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#hurricane excerpt
akindofmagictoo · 1 year
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manuscript search tag game
thank you @klywrites :D
my words are radio, comfort, ocean, food
radio
comfort (Hurricane draft 3) (theella snuggles!)
The moon, high in the sky, cast a soft white glow over the castle battlements. Theo snored softly beside her. She smiled and turned gingerly over to curl up against him. Though any movement made her ribs throb, and she almost lay down on her broken wrist, it would hurt whatever she did. She might as well pretend like she was comfortable. She might as well lie close to Theo like she wanted to.
He draped an arm over her—still asleep, she was sure—and she snuggled closer, her breathing slowing back down. She was safe here.
ocean (Hurricane draft 3) (hahahah i’d almost forgotten i wrote this in)
Theo awoke to find himself staring up at bare wooden boards. He’d had a headache earlier, but it seemed to have mostly subsided. That was nice.
His view of the ceiling was interrupted by the golden-eyed girl he’d seen earlier. He didn’t remember much of that interaction, if there had been one at all, but unfortunately he did remember the first thought he’d had when he saw her, when the rational part of his brain had not been around to debate. He’d mistaken her for a mermaid, on the evidence that she was in the ocean and that she was beautiful. He hoped his embarrassment wasn’t showing on his face as she peered curiously down at him.
“Aella! I told you to give him space.”
food (Hurricane draft 3) (Laila my beloved)
Just up ahead was a food storeroom. While Laila had been guarding Aella’s cell, she’d seen no evidence that the girl was being fed. No one had brought food, no one had taken any away. There had been a water skin hanging in the corner of the cell, but no food. She briefly wondered if Anvindr had plans to feed her later, if he was merely withholding food as a punishment, but she didn’t care. Four days was too long to leave anyone without food, whatever she’d done.
@talesofsorrowandofruin @vellichor-virgo @etjwrites @lowslore @muddshadow your turn, if you so choose! your words are presence, impose, grace, imagine
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feltpoetry · 2 years
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“after he broke my heart, i began writing about him. i wrote and i wrote and i’ve described him as a hurricane, a drug, my universe. now that i’ve moved on, i don’t see him in that way anymore. he wasn’t anything above ordinary, he was just a boy. a boy who didn’t want to be with me and that’s that.”
excerpt from a book i’ll never write #781
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achilles-lycoris · 1 year
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A storm has blown through and left not in its wake
Rains and winds blowing
Ripping through trees and fields
In the aftermath we have been cut off from the outside world
Power and water a thing of the past
We have gone back in time suddenly
Now we spend our days locked in a haze
Some clean the streets
Others play old games to pass the time
I myself trap myself upon the pages of books
Distracting my brain from the harsh reality
Of the darkness all around me
Candles and flashlights flicker
I dream of the worlds I have been cut off from and am forced to make my own
I know not when it will all return to normal
I can only pray to whichever gods will listen
And hope that the darkness will soon be conquered
-Achilles
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Scrapped excerpt of a love in the eye of the hurricane
Fire Lord Yosor had sent his guard to check up on his son throughout the day. Not that he didn't trust the children, he could tell that four of the air nomad children, odd as it felt to think, could hold themselves in battle and defend themselves if needed. This was more for him and his nerves. The guard would come back every time looking awfully bemused and he would report.
“They’re chasing after a bird, Sir.”
“I think one of the red pandas that sat perched on one of the girls shoulders exchanged a rice cake for a piece of cloth and now they’re chasing it down thinking it was stolen, Sir.”
“They saved a koala sheep calf that had fallen into the river, Sir. I was about to intervene when The Prince helped with a quickly thought out plan.”
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I now know what it's like to lose a part of yourself
One you didn't even know to exist.
Instead of a warped reflection in a mirror
It's every midnight laugh to escape his lips
Every curve and roll of his spine
Rising and falling in his sleep.
Every lazy kiss
As short as it is deep.
The touches start to fade
Like the sunbleached photo on my dash.
You long to hear 'I love you' first
So he's not just saying it back.
There's dinner on the table
The only sounds are forks scratching plates,
And the occasional grunt or groan
When I recommend a date.
Whatever our souls may be made of
I thought his and mine were the same,
But judging by my loveless life
It was all just one big game.
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oftenwantedafton · 1 month
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Older - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader
Rating - Explicit
Warnings - sexual content
Excerpt -
He notices you right away.
New hire, young, fresh out of college. Energetic. Enthusiastic. A breathless sort of rambling when you talk for long periods of time that he finds charming. Pretty. He’s not blind.
He can’t imagine you’d be interested. Too many decades between you.
You can’t know the wanting that overwhelms him some nights.
