely. When they mentioned Gaylen's core came from Earth, there was clearly supposed to be more to that, but it got cut out. I'm like 93% sure Gaylen was a being who was part of or similar to the Arcane Order, but was drawn to the cosmos rather than to a part of the Earth. That would indicate that Akiridion tech and magic are compatible because Akiridions' energy-based life was initially magical, but those roots were largely forgotten because of how old a civilization Akiridion is. They've been spacefaring since humans were cavepeople. If the Order existed from the primeval dawn of the world, and Gaylen left not long after that, Akiridion could be millenia ahead of Earth. Or, heck, maybe Earth was the first or only livable world, and Gaylen created the Order to look after it before going off to try to find or create life elsewhere. I always headcanoned that Seklos was more powerful than most Akiridions or even the Royals that came after her, given the fact her core alone was enough to stop Gaylen while in the modern era it requires two royal cores. Maybe she was created by Gaylen to be Akiridion's version of an Arcane Order type being, and she created normal Akiridions, which she then had kids with, diluting her power in the Royals that followed. There's so much ancient history to unpack from just the tidbits we were given.

As for the modern era, there seems to very distinctly be a major intergalactic connection. The drunk ship operator in episode 3 of 3b s1 that the Zerons interrogate talks about ship classifications, which indicates a universal or at least an interplanetary system of ship ratings. We also see interplanetary tourism, and signs that Akiridion is one of the most advanced and influential planets out there.

3Below doesn't need to continue the plot of Trollhunters to be a valid part of Tales of Arcadia. It brought an energy to ToA that was somewhere between Star Trek TNG and Babylon 5, and I love how it expands the weirdness of Arcadia. If it was supposed to be a continuation of Trollhunters, they would have made more Trollhunters. But it's not Trollhunters, it's 3Below. And Wizards isn't Trollhunters either! I honestly think that Camelot, Douxie, and the world of wizards could have been written such that the Trollhunters cast was much less focal, and that if they'd given the show the time it needed and deserved to tell its story, it would have been fleshed-out and fascinating all on its own, with or without the TH gang. Where are the magic users beyond the reach of Camelot? Are there merfolk, sirens, harpies, dryads, more dragons, or other sapient races living on Earth with their own civilizations and magic and cultures? There are so many worlds and so many potential stories out there, on Earth and beyond, in the Tales of Arcadia universe. Arcadia just happens to be the narrative meshing point of them all. And I think that's a really cool way to build a universe.

Anyway, thanks for coming to my TED talk, here's more Akiridion development as a treat for making it this far.

[ladyloveandjustice]

I heard that the 90s version of sailor moon made the villains more sympathetic do you think it was a benefit and if so which villain would you say benefits for being more sympathetic

The minibosses definitely benefit from this the most, the first one that jumped to mind was the Ayakashi sisters. They exist to kidnap the girls and be killed off in the manga, but in the 90's anime they have their own arc where the girls help them find redemption and fix their bond as sisters. It really both highlighted how compassionate the Senshi are and some nice solidarity between women. Lead Crow and Aluminum Seiren are my absolute favorite examples of minbosses who are way more sympathetic and don't exist just to kill some Senshi and then be killed. In the anime, they're hilarous, definitely in love with each other, and parallel Usagi and Rei's relationship really strongly. I'm actually still pretty pissed they gave Lead Crow the only death where she couldn't concievably be revived when Galaxia gave back the Star Seeds. In my mind she's okay though. somehow. Iron Mouse was also fantastic, not like, MUCH more sympathetic than her manga counterpart, though you definitely feel her fear of Galaxia a lot more, but soooo funny.

(And of course, there's Kunzite and Zoisite, icons. I guess you could argue the manga was equally-possibly-more sympathetic to them though, since it actually let them be unbrainwashed and redeemed, but the anime def gave them infinitely more characterization and made the relationship very tragic)

I'd say largely being sympathetic did work for the villains, yeah. It meant they were fleshed out a lot more. There were some that didn't work for me, giving Dimande a tragically redemptive death after repeated attempts at sexually assaulting a teenager was like. what. good. die. i don't feel bad. And Nephrite's whole plot was...eh.

