#redemption beyond stars

[walkawaytall]

My new headcanon is that, the very first time Leia almost dies post-Death-Star-Rescue, Han is like, “You survived all of that and now you’re going to die in this inconsequential way? That’s so embarrassing for you. You should rethink that,” thereby encouraging Leia to live primarily out of spite, and whenever he almost dies next, she trots out the exact same Indictment of Lame Death Mortification, and this is how they stayed alive for like thirty years despite wildly varying odds.

[abagofmagictrix]

My Absolute Top 10 Favorite Fictional Protagonists in Media

[quietpersephone]

as a bo-katan enjoyer since the clone wars i am excited. as a din djarin lover i am so confused. it's like the story is progressing around him but refuses to actually touch him. what is his arc now beyond serving as a catalyst in bo's story?

[romulanslutempire]

Adelaide Kane needs to reprise her role on SNW (somehow) so we can see her in Romulan tactical gear and with those famous pointy ears.

[maidenvault]

Okay so, Crosshair’s hand.

Has anyone pointed this out? When Crosshair kills Nolan, he doesn't use his shooting hand.

He uses his left. Just as he very significantly has to in the series finale.

I don't know if the writers knew as far back as "The Outpost" that Crosshair was going to lose the use of his shooting hand and by extension everything he believed made him strong, a "superior" clone, and safe from being discarded when he was kind of fascism-pilled. But it feels extra significant in retrospect that his first action taken against the Empire is not done with the hand associated with the terrible things he did as an Imperial sniper. And it's after he just got a difficult lesson about how his own personal strength and skills aren't enough to protect him - he was saved twice by Mayday, then possibly only survived through the night because he wouldn't leave him behind and could share his body heat. He may be using his left hand when he shoots Nolan because his other arm is tired from supporting Mayday all the way back, which only adds to the symbolic touch I love that Mayday is using his rifle as a crutch to help him walk as well (and of course, he's at close range so quite meaningfully Crosshair doesn't use the rifle to shoot here either). It all supports the idea of this as the first huge moment of transformation for Crosshair when he's finally turning his fire on the real enemy out of a desire to protect others, however futile and too late it is in this particular situation.

Going back and noticing this really reinforced for me that Crosshair's hand injury probably isn't just meant as a manifestation of his trauma related to Tantiss. It would make sense considering it's his shooting hand that it also has something to do with his inner conflict regarding his changed relationship with violence and killing.

The Batch were introduced as these stereotypically macho soldier characters, an impression that's softened a little as early as the pilot of TBB but still distinguishes them a little from other clones. In a kind of funny way you can look at the whole series as being about these guys who were only brought up to fight gradually discovering and finding peace with their more traditionally feminine sides - literally because of Omega, a female version of themselves who shows them the possibilities of being a family and living for others instead of for violence.

For Crosshair this journey is much more difficult and like a painful rebirth than it is for anyone else because being a soldier was so much of his identity. He's always been the one to most pointedly distinguish his squad from regs because of their "superior" traits that he thinks will make the Empire value them, and he clearly internalized the way the Kaminoans only care about clones as weapons to be used in war. And it all betrays how little value Crosshair actually believes he has deep down. It was easy to go into S3 being especially worried about his fate because he's believed so long that he's not good for anything but fighting and he's the character it was the hardest to imagine adjusting to a different life.

But in retrospect, it was stupid to think they'd let him off that easy and of course the whole point is that it takes a lot to get him there. What exactly he went through on Tantiss beyond the electroshock torture we've seen is never delved into but personally, I think being a soldier is something that's poisoned for Crosshair after he becomes a victim of the Empire himself and subject to their attempts at reconditioning. He's not psychologically able to be that person anymore, but for a long time is still trying to largely rely on himself and his own strength. He tries to sacrifice himself for others because he's still holding onto that part of himself in a way.

But for once in Star Wars we've gotten a fully realized redemption arc showing that sometimes what's harder than giving your life in a redemptive way is to actually have to figure out how to live with the bad things you've done and be better. Some of the people Crosshair hurt were his family, and he has to learn he can only make things better by being there for them. He has to learn that he actually can survive and figure out a way forward from his life as a soldier if he lets himself rely on them, just like he only survived Barton IV with help from Mayday. As @moonstrider9904 explains so well in this post, that is what's so important about Crosshair losing the hand and making that final shot to save Omega with Hunter's support. Symbolically he's had that toxic part of himself actually cut off and it's the final, most painful part of his rebirth. But because of that he's forced to find that he can live on without it, that he's surrounded by people who love and believe in him anyway, and that having superhuman skills as a killer was never what gave him worth.

No, having his shooting hand cut off doesn't "fix" anything or mean that Crosshair is healed. He's probably only begun to recover from everything he's been through. But all we really need to see is that he's firmly found his place as part of a family instead of a squad, and he's not going to be alone as he deals with all of that.

[aemondwhoresworld]

THE LORD’S REDEMPTION

pairing: benjicot blackwood x reader

summary: in the intricate world of Westeros, alliances are forged and broken through marriages arranged for political gain. lady y/n of house y/l/n finds herself wed to benjicot blackwood, lord of raventree hall, a union intended to strengthen ties between their noble houses. although the marriage was one of duty, y/n begins to believe that genuine affection and love are blossoming between them, especially after the birth of their first daughter. however, her world is shattered when she discovers benjicot in the arms of his childhood friend, a betrayal that cuts deep. but in the end, love and repentance prove stronger, as benjicot, on his knees, begs for her forgiveness, vowing to honor and cherish her for the rest of their days. | word count: 2,6k

warning: english is not my first language. mention of cheating, gavebirth, infidelity, angst to fluff, etc

my first benji fic, currently there is no taglist for benji, thanks my bf to co-write this with me (almost half of the fic)

The halls of Raventree Hall were alive with the sound of celebration. The feast had been lavish, the guests numerous, and the union of House Y/L/N and House Blackwood had been met with cheers and well-wishes from all who attended. But as the night wore on, and the newlywed couple retired to their chambers, the reality of their marriage settled in.

Lady Y/N stood by the window, looking out into the darkened forest that surrounded her new home. The trees of the Blackwood lands were ancient, their branches gnarled and twisted like the old stories of the Children of the Forest. She had heard the tales as a child, but now, in this strange new place, those stories felt more real than ever.

Benjicot Blackwood, her husband, was a man of few words. He had been courteous and respectful, as expected of a lord, but there had been little warmth between them. Their marriage was one of duty, an alliance between two noble houses, and Y/N knew that well. Still, there was a small part of her that longed for something more, a connection that went beyond the cold formality of politics.

As she stood lost in thought, Benjicot approached her. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said, his voice soft, as if he were afraid to break the quiet. “The stars are brighter here than in other parts of the realm.”

Y/N turned to him, surprised by the comment. “They are,” she agreed, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “It reminds me of home.”

Benjicot nodded, his gaze following hers out the window. “I know this is not the life you envisioned,” he began, hesitating slightly. “But I hope, in time, you’ll find happiness here.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. It was a fleeting moment, but it was enough to plant a seed of hope in her heart. “I hope so too, my lord,” she replied, her voice gentle.

That night, as they lay side by side in the large bed, Y/N felt the weight of his presence beside her. The sheets were cold at first, but as they lay in silence, she felt his hand slowly, hesitantly, reach for hers. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. She squeezed his hand in return, a silent acknowledgment that perhaps, just perhaps, they could make this marriage into something more than just an arrangement.

Months passed, and the seasons changed. Y/N and Benjicot fell into a comfortable rhythm, learning to navigate their roles as husband and wife. There were moments of shared laughter, quiet conversations by the fire, and even a few stolen kisses that felt more natural with time. It wasn’t the passionate love story Y/N had once dreamed of, but it was something real, something she could build upon.

When Y/N discovered she was with child, the news was met with joy throughout Raventree Hall. The Blackwood line would continue, and the bond between House Y/L/N and House Blackwood was now cemented by blood. The pregnancy brought a new closeness between Y/N and Benjicot. He was attentive, always ensuring she was comfortable, and took great care in preparing for the arrival of their child.

The day their daughter was born, Y/N’s heart swelled with love as she held the tiny bundle in her arms. The babe had her mother’s eyes and her father’s dark hair, a perfect blend of the two houses. Benjicot stood beside the bed, watching in awe as Y/N cradled their daughter.

“Would you like to hold her?” Y/N asked, looking up at him with a soft smile.

Benjicot hesitated for a moment, as if afraid he might harm the delicate creature in his wife’s arms. But when Y/N gently placed the baby in his hands, his fear melted away. As he gazed down at his daughter, his eyes softened, and Y/N saw something in him she hadn’t seen before—love, pure and unguarded.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, Y/N.”

In that moment, Y/N felt closer to him than ever before. As she watched him hold their daughter, she allowed herself to believe that this marriage, once forged out of duty, had grown into something much deeper. Perhaps they could be happy after all.