Also available on AO3
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He notices you right away.
New hire, young, fresh out of college. Energetic. Enthusiastic. A breathless sort of rambling when you talk for long periods of time that he finds charming. Pretty. He’s not blind. Neither are the other men in the office. He hears the talk. In the bathroom. The breakroom. While waiting for the elevator to exit the office building. A married employee has you trapped against the corner of the lobby. You’re politely deflecting. He isn’t getting the hint. In the old days, when he’d used his real name, he would’ve killed the man without a second thought. But it’s not the old days. It’s the new. So he uses words instead. Still threatening. He’d never liked the man to begin with, his opinion after he’s harassed you dropping that much further. He sees the relief in your eyes when your coworker moves away.
He doesn’t follow up on this. Doesn’t use it as an excuse to make any advances towards you. He can’t imagine you’d be interested. Too many decades between you. He’s gone gray. Laugh lines starting to set in. Arthritis in overworked joints. He’s getting old and he absolutely despises that fact. So he remains polite and leaves it at that. You can’t know the wanting that overwhelms him some nights. When he finally surrenders thinking about your soft looking lips and your delicate hands. Climaxing embarrassingly quickly. In the shower. In bed, then back up to the bathroom to wash up afterwards. Looking into the mirror of the medicine cabinet. Pride still in the eyes, the shoulders. But he feels the passage of time leaving its mark on him.
Easter. You have no way of knowing what the headband with rabbit ears does to him. On anyone else they’d be childish, silly. On you they make him want to hunt you. Teeth sinking in. Predator and prey. He bites the inside of his cheek until bone severs the tissue and he tastes copper. Wonders what you’d taste like. Your mouth, the soft pink flesh between your thighs. You hand out plastic eggs to the other employees, to the job hopefuls. Candy. Other assorted trinkets for those with children at home. The one he’s handed has a little flocked rabbit pin. He shouldn’t be so touched. It has a place of honor on his desk beside his keyboard.
Another new hire. Young man. Attractive. It’s a tradition in the office to go out one Friday night a month. The new employee learns this. Inquires if you’ll be attending. Your eyes look to the middle aged man. He’s never gone. Maybe tonight he’ll change his mind.
***
He doesn’t like to drink. Impaired judgment doesn’t suit him. So he nurses a soda instead. The bar is loud. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Yes he does. There you are. The young man talking to you again. He wants to chase him off. But there’s no reason for it. No impropriety this time. Why shouldn’t this nice young couple be together?
You make your way to his side, abandoning the new hire. Darts in hand. A challenge. His aim is flawless. A dartboard in the security office of his previous job. Target reached each time. He counts the number of drinks you imbibe. Insists on taking you home. You surrender easily.
He drives you home. You’re still living at home with your parents. Working on saving up to pay off school loans. Your hand curling around his forearm when he pulls beside the curb. You don’t know the reason why he always wear long sleeves, of course, despite the hot, arid Hurricane weather. Can’t know the scars there. Relics from the past. He can smell the bar on you. Sour alcohol and stale cigarettes. Wonders what flavor the pink gloss you’d reapplied tastes like. He puts the car in park, then walks you to the door to make sure you’re safe.
Goes home and showers and lies down waiting for sleep that never comes.
***
The career counselor doesn’t typically frequent the break room. He prefers the privacy of his office. But you do. So there he is, nearly daily now. Your blossoming smile of greeting that warms something deep inside. He reprimands himself internally. Acting foolish like this. Getting soft in his old age. He should visit the restaurant more often. Get back to the work, the research. Remember the end goal. You’re moving to sit beside him. Handing over a brownie you’d baked yourself. It’s another Friday. You ask if he’ll be going out with the others to the pub again. He declines. You shrug and say you won’t be going either, then. He curses inwardly. He should have said yes. At least it would be an excuse to spend more time with you. Now he has this opportunity. You’re both free. He could invite you somewhere. Where would you want to go? Where could this possibly go? The moment passes unclaimed.
***
You invade his office early one morning. Seeking coffee. The offering in the break room just doesn’t taste the same, you claim. The sunlight streaming through the blinds surrounds you, outlining your figure, setting threads of hair aflame. He watches you lift the steaming glass pot and fill one of his stoneware mugs he’d brought from home. He doesn’t think coffee tastes as good when it’s in a disposable paper cup. You add a spoonful of powdered creamer and tear open two packets of sugar. Stir the drink for long moments. Were you hesitating? Waiting for something? His mouth is dry, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. You leave and he realizes he’s never seen you drink coffee even once before this.