I also kind of like the idea of Tomoe just being a horrible father who stopped caring after the death of his wife like in the manga, rather than possessed. His "villain" self isn't actually given much sympathy in the 90s anime, as they just decide the actual quirky villain was the thing possessing him and they were definitely not sympathetic to that. But Tomoe being a bad dad makes Hotaru being raised by the outers meaningful, rather than like, kidnapping.

For the "main" villains, they tend to be equivalently sympathetic in the manga, which is to say, not very much- except for Nehelenia, deffo more sympathetic in the anime thanks to the little season five arc and I liked it quite a bit. Galaxia is arguably more sympathetic in the 90's anime, but the manga showed her a decent amount of sympathy and didn't handwave her actions as "oh bad chaos magic made her do it".

I think Naoko likely had a set quota of villains she needed to create for the anime, or just an order to create "a lot", in twelve chapters, which is why many of them just show up to die. The anime has a lot more time to explore them, and sometimes clearly picks favorites. So it isn't really her fault, but largely I think the anime's version of the villains, and the focus on redemption, was better.

[thepixelelf]

Huff, Puff

genres: modern werewolves/vampires/etc, established relationship, fluff, pouty whiny cheol pairing: human reader x werewolf scoups (hints of reader & vampire jeonghan) words: 1.1k warnings: descriptions of blood, a bullet wound, and injury. kissing. implied desire to go further but it doesn't happen lol. notes: for those of you in the notes of this post and this post. I gave in. it's 4:30 am and this idea wouldn't let go of me until I wrote it so I really hope this holds up for y'all. if people like it I might continue this story because it seems like an interesting (funny) plot to keep going

When an injured vampire shows up at your door, you're of course there to help. But your werewolf partner is more than a little wary of this vampire's intentions.

Seungcheol, for the record, not that anyone cares, not that anyone's asked, does not trust Jeonghan one bit.

He never has -- it's one of his many unwritten rules in life. Never trust a vampire. They're conniving little shits, all of them.

And Yoon Jeonghan, the conniviest, little shittiest of them all, is asleep in Seungcheol's room upstairs. In his bed. Snuggled up and comfy in his 100% Tencel lyocell silky cooling sheets.

"You're overreacting, Cheol," you say as you pull a pillowcase over one of the pillows in the guest bedroom. Another one is already covered and fluffed, set on the side of the bed Seungcheol would normally sleep on in the bed he shares with you. The one currently occupied by a lying, scheming vampire.

"Vampires don't even sleep," Seungcheol tries to tell you. sitting cross-legged on top of the comforter. "Why should he need our bed?"

You scoff, the sound coming out softly. There's a tiny, defiant smile on your face, and normally, Seungcheol would find that hot. Right now he's not exactly in the mood.

"Okay, first of all, isn't the whole 'no sleeping' thing from Twilight? You're the one who told me most of that stuff was inaccurate."

Crossing his arms, Seungcheol huffs through his nose. "It... is. But still--"

"And second of all, you saw how he was when I opened the door." You shiver at the memory, and Seungcheol reaches over for you. He scoots to the edge of the bed, hooks his legs around yours, and pulls you so you're standing right in front of him. Keeping his legs around you, he puts his hands on your waist, hoping you absorb his warmth through your pyjamas. He looks up at you just as you play with the ends of his hair near the nape of his neck, your other hand on his shoulder. You sigh. "He looked like a dead man walking."

"He is one."

You smack his shoulder lightly, but he managed to make you smile, so he doesn't even feel it. "You know what I mean!"

Seungcheol does know what you mean -- when Jeonghan had shown up at your door with no prior notice and a silver bullet in his shoulder, you played the part of strong, confident human for just long enough to dig the bullet out and watch Seungcheol carry Jeonghan into your bedroom (upon your insistence, of course). After that, you confessed to Seungcheol that you might faint if you had to clean up the bloodied living room floor. Seeing Jeonghan's skin crawl over his exposed flesh as soon as the silver left his system must have been jarring for you. The entire thing had to have been.

So, Seungcheol wiped up Jeonghan's dark ichor from the floor while you took a breather outside. When you returned, you wanted to check in on Jeonghan, and like hell was Seungcheol going to let you go alone. He didn't care how shot Jeonghan was.

You knew how protective Seungcheol tended to be, but you also knew how tense things were between your boyfriend and the vampire, so you compromised by having Seungcheol hover in the doorway while you brought a warm towel to the bedside.