But happiness in Westeros was often fleeting.

It was a stormy night when Y/N’s world came crashing down. She had awoken in the middle of the night to find the bed empty beside her. The sheets were cold, and the silence of the room was deafening. Worry gnawed at her as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and ventured out into the darkened corridors of Raventree Hall.

She searched for Benjicot, her heart pounding with every step. When she finally found him, it was as if the ground had been ripped out from under her.

There, in a secluded alcove near the godswood, stood Benjicot, his arms wrapped around a woman Y/N recognized all too well—Lysa Rivers, his childhood friend. The two of them were locked in a passionate embrace, their lips pressed together in a kiss that spoke of old, unresolved feelings.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She felt as if a knife had been plunged into her chest, the pain sharp and unrelenting. This was the man she had come to love, the father of her child, and he was betraying her in the most unforgivable way.

Before she knew it, she was running, fleeing the scene of her heartbreak. The rain poured down in torrents, drenching her as she ran back to her chambers, but she didn’t care. The physical cold was nothing compared to the icy numbness that had settled in her heart.

When Benjicot finally returned to their chambers, he found Y/N standing by the window, her back to him. The tension in the room was palpable, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice laced with guilt. “Please, let me explain.”

She turned to face him, her eyes blazing with anger and hurt. “Explain? What is there to explain, Benjicot? I saw you! I saw you with her!” Her voice cracked, the pain evident in every word.

Benjicot looked stricken, as if her words had wounded him. “It was a mistake, a moment of weakness—”

“A mistake?” Y/N’s voice rose in disbelief. “You betrayed me, Benjicot! You betrayed our marriage, our family!” She took a step toward him, her hands trembling. “I thought…I thought you loved me. I thought we had built something real.”

“I do love you,” Benjicot said desperately, reaching for her, but she stepped back, out of his reach. “I’ve loved you since the day you placed our daughter in my arms. But Lysa…she was my past, Y/N. She was someone I cared for long before we were married. When I saw her tonight, old feelings resurfaced, and I… I lost control. But it meant nothing, I swear it.”

Y/N shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “You don’t betray someone you love, Benjicot. You don’t risk everything for a fleeting moment with someone else.”

The hurt in her voice cut him deeply, and he sank to his knees before her, his head bowed in shame. “Please, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I know I’ve wronged you in the worst way possible. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m begging you—don’t leave me. Don’t take our daughter away from me. I will do anything, anything to make this right.”

Y/N looked down at him, her heart torn. The man before her was not the strong, confident lord she had married, but a broken man, consumed by regret. Part of her wanted to push him away, to let him suffer for the pain he had caused her. But another part of her, the part that still loved him despite everything, couldn’t bear to see him like this.

“Benjicot,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can ever truly forgive you for this. The pain you’ve caused me… it’s more than I can bear. But I won’t make any decisions tonight. I need time—to think, to heal. For now, I’ll stay, for our daughter’s sake. But know this—you will have to work harder than you ever have before to earn back my trust.”

Benjicot nodded, tears glistening in his eyes. “I will, Y/N. I swear to you, I will spend every day proving to you that you are the only woman I love, the only one I will ever love.”

The days that followed were filled with an uneasy quiet. Benjicot was true to his word—he devoted himself to Y/N and their daughter, never straying far from her side. He sought to make amends not with grand gestures, but with small, consistent acts of kindness and care. He listened to her, respected her space, and showed her in every way he could that she was his priority.

Y/N watched him carefully, her heart still guarded. The pain of his betrayal lingered, a sharp reminder of the trust that had been shattered. Yet, as the days turned into weeks, she couldn't deny the change in him. Benjicot seemed different, as if the weight of his guilt had transformed him. He was more attentive, more present than he had ever been before, and she could see the earnestness in his every action.

One evening, as autumn began to deepen, Y/N sat in their chambers, her daughter playing on a woven rug near the hearth. The little girl babbled happily, her tiny hands grasping at the colorful wooden toys Benjicot had carved himself. Y/N found herself smiling despite the turmoil in her heart. Her daughter’s laughter was a balm to her soul, a reminder that there was still good in her life, something pure and untainted.

Benjicot entered the room quietly, as he often did these days, as if he were afraid to disturb the fragile peace between them. He knelt beside their daughter, picking up one of the toys and joining her in play. Y/N watched them, her heart softening as she saw the love in his eyes, the way he doted on their child with such tenderness.

After a while, Benjicot looked up at Y/N, his expression tentative. "Would you walk with me in the godswood?" he asked, his voice soft, almost pleading.

Y/N hesitated. The godswood had always been a place of solace for her, a place where she could think and find peace. But it was also the place where she had first seen him with Lysa, the place where her heart had been broken. Still, she nodded. "Alright," she agreed, rising from her seat.

They walked in silence at first, the cool evening air rustling the leaves overhead. The old weirwood tree stood at the heart of the godswood, its red leaves vibrant against the darkening sky. Y/N had always found comfort here, under the watchful eyes of the old gods, but tonight she felt a sense of trepidation.

Benjicot stopped beneath the weirwood, turning to face her. His expression was earnest, his eyes full of remorse. "Y/N," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "I've been doing a lot of thinking these past weeks. I've thought about what I did, how I betrayed you, and I've realized just how much I stand to lose. I was a fool, blinded by the past, and in doing so, I risked everything we have. I can never take back what I did, and I will live with that regret for the rest of my life."

He took a deep breath, stepping closer to her. "But I want you to know that I am committed to earning back your trust. I love you, Y/N. I love our daughter, and I love the life we've built together. I don't expect you to forgive me easily, and I don't expect things to go back to the way they were overnight. But I will keep trying, every day, to prove to you that you are the only woman in my heart, the only woman I will ever want by my side."

Y/N listened to his words, her emotions swirling. She could see the sincerity in his eyes, the desperation in his voice. He was baring his soul to her, laying himself at her mercy, and for the first time since that fateful night, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way forward.

"Benjicot," she said, her voice soft but steady, "what you did hurt me more than I can put into words. It felt like everything we had built together, everything I thought we had, was just… shattered. But I can see how much you regret it, and I can see how hard you're trying to make amends. I won't lie to you—it's going to take time for me to heal, and it's going to take time for me to trust you again. But I don't want to throw away what we have, either. I want to believe that we can rebuild, that we can find a way back to each other."

Benjicot’s eyes filled with tears, and he took her hands in his, holding them as if they were the most precious thing in the world. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. "Thank you for giving me a second chance. I promise you, Y/N, I will spend the rest of my life proving that you made the right choice."

Y/N nodded, her heart heavy but hopeful. "Then let's take it one day at a time," she said softly. "Let's start again, and see where this road takes us."

In the days and weeks that followed, Y/N and Benjicot began the slow process of rebuilding their relationship. It wasn’t easy—there were moments of doubt, of lingering pain that resurfaced when Y/N least expected it. But each time, Benjicot was there, patient and understanding, never pushing her but always ready to support her when she needed it.

They spent more time together, taking long walks in the godswood, sharing meals, and talking late into the night. Benjicot opened up to her in ways he never had before, sharing stories from his childhood, his fears, and his hopes for the future. Y/N found herself doing the same, and gradually, the walls she had built around her heart began to crumble.

One evening, as they sat together by the hearth, their daughter asleep in her cradle, Benjicot took Y/N’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I love you," he whispered, his eyes full of the sincerity that had come to define him since that night. "I know I’ve said it before, but I want you to know that it’s true. You and our daughter mean everything to me."

Y/N looked into his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a sense of peace. "I love you too," she replied, her voice soft but full of conviction. "It’s going to take time, but I believe in us. I believe that we can build something even stronger than before."

Benjicot smiled, a smile that reached his eyes and warmed her heart. "Together, we can do anything," he said, and in that moment, Y/N knew it to be true.

Their journey wasn’t over—there were still challenges to face, and scars that would take time to heal. But as they held each other close, the flickering firelight casting a warm glow over them, Y/N felt a sense of hope for the future. They had been through darkness, but now they were stepping into the light, hand in hand, ready to face whatever came their way.

And in the end, that was what mattered most—their love, their commitment to each other, and the promise of a new beginning.

[sugoi-writes]

Invictus - Alastor x GN! Reader (Fluff / Comfort)

A/N: Ahh, depression! Here is a little piece that hit me across the face while I was trying to recoup. Mentions of Alastor's regrets/angst, his mother's death (briefly/sparingly), reader is struggling mentally. I hope this can bring some comfort to folks who are going through it rn!

(lightly proofread, and made in heat of the moment, so sorry in advance!)

"...do you ever wish that you weren't the Radio Demon, Alastor? That you weren't the person you became?" 

Alastor blinks, looking up to you from across the table. What an absurd, curious question to ask. You were always full of these ideas, ones that perplexed him to no end. But when he saw the look in your glazed over, simmering gaze... he decided that humoring you would be best. 