You return with the cup rinsed later. Fingers brushing his as you hand the mug back. Shy smile. A look up through lashes. He’s so much taller than you are; taller than most of the other people that work in the office. He sees you eyeing the rabbit you’d gifted him still sitting on his desk. Words unsaid pressing against the back of his teeth. Fingers twitching. He aches. He wants. You’re already gone.
***
Lunch break. Knees colliding under the table. Arms brushing. Your bare one warm against his sleeved one. Your chairs ludicrously close together. There’s no way people haven’t noticed. Aren’t talking. Ugly rumors that he wishes were true. He has to suppress the urge to hand feed you. To dip his fingers between those lips, to have you lick them clean. The ache worsens. He needs you. Desperately.
You tell him your parents will be away on vacation for a week.
Just like that, just a light mention. A thread of possibility dangling in front of him again. He’d heard you’d rejected that handsome young man’s offer of a date. You’re not quite as popular now. No longer the shiny new girl. You follow the declaration of your parents’ absence up with saying you don’t like being in the house alone. There was his window. Offered right up on a platter. He’d be a fool not to accept. He remarks he’d be happy to come over if you got too afraid. Matching your light tone. Eyes much heavier. Weighted gaze. You ask for his phone number. Slide a napkin over for him to write on. It’s the wrong texture, his pen tearing through the thin material. You offer your palm instead. He holds it steady as he writes, cupping that soft hand for support while the black ink marks your skin. Your eyes on him. Seven numbers that take an eternity to write. He doesn’t want to stop touching you. He hears chairs dragging across linoleum. Lunch is over. He reluctantly releases his hold on you. Time to get back to work.
You call him that night. Your voice so small on the phone. Needy. You sound even younger. He doesn’t hesitate. Drives to your house. Doesn’t even need to knock on the door. You’re waiting there. For him. He still hasn’t changed out of his work clothes. You’re wearing a camisole and matching pajama bottoms. Pretty violet. The door closes behind him. Your breathing a little rapid. Hair still damp from a shower. He steps forward just as you move towards him. A collision somewhere in the middle. His mouth crashing against yours. Nothing tentative. Lips firm and assured. Tongue expert against yours. He’s imagined different versions of this moment. Fantasized. Now reality. As soft and sweet as he’d envisioned. He’d forgotten the feel of young skin, firm and full and smooth. So different from his own. Those calloused engineer’s fingers tracing all the soft places on your body. Between your legs. Warm and wet. Slick spread over your clit. A needy whimper. He’s on fire. Tastes his fingers. Heavenly nectar. He needs you to be sitting somewhere, or lying. He wants his face between those thighs.
Living room couch nearby. The closest surface. Pressing you down into the cushions. Palm against your breasts. Stroking peaked nipples. Straps of your top eased over shoulders. Mouth sucking each one. Your hips arching up to assist in sliding your pajama bottoms and panties off. His knees protest the feel of the hardwood floor beneath the thin area rug. He ignores the discomfort. Fingers working inside of you. Plucking. He’s used to handling tiny, delicate components. Necessary with some of the animatronic parts. Manipulating your body. Finding the correct frequency. Attuned. His mouth on your pussy. He loves the sounds you’re making. The feel of your fingers in his hair. Tell tale tremors along your thighs. He wonders if you ever touched yourself like he had, unable to resist the thought of this. Cumming with his false name on your lips. What if he told you his secret? Took you to his shuttered restaurant. Walked among the decaying remains. The workroom. Experiments. Research. The piles of journals. He still prefers the written word. Faster. Spilling words, spreading ink. Your noises louder. Shaking violently now. The burn of hair being pulled. How different you look after being taken apart. Mouth slack and wide. Pupils blown. A wild, untamed thing.
The snap of vertebrae. More aged protests. Sitting beside you now. You’ve got his pants undone. Straddling his hips. Lithe, agile. Cock guided inside the glistening depths. The little gasp of surprise. How full he’s stretching you. Your fingers laced behind his neck. Your face bending to his. His wide hands brace your hips. You fuck yourself down onto him. Lift. Drop down. Rocking. His hands now spread across your bouncing cheeks. Sheathed. Freed. That alias tearing from your throat. That’s who you’re fucking. The polite middle aged career counselor from work with the penchant for rabbits. Not the other. Not the restaurant owner, engineer, former husband and father. Not the murderer. But it wasn’t all his fault, was it? Not really. Not when you consider all the ramifications. What the other had had. Flaunting it constantly. He’d wanted it, too. His fair share. And look who had triumphed in the end. He was still here. The other not. So.