Jeonghan took in a sharp breath when you wiped the sweat off his forehead, and the hairs on the back of Seungcheol's neck stood up. He growled when Jeonghan wrapped his lithe fingers around your wrist.

Without looking at Seungcheol, you held your other arm out, palm facing him, stopping him from approaching. He snarled, but you kept your arm up, insistent that he not interfere.

"Oh," Jeonghan breathed out when he opened his eyes a sliver. "It's you." He closed his eyes again, the slightest of smiles on his lips. "You smell nice."

Seungcheol swears this isn't his "never trust a vampire" rule talking. That smile looked straight mischievous.

He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you. His legs have relaxed, just resting on either side of you now. He presses his face into the soft fabric of your pyjamas. At least you don't smell like Jeonghan. That would be too much.

"I don't trust him," Seungcheol mumbles into the fabric.

You chuckle softly, still trying to stay quiet for your sleeping guest upstairs. "You really think Jeonghan faked all that to -- what? -- sleep in our nice bed?"

"Maybe..."

Or maybe to get close to you. But Seungcheol doesn't put that out there.

Bending over, you press a kiss to the crown of Seungcheol's head, then bring both your hands just under his cheeks. You tilt his face to look up at you, smiling when you see the exaggerated pout on his lips. Another kiss gets pressed to his forehead.

"Jeonghan is harmless," you say when you pull back. "There's a hunter in town, and he knew I could help him because none of you weirdos can touch pure silver. That's all."

Seungcheol's pout deepens, and his hands on your waist tighten their grip ever so slightly. "I dunno..." he mutters.

"You don't know?"

"Maybe I need some more convincing." Seungcheol straightens his back, lessening the distance between his face and yours. He takes one hand off your hip to poke a finger to his cheek, eyes bright.

You roll your eyes but smile, and you lean down to press a short kiss to his cheek.

"More."

You kiss his other cheek.

"More." He pouts his lips out, clear in his intentions.

You kiss his forehead again.

Seungcheol fully whines, reminiscent of a puppy. He wraps one arm behind you and tugs you closer (somehow, if possible) impatiently. His other hand taps a finger against his bottom lip, as if he couldn't make it anymore obvious.

Laughing, you rest your arms over his shoulders. "You're a hard man to convince, Mr Big Bad Wolf."

But you kiss him anyway, pressing the lips he loves so much against his with a smile. The corners of his own lips spread too, upon contact, and his hand travels to the back of your thigh, pulling one of your knees up onto the bed.

"I could be bigger and badder, you know," he mumbles against your lips, a smirk teasing at his face.

You break away from him, bottom lip caught for a second between his teeth. "Maybe another night, love. We've got a guest with super hearing upstairs."

Practically rolling over him, you get comfy in the smaller guest bed, smiling at Seungcheol when he flops down on his side with a heavy sigh.

Yoon Jeonghan is not only a conniving, little shit of a vampire, but a fucking cockblock, too.

[animentality]

You ever think about the idea that Durge very likely has told Enver to his face that they will be the one to kill him in the end? You ever think about how that conversation went? Was it a factual statement of intent delivered passionlessly from one wicked being to another? Or was it a promise, bathed in desire to be the one holding the knife, parting his flesh, wedding them together in the Bhaalist way? Or perhaps, if you’d like a bit more angst, was it a tearful confession? A choked out plea for forgiveness, an explanation that their wants and desires matter not to their holy father. That they will one day wield their knife against their only friend, their only love, and there is nothing they can do to stop it. They will kill him, it is as certain as the sun rising, and the only difference is whether they do it willingly or not. I enjoy this last one because by extension, this means that Gortash would have to know his fate at the hands of his nearest and dearest and choose to stay by their side anyway. When his only chance for survival is to send them away or try to kill them, he makes the choice to either accept fate or plot to defy the gods rather than act in self preservation. If that’s not love I don’t know what is.

Anon, come with me and imagine...

The first time they said it, it was cold, emotionless. A statement of fact. And he smiled and said, of course you will. But perhaps I'll have crafted a strong enough leash for you by then.

And they speak no more of it.