"...come again? I don't quite understand the question, dear." 

Hands were fidgeting below the table, chest feeling tight as you formulated your next sentence. You felt like your ribcage was being crushed by a hydrolic press. The grueling, agonizing pressure from your anxiety was threatening to make you keel over. And for a moment, you thought you might give in to the feeling. Thank the stars for Alastor's reciprocation in this conversation. 

"Like... Do you ever hate the place you're at right now? As a person? Do you ever wish you could start over again? Turn a new leaf? New name, new face, new space.... I know you think 'redemption' is bullshit, but..." 

You continue to avoid him and his steely eyes, a sad smile gracing your forlorn face," If you had a chance to... Not be yourself. To start over and lead a different life... Would you?" 

Alastor's mind pondered many things. The reason he was sentenced to rot hell. The reason that his mother died. The way that he was raised, the people who he fratenized with in life. The accursed deal he was entangled in. There were many things that made him who he was. There were things that even he regretted. But for all intents and purposes, he was exactly who he needed to be... But he could always be more. 'More' would never be enough, truly. 

And so Alastor took a sip of his coffee, eyes down cast to the newspaper in his other hand," ...I suppose anyone would like a chance to start over. For menial reasons or otherwise." 

You didn't notice the way he smiled, your eyes still down cast to your trembling hands. 

"But if it's all the same to you, darling... I rather like the person you are now." 

Your eyes developed hot tears, threatening to cascade down your flushed face at any moment. Alastor sighs heavily, setting his newspaper down on the coffee table. 

"Invictus. Have you heard of the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley?" 

You blink, a few tears tumbling down your cheeks," I... Can't say that I have, honestly." Alastor hums in acknowledgement, manifesting a parchment out of thin air. 

"Would you care to hear it?" 

You make eye contact with Alastor, his smile simple, unforced. His face hung perfectly neutral as he waited for your permission. You, of course, had no qualms about hearing his voice. 

"O-Of course... Go ahead." 

Alastor cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair as he began. 

"Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul." 

A part of you smiled on the inside. Unconquerable.... This was definitely Alastor-coded to you. You didn't comment on this as he continued.

"In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed." 

You feel the tension in your shoulders disappearing, slumping forward as your body finally relaxed. Something about his voice, the evenness and clarity of his tone made you react physically. You couldn't put your finger on it... But he soothed you. He always had. 

When Alastor stood, your eyes widened, watching as he started to advance towards you. 

"Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid." 

The filter over his voice thickens, typically a telltale sign of Alastor's emotions fluctuating. Was he frustrated with you? Cross with you? You should have known better than to talk to him like this... God, what an idiot you were. But Alastor didn't feel this way. Alastor strode directly to your side, a hand settling on the top of your chair. With a flick of the wrist, he dismissed the parchment. He was quoting the poem from memory now.

"It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll" 

Alastor leans down to you, his free hand going to your shoulder. He shakes it gently, his radio filter fizzling out. His voice was left raw and bare, only for you to hear. His smile reached his eyes as he continued, his gaze not wavering from yours. 

"I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul." 

A comfortable, round silence fell between the two of you. You were conscious of his warmth, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. You were aware of his heartbeat, strong and steady like a metronome. You were aware of his stature, bent heavily at the hip to match your height. Your felt his eyes, kind and sincere, searching yours for a spark. You felt your heart flutter for a moment, as the weight of the poem and it's meaning settled over you. 

"What a lovely poem, Alastor," was all you could mutter, voice dry and brittle from your fragile, emotional state. 

"Of course. A powerful one, at that. I reflect on it often when I feel an inkling of... Doubt. Trepidation." 

Alastor, the one-and-only Radio Demon, having self doubt? What a troubling thing for him to entrust in you. 

"I encourage you to remember it well. And, you must reflect on it when these feelings of regret and anguish wash over you. I find that it can be very helpful; illuminating. It can remind you of your importance; your agency in your afterlife." 

Alastor, in a rare moment of tenderness, pats the top of your head, letting his fingers curl and run through your hair. 

"Shall we talk about anything else that troubles you, darling?' 

You blink, still reeling from the poem, it's gravity, and the kindness being showered upon you," N-No I.... No, I think I feel much better now. Thank you, Alastor." 

The Radio Demon accepts your answer, giving your hair a playful ruffle. He stands back up to his full height, his hand retracting from you slowly. 

"Anytime, dear. Though I think it's time to get a head start on the day, hmm?" You look up to the Radio Demon, who already has a cup of coffee summoned for you. You smile, graciously accepting the offering. 

"Of course... But... Could you... Y'know?" You tilt your head forwards Alastor's free hand, asking for more contact. Alastor sighs dramatically, before granting you more affection. Just look at how hopeless you were... It was almost too much.

"I suppose a minute or two more of this wouldn't hurt, would it?" 

[ahqkas]

Can I request headcanons for Charles Smith and Arthur Morgan with shy gn!s/o please?

SHOW ME HOW ; arthur morgan & charles smith

PAIRINGS! arthur morgan x gn!reader, charles smith x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS! too shy to talk, but your man got you

RED READ REDEMPTION 2 MASTERLIST!

ARTHUR MORGAN IS ALWAYS MINDFUL OF THE COMFORT AND FEELINGS HIS LOVED ONES NEED. His rough exterior hides a surprisingly gentle and considerate nature, which would shine in his interactions with his beloved partner. He pushes past his limits and beyond to create a safe and reassuring place, even if it’s only in the space of his old tent.

At the beginning, Arthur would be particularly attentive to your body language and non-verbal cues, his senses quickly picking up on what makes you comfortable and what makes you anxious. He’d approach you with a soft-spoken tone, his usual gruffness pushed aside for the others (Sean, Bill, Micah). The outlaw is cracking bad jokes left and right, trying to coax a laugh out of you to ease the tension.

Arthur’s protective side would come out more than ever. He’d always be on the lookout, ensuring you feel safe, especially when you’re around members of the gang that are known to be difficult or in unfamiliar territory. He'd stand close to you, offering silent support with his presence, ready to step in and threaten whoever makes you feel uncomfortable. His protective nature would extend to his actions, often putting your needs above his own as if it was nothing. You didn’t know you were his everything, and Arthur had already lost too much to risk.

In quieter moments, Arthur would find ways to connect with you that don’t rely on words if you don’t talk much. He’d enjoy simply sitting together, perhaps by the campfire or under the stars, finding comfort in each other’s company, shoulder pressing into yours to have some sort of physical connection. He might share stories from his life, revealing his own vulnerabilities to encourage you to open up at your own pace. The gentleman he can be, his respect for your boundaries would be evident, never pressuring you to speak more than you’re comfortable with.

When it comes to physical affection, Arthur would be equally considerate. He’d move slowly, always ensuring his touch is welcomed and appreciated. Small, gentle gestures would be his way of expressing love - holding your hand or offering a soft kiss to the backs of your hands. Each touch would be tender and feather-like.

He’d praise your strengths and achievements, however small, and offer support when you face difficult times. His belief in you is unwavering, always there to reassure you that you’re stronger than you think.

You’re his, after all. If you can handle the bear of a man, you can handle anything else in the entire world.

CHARLES SMITH’S CALM AND PATIENT SOUL IS THE PERFECT MATCH FOR YOURS.

From the start, Charles would make it clear that he values you for who you are, shyness included. He’d listen attentively to your thoughts and feelings, offering a non-judgmental space for you to express yourself at your own pace. His soft-spoken wise voice and reassuring presence would help to ease any anxieties you may have about opening up. If you’re speaking in a group, he’d glare anybody down who dared to speak over you.

The man would be incredibly observant, picking up on your subtle cues and emotions. He’d intuitively understand when you need space and when you need his attention. His ability to read people like an open book would create a sense of security, knowing that he instantly knows what’s up without you even expressing the problem.

In social situations, Charles would be your loyal companion, providing quiet support and encouragement. He’d never push you to be more outgoing than you’re comfortable with as he is himself more on the quieter side. He has an unwavering belief in your abilities.

Physical affection with Charles would be tender and reassuring. He’d be attuned to your comfort level, always seeking your consent before initiating any form of intimacy. Whether it’s holding hands, sharing a hug, or a soft kiss on the cheek, each gesture would be done with your permission. If you don’t like showing the touch for the world to see, he’d make it up for you in the private space only you two share.

Charles would also go out of his way to make you feel special and appreciated. He’d show his love through thoughtful gestures and gifts, like bringing your favorite flowers or sharpening your weapons for you at the camfire. His acts of kindness would be a reflection of his deep affection for you, a way of showing that he’s attentive to your needs and desires without you even speaking a word.

Those who wrong you better be prepared to live through the wrath of Charles Smith. He’s silent, but his strength is loud.

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified.

