#i like the metaphor of worlds colliding | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astralnymphh · 2 months

Text

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette.

And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet.

April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde.

Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

“Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper. You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

“Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..”

Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..”

Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right?

One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

“Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood.

Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence.

“Say cheese!”

America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you.

Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’.

Un–fucking–believable.

Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed.

“C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels.

Not so good for the respiratory system though.

Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—”

Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

“Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?”

A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

“This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.”

Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

“Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

“Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

“Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama.

And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

“You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

“Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

“Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

“For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

“Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

“Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

“Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy, “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

“That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”

Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting.

“Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

“If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?”

“Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.”

“Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles.

“Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

“I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.”

Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

“Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.”

You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant.

There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

“Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

“No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

“Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together.

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco.

Stygian tones.

“Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

“Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

“Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more.

Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting.

“Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.”

They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.”

“My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

“Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

“Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

“Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

perm taglist: @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @littlegingerperson5 @seraphicsentences series taglist: @tearouthearts @planetloverr @elliesexual @isitadinosaur @eveshyper @3lli3l0v3r @yourmothersfavgirl @emst4rr @theloserqueen @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @whenlostinthedarkness @diddiqueen @deliriousrn

390 notes · View notes

briebysabs · 11 months

Text

Across the Spider-verse spoilers///

Miguel fine af but Miles really should’ve beat his fat ass harder cuz wtf you mean calling him a mistake and blaming him for his Peter dying?? I’m sorry that pissed me off so much like Miles didn’t ask to get bit. Miles isn’t the one who made the collider, Miles didn’t bring Earth 42’s spider to his world GOD.

There’s a lot of anger, resentment, projecting and borderline envy going on. But I really liked how complex Miguel was in this movie. But some of y’all need to see he is wrong or at the very least, his way of going about things is wrong. Also explain to me why I’ve seen more hate targeted towards Gwen, someone who was conflicted the entire movie and Jess. Who should’ve stuck up for Gwen but clearly shows remorse at the end. More than Miguel bro make it make sense.

If you’re able to understand where Miguel is coming from, why can’t you also understand Gwen? Or did people straight up ignore the first 15 minutes of the movie? Like I too was disappointed with Gwen’s lying but one of the main reasons she did all this IS SO SHE DOESN’T GET SENT BACK HOME.

Where her father knows her identity and tried to arrest her. Where she currently has nowhere to live and crashes at Hobie’s place. How about we call out the adults that used that as leverage against a 16-17 year old, adults that watched it all go down too. Like people act like she had it against Miles when you see clearly that she only wants to protect him. She can’t lose another friend and obviously it backfired on her.

This is an amazing film but I’ve heard some absolutely dumb takes already. Some going as far to call Miguel racist WHICH MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE. Yeah we were joking and there are obvious metaphors to the ‘Miles being a Afro-latino Spider Man backlash’ but no idiot, he doesn’t hate black people. Miles could be any race Miguel would still react the way he did.

#spiderman across the spiderverse #atsv spoilers #atsv #spiderman itsv #spiderman #miles morales #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #gwen stacy #peter parker #spider woman #movie #across the spiderverse #jessica drew #animation #Sony

1K notes · View notes

vampirepunks · 2 months

Text

I really love all the DS2 theories I've seen so far but one thing I'm picking up is a lot of people expecting Higgs to still be on the same trajectory/goal set as he was in the first game and y'know....... I don't think that's the case.

The overall theme of DS2 from what we've seen so far + Kojima's comments seems to be the concept of opposites, inverses, and dualities, as though it's saying, "take the entire idea and turn it inside out and upside down." It appears to challenge the viewer to subvert whatever expectation/understanding they have based on the first game. It's eternal recurrence as seen through a mirror. The first game was themed around blue and black, this one is red and white. Connection becomes disconnection. Hope becomes despair. Age becomes youth. Repetition becomes change.

Buckle up, I've got thoughts.

(This pattern of contrasts illustrates a theory I've had since DS1 based on Nietzsche's "Thus Spake Zarathustra" and the three-stage journey of metamorphoses--camel -> lion -> child--required to become the overman, but that'll be a separate post. If you're already familiar with the book, just know that in this context DS1 would be the camel and thus DS2 encompasses the lion.)

So, in DS1, Higgs is a hyper-fatalist obsessed with extinction. It's easy to assume that hasn't changed, that he's still dedicated to Amelie and wants to end the world... Too easy, right? Has anything Kojima has written ever been that simple?