The second time they said it, it was with great pleasure. Perhaps after a vicious argument, or even a thrilling victory, because they have always enjoyed killing, but never before have they gotten close enough to someone that the thrill of killing them was enhanced by their fondness for them. They are smitten when they say it the second time, but threatening to kill him is an intimate act, a shield, a flimsy facade, to mask the softer emotion rotting within them. And Gortash smiled and said, If I must be killed, I'd want it to be you.

And then.

The third time.

The third time would be the last time.

And that would be the time when the Dark Urge would say it with a tremble to their throat.

A hint of fear, uncertainty. Because they're in too deep.

They've fallen in love, and they know they can't do that.

They know their father expects too much of them. The end of the world, for one thing, and as many Bhaalspawn as they can make, with as many partners as possible. And the time is approaching. Their plan is reaching its culmination.

And they don't want to go through with it anymore. And they decide they won't go through with it.

And they will let their sister kill them.

Because they need Gortash to survive.

They want him to carry out their plan.

So they tell him they will kill him in the end...and it's not a threat, but a concern. It's a future they want to avoid. A prophecy that cannot be allowed to come true.

And thus, they allow themselves to die, so they won't have to be the one to do it.

They know he can survive Orin, the way he can't survive them.

It's just...a dark little irony...that when they survive their sister's murder attempt, and come back...

They fulfill that promise in the end, regardless.

Fate comes for us all.

Anyway, anon.

Thanks for the ask! I now must think about some things in my dark corner...

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: Afewproblems! @afewproblems has 17 fics in the Stranger Things fandom and 16 of them are in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by @afewproblems:

The World is Upside Down (The King has Lost his Crown)

You Can Only Remember What You Want To Forget

A Quiet Confession

Essential Songs to Woo a Metal Head

A Clear and Present Threat of Tongue

"I love Linz and her writing. Even though she's not as active as she once was, I think she should still be celebrated. As a fandom, we tend stop interacting with authors when they aren't actively making fic, and that's disheartening." -- Anonymous

Below the cut, @afewproblems answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I love the ship! I think it’s mostly to do with the characters and the romantic archetypes they represent. You have two people from different worlds, different social stratas, and completely different personalities that still find common ground in one another. It’s Grease, Wuthering Heights, Titanic -these characters not only balance one another out, but they challenge one another to rethink their preconceived notions about the other. Plus, for that one forrest scene in the Upsidedown to have inspired an entire ship and fanon about these two - chefs kiss, 10/10.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Oh there are so many! For Steddie specifically though, I really like reading stories that explore the fanon around Steve’s not so great childhood. I process a lot of my own stuff through fan works so reading about Steve going through the same thing and managing to create his own found family and finding love hits hard in the best way.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Hmm I don't know if it's so much a trope as it would be considered a genre for fan fiction but I love to write hurt/comfort and angst -angst is my bread and butter! Nothing better than putting your blorbo in an emotionally fraught state and then having someone hold them for a little while.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

I could be honest, I could be human by GerryStAmour. The angst, top notch, the descriptions are so well done! The writing is so great, please check Gerry out as a writer, his works are incredible! I also really love the Cousin!AU by @strangersteddierthings her work is absolutely incredible, please check her stuff out!!

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

Hmm Possibly soulmates I think or soulmarks would be very cool!

What is your writing process like?

So i’ll normally get an idea and kind of turn it around in my head over and over until I can't stop thinking about it and have to get it on the page. Then the snippet or scene will begin to grow and take on more of a life of its own, it's like ‘okay this scene is great, but how did we get here’ kind of thing, that makes me want to flesh out the idea which in turn makes the story and characters expand and grow. I never plot out the whole story before starting, I let it grow from a starting point and let the story kind of take the direction that it needs to go in.

Do you have any writing quirks?

I typically write with Steve as the main character going through as much pain as possible!

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

I try to get a few chapters written out before I post my fic, I find it a bit easier to keep myself motivated that way. I don't think I'd be able to keep up with a schedule.

Which fic are you most proud of?

I'm definitely proud of all of them but I think the first Steddie fic that I spent several months on, Warm My Cold and Tired Heart, is still one that I am incredibly proud of and really happy with how it turned out. It was my big jumping off point for the rest of my fics and love for the pairing - which is another point in it's favour!

How did you get the idea for You Can Only Remember What You Want To Forget?