He’s thrusting up into you. Rough. Driving air from your lungs. Skin slapping together. All these years and he’s still so bitter. But you’re so sweet. Candy lips. That gorgeous tight pussy snug around his cock. Your face hovering above his own. Saliva drizzled onto his waiting tongue. The pretty way your mouth falls open as you cum again. Faint ripples becoming turbulent. His own release pulsing inside. Wounded sound of pleasure moaned against your fragrant skin.
Holding you in his arms in the darkness. You ask him to stay.
He has no intentions of leaving.
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desertfangs · 2 months
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Hot Pink - Day 1
🪦 Grave Decisions
Armand/Daniel - Post-Canon - 3,031 words
Daniel is off by himself dealing with a personal matter when Armand finds him to make sure he's okay (and doesn't do anything stupid).
Written for @valenfangs for the prompt "Hot Pink," this went in a very different direction than I originally planned. But that's the fun of writing to prompts for me - sometimes things go places you don't expect. I do have more traditional V-Day content coming up in the next couple of weeks.
Short Excerpt:
Daniel sat in the bar, trying to do the crossword on his iPad, except the application kept changing the boxes when he typed and he ended up putting the answers in the wrong place. The whole process was frustrating and not helping to take his mind off things. He missed newsprint and pencils. 
“Are you Daniel?” 
He looked up from his iPad. A waitress was standing over his table holding a tray with a hot pink drink on top of it. 
“I am,” Daniel said. 
The waitress beamed. “Then this is for you.” She set down a cocktail napkin and then put the drink on top of it. 
Daniel instinctively looked around the bar but he didn’t see any familiar faces. Certainly not a shock of auburn hair that belonged to the most likely culprit. He didn’t dare get his hopes up. Armand was busy at Court. And a scan of the room told him there were no immortals in the bar.
“Who is this from?” Daniel asked, annoyed. He wasn’t in the mood for these kinds of games. If someone was trying to cheer him up, they were going about it all wrong. 
The waitress shrugged, clearly miffed at his attitude. “No idea. Someone called in the order. Enjoy.” 
Daniel stared at the drink. It was the week’s drink special, advertised on the chalkboard at the front. Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, so the cocktail was hot pink in color, with a pink curly straw, and a row of bright red cherries stuck on the stick of a small pink cocktail umbrella, served in a hurricane glass. It smelled of grenadine, vodka, and sugar. Daniel could practically taste its nauseating sugary sweetness. He would have hardly touched that kind of drink when he’d been mortal— hello, hangover —but even now, the smell made him feel mildly ill. 
He did another mental sweep of the bar, but there was no sign of an immortal presence. So who’d sent over this abomination of a drink? Someone had to know where he was to call in the order.
He tapped his fingers on the table, waiting to see if the person might reveal themselves but no one did. Daniel made sure there wasn’t some kind of note on the glass or anything special about the contents of the drink. 
And then, irritation building, Daniel stood. He left the bar and scanned the street out front. He was in a suburb of San Francisco, a town that was little more than housing developments. Its small downtown area had a few restaurants and bars but everything closed by midnight. At 11 pm, the streets were quiet. 
He lit a cigarette and pulled out his phone. No messages. He did the time zone math. It was afternoon in France, so no one there was going to answer him now. 
He took a drag on his cigarette and something in his awareness prickled. The presence of another immortal.
Read the Rest on AO3
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theaguanzon · 9 months
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Many thanks to io9 for the feature! This article contains an exclusive excerpt in the form of Chapter II of THE HURRICANE WARS, so read on to learn more about the world of Lir and its aethermancy and stormships… and witness the clownery as two enemies meet for the first time 🌚
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poindexters-labratory · 4 months
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With Hurricane, I really wanted Henry and William to have a queer-platonic relationship. Neither of them are the romantic type in my eyes, nor find much value in those sorts of connections. Henry prefers to be alone in quiet to think, and William bombarded with affection that he's not fluent in returning.
When they're together, however, aspects change. Henry is more willing and even happy to indulge a hyper and eccentric William, welcoming all his noise and ecstatic energy for good and bad. William, around the other, will embrace Henry's need for a meditative, quiet space, and they'll do their separate activities with the other's company.
They bring out parts of each other that they, themselves, didn't know they had. Henry, cool, quiet, off-putting, controlled, has fight in him. William, first meeting Henry, finds it odd that he has the capacity to care for another person in the midst of his own survival.
Without knowledge of their situation, how they truly feel, and only knowing how they should feel leads to a lot of questions.
Why uproot your life? Leave your only home for a friend you could've just been pen pals with? Why care for a friend the same way someone would care for a spouse? Experience the worst moments of your lives together, as well as the best and the seemingly mediocre?
[EXCERPT FROM A PRACTICE COMIC]
WILL. Are we in love?