I raise you this: In the vein of eternal recurrence, Sam becomes Cliff and Higgs becomes Amelie/Bridget... but this is not a literal retelling, rather, a metaphorical one. A dark mirror to the stories we already know.

So if the theme is opposition, what's the opposite of extinction? Creation. What's the first thing we learn about Higgs in the DS2 trailers? He's a musician now. He sings and he plays guitar. And, arguably, music is the very essence and lifeblood of creation itself, one of the very first things mankind created when our species was in its infancy. Further, Higgs uses his own umbilical cord (yes, it's an umbilical cord), as a guitar jack, channeling his ties to life, death, and his own soul in his performance, highlighting that he has an intimate connection to this core act of creativity. More about that in this post.

Now, DS1 already has a lot of themes and motifs surrounding duality, most notably the concept of chirality: two things that are each other's opposite, two hands imperfectly overlapping, two objects that act as one another's mirror. Powerful things happen when they collide--anything ranging from drug interactions to voidouts to the very birth of the universe.

If I'm reading this right, Sam is set to become the chiral counterpart to his father's tragedy and Higgs is set to become the chiral counterpart to the extinction entity. The same narratives we know, recurring once more, but flipped to become something entirely new at the same time. A rope that becomes a stick and a stick that becomes a rope. Humanity will always need both; the stick is not evil for serving its purpose, nor is the rope inherently good for doing its job. "Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil."

I'm calling it now: Higgs is not serving Amelie, not seeking to bring her back, not trying to become her. He is rebelling against the idea of her, unshackling himself from the role she placed him in, taking back the autonomy he lost and acting to avenge the abandonment and manipulation he suffered. He's claiming her image as his own to make a mockery of what she represents, painting himself up to look like her decaying corpse, all in an effort to prove she no longer controls him, defiantly asserting, "The queen is dead... long live the king." And so, what is there left for him to do but throw himself into reckless acts of creation? Life from death. Extinction Entity? Cute. Try this on for size: Creation Entity.

#justice for my boy <3 #finally using the jokes i've been making in a serious post aha #i don't however expect this to work out for Higgs the way he plans/hopes #he thirsts and starves for connection but the divine is inherently disconnected. detached. distant.#to become a god is to be alone above the world. singular and unmatched. midas still can't shake hands no matter how beautiful his garden is #the higher they rise the harder they fall. i just hope sam is there to catch him when he does. just as he caught amelie at the end of DS1 #what was icarus when the sea embraced him if not more human than ever before?#i also really need to make a post about sam as sisyphus and higgs as prometheus. both trapped in a neverending cycle #higgs monaghan #death stranding #ds2 #ds2 theories #logan.txt

76 notes · View notes

verygoodbeastarsfaces · 3 months

Text

okay i know this is mostly a goofy manga cap page but fuck it im gonna do some analysis too

so bald legosi arc right? legosi is trying to train his body for combat WITHOUT using meat to give himself the fuel he needs to bulk up. legosi sees eating meat as morally wrong and especially hypocritical for himself personally because the reason he seeks strength is in order to PROTECT herbivores from violence at the hands of carnivores

ENTER PINA COLADA

i love pina colada because im a nasty messy bitch who loves causing problems and i love pina for matching that energy. really i do. but i'm very okay with admitting that my enjoyment of pina is superficial, so i started asking myself WHY pina is Like This™

OKAY SO this scene right here got something across to me that the anime absolutely did not. so we've kind of established that the carnivore herbivore dynamic in the world of beastars is a very complicated metaphor that means different things at different times. its not JUST race relations, its not JUST sexuality, its not JUST inequality, it is everything about a society through this lens of animal instinct to highlight whatever particular criticism is being dissected. AND THIS PAGE!!! is about PRIVILEGE!!!