It was inspired by a blend of two prompts in an ask from the awesome @zerokrox-blog “Things you forgot to say and things you were forced to say”. The prompt was a challenge to mix but I wanted to have one prompt reflect Eddie and the other reflect Steve. Eddie forgot to tell Steve the truth and Steve was forced to simply react. The story completely took on a life of its own after that though and quickly snowballed!

When writing You Can Only Remember What You Want To Forget, what was something you didn’t expect?

The table! It was a bit of a throwaway line about the Hellfire club noticing the crack and worrying that they damaged the table, only for it to culminate in Eddie’s apology and confession to Steve when he fixed it. Probably one of the best little ‘Setup’ and ‘Payoff’ moments I’ve ever attempted.

What inspired A Quiet Confession?

This was also inspired by a ask prompt that came in from an anonymous user, ‘You weren't supposed to hear that’. i loved the angst potential of someone saying just how much you love someone, while worrying they don't feel the same for you. Juxtaposing that with the intimacy that normally comes with napping with you partner and you have A Quiet Confession.

What was your favorite part to write from A Clear and Present Threat of Tongue?

Definitely the confession scene. The whole fic was based on the episode from New Girl where Jess and Nick kiss for the very first time and I loved writing down the garbled speech that Nick says when he stumbles over his words. I just had to give that to Eddie - it fit way too well!

How do/did you feel writing Essential Songs to Woo a Metal Head?

I was excited to explore the idea of Eddie completely distrusting Steve and his intentions, which would be fair for the 80s ya know? Why would Eddie believe that a jock and former prom king was being sincere with him, but having Eddie make this mistake and having to turn to the classic 80s rom-com trope of the grand gesture -I loved it! Having Eddie use music the same way that Steve did to confess his feelings originally? I was super happy that it came back around, full circle. (I also worked pretty hard on the music choices for Steve's mixtape so I am so happy people liked this one!)

What was the most difficult part of writing The World is Upside Down (The King has Lost his Crown)?

There were several difficult parts with writing this story, one was figuring out which scenes from the show should be included or left out for the story to make sense and still flow nicely. I didn’t want to spend too much time rewriting scenes to fit the canon divergence but at the same time there were several important scenes that needed to remain in the story for Eddie to specifically react to. Handling Nancy’s character was also difficult but very rewarding. I don’t hate Nancy as a character but I do find her challenging to write. I didn’t want to paint her as a villain either, she cares for Steve greatly but they couldn’t be what the other needed. It was hard to do her character justice but it was really rewarding to get her right - in my opinion.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

I think the scene where Steve smashes the plate in You Can Only Remember What You Want To Forget is up there for me in terms of one of my favourite scenes. Having Steve just completely breakdown, feeling like he's not in control of himself and how frightening that is. It was cool to explore these incredibly intense emotions and having both Robin and Eddie be there to help him process these feelings without looking at him any differently was so so important. It showcased how Robin and Eddie are the two people that Steve could trust with his darkest moments and still love him. Ugh! Still love it so much!

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

Oh! I do have a new project that I am working on, I shared a small snippet a few weeks ago but I will be very excited to share the first part soon. It is a Season Three AU exploring what might have happened if Steve and Eddie met in Starcourt mall that fateful summer of 1985. I’ve also been doing some writing for the Psych fandom to get back into writing after a long dry spell, it’s been pretty fun to explore those characters as well!

Thank you to our author, @afewproblems, and our anonymous nominator! See more of Afewproblems's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[sharenadraculea]

Mafia-Au!

As the lovely @lepetitmonstre has posted some very good smut over on AO3 set in a Mafia-Au I with some other on discord came up with, I wanted to talk more about it! There is theoratically a plot somewhere, but no promises that this will ever become a finished fic.

The Emporer: Runs The Imperium, newest and now biggest Mafia-group in town. No one knows where he came from, how old he is or how many kids he actually has. A absolute maniac with no problems to kill people and thinks that covering everything in gold is a great idea. Malcador: Emps right hand man, he does all the boring stuff. One of the very few people allowed to criticise Big E. Very exhausted, he needs a vacation. Valdor: E‘s butler, bodyguard and whatever else he might need. Makes very good tea and cake.