[moondirti]

7. PROPOSITION

CHAPTER SEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter six / chapter eight ⇀

summary: a proposition is made in hope for new beginnings

mature | 4.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, apocalypses, death, decay, blood, injury, sexual tension, angst, no use of y/n notes: I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ORIGINAL. anyway repost lol

During the liminal period between detonation and your understanding of it, you’d been convinced of your own fatality. Dead girl walking; the shell-shocked mantra playing in an unremitting loop as you navigated the flattened planes of your once-home.

New York was a ghost town. Or – town isn’t exactly the proper verbiage, not when it comes to describing the hollowed locale. It’d been flushed of all its previous pomp; skeletal buildings with their windows blown to bits, light posts bent at the root, central park a glorified bonfire pit for skyscraping flames. In truth, when you’d awoken, you couldn’t recognise your whereabouts. 

That was the basis for which you told yourself it was a dream. Everything existed as a distorted reflection of what you were familiar with, a fucked plane capable only of occuring in feverish delirium. The bite, you’d accepted – nodding to yourself grimly. You must’ve gotten sick again and passed out before the speech, transported to some stuffy hospital that pinned you with needles full of hallucinogens. How else could you have explained your occult ability to phase through walls, or the complete absence of people?

(In hindsight, it was denial more than anything.)

Yet time progressed on a tortoise’s shell, marching with all the leisure of reality. It didn’t jump like it would’ve had your consciousness been in charge, with its aversion to the mundane and grotesque. No; you’d started to see the faults in your logic when the substance that perpetually fell from the sky proved to be human ash, or when – the further down you travelled – maturating flesh increasingly marked your path. You’ve never known your mind to be so cruel. 

So, dead.

If so, then you’d settled on purgatory. A state where souls atone for their unforgiven sins and are purified. It was an interim solution; you weren’t the religious type, anyway. But maybe that'd been it. Maybe you’d been given a last hope at redemption, thrust in a distinctive nightmare to comprehend how much worse hell could be. At least you lacked pain, at least you were dressed – clad in the silk of your gala gown. But the sky had been red, covered in a sheet of dismal smoke, and you couldn’t see the stars at night.

It was a sign; you’d failed at reaching them. 

The notion had paralysed you for days, tearing at the false comfort you’d wrapped yourself in up to that point. You’d weeped, and tested the limits to your intangibility with lacking enthusiasm. Blotchy faced, snotty nosed – passing your arm through rubble, succeeding, then trying the same with your feet, which abraded against the rough surface instead. The inconsistency was hard to keep up with, but the task at least distracted you from a profuse existentialism.

You’d heeded no patterns; some days, you were completely nonphysical. Or, parts of you remained that way, while others shifted back to palpability. It’d been a tug of war, dependent entirely on your mood and a greater scheme you had no part of. With your limited comprehension, it’d only guaranteed the purgatory hypothesis. Not mortal, nor spirit. Stuck in a great between. 

(What heaven was worth this? Who deemed it so?) 

The guessing game got old. You’d needed something else – more than water, or a fresh change of clothes; good, honest science. Truth. You couldn’t move on until you’d had reason to believe the outcome could justify this. 

You turned to the cosmos then, impartial as ever, despite their discernible absence. They were still there, you knew. Just beyond the firestorms, the sun burnt bright enough to penetrate smog. Its hazy glow provided an alternate reminder of something for you to still pursue – wherever it was, wherever you were. You couldn’t be sure that an afterlife meant nirvana or elysian fields, yet fulfilment looked to be the common denominator. An underscore.

To you, that would only ever be one thing. 

Deep space, your stars – your Sol. 

(It was hope in the one way you could define it.) 

The threads started to converge in an instant of poetic cognizance. The Phoenicians had done it, and so too had ancient sailors. Stars for navigation, for reasoning. Of course. All that entailed for you was to certify you were worth it. 

You’d started by cleaning. Little things, far from where you’d originated. A neighbourhood of collapsing houses, nested in beds of fine porcelain and dust. The times where you could use your hands, you’d sweep the debris onto them and deposit it in a hole, harrowed from a singed lawn at the end of the row. When you were immaterial – a state that had begun gaining rarity the better you were able to cope – you’d focus on mentally tallying inventory. Some to set aside, for whatever poor individual would visit next, and the rest for you. A diet of canned beans and bottled water was better than nothing. 

Then, you’d dealt with the bodies. 

There were none within the city, nor the suburbs. It was only when you’d ventured outwards did they start to crop up; thin corpses with leathery skin still stretched over their frames, starved or burnt or both. The smell had been putrid, reeking of pure rot, and you’d surmised that perhaps they’d taken too long to find salvation. It’d motivated you to keep working, burying them in marked graves with a plug fastened over your nose. You didn’t want to end up like them, as a chore for the next. 

It was near impossible to keep a timeline of it all. Now, you estimate it as months, though it had felt longer. You’d gone through it with no milestones, or any inclination as to whether you were finally getting close. Cleaning the entire expanse of purgatory seemed too big a task to ask of anyone, immortal or not. Yet as the weeks crawled by, you’d started to reckon that was exactly it. You’d felt nothing special, no sweeping message from God alerting you of your success. Just more devastation, more labour. 

(Were you wrong?)

You’d started to get sick again. Irritated sinuses, a scratchy throat. Every breath you took was more useless than the last, oxygen unable to circumvent your system. Smoke inhalation, likely. You’d searched for ventilators to help treat the symptoms, alongside pain relief for the sores spotting along your palms. There’d been nothing, and that wasn’t to say it had always been that way. Empty, orange bottles decorated every barren street, purged by apocalyptic gluttons.

(You couldn’t trick yourself – the dead had no use for medicine.) 

Some fate must have willed it, though. It was there, in the seventh hospital you’d scavenged, that it’d happened. 

A… being, no taller than five foot four, decked in a bright yellow suit and a hazmat mask. Loitering the entryway with a trash bag full of salvaged goodies. It hadn’t noticed you, preoccupied with routing the way back home – so you rushed into a nearby room to change into your gown. It was wrinkled and torn in places, having been the outfit you’d initially spent weeks in, but it was far better off than the grimy cargoes you’d adopted in its place. 

You’d kept it for this; your day of judgement. 

It – he, as it turns out – lived in a bunker, deep beneath the catastrophic surface of the state. You’d followed him there. A perfectly normal thing to do, candidly, for someone who’d forgone social interaction since death. It couldn’t dawn on you that he was surely in the same boat; isolated, cornered like an animal on its haunches. If it had, you would've made an effort to approach him with caution. 

So, it certainly shouldn’t have come as a surprise when your ecstatic hello was met with an axe to the face. Naturally, it’d phased right through you, a feat which only furthered the old being’s terror. 

God had turned out to be more skittish than you’d expected. 

(“Blimey, whit the hell are ye supposit tae be.”

“I’ve been waiting so long–” 

“Ye're gonnae get yourself killed wearin tha’ flimsy thing, lass.”

You’d felt so stupid. You should have surmised that the occasion called for modesty.

“Forgive me,” 

“Whit is it ye want? I don’ have any food for sharin’.”

“Redemption, if you please. I promise I’ve been good, I just want to see the stars.” But of course he’d know that. “Sir. Lord, sir.”

“Is somethin wrong wi yer head?” He’d huffed. “It's tha’ radiation, I'm tellin’ ye. Or maybe I'm dead an’ seein’ things.”

Dead? Another lost soul? 

“Are you not God?”

“God? Ha!” The human scoffed. “Trust that I wouldn’ be livin’ in this rat’s ass if I was.”)

It turned out that he did have food, and plenty – stuffed cans stacked in rows atop rows of nourishment. Medicine too, an age old ventilator that he’d tapped with a knuckle to spur into function. He’d agreed to let you replenish if you’d take a gander at his malfunctioning radio, of which you had limited knowledge on but were willing to give a try. You’d no idea what he needed a radio for in the afterlife, anyway. 

(“The battery contacts are corroded, I think.” You had spit through a mouthful of corn. It’d tasted like pure sugar to your neglected tongue. “If it matters to you this much: baking soda to neutralise the acid, then a bit of vinegar over it to help wipe off the gunk.” 

“Smart one ye are,” He’d pulled a cigarette from one of his various pockets, lip curling at your inquisitive gaze. “Don’ give me tha’ look, I ain' got none for ye.” 

“I’m okay, thanks.” After a bit of deliberation, you’d added, “I’m afraid I don’t understand something.” 

“Whit is it this time?” 

“Why’d you set up permanent camp here? Don’t you want to leave?” 

“An’ where wad I go?” His lighter had taken several starts to sputter a flame. 

“Heaven. Hell – if that’s your thing. The cosmos?” 

He’d barked another one of those sturdy laughs. “Ye one o’ them fanatics? That say wha’ happened wis for good cause?”

“Huh?” Tentatively, you’d placed the radio back on its rickety stool. “What happened?” 