"I'm here trying to control my desires, and he just does whatever the hell he wants." Legosi is viewing pina's freedom to speak his mind and live freely as something he gains in his life via a position of privilege. Pina will never be consumed by the instinct to murder and cannibalize his loved ones, and so pina can pursue life in a flippant, disingenuous and carefree manner.

and legosi FUCKING HATES THISSSSS because the entire bald legosi arc is about legosi trying to EMPOWER HIMSELF THROUGH SELF HATRED. legosi's refusal to eat meat to fuel his body the way it NEEDS to be fueled when stressed and trained the way hes training is not something done out of moral obligation, it is done as a way for legosi to try and forcibly EXCISE a part of his innate BIOLOGY that he HATES.

but yknow heres something else. this doesnt sound right to me. pina is hedonistic, sure, but why is his philosophy specifically "morals don't really do us much good" and not something more, lets say, benevolently hedonistic?

our girl haru gives us our answer.

while legosi views pina's devil may care attitude as a privilege, so too do herbivores view carnivore's strength as a privilege. pina will never be COMPELLED to murder and cannibalize, but legosi will never be TARGETED to be murdered and cannibalized. pina's casual disregard and DISRESPECT of the real danger legosi presents to him (that legosi NEVER allows himself to forget) is a defense mechanism in the same way haru's sexuality is for her. pina has absorbed and internalized exactly where he stands in this world, and through taunting the carnivores around him, he feels feels empowered in the same way haru's sexuality empowers her. pina is hedonistic because he is living every day as if it were his last, squeaking out whatever pleasure the world has to offer carelessly, because if people love him, he has power over them.

And if he taunts a carnivore and lives to tell the tale, then in that moment, he had power over them. This power struggle is the CORE of beastars, where humanity and instinct collide and give us the messy, deeply fucked up world this story takes place in. Pina is a character driven to recklessness and hedonism by his own disenfranchisement in a world where cannibalistic murders are commonplace and yet life goes on. It must go on, and this is how pina goes on.

i love pineapple boy

#beastars #beastars pina #beastars legoshi #beastars legosi #legosi #legoshi #if you like pina coladas #meta #analysis #long post #mod dannen speaks #not a good face

66 notes · View notes

exhuastedpigeon · 4 months

Text

✨ 2023 writing round-up ✨

I posted the more words to Ao3 this year than I have in any other previous year, which is wild since I only really started writing again in June. It's wild the choke hold that Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley have on me. Here's my writing round-up for 2023 :)

June

If we’re both still single… Teen || 2.9k

This was my first Buddie fic. Little did I know I was about to fall down the fucking rabbit hole.

“I’m sorry, you’re gonna have to repeat that for me?” Eddie had a beer halfway to his lips, his arm slung lazily on the back of the couch. “If we’re both still single when we’re 35, we should just get married,” Buck repeated, as casually as if he was saying they should order pizza or change the channel from the basketball game to hockey.

let me see them tan lines Teen || 2.8k

Four times the 118 notices Eddie Diaz's ring tan line and one time he was wearing a ring.

give me a sign, I want you next to me Teen || 7k

Buck loves working at the 118. He loves living in LA. He loves his kid. He loves the life they've manage to build. The only thing he doesn't love is that his husband is across the world in a war zone. OR The 118 knows Buck has a really cute kid and a partner he loves, they just think that partner is his husbands ex.

July

it's like everything you say is a sweet revelation Mature || 5.6k

“Marry me,” Eddie said. It wasn’t a question, it was a sentence. He said it like he was commenting on the weather or last night's Dodgers game. Buck slowly lowered his coffee cup, eyes wide. Eddie lifted his drink and took a sip, a satisfied hum escaped him as he did. “Come again?” “Marry me,” Eddie took another sip of his coffee. “Please?”

boiling point Teen || 2k

Growing up, Buck heard the story about frogs and boiling water, that if you put a frog into boiling water, it’ll jump out, but if you put the frog is put in room temperature water and then slowly bring it to a boil, the frog won’t perceive the danger and will be boiled to death. When he was a kid, he had believed it, like so many other stories and fables. OR Evan Buckley's extremely extended metaphor for loving Eddie Diaz.

August

wet your lips (and smile to the camera) Mature || 6.8k

Buck has a problem and that problem is that Eddie Diaz is going to ruin his life. OR Eddie starts modeling on the side and Buck can't stop looking at his pictures, mostly because Eddie's ads are everywhere.

you are the only one that needs to know Teen || 2k

"You're not my dirty little secret. And I never want you to think that,” Buck says it practically into Eddie’s mouth, with a hand on Eddie’s chest. He shoves him, gently, into the Grant-Nash laundry room next to the bathroom. “But…” “But?” Eddie grins, feels the way Buck is grinning against his lips too and lets himself be moved backward until he collides with the washing machine. “But… I will miss sneaking off to make out with you when we finally tell everyone."