The Primarchs: E‘s most important underlings he delegates most tasks to. Some, but not all of them might be related to him. (Note: I haven‘t worked out all of them yet) Lion: Hitman, tough he has been on bodyguard-duty for Sang a lot as of lately. Definetly-neither-heterosexual-nor-monogamous-lifepartner of Leman and absolute psychopath. He has a pet-lion! Jagh: Everything vehicle-related. Need a get-away car? A car disappeared? Just a limo-driver? He‘ll do it. Also on the older side. No one really knows much about him. Leman: The other hitman. He has two giant definetly-not-wolves that might have a taste for human flesh. He has also been on bodyguard-duty for Sang a lot and yes, there is a very messy love-shape-thing-situation going on. It‘s gonna end in disaster. Sang: Daddys princess. The only one of his illegitimate kids E has ever acknowledged. He even tried to get her away, but why have a comfy luxurious life if you could do organized crime? Sometimes shocks people with how brutal she can get. Menace: Sangs cat. She found her in the trash. Has only one eye and probally wants to take over the world. Will try to murder everyone except Sang. Especially Horus. Rob: The one sane man. He runs a pizzaria (definetly not for moneylaundering purposes), the mafia is more his sidegig. He wants to get out, he is so tired of all that bullshit, but he also values his life. Has a surprisnhly healthy and stable relationship with Yvraine, despite her beeing from a rival group. Under no circumstances mention pineapple-pizza while around him. Floof: Robs dog. He‘s very big and fluffy and dumb. Loves cuddles. Floof is afraid of E. And cats. And gunshots. Because of that no one is allowed to carry firearms while in Robs Pizzaria. Horus: Emps‘ only legitimate child. Don‘t ask what happend with his mother. The favorite child and heir to E‘s crime-empire. Also engaged to Sang, because you know, keep it in the family. Their relationship is a toxic dumpsterfire even at the start. He‘s thinking about… let‘s just say getting rid of Emps. (Monstre changed some of the relationship-details for his one-shot) Alpharius and Omegon: No one knows where they came from, but E dragged them into his villa one day and announced that from now one they will do the internet-stuff. Most likely some of his many, many bastard-kids.

The Eldar: Used to be the big deal around, then somehow shattered into a lot of smaller groups and a lot got also arrested. Sometimes work together with the Imperium. Yvraine: Leader of one of the many Eldar-splinterfactions. In a semi-secret relationship with Rob. Still a absolute badass you should never underestimate.

The Orks: A gang of thugs/hooligans that just like to beat people up. There is very little logic behind how they act and they just generally are a problem for everyone else who is trying to do organized crime.

Chaos: The highly corrupt local authorities/police. They do absolutly nothing against the crime running rampant (except that one time Slaanesh destroyed the eldar) while getting bribes from everyone. But when they hear that Horus has some plans, they get interested…

I definetly want to include the other Xenos-factions, but I don‘t really have a good idea for them yet.

[writingquestionsanswered]

How Much World Building is Too Much?

Anonymous asked: This question is on behalf of my cousin who came to me for advice. When he has an idea, he writes the most detailed worldbuilding EVER, designs the characters and has a general idea of how the story will go, but then when he starts writing he does maybe 2 chapters and it dies. I, on the other hand, do ZERO worldbuilding ahead of time (I don't need much) and end up finishing 80% of what I start out to write. How do you know how much worldbuilding is enough? How do you keep from spending so much time planning that by the time you get to writing, you don't know where you're going with the actual story? I want to help him but our styles are so different, I don't know where to start.💔

(Ask edited for length...)

I identify with your cousin a lot, because this is often how my stories go. I'm first inspired by a place, or the idea of a place, and everything sort of grows out from there. In my early days, I would also pour everything into world building and character creation, only to find myself falling flat with the story. And a big part of that, I learned, was that I didn't really understand how stories worked. It was easy to build a world and set up characters, but since I didn't understand story structure, I didn't understand how to flesh out the nugget of a story idea I had to go with that setting.

So, one thing you might do is try to get a feel for where your cousin is in that respect. You can start by asking pointed questions about the potential plot, and if he doesn't have answers already, it will help guide him in that direction. Some questions I would ask:

1 - Who is your protagonist? What is their "normal world" life like before things are turned upside down with the inciting incident?