And all humour had drained from his face, his pupils hardening to flat beads. If it hadn’t been for the sudden shift in mood, you’d have gone forever traipsing on a fantasy. No; it was the tremor, the breaks in his once haughty inflection – idiosyncrasies that could’ve only been described as sympathy-triggered. It’d built upon your doubt, your already wavering faith, to strike you out of your mental regression. 

“The Alchemax bomb, lassie.”)

He had a bucket for you to throw up in, slick with panicked sweat, unable to hold on to anything as your body oscillated between materialities. He’d made no comment on how your hands fell through the floor, or the knees that started to sink alongside them. Your fault, your fault. Any thought besides blame hadn’t time to develop, recycled for fuel to keep the cognition running. Your fault. Your fault. All this time. 

(Who could you have turned to? You’d been praying to deities who’ve long since left.)

Night bled, and the man had retired. You’d stayed plastered to the ground, crouched over a slosh of your purged innards. The foulness hardly moved you; it’d felt good to punish yourself in that way. You’d taken to being your own arbiter, and such was one of the many reparations to come. 

(You’d shunned the voice that insisted you deserve none of it. If you hadn’t been so ambitious, so blind to the flaws–) 

You’d wanted to leave. So desperately that the wish had seized every cell in you, shaking them with a vigour unparallel to even celestial fury. You’d wanted to leave. There’d been nothing for you to divert your efforts to after learning the truth. Nothing you could have done to fix it. You’d wanted to leave. To anywhere but there.

Please. Please. Please. 

Just this one thing. 

The air warped.

You hadn’t noticed it immediately, still wrapped in your own misery. Scratchy skin accredited to grief, you kept rocking in place, bathing in muggy sobs. But it’d only grown worse, like a fraying fabric chafing along every appendage. Your dirty nails dug into your palms.

The friction peaked, rubbing you raw. You’d heaved in large gulps of oxygen, pulling at your flesh like it could’ve stopped it. Your jaw had unhinged, teeth clamping down on your thumb to muffle the overstimulated scream that’d threatened to break. Tears sealed your lash lines shut. 

Almost a second later, it stopped, interrupted by the blare of car horns. 

And, when you’d opened your eyes, you found that you were someplace else entirely.

Your fingers graze along something rough. At first, it’s easy to mistake as your jeans, the denim hardened in places with lack of care. 

The space seems to have shrunk since Miguel fell asleep, slumping inwards, its rock walls poking your elbows and curved spine with a clinical brutality. It’s difficult to imagine how he feels; twice your size, unused to fitting those muscles through tight squeezes. Disastrous still, the low creak of the steel arch above puts a timer on your misfortune. The topic of your demise is of increasing relevance. 

Perhaps he drifted off for that exact reason. To hinge on ignorance; an avoidance of this waiting game. Or, more credibly, to force you into a figurative detention. Think about what you’ve done, and what I’m asking of you. 

In any case, it’s working. The trauma you’ve tried repressing thus far rushes through your conscience, carving gaping canals of remorse, lapping at its banks to keep it fresh. You’re convinced your heart could give out, wrenched in innumerable directions, the only respite afforded being the glitches that rip through you. You deserve to stay here, but he doesn’t. He’s always only sought what was right. 

(You can fix it, do this one thing.

Though you can’t grasp where to begin.)

You pinch the fabric, tugging at it in a nervous tick. You don’t feel the tension across your calf, an observation that grows stranger the harder you pull. Reaching over with your free hand, you smooth over your pants. They’re still level with your shin bone, unmoved. 

Huh. 

There’s a mortifying moment where you fear that it’s Miguel’s suit you’re fiddling with, before taking into account that it’s impossible to twist the nanotechnology. 

And it’s too close in to be a wall.

You delicately trace the surface with your pinky, searching for any discernible edge, intent on mapping out the overall shape to deduce its origins. Your arms wave about in a frantic fashion, but to your bewilderment, you find no real boundary. Weirder yet, it appears to slice through your shoe and a portion of Miguel's thigh. 

Feels like–

Your stomach lurches, broiling in a bold concoction of thrill and trepidation. It throws you off guard, your brain lagging behind the reality your body already accepts. You know what it could be, having undergone the phenomena in several situations similar. An answered prayer during your lowest points – back at the man’s bunker, a few times since then.

Nerves humming with electric fervency, you tamp your hope into something more manageable, unable to handle another blow should this turn out poorly. Or – comparably – should you succeed; if this is, indeed, a portal. Your resolve trembles with the strength of a baby bird's wing, missing the survival instincts that once bolstered it. 

(What would it mean for you?)

Biting your lip, you plunge your fist through to the other side. 

It comes in contact with something cold, unlike anything in your little cave. Cold, glossy and… crinkly. A plastic bag of sorts, packed full of a pulpy filling. You’re tempted to draw away, disgusted, but redirect that intensity into inspecting instead.

The bag rests upon an uneven floor, marred by pebbles that lend a sense of ruggedness to the place. Outdoors. Downright filthy, too; judging by the clammy residue that sticks to your knuckles. Bile nudges up your oesophagus, inspired by the unidentified refuse you’re granted access to. Squalid; a dumpster, probably. Decorated in bursting trash bags.

But then–

Mooring yourself upon Miguel’s abdomen, you dip your forearm further in. The static off the portal’s perimeter sings with discordant vibrations, its intensity bordering on painful. It prickles the fine hairs along your limb, scouring any goosebumps raised with a grating ferocity. You stifle the whimper that arises as a consequence.

Your fingers dip under the trash, grazing something that makes you pause. Rubber. Ring-like. 

The day pass? 

Swallowing, you jerk it towards you. It doesn’t budge, stuck under the refuse. 

(It occurs to you to give up. The moral dilemma its purpose poses is abundantly clear.)

Hooking all four digits around its circumference, you pull harder. The portal eats at you, hostile to the foreign intrusion. Any longer and you’re afraid it’ll cut your arm clean off, right under where that gutter almost did the same. Your adrenaline had been enough to numb the torturous incident then, both physically and in memory – and though you lack that direct threat to your life now, the setup is much the same. A situation where you’re finally in control, a reclamation to the morality you’ve long since lost. It’s personal – the scolding he’d given you like a knife to old wounds. 

The prospect fuels the surge you need, distending through your biceps, reinforcing their efforts as you finally yank the bracelet out. The portal makes no noise when it zips back shut, but you feel the lull, its energy abandoning you to wallow, alone again. Or, not alone; you gently settle between Miguel’s legs, careful not to disturb him. 

There’s a stark silence that passes afterward, a line of astonishment keeping it intact. You allow it, needing time to process the staunch implications of the day pass sagging upon your lap. Its lilac hue gives a faint light to your surroundings, illuminating the cranny you’ve only been able to picture so far. It’s about what you expected – save for the resting face of your companion. 

He looks good. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t usually, but the peace that graces his features compliments him, rounding out any harsher edges. You trail your gaze up his neck, to the jaw that points to a pronounced chin. Lips that pout even over retracted fangs. An aquiline, masculine nose. It fits him, you think. Lends itself to the fluffy hair that frames his sharp cheekbones. You linger on it probably longer than you should. 

That is, until you catch sight of the blooming discolouration marring his temple. 

It’s partially obscured in shadow, yellowing along the ends and purple in places you don’t have the advantage of properly observing. Yet, the bruise communicates all it needs to, loud and explicit. You’re not in a position to procrastinate any longer; you’ve already spent a year running from fate. It might make you sick, your organs tying together in a nauseating knot – and every impulse in you might scream against it. To run away; to leave him here for dead. Live the rest of your life in peace – it’s only right, it’s only right.

Then, you remember what he’d said to you. 

(“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?” 

“It’s not fair.” He didn’t skip a beat, tone laced with a hard understanding. “But it’s fact.”) 

You really hate him sometimes. 

Bracing yourself, you shake his shoulder. He’s up in an instant, snatching your wrist in one warm palm. You wait for the tired mist over his awareness to melt, a stone lodged in your throat.

“¿Qué es?” He whisper-shouts. “What?”

“I–” Your voice warbles. Pathetic. “I have something for you.” 

He squints. 

(Rightfully so.) 

Breathing through the hesitation that strikes the rungs of your ribcage, you hold up the day pass. 

He doesn’t realise what you mean immediately, flicking back and forth between the bracelet and your furrowed brows. Realistically, his doubt can’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, yet you’re eternally paralysed within the anticipatory dread – a fossilised mosquito captured in amber. Even when he does eventually catch up, you stay still, letting him pilfer the key to your freedom and watching as his drowsiness sharpens into a pointed resolve. 

And you don’t stray, not for the entire stretch during which he tinkers with its components. It’s not his aforementioned allure that encourages it, nor the sudden flashbacks to your earlier breakdown. Ridiculously enough, it’s satisfaction – a contentment at having finally defied your self-interests. You look to him like you had the sun back home. For validation on the path you’re headed towards, a small hint of a job well done. You’re too cautious of your own pride, betrayed by it more often than anyone else, but he–

He knows what it means to be a true spider-hero. 