this kiss is something I can't resist Mature || 1.6k

Happiness snuck up on Evan Buckley like a summer storm in Florida, but unlike a summer storm, the happiness he was feeling didn’t seem to be going anywhere. If anything, it was getting bigger, the feeling threatening to jump out of his chest at any moment.

take my hand, don't let it go Teen || 2.3k

In retrospect, dating a death doula pretty soon after one of the most traumatic experiences of Buck’s life, an experience where he actually died, was maybe not Buck’s smartest decision. In which Buck realizes that dating Natalia isn't what he needs and talks to Eddie about their shared death related trauma.

you're the cream in my coffee Explicit || 8.6k

“Dad, did you know there’s a coffee that’s made of poop!” “It’s not actually made of poop, bud,” Buck grinned, handing Eddie Chris’s backpack. “It’s partially digested cherries. The cherries actually ferment as they’re being passed through the civet’s intestines. They disinfect them and everything before they’re consumed.” “Yeah! That! It’s called copy loo-wake” “Kopi luwak.” “Uh huh!” “I take it you had fun with your Buck today, huh?” “Buck's the best dad!”

September

a dream is a wish your heart makes General || 3.3k

It takes a soft, domestic dream about Buck for Eddie to realize what's been true for a long time - he's in love with his best friend.

October

Hot and Heavy Explicit || 9.4k

Eddie can admit without shame that he’s having a bit of a hoe phase. He’s thirty, recently out of the closet, and even more recently single, he’s allowed to have some fun. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s basically a requirement that he fuck around since he didn’t get to do it when he was younger. OR Five times Eddie had casual sex with someone who wasn't Buck and the time they finally got their shit together

Feels Like Magic Teen || 47.8k

“You used too much magic again,” Buck’s voice was quiet as he spoke, but he knew Eddie heard him. “You’re alive,” Eddie’s eyes were closed, but Buck knew the look Eddie would be giving him if they had been open. It was the same look Eddie had given him when he had said ‘because, Evan, you think you’re expendable but you’re not’. It was a look that made Buck feel truly and completely seen in a way he never had before. “There’s no such thing as too much if it saves you.” “Go to sleep,” Buck said, because if he left himself say anything else he’d be telling Eddie he loved him and he didn’t think in the bunk room at two in the morning after an exhausting call was the right moment, but then again, Buck was pretty sure he’d be taking that secret to his grave.

November

kiss and make up Explicit || 3.3k

Eddie always thought that if he and Buck ever kissed it would be in the heat of the moment, it would be pure relief that they were still alive. Maybe after a big rescue or (another) near death experience. That if it wasn’t in the heat of the moment as they both came down from an adrenaline rush that it would be something soft, probably in one of their kitchens while they did the dishes. He always figured that the first kiss would be like a homecoming. (Not that Eddie thought about kissing Buck often, because he doesn’t do that.) Instead of being soft and sweet or adrenaline fueled and filled with love and thanks that they're both alive, their first kiss comes in the middle of a fight in Eddie’s living room.

gold when you see me Teen || 4.3k

"Ouch,” Eddie says when he lands, his teeth clacking in his head. His ass hurts in an extremely unfun way, his ankle feels terrible, and he’s seeing spots. None of that is good news. “Eddie?” Buck sounds panicked. “Eddie?” “Down here,” Eddie calls up. He’s definitely going to have a bruised tail bone and there’s a pretty decadent chance that he’s sprained his ankle, if not broken it. He’s a little too shaken up to try to get up right now, especially since it's not like he’s not going to be able to get himself out of here. He takes a deep breath and feels every second of it in his ribs. On the bright side, they don't feel broken, just bruised. Buck’s face, illuminated by nothing but Eddie’s flashlight and Buck’s own, appears in the hole that Eddie fell through. “You okay?” Eddie will explore the tremor in Buck’s voice later, right now he needs to get out of this fucking hole before it caves in even more. “Definitely a little banged up, but I landed on the ground, not anything else.”

wanna lose my mind in a hotel room with you Explicit || 4.1k

"Think you’ll ever have that kind of love?” Eddie asks as he leans against the wall with a beer in his hand at Maddie and Chimney’s engagement party. He’s got a fond look on his face, if not a little wistful as he turns to face Buck. “I hope so,” Buck says with a small smile on his face as he looks from Maddie and Chim dancing with Jee-Yun between them to Eddie. He’s pretty sure he’s already got half of a love like that standing next to him, he just isn’t sure if it’s reciprocated. “I-I really hope so.” “Want to dance with me?” Eddie asks after a few seconds of quiet between them, his eyes bright in the yellow light of the string lights that crisscross the patio.