HENRY. I think... we're lonely. And we share a common niche. I've never met anyone like me, and you've never met anyone like you. And even if we're unlikely companions, we love the same thing.
WILL. I can't tell if you answered the question or not.
HENRY. Well, you're the only one who's stayed this long.
I'm not in love with you, I'm in love with the fact that you've been here, experiencing life right alongside me.
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librawritesstuff · 2 months
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So coz a few people have asked, and it came up in @hurricane-eva post about Endeavour’s bad trip in “Canticle”, here’s the excerpt from Inspector Morse “Cherubim and Seraphim” speech
TW (more under the cut)
to Lewis about how Inspector Morse contemplated suicide at age 15, and the AO3 story I wrote imagining that scene from Endeavour’s perspective
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LINK TO STORY ⬇️
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akindofmagictoo · 1 year
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manuscript search tag game
thank you @sleepyowlwrites <3
my words are mouth, morning, memory, missing, mask (misshapen, malevolent)
mouth (Hurricane draft 3) (soft theella time!)
“I know.” She buried her face in his shirt once more, though her breathing had steadied somewhat. 
He rubbed her back gently, wishing he could do something more to help, to ease her pain. This didn’t seem helpful, or not as helpful as he could be. “What can I do to help?” he said softly.
“You are helping.” She lifted her chin to look up at him, and forced a small smile. The cut on her lip stretched and she winced, taking another shaky breath.
He freed one hand and brushed his thumb against the cut. As he’d thought, it was mostly scabbed over.
She leant her cheek further into his hand, the corner of her mouth quirking in a half-smile. “That one’ll… heal on its own, I think.”
morning (Hurricane draft 3) (more softness, although this is mostly just Theo “Heart Eyes” Grey)
As they set off through the streets of the town, Aella seemed much happier than she had been the night before. Sometime overnight, or maybe that morning, she’d undone her braid and put her hair in a ponytail instead. The curls bounced as she walked.
Theo was also feeling better, but he suspected it was for a different reason. They walked in companionable silence for several minutes until Aella said, “Nice place. Wouldn’t want to live here, though. Too quiet.”
memory (Hurricane draft 3) (tw kiss mention, romance) (in which Theo Really Wants To Kiss That Girl)
Siren-Aella laughed in the darkness behind his eyes and another memory rose unbidden in his mind. Aella’s face, merely inches from his. That day he’d noticed for the first time the small chip in one of her front teeth when she grinned, even more noticeable when she bit her lip. Her lips had looked so soft in that moment. He’d been seized by the sudden burning desire to kiss her and find out whether they really were, but Marisa had interrupted before he could get the words out.
The same sinking feeling in his stomach was back now, and the heat rising in his cheeks. The disappointment that had followed on its heels had returned, too; it weighed on his shoulders again, but now coupled with fear. He might never see Aella again. What if he didn’t?
missing (Hurricane draft 3) (in which Theo fails his investigation check)
Gold gleamed at him from every surface. Chests of coins, paintings in golden frames, piles of bars. Some piles glittered silver and bronze and copper, but most were gold. Other chests overflowed with jewels in every colour imaginable. A single candle flickered in the corner, not far off burning all the way down, but it lit the whole space. There were gaps, too, though. Spaces between chests like one was missing, empty spaces on tables, scattered coins that seemed to have been dropped.
He saw no plants. Nothing in the room lived; the closest things were the candle and the portraits on the wall. One table had a scattering of dirt across it, but that could have been from anything. Someone might have tracked it in on a shoe, a glove, a shirtsleeve. It meant very little.
mask (Dragonsong draft 1)
They ate mostly in silence, occasionally punctuated by chirps and trills from Enya. Though they were hardly very close to their goal, the air felt tense and strange. Isi suddenly had less appetite. The others seemed to feel it too; Robin ate slowly, picking at his food. Sierra and Holly sat with their shoulders an inch or two apart. SB’s foot tapped nervously, the sound occasionally masked by the crackling of the fire. 
misshapen
malevolent
i shall tag @klywrites @muddshadow @chayscribbles and anyone else who wants to play! your words are match, mere, main, mean
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proxissima · 10 months
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Over and Done With
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An excerpt from All but One by @aconstantstateofbladerunner... aka the fic with the rawest non-villain version of All Might I've personally had the pleasure of reading so far.
~~~~~
All for One’s ugly mug gazed confidently out the mansion’s floor-to-ceiling window like the untouchable god he thought he was for far too long.  Then he turned around, and sealed his fate.  The greatest villain Japan had ever known’s skull was no tougher than the glass Toshinori burst through compared to the raw force of One for All. 