2 - Who and what is important to your protagonist? (Stakes)

3 - What past experiences have led to them being who they are now?

4 - What needs to change about your protagonist's life, beliefs, or values?

5 - What happens to turn your protagonist's world upside down? (Inciting incident) Who (or what) causes this to happen? (Antagonistic force)

6 - How does this affect your protagonist specifically, and what goal do they decide to pursue in order to resolve the problem?

7 - What steps does your protagonist plan to take in order to reach their goal? What knowledge, skills, resources, or help must they acquire in order to achieve their goal?

8 - What obstacles does the antagonistic force create that the protagonist must overcome on their way to the goal?

9 - How do the events of the story help to change your protagonist's life circumstances, beliefs, or values for better or worse? How will they change by the end of the story?

10 - How does your protagonist face off against the antagonistic force, attempting to defeat them once and for all in order to reach their goal? Are they successful? What is the aftermath and how is the character's world/life changed--for better or worse--as a result of these events?

If your cousin can answer these questions, they'll have a reasonably well fleshed out plot that should help carry them through the story. How little or much planning of the plot ahead of time they need is something they'll need to discover over time, but if the above isn't enough to help them get through the story, they might want to go back and flesh out the specific plot points. You can point them in the direction of my post Creating a Detailed Story Outline, which suggest several different story structure templates they can look at to help them coax out the specific plot points of their story. And, bear in mind that story structure templates do not have to be followed exactly. They're just a guide to help you flesh out the story. Many writers like to combine different elements of different plot structures as a loose guide as they write their stories.

I hope this helps!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[cinderfeather]

Short Story Writing Tips for Fanfic Authors

While Edgar Allen Poe has many pretentious things to say on the merits of the Short Story (‘a work of art should be able to achieve its effect in one sitting’), I want to talk about them from a fanfiction perspective.

As fic writers, we are doing this hobby for fun, and frequently find ourselves hopping between shiny new idea, to shiny new idea, to shiny new idea…

...which is totally fine. However: to reduce this, I want to impress this upon you:

Keep your fic short enough to write within the span of dopamine it generates.

So while it’s still easy to generate long plots, I usually like to keep my stories small and focused wherever possible, so I can feel proud about ✨finishing✨ it and then have more energy to work on the next idea. In addition, if I have an idea tha t I think is cool, but not something I can fathom spending an entire year writing a novel-length-fic about, I can still write the idea if I think carefully about how I can work it into a short story.

Often writers way things like: 'I have 30k words to write just to get to the fun bit 😭😭😭'

Just write the fun bit.

It might be one thing for me to say that, but learning a bit of craft about short stories can make this easier.

So: one of the hardest things in a story is the ending, and short stories (especially origific) can be very challenging to create a satisfying ending with so little to work with.

In short story craft, there is a lot of talk about things like Hemingway’s ‘Iceberg Theory’:

Hemingway said that only the tip of the iceberg showed in fiction—your reader will see only what is above the water—but the knowledge that you have about your character that never makes it into the story acts as the bulk of the iceberg. And that is what gives your story weight and gravitas. — Jenna Blum in The Author at Work, 2013 (Wikipedia Link)

Fanfic is great for this! You already have a ton of character and plot fleshed out, so you can already have your iceberg while putting very little effort in. Short stories are already much easier as fic because they already have the 'iceberg of canon' beneath them, so make the most of it!

The next trick is ✨Authors Notes✨!

You can just say the background info plainly to the reader, without having to worry about crafting it nicely for the reader.

However, if you feel that the background info might be served best by putting it into the story, then let me introduce you to the next trick: Telling!

Think about summary the you have in your AN, and expand it into slightly longer ‘pretty’ prose:

Months went by. Trees bloomed, and forsook their leaves. One day, Mina stepped outside again.

That covers a year of a character being stuck in their grief, without having to mire reader in being stuck like that too.

We’ve all had ‘Show, don’t tell’ beaten into us with a hammer. But if it’s not important or interesting for you or your story, then just Tell it, and move on to the next exciting thing! What you want to do is research ways to use prose to convey the passing of time, write summaries and transition sequences, and work out ways to cut down and remove ‘all that writing you have to do to get to the fun scene’.