You hope that one day, you will too. 

“Lyla?” Miguel demands into his watch, testing to see whether the spare parts of your contribution resolved its issues. 

“You’re alive! Huh,” A miniscule projection of his LYrate lifeform approximation blinks into existence, tilting her heart-shaped glasses down as if to punctuate her disbelief. 

“I came across a few obstacles, but I’ve got the Wr-” He catches your wince. “Our target. Set coordinates for 928. I’m coming home.” 

“Gotcha. Can you wait until Reilly coughs up a twenty, though?” 

“You bet on my survival?” 

“Silver linings!” 

“Lyra.” 

“Okay! Alright. Home it is, boss.” 

“And tell Jess to be on stand-by with an empty cell,” He adds, lowering his pitch to one more understated. You can’t lie and imply your appreciation – no matter what he does to soften your circumstance, it retains its somberness. You’re going back to that desolate wasteland, and this time, you have no will in ever leaving. 

“Figured you’d want to get her in the go-home machine as soon as possible. No?” 

“No.” He asserts, the decision rumbling from deep within his chest. You steel yourself against the shiver that wobbles through you. “I’m not done with her, yet.” 

“Explain something to me, would you?” 

You smell of lemon antiseptic and dirt, arms wrapped in fresh bandages from shoulder to wrist. It’s an unpleasant combination, exacerbating the headache that gnashes on your skull under these fluorescent lights – darkness having been an ally to your concussion. The acetaminophen they’d given you at the med-bay has done nothing to aid your pain, and you’re convinced that the only thing that would work is a long, hot bath. 

That is to say, you’re not ready to have this conversation. 

When you don’t respond, Miguel stands from his seat, exercising the prominent muscles in his legs. His sweats do their best to conceal them, but you’d been in close quarters with him for far too long to have forgotten the way they bulge and shift with every move. If you focus, you can sense them now, pressing against your ass, pinning you in place. 

He huffs. You doubt your glassy-eyed ogle is doing you any favours. 

“Can’t make any promises.” You murmur, before deciding against it. It probably isn’t the best time to test him. “I’ll try my best.”

It’s the first time you see him in casual clothing, which changes him – much like sleep does. Outside of his suit, he looks younger, on a pedestal closer to common man. A white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, loose pants. Lighter colours, in complement to his bronzed complexion. 

Get a hold of yourself. 

“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of responsibility.” He starts. Wrong, you want to say, because your breakouts have always been based on pure luck. “You threaten falling into floors, to phase through walls. Except, when we were trapped back on 15. You silently accepted our fate, despite having every means to prevent it. It’s telling, in my opinion.” 

You nod, already aware of what he’s getting at. “Sounds like you don’t need me to explain, so–” 

“You can’t control your powers, can you?” 

“Bit late in figuring that one out.”

“Then how’d you come about the day pass?” He presses, not so much questioning anymore.

As it stands, you have two options: 

To lie. It’s easy, natural after a full year of it. Your interrogator doesn’t need to know the truth if all he’s going to do is send you back, and with his newfound revelation about the nature of your abilities, it could prove advantageous to keep their full scope from his knowledge. You don’t owe him shit. 

That’s Wraith talking, of course.

The you you want to be, however, beckons for candour. There pervades the confessional once more, a box drawn around you, prompting you to relieve yourself of all your secrets so you can be cleansed. Religion – a fickle thing, but it feels right, here. 

Besides, who knows when you’ll be able to talk to anyone again. 

“I’m not… entirely sure.” Your frown tucks underneath your teeth, and you suck on your lip while trying to formulate a coherent answer. “It’s happened previously. It’s like a portal, except it’s invisible and appears on the irregular occasion. I was thinking of ho– my earth when it materialised by my hand.” 

His forehead creases, drawing in incredulously. 

“You can create gateways into other dimensions?” 

“Not quite. My working theory is that, somehow, the boundaries between worlds are thinning. I think I mentioned how my intangibility works?” He gives an affirming blink. “My atoms find the quickest way through something, so maybe they’re able to do the same through, ya know, the literal fabric of space-time.” 

It really does sound idiotic to put out loud. 

Miguel cups his face, rubbing away the weariness gathered in his wrinkles. There’s a plaster over the contusion on his forehead, overcast by rowdy tresses of wet hair. You do your best to suppress the image of him in the shower, steeling your expression into one of indifference. 

“That holds up. This started a year ago?”

“Yeah,” 

“There was a thing with a super-collider.” 

“A… thing.” The scientist in you cringes. Though, you have no room to talk. 

“All I’m getting from this is that, if I were to send you home, you could just high-tail out of there whenever the opportunity arises.” 

His distrust shouldn’t shock you as much as it does. You ponder the best way to go about this, yet your tongue betrays you, speaking before you can lasso it back under command. 

“In theory, yes.” You pause, waiting for it to sink in. “But I won’t.” 

Some grand gesture of faith that was, you imbecile. 

“Sure.” He stresses, unconvinced. 

Taking a step forward, you crane your neck to meet his eye. Patchouli catches the office draft, clouding your head until all that comes from you is unintelligible nonsense. 

“I’m sick of this game of cat and mouse. I don’t want to be the bad guy any more.” Your thunderous heartbeat drowns the effect of your proclamation. It’s hard to tell whether you come across as genuine or not. “All my life, I’ve only ever done what was wrong, what was selfish.” You rephrase his earlier reproach. “Let me be right, just this once.” 

Your conviction sways when he tenses. No; this doesn’t feel honest, not even to you. 

You want to be good. With all the fire of every star in this goddamn universe, blazing hot and colliding to expel devastation upon its neighbours. It shrinks up in your core, skyrocketing in temperature. It verges on explosion; a supernovae, life-giving. You want. You want. You want.

But, you’re afraid you don’t know how. 

“We can make a deal?” You offer, plummeting to new depths of uncertainty. A deal requires mutual credence; for every skipped vow, you’ll lose out on something too. “Let me stay, just until I learn how to be the hero you need me to be. After that, I’ll go home – I swear it. And you’ll never have to worry about me again.” 

He gives no blatant indication as to whether he’s seriously considering it. His head dips, and he turns his back to you, likely calculating collective factors to form the best solution. The way you perceive it, though – this elongated reticence:

He sees no other choice. 

chapter eight

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[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Jean Hagen (The Asphalt Jungle, Singin' in the Rain)—a shimmering star in the cinema firmament! Absolutely iconic as the villainess Lina in singin’ in the rain and makes the picture, to be honest. Nobody played funny-evil-gorgeous the way she does. and that voice!

Nargis Dutt (Shree 420, Barsaat, Awaara)— I first loved her because she played such strong characters in everything I saw her in, but beyond that, she has a natural charm to her. She's a Bollywood icon for a reason!

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Jean Hagen:

Riddle and you shall receive! How could we forget about Jean Hagen! I love a woman who can play really delightfully evil, and it's very fun seeing her other roles after you've seen her as Lina Lamont. Also, she's got an adorable smile and a gorgeous chin.

Her Oscar-nominated performance as Lina Lamont is a wonderful example of being talented enough to make an unsympathetic character difficult to hate. Admittedly her looks also help a lot - in so many films she would have been the romantic lead and it's a shame Lina didn't get a redemption arc.

Had a sexy sexy alto register so when she was being dubbed as Lina Lamont by Debbie Reynolds she was dubbing Debbie Reynolds dubbing her. Shoutout to Betty Noyes also.

Linked gifset

did. is anyone. can we please bring attention to her in drag. please god and thank you

If we bring a little joy into your humdrum lives, it makes us feel as though our hard work ain't been in vain for nothin!

Nargis Dutt:

[earthstellar]

Megatron: "Your defeat here was foreseen by the ancients. What was it they wrote? The weak shall perish?!"

Optimus Prime: "Do not believe everything you read."

Episode: TFP - One Shall Fall

---

This is such a great exchange, because Megatron is losing his composure in an effort to bring about a prophecy of devastation, while Optimus finally obtains clarity and comes to realise that Megatron in his current state of mind cannot be saved.

Optimus isn't just referring to the prophecy itself, but he is calling back to the early days of his communications with Megatronus, the messages they began to exchange with one another while speaking about the injustices playing out around them, their long letters to one another that eventually brought Orion to visit Kaon, the beginning of their shared initial dream.

Back then, he believed Megatron to be a prophet of sorts, a speaker of truth to the brutally corrupt powers maintaining the system of oppression that bogged down Cybertronian people for so long.

Megatron sees himself as the prophet destined to bring about a pre-determined destiny steeped in the power of Unicron, while Optimus is mourning the loss of his own hope in his friend to ever be the bringer of peace that he, once upon a time, hoped he could be. Or hoped they could be, together.

Optimus still sees Megatron as Megatronus, deep inside-- Or he had, up until this point.

But Raf has been poisoned by dark energon, Ratchet (while under the influence of synth-en) told Optimus directly to his face that he needs to take the shot already and end this war (and Megatron) for good, and it culminates in this exchange in this episode.