He went flying, but steadied himself mid-air with some quirk.  “S-so,” he hacked.  “You must be the new pe-“
Toshinori caught the monster’s chin with a right hook.  Then he grabbed with the left. 
He crushed the jaw until it was practically liquid, then yanked what was left clean off.  All for One screamed, raw and unfiltered. 
An energy pulse pushed Toshinori back.  Some lackeys tried to come at him.  Toshinori backhanded a windblast that imbedded them in the walls.
All for One attempted hover away down the hall.  Every piece of glass in the room shattered with the force of Toshinori’s leap.  He went for the neck.  The bastard under his bloodied hands hacked fire and bile.  Shapes and shadows of a quirk danced at the corners of Toshinori’s vision.  Another slam into the floor cut it off.  He grabbed his hair-
Curly.  Dark.  No!
He grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked it off before digging the same fist deeper into his brains.  The marble floor cratered.  A sudden electrical shock loosened Toshinori’s grip just enough for All for One to force-jump away.  But he didn’t get far.  Toshinori was on him before he could even stumble.  He slammed his heel into the beast’s back; his spine snapped like a twig.  Gurgled wails almost drowned out the satisfying sound.
The floor collapsed and they fell into a kitchen.  More lackeys.  More hurricane-force winds.
All for One managed to flip himself over somewhat in the meantime.  He hurled some sort of metal spine.  Toshinori slapped it to the side.  A flurry of smaller spikes was blown away with a snap of his fingers.  He leapt over a fissure in the ground like he was jumping a puddle.  And he landed on the bastard’s knees.
Then Toshinori paused.  Ice crept into his veins.  Here was the man whose existence tormented him almost all his life. 
Jawless. 
The orchestrator behind thousands upon thousands of torturous crimes against humanity.
Head deflated.
The man who murdered my mother.
One eye dangling from its socket.
But there, under his remaining eye, was something Toshinori hadn’t ever noticed in their encounters.  Few and faded, but undeniably there.  Freckles.
The father of the greatest light of my life…
Toshinori hit him harder.  What was left of a face disappeared behind two falling fists.  He pulled back.  The walls around them were starting to melt.  All for One dug his nails into Toshinori’s costume while his skin spasmed, desperately trying to activate the right quirk.  Displaced teeth poked out of a gurgling bloody mass.  He hit him again.  And again.  And again.
All for One stopped swinging his arms at some point.  Toshinori wasn’t falling for that again.  His heel plunged into the monster’s chest, squishing and crunching organs beneath.  He didn’t let up until he was sloshing in a puddle.  Even then, it wasn’t over until all was still. 
So he waited, hovering over what was only a corpse in theory.  Long enough that blood on his face that wasn’t his cooled and crusted.  It was over far before Toshinori accepted it.  He couldn’t accept it.  It happened too fast.  There was a whole strategy ready to go.  He was going to trick him.  Use One for All in one part of his body at a time like Izuku did.  But the bastard just wouldn’t move.  No way it would be that easy.
And yet…
The investigators had to scrape up what was left into a bin. 
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bloodyke · 4 months
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(aqui esta el articulo en español de CPIPR)
(link to english articule from washington post)
[image ID: the first image is a picture of a road on one of puerto ricos forrested mountains with the headline "Más personas muerten en Puerto Rico mientras el sistema de salud se desmorona." The subheading reading "Pese a las vacunas y a la disponibilidad de medicamentos para el COVID-19, en 2022 murieron 35,400 personas en el Isla, la mayor cifra de los últimos 20 años."
the second image is an overhead shot of various graves located in Puerto Rico, with the headline reading "More people are dying in Puerto Rico as its healthcare system crumbles." The subheading reads "Islanders died of chronic conditions and COVID-19 in 2022 at numbers that surpassed even Hurricane Maria's toll." : end ID]
Excerpt from The Washington Post Article:
AGUAS BUENAS, Puerto Rico — In a purple house along a narrow road in Puerto Rico’s Central Mountain Range, Margarita Gómez Falcón’s breathing suddenly grew labored one March evening. She called an ambulance and began a grim two-hour wait for paramedics to arrive.
Health services across this self-governing island have been deteriorating for years, contributing to a surge in deaths that reached historic proportions in 2022, an investigation by The Washington Post and Puerto Rico’s Center for Investigative Journalism has found.
[....]
The case of Gómez Falcón, 67, underscores the many ways a faltering medical system has contributed to elevated death rates.
[...]
Aguas Buenas, a small, working-class town in the central highlands, had one working ambulance for its 25,000 people when Gómez Falcón called for help, so dispatchers sent a private one that had trouble finding her home in the town’s winding back roads.