So, let’s say you had an idea for an achingly beautiful Suparbat story that worked like a Shakespearean tragedy inspired by Othello. You start brainstorming and writing fragments of all these scenes where they meet, fall in love, then have all these gradual misunderstandings caused by Lex trying to meddle and break them apart.

They pile up super high, and then there is this devastating, heart-pounding finale where they fight, along with the tragic ending and denouement.

You take your notes and start trying to plan out what scenes you will need, and your face goes pale as you estimate the story will probably be about 80k words.

You can’t commit to that, and you sense another shiny idea might be lurking on the horizon soon (and besides, you have other fics to finish). You consider abandoning it, resigned to the beauty of the story haunting you forever.

Hold up.

The tragic fight scene. That’s the one that excites you the most. Start writing that.

Bam, bam bam.

Why are they fighting? The audience is now curious and hooked, sitting breathless on the edge of their seat.

Line of dialogue! Ultra specific accusation!

Now the reader is intellectually hooked. What event is this specific detail referring to?

Flashback to one of the scenes where they met and were tenderly in love, linked by the line of dialogue before.

Now the reader is emotionally hooked. What happened to make them hate each other so?

The fight scene continues! Dramatic moments of action interspersed with flashbacks of those snippets you wrote—

Now the reader has been enthralled by all this awesome action, and has a good grasp of emotional arc and events that brought them to this point, with the juxtaposition of the moments of love and hate creating a tremendous experience.

The fatal wound, juxtaposed by the fatal misunderstanding that set Batman on this path… Those painful words exchanged in the present, that have been stuck in your head for weeks: Why? I loved you! Lex (aka Iago) comes out, doing a slow clap, and revealing how he plotted and schemed to sow this discord between Batman and Superman, to make Batman kill Superman for him. The achingly haunting moment of looking into each others eyes and Superman forgiving and trying to absolve Batman of his guilt before he dies. Bruce swiftly disabling Lex’s failsafe (to stop him from taking revenge, but its useless because he’s Batman) and holding a batarang to Lex’s throat.

Now you’ve used 80% of your notes, and you have a decent first draft already!

So now, what will Batman do? Break his moral code about killing again (he already did with Superman) and kill Lex? Try to set Lex on a path of rehabilitation?

So then you get stuck. But Cinder, this doesn’t work for me! All I can think of is to end it the same way as Othello! Which I can’t bear to write.

Hold up.

Go back over your story and start tightening it up. The idea that Bruce is willing to kill someone is quite important. Go back and add flashbacks (or add context to the existing flashbacks) about Bruce developing, sticking to or explaining his no-kill rule.

Then you write an epilogue, where a reformed Lex starts making all kinds of structural changes in the world, alongside all the people who stepped up after being inspired by Superman’s life and determination to let everyone have a chance at forgiveness. After this, you realise that the last line Superman needs to say is to beg Bruce not to continue his murder-rampage and kill Lex.

Then you go back over your story again, fleshing out Lex’s character and some of the hints and lines of dialogue he drops to round out his arc as well. The story feels nice, but still a little off. The ending of Othello haunts you. Do you need to kill Batman after all?

You try writing the scene with the climax ending on: ‘Now, the only way: the Bat will die upon the light.’

Then, as you edit the last bit of the epilogue, you add at the end that Bruce is still alive, observing it all, having hung up his cape as Batman, (because how else could their love end after this but with ‘Batman’ dying with him?). With the transformation that happened for both Lex and Bruce when he honoured Clark’s last wish, this meant that world also grew into a place where Batman wasn’t needed anymore.

So there you have a beautiful short story about not just love and romance, but grief and betrayal and death and killing and absolution and forgiveness and a love that grows beyond a romantic entanglement into a love that changes the world— 🥰🥰🥰

And under 3000 words.

Now other people will be haunted by your story for the rest of their lives, instead of you.

You will have to edit harder if you try to write as concisely as this, but overall I think you’ll get more stories finished if you experiment with focusing on writing the exciting bits, then sprinkling just enough scene fragments to make it work.

I often write out an idea for a few thousand words, till I get stuck, then go back over it and start thinking about how I can reorder and tweak it to bring what I already have to a satisfying ending.

It requires fumbling and sitting and thinking and figuring it out as I’m revising (as you saw in the example) but if you keep focused on making things shorter you’ll be surprised at just how short you can make it.

And how many things you can finish!