The specific choice of words here is possibly Optimus speaking as Orion, expressing his disappointment in what Megatronus has become, a figure of evil beyond redemption that he so hoped he could offer his friend.

But Megatronus no longer exists as he did, back in the messages they exchanged in their earlier days, back in the holovids of a gladiator seeking to utilise his fame to encourage a much overdue revolution.

Optimus has lost some hope here; He can no longer believe that Megatronus can be revived from underneath what Megatron has become.

He no longer has the hope that their letters and exchanges originally inspired; He can no longer revisit those words Megatronus so carefully and passionately sent him, encrypted ten times over to prevent a Senate raid in Kaon or Iacon, secret letters full of hope for a better future.

What better future is there, with their planet dead and now with Earth on the line as well?

Optimus-- or rather, Orion, from underneath the heavy weight of the Matrix-- is still speaking to Megatronus here. Even though he now understands that Megatronus is long lost.

He cannot believe the great desire for social justice that Megatronus expressed and once wrote to him about at great length, because look at what has become of it all. Look at what his friend has become.

Orion is an archivist; He places great value in what he reads. He placed such great trust in Megatronus, the fate of their world has indeed changed as a result of both of their actions, and Orion was directly inspired by Megatronus.

But that inspiration is now tainted; Those memories are marred by the realisation of how far from those ideals Megatron has strayed.

Is it possible to re-read those messages that are no doubt saved for an eternity in Optimus' databanks, possibly even part of the Matrix's own memory core now, without pangs of sorrow and guilt for where it all led?

Megatronus spoke of great, wonderful things that could have healed the wounds of their people.

But instead, their people are cast out among the stars, their homeworld dead and decaying, their diaspora left to battle an unending war.

He can no longer have faith in Megatronus, for Megatron has only one goal, and in this moment, that goal is to destroy.

What happened to all those words about justice, freedom, a fairer society, a better balance among all classes and castes, a shot at real opportunity for those left oppressed and abused under a Functionist system?

Deep down inside, Orion can no longer believe what he was told so long ago.

And Megatron is so far gone that this may not even register to him; He sees Optimus as a separate entity, a perpetual enemy, the living embodiment of all that prevents him from achieving despotic control over whatever remains, a block in the path to potential restoration of their world and people-- Under his control, of course.

I just really love the specific phrasing, here.

"Do not believe everything you read."

Megatron, in his addled state of mind, may not have registered this statement for what it truly is.

And that makes it even more sad, because it proves Optimus/Orion completely right.

Those words they shared so genuinely so long ago may as well have been lies for all that has happened since.

It takes a hell of a lot to make Optimus/Orion lose hope or faith in even former allies.

And this scene, as quickly as it goes by, is Optimus directly declaring that he can no longer entertain Orion's hopes in regards to Megatronus' ultimate fate anymore.

Or at least, that's how I interpret this scene.

God, TFP had some really great, really subtle writing.

[megadoomingir]

Heyo this is my first time reaching out. I've been reading and RE reading Stop me for about a year or so now and I LOVE IT!! It made me want to rewatch TFP lol I feel like you really out did yourself on this story and I love how your doing his redemption arc justice, you handle it soo well its just (Chef's kiss.) Tho I do have a question, nothing bad just curious. Will Optimus and Starscream become a couple by the end of the story or before the end. Cause with the way they interact with each other and their dynamic, it be starting to give me Star/Optimus vibes.... Or maybe I'm just reading too much into it and looking for something that's not their. Sorry for the question, just curious. ❤️ 💙

Hello~ Don’t be sorry for asking a question; you don’t need to be sorry.

Thank you for being such a dedicated reader. I appreciate the support towards my work. It’s a painful process to push through and put this story together, but I’ve been told it’s been worth it.

In relation to your question: you are not the only one to feel such vibes. Unfortunately, Stop Me is not a romance fic as some have asked, hoped, begged it to be. Starscream’s and Optimus’s story together goes beyond the confines of what Stop Me is and I’m focusing on the boundaries of where they are at now in respect to that. Stop Me is not their stage to embark on a romantic performance. They’re too busy being traumatized.

.

.

.

.

PS, I’ve been asked to write romance before. I’m apparently quite good at it. XD

[fantastic-nonsense]

honestly I think if you complain about Star Wars focusing too much on the Skywalkers because "the galaxy is bigger than one family" and "not everything has to be connected" you have fundamentally missed the point George Lucas was trying to make with the original movies.

Star Wars is VERY deliberately an optimistic, cyclical, and myth-based family drama structured around a single family's story, and that purposefully generational story is the story George Lucas saw as the core point and purpose of Star Wars:

“It’s the missing link,” Lucas says. “Once it’s there, it’s a complete work, and I’m proud of that. I do see it, tonality-wise, as two trilogies. But they do, together, form one epic of fathers and sons.” [x] The first three movies had all kinds of issues. [Disney] looked at the stories and they said we want to make something for the fans. So I said all I want to do is tell the story of what happened. You know, it started here and it went there. It's all about generations and it's about, you know, the issues of fathers and sons and grandfathers; it's a family soap opera. I mean, ultimately. We call it a space opera, but people don't realize it's actually a soap opera. And it's all about family problems — it's not about spaceships. [x]

He also wrote Star Wars for the express purpose of attempting to teach people that everything is interconnected and everything we do has an impact that resonates beyond our own lives:

Paul Duncan: "It takes a lot of people to build the ark." George Lucas: "Yeah. And it needs to be done through reason, love, and compassion, not through force. The films are trying to stress the idea that everything is interconnected. I like to make movies that are complex, but it's not obvious to people unless they start digging into it. Most people don't realize it and can't grasp the whole entity because they're focusing on four or five pieces out of 200, and often they don't want to hear about the other pieces because it requires additional thought and ideas outsides of the films. There are cycles and cycles in the story and the characters throughout all six episodes. There are cycles of the same thing being repeated over and over with different groups of people, and the outcomes change because the characters have grown or changed over the story. The repitition shows the characters' development. [x]

GEORGE LUCAS: At some point you do have to become an independent person. And it’s about learning to let go of your — your needs, so to speak, and — and think of the needs of others. BILL MOYERS: So “Star Wars” is — yes, it’s about cosmic, galactic, epic struggles, but it’s at heart about a family. The large myth set in a local family. GEORGE LUCAS: Well, in most — most myths center around characters and — and a hero, and it’s — it’s about how you — how you conduct yourself as you go through the hero’s journey, which everyone goes through. It’s especially relevant when you go through this transition phase. Most societies it’s when you’re 13 or 14. In our society it’s sort of 18 to 22, somewhere in there, that you must let go of your past and must, you know, embrace your future and — and in your own self, by yourself, figure out what it is — what — what path you’re going to go down........... .......BILL MOYERS: And what do stories do for us in that sense? What do myths... GEORGE LUCAS: They try to show us our place. Myths help you to have your own hero’s journey, find your individuality, find your place in the world, but hopefully remind you that you’re part of a whole, and that you must also be part of the community, and — and think of the welfare of the community above the welfare of yourself. [x]

Lucas structured this tale in two ways: through Anakin's deconstructed hero's journey (in the form of a Greek tragedy) and Luke's straightforward hero's journey (culminating with Anakin's redemption) and showing us how this one family's multi-generational story had a huge impact that went beyond their own lives and echoed throughout the galaxy. That was the point!

While there are plenty of other stories not centered on the Skywalkers that can and should be told within the universe, ultimately people need to keep in mind that Lucas was not shy about his intentions in making the movies: he WANTED to write a straightforward retelling of "old stories," and he wanted to do it through the lens of a personal family narrative.

All of the Star Wars material that focuses on non-Skywalkers (which has ALWAYS been around, Rogue One and TLJ and The Mandalorian and Andor and etc etc etc were NOT the first ones to do that) is great, but it's a bonus! An add-on to the core story and point of the franchise! It's not that they're unimportant, because they're not, but at some point it should stop surprising people when the Skywalkers and/or the events of the original six movies get referenced or utilized.

It just bothers me when I hear these complaints because like...if you don't like the Skywalkers, why do you even watch Star Wars? None of those other stories would exist without them! Please just go enjoy another sci-fi franchise and stop complaining that the main characters of Star Wars are being focused on or are popping up in places it makes total sense for them to be!

[teojira]

[ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴛᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴀʀ]

ᴛᴇᴏᴊɪʀᴀ (ᴇꜱᴛ 2ᴋ24)

《Introduction》 +

《! Please read me !》

¤ Hi! My name is Teddy and this blog as it says on the tin, is a multifandom blog! I'm into a wide range of characters and interests, so I'm sure I have something that'll strike your fancy!

¤ This is an 18+ blog. This is to keep me and you safe should you be a minor. Please stay away! I can't police you, but use common sense.

¤ I will not deal with discourse here, don't like what I write or who I write for? Block me and move on, I don't care.