[...]
Puerto Rico, with a population of 3.3 million people, experienced more than 35,400 deaths last year. That’s nearly 3,300 more than researchers would ordinarily expect based on historic patterns, according to a statistical analysis by The Post and Puerto Rico’s Center for Investigative Journalism (CPI).
This “excess mortality” — a term scientists use to describe unusually high death counts from natural disasters, disease outbreaks or other factors — resulted in part from a covid spike early last year that killed more than 2,300 people, health data shows.
[...]
The recent jump in mortality is the latest warning sign that years of natural disasters and financial crises have taken a deadly toll.
[...]
“It’s been nearly six years since Maria, and nothing has been resolved,” said Nereida Meléndez‚ a community activist in Aguas Buenas. “Here there are bridges that no one has done anything for. There are damaged highways no one has done anything to fix. Here one says, ‘What about that money they sent us? Where is it? What are they doing with it?’”
[...]
Puerto Rico’s public health system was once the envy of the Caribbean. Then-Gov. Pedro Rosselló privatized it in the 1990s, in what became known as “La Reforma.” Most government-owned hospitals were sold in an effort to control costs and streamline operations. But the opposite took place: By 2006, Puerto Rico’s economy tanked and public debt ballooned[.]
Puerto Rico's healthcare system is crumbling (alongside many other public utilities - one notable such example is the powergrid, as many of you have probably heard about recently due to the massive wave of protests against LUMA the current private company in charge of maintaining it) due to lack of resources and support. This is a crisis that has been building for decades due to many factors, such as the installment of an unelected board of overseers who have control of the puerto rican economy due to the enactment of. PROMESA in 2016, the enactment of ACT 60, a bill that incentivizes wealthy mainland U.S. citizens to move to Puerto Rico due to the increased tax breaks they will recieve that include a 100% tax exemption from Puerto Rico income taxes on: dividends, interest, short-term and long-term capital gains, and an exemption from the local and state property taxes equal to 75%, the withholding of emercency aid and support after natural disasters (the most notable example being the absolutely horrendus response to Hurricane Maria, that ended with the then Governor, Ricky Rosselló, resigning from his position after his sexist, racist, and homophic Telegram messages that included disparaging remarks about the victims of Hurricane Maria were leaked.)
This also includes the contiuned privitization of all aspects of puerto rican life, including the attempt to privatize the public beaches, lakes, canals, and parks in 2020, and the attempt to privatize the Taíno Caguana Ceremonial Indigenous Heritage Center in April 2023, though these are only two of many many many examples.
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Into the Mist
Chapter II
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The siblings wandered over to one of the downed tree logs on the edge of the beach, taking a moment to steady their breathing and regroup before they went through the motions of selecting coconuts that were still good. They’d found fairly quickly after cutting into some that just because it was firm, didn’t mean it wasn’t rotten. As they sat, Audrey hoped John B would be the first to break the silence, but her brother seemed to be lost in thought, staring out at the ocean, watching the waves roll in before going back out. 
“Where do you think we are?” Audrey asked him softly, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. 
“Dunno,” John B shifted, rolling his shoulders back as he yawned softly, “somewhere in the Caribbean? Sarah said Rafe mentioned Guadeloupe, but I don’t know if we were making a stop somewhere first or not.”
“Guadeloupe,” Audrey repeated, racking her brain for any memory of where that might be, “I just wonder if we’re close enough to one of the islands that we’d be able to make it.”
“If we swam?” John B shook his head, “I doubt it. Let’s say we spent…what…five-ish hours on the container ship? Seven if we’re being generous? That would put us closer to the states than the Caribbean, right? And we spent another few hours in the lifeboat…so I mean—we’re lucky if we’re even remotely close to the Bahamas.”
“How long would it take to get to Guadeloupe? A few days?”
“Have to ask JJ,” John B shook his head, “he knows the distance better than I do, but my guess is at least three, maybe four or five.”
Audrey sighed, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, “I think we need to try to get off the island.”
“Why?” John B turned his head towards her, “of all people, I thought you’d be the last one to want to get off.”
While that may have been true forty-eight hours ago, Audrey only shook her head no. “I think things are going to get rough sooner than later. We can’t stay here forever—we’ll die before that happens. What happens if there’s a hurricane? Or one of us comes down with an illness? Fever? Like…it’s nice in theory, but I’m getting worried.”
John B hummed, eyes shifting back to the ocean as he thought over her concerns, “is this about the rock?”
“I mean…a little,” Audrey shrugged, “what if I bled out? There’s literally nothing any of you could’ve done. Except watch.”
John B exhaled slowly, nodding as he glanced down at his hands, fiddling with the string on his bracelet, “yeah—I get what you’re saying. I just don’t know how we’re going to get off. Aside from waiting for a miracle to fly by…”
“I don’t know,” Audrey shook her head, “I haven’t gotten that far yet. We could try to build a raft.”
“But what happens if we’re lost at sea?” John B wrinkled his face, “that’s worse than here, right?”
“At least it’s an attempt,” Audrey said, “and we tried.”
“I don’t think JJ’ll gamble with your life like that,” John B shook his head firmly, “there’s no way. I think our best bet is to just wait it out and use Pope’s fires when we can.”
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dogfishmonger · 6 months
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Clutch
A story by @dogfishmonger
With art by @dolgoyangi
Coming to @deancashorrorfest in October.
Rating: M Relevant warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply; non-graphic underage content; body horror Word count: Approx. 13,000
Dean is a normal, stable man in his 20s: He has a job. He has a boyfriend of three years, even if they're on the rocks. He has a little brother in pre-law. There are, simultaneously, things in his upbringing that he simply isn't supposed to question: His father's unexplained, undefined trips out of state. His mother's death. The body he once found in the basement. When Sam runs off in search of answers, Dean and Cas head east to find him. But after catching up with him, something's... different. Wrong. Dean and Cas are at odds—again—with Dean believing that Sam is in danger, and Cas suspicious that Sam is the danger. Returning to normalcy will involve more digging into forbidden territory than Dean was ever prepared for Cas to see. In the end, he doesn't even know if it was worth it. They're left with just as many questions as answers, and the answers they do have are ugly, insidious things, glistening oil-spill black and undulating. Excerpt under the cut:
Dean hadn’t had a single dream.  
He felt… fine, actually.  The fear in the depths of his stomach had felt, for days, like grasping a violently vibrating metal handrail.  It buzzed; it almost hurt.  
It hummed, just then.  Unbidden, he thought, it’s almost over.
The Impala was old—made after the iron age of vehicle design, sure, but thankfully well before the partial switch to plastic.  In an affectionate sense, it was a giant aluminum can. 
That is to say: the rain was loud.  
For the first five years they lived in Ashmer, the house had a tin roof.  It was built in the 1890s or something, back when people still did that shit.  There was a bad storm when Dean was nine or ten, maybe a hurricane, he couldn’t remember.  He just remembered taking Sam down to the basement, where they weren’t allowed to go, where there was still a stain on the concrete floor. 
When they came back up in the morning, a tree had fallen into the kitchen. 
The roof got redone. 
They made it from to the old house in relatively short time.  Ashmer was similar to a lot of towns in the hollers of northern Appalachia: you were in the forest, and then the trees cleared out and you were in a town.  It was small, both in terms of population and geography. 
As for the house, it was empty.  Either it just happened to be empty, or it had remained empty ever since the Winchesters had left.  People in the mountains tended to drift toward the superstitious.  Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the house had taken on a sort of Boo Radley mantle.   John had disappeared temporarily on the regular, and only once, when it was time for the finale, permanently.  DHHR had come, the police had come, cleaners had come.  The details weren’t widely available, but people had to know.  There was something wrong with that house.  There had been something wrong with the boys who had lived in it. 
So, Dean didn’t doubt that no one had moved in.  
Cas said something, but it sounded just like the low rumble of heavy June rain.  Dean was still tired, syrupy and nebulous; it was like he’d been cut loose, like all his adrenaline had been burned off at the state border.
He hadn’t expected that. 
Cas said something again.  Dean just let it wash over him, warm and familiar and laving.  Cas sounded calm almost all the time. 
Dean felt Cas’ hand on his arm, and a half-moment later, the car rolled to a gentle stop.  
“We’re here,” Cas said.  
Here, Dean repeated to himself.  Here as in Ashmer, or— He tried his hardest to make out what lay beyond the dashboard.  The headlights were on, but it was exceedingly, impressively dark outside.  The rain beat down in solid-looking sheets.  There was something there, vaguely person-shaped, somewhat shrunken, maybe just hunched. 
“I think that’s your brother on the porch.”
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fiascotales · 1 year
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Please dissolve me along, within this cruel wicked potion of hesitation, doubt and hopelessnes hold my hands (they won't shake this time); and walk me into this sea of melancholy. We must drown now. We must rise only with the hurricane of hope; else maybe just lay there at the sea bed gazing at the passing bloom of jellyfish as we giggle; with glistening eyes and sea stars entangled within our damp and flowing hairs. Even that suffice, even that suffice.
~ Shuchi, Excerpt from 'Oh Melancholy'/ FiascoTales[blogger]
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