¤ I am a woman person of color, no hatred towards ANY group is tolerated here. It will end in an IP address block.

¤ My interests fluctuates alot, I have severe adhd and some characters will get special treatment depending on which mood I am in!

¤ I'm always down to chat and make conversation but please remember I'm human and I have a job outside of tumblr, this is just a hobby for me! Please be kind and understanding.

《RULES/GUIDELINES》

¤ Every character I will write romantic ideas for must be of age. Any minor will ONLY be platonic. (Exception being the tmnt brothers, they are aged up accordingly.)

¤I write comfort, fluff, angst, pretty much anything tbh.

¤ My own rule of thumb is that if a furry character is sentient, can consent and is of age, and speaks/thinks/acts like a human, it is akin to monster loving. (Harkness scale pretty much). I don't care for your take on it, block me if you disagree!

¤ I will not write nsfw if you are on anon, your age must be somewhere on your blog. I will delete it from my askbox.

¤ A please and a thank you go a long way!

¤ I usually write with she/her pronouns or gender neutral pronouns.

¤ I am not looking for critique, this is all for fun. This is a heavy boundary, I will block if you do this.

¤ NSFW will be tagged accordingly so you can black list, if I forget to tag something, kindly let me know. I am not responsible for your experience beyond that, act accordingly if I write something you don't like.

¤ Please include some details with your requests, such as character and a general idea on what you'd like me to write! Please don't write an essay in my ask box.

¤ Things I will not write: Pregnancy, Underage, harder kinks (Scat/Noncon/vore/piss), Character harming reader physically, Parenthood, character x character.

Not sure if I write something? Just shoot me a text!

¤ Do NOT share my writing anywhere else (Quotev, Ao3, wattpad, Tiktok). A Simple reblog is appreciated here and only on tumblr.

¤ Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! It's nice to know something I wrote was loved!

And finally what we've all been waiting for, put your hands together for the :

《 Fandoms I write for》

Genshin impact

Honkai Star rail

Transformers

Tmnt

Monsterverse (platonic only for the Kaijus)

Planet of the apes (remake) (NO nsfw)

My hero academia (Dabi and Tomura only)

Demon slayer

Overwatch

Twisted wonderland

Devil may cry

Apex legends (Revenant only)

Fire emblem three houses

Puss in boots: the last wish (Death only)

Stranger things (Eddie Munson only)

Red dead redemption 2

The Wolf among us (Bigby only)

Five nights at freddys: Security Breach

Sonic (platonic for everyone except Shadow)

DC comics/ DCEU

Horror icons/slashers

Countless other video game characters probably lmao.

Though I write for many fandoms, I'm more comfortable with specific characters so I'll let you know if I'm comfortable enough to write for them!

Don't see a character you're sweet on? No worries, shoot me a text and I'll see if I know anything about them to whip something up for ya!

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴏɴ!

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

[hypothermic-dream]

I

In the void where shadows whisper,

Where light refracts through fractured faith,

A silent dialogue—dissonant, distant—

Emerges between the echo of a god

And the ghost of a penitent heart.

Did I, in my spirals of doubt,

Unravel the threads of our covenant,

Or was it You, who, in the stillness,

Withdrew the breath of divinity,

Leaving me to suffocate

In the vacuum of Your absence?

Is this chasm a construct of my feeble mind,

Or an abyss You carved in cold indifference?

In my fervor, did I cast You aside,

A shadow burned into memory’s ash,

Or did You, with the precision of eternity,

Erase Yourself from my soul?

Was it my hand that trembled,

As I tore the veil of sacred communion,

Or did You shroud Yourself in the mist,

A distant star collapsing inward,

Swallowed by the gravity of Your own silence?

I wander through the labyrinth of my thoughts,

Tracing the contours of abandonment,

Each step a question, each breath a doubt—

Have I become the architect of my forsaking,

Or are You the silence that dwells

In the void of my unanswered cries?

In this dance of solitude and longing,

I am both the seeker and the lost,

Forever bound to the question that remains—

Have I forsaken You, my God,

Or have You, in Your infinite quiet,

Forsaken me?

II

It was I who first turned away—

A seed of doubt sown in the garden,

A whisper that became a storm.

From Adam’s trembling hand, I took

The fruit of knowing, bitter sweet,

And with each bite, I forged the chain,

A link of sin that binds me still,

Pulling me further from Your grace.

With every transgression, I carved the path,

A winding road of shadowed steps,

Leading me deeper into the night,

Where Your voice grows faint,

And my guilt resounds, endless, loud.

It is not You who has forsaken me,

But I who drift, a soul adrift—

The weight of sin heavy in my chest,

A burden I cannot shed,

For it is the mark of my own making.

In my pride, I built the wall,

Brick by brick of willful acts,

Each one a stone cast in defiance,

Until the chasm yawned wide,

And I stood alone, on the edge of despair.

I am the sinner, truly lost,

Wandering far from Your light—

It was I who severed the bond,

Since that first betrayal,

And with each sin, I grow more distant,

From the mercy I once knew.

III

And now, in the cavernous abyss of my own making,

Where the echoes of my sins resound,

I stand naked before the truth—

I am not worthy of Your mercy,

For I have woven my existence

From the threads of indulgence and deceit.

I bartered eternity for the fleeting taste of sin,

Each act a blasphemy, a betrayal carved in flesh.

In my hedonistic descent, I forsook You,

Turned my back on the light, craving the shadows,

Where the pleasures of the flesh

Promised escape from the void within.

Yet the void remains, and I am its architect—

A being who chose the abyss over salvation,

Who sought solace in the very darkness I now curse.

I reveled in the hypocrisy of my desires,

Condemned in word what I worshipped in deed,

A human beast, all too eager to abandon the divine

For the filthy comforts of my own corruption.

I am no penitent pilgrim on a path to redemption,

But a hollow vessel, brimming with deceit,

A mask of piety shrouding the rot beneath—

The truth of my nature, hypocritical, vile,

A mockery of the faith I once claimed to hold.

Hell was not merely created for souls like mine,

It is the inevitable consequence of my existence—

A furnace stoked by the very sins I cherish,

Each flame a reflection of the lust I harbored,

The lies I whispered, the betrayals I enacted.

And in that inferno, I will not merely burn,

But be purified in the agony of my own making.

Let the flames consume this wretched husk,

For I am beyond redemption, beyond grace—

A soul who forfeited its place in the light

For the fleeting ecstasies of the forbidden,

A creature unworthy of the mercy

I so arrogantly spurned.

I deserve to be devoured by the fire,

To feel the searing kiss

IV

Though I am poised at the precipice of the inferno,

And my sins mark me for eternal damnation,

I still reach into the abyss for the hope of Your mercy.

This damned world has sculpted me from innocence

Into a creature marred by darkness and despair,

The test was crueler than I ever imagined,

For it is not the world alone but the very essence of my soul

That was twisted and broken by its trials.

Yet, despite the corruption, my true self remains—

A fragment of Your divine essence,

An innocent child, lost in this earthly purgatory.

The sins that plague me are but the scars of a test too harsh,

A testament to the world’s capacity to distort the pure.

In my weakness, I am crushed under the weight of temptation,

A vessel shattered by the very darkness I sought to escape.

I was a child of light, meant for celestial realms,

Yet this damned existence twisted me into a wretched form,

The world’s relentless trials, more than mere tests,

Unveiled the fragility of my being,

Reducing my spirit to a vessel of sin and hypocrisy.

This essence, born of Your divine spark,

Now wanders lost, marred by the very darkness

That was meant to be a mere shadow of its true self.

In the face of my wretchedness,

I am a mere echo of what I was meant to be,

Crushed beneath the weight of my own failings,

A creature caught between the celestial and the infernal.

Before the enormity of my failings, I am but a speck—

A soul yearning for the light of Your forgiveness,

For Your mercy is my last hope against the encroaching void.

I beseech You to see beyond the facade of sin,

To find within me the remnant of the child You created,

The soul destined for Your heavenly grace,

And grant me redemption in the face of my despair.

For in Your infinite mercy, I seek the light

That can heal even the most fractured spirit.

[perdamian]

no bc kylo ren and hux really had the potential to be one of the most compelling star wars relationships like WHY did they never get to actually fight one another. what is the point in pitting two characters against each other like that and then completely abandoning that dynamic?? their conflict was so lame?? you’re telling me snoke died and all power went unflinchingly to kylo? after his disgrace on crait? and hux didn’t even attempt a coup? even tho he was fully in charge of the first order’s military and ran the stormtrooper program? say what you want about the prequels but at least they put weight into the politics beyond “good guy vs bad guy”!

also hux being a mole just to take kylo down (out of character in the first place but whatever) just to have have a completely new character kill him… especially when they gave kylo a redemption arc?? complete and total wasted opportunity for a genuinely interesting villain vs villain dynamic! a wasted opportunity for meaningful betrayal!