December

it hurts to hope for more Mature || 15.5k

“I’m never - I’m never going to be a dad,” Buck sobs into Eddie’s shoulder. “She didn’t want kids. Why do I keep dating people who don’t want the same things as me? Is- is the universe telling me that I don’t deserve it?” “Hey, no,” Eddie pulls back from the hug and Buck lets out a pitiful sound at the loss of contact. “The universe doesn’t do that. The universe doesn’t scream and it definitely doesn’t get to tell you what you deserve, because you deserve everything Buck. Everything.” OR Buck wants to be a dad, it takes a couple break-ups and a major non-romantic heartbreak for him to figure out that maybe he already is.

can't make it stop, give me all you got Explicit || 4.1k

“Are we really doing this?” Buck’s lips graze the shell of Eddie’s ear as he speaks. They're in a club, the music is loud, so Eddie would have chalked the proximity of Buck’s mouth up to that, but Buck nips at his earlobe. “I think we are,” Eddie grins and turns his face to capture Buck’s mouth with his. He doesn’t care that they’re probably in view of all of their friends. He doesn’t care that there are sweaty, dancing bodies all around them. All he can think about is the way Buck’s hands feel on his waist, the way Buck’s breath hitches as Eddie grabs a handful of his ass. OR Eddie and Buck fuck in a club at Pride

#2023 writing round up #writing round up #buddie #my fic #my fics #my writing

78 notes · View notes

tomatoland · 8 months

Text

In another story, I could see Mew being a support character. The character that the show would establish as the perfect boyfriend/friend, put on a pedestal and then never give much characterization. You would only see him through the lens of other characters he interacts with: Top's sweet perfect boyfriend that is a foil to Boston, Boston's frenemy or Ray's close friend and secret crush. So the fact that Mew is such a central part of the story is very telling and is a deliberate story-telling choice.

From the first series introduction, Mew is always pictured in the center, with all the other cast members around him.

At the start of the story, Mew is like the eye of the storm. I'm not saying that it's Mew's world and they're all just living in it, because that's NOT what the eye is. The eye is the center because as the storm starts to pick up speed, a vortex of rain and wind appears and right in the center is the eye.

The eye is not where it is most chaotic and turbulent, it's actually the calmest part of the storm. The sun shines, the skies clear and winds are calm in the eye.

I think is a pretty good metaphor for the shelter/bubble Mew was in before the story starts as the Table Keeper. The rest of the friend group and their chaotic and loud personalities circle out from him, doing what they want and he stays literally, in the center of the bar at their table.

Then Top enters Mew's life and he starts to interact with this force 😉 outside of his bubble.

And we watch him slowly be impacted by the rest of the storm aka other characters' actions, but he's not aware yet. Because although the eye might appear to be safe and calm, it's a false sense of safety because just beyond what you can see, there is an invisible barrier of chaos.

As Top & Boston's actions gain speed, they will exert more force on him, pulling him further and further out of the safe zone of the eye and eventually the storm will collide right into Mew.

It really seems like the story is going to show us the loss of Mew's innocence. The show has mentioned multiple times that Mew is a virgin. Virginity is often associated with "innocence," which is a crock, but I digress. The end of innocence also happens when we grow up and transition from child to adult. When we leave the safety of the world we know, safety being the operative word, and are exposed to other worldviews different from our own.

Of all the characters, Mew is the most innocent in terms of life experiences. I know there's some debate on where he's been in the bubble by his own choice or not, but it doesn't change the fact that Mew has been in the center, the seemingly safe eye of the storm and now is going out into the world.

As of right now, three of the characters are on action paths that will collide into Mew.

Top is Mew's first boyfriend and from the trailer, we can presume that Mew does lose his virginity to Top & falls in love with him only to find out Top has been keeping secrets from him.

Mew thinks Boston is his close friend, someone he trusts and is in his nuclear friend circle, but is in for a rude awakening when he finds out that Boston in actuality is his frenemy and not only going after Top, but sabotaging Mew's own relationship with Top by talking in his ear and manipulating Ray as well.

And at some point from the trailer, we know that Ray is also going to hit rock bottom and Mew is going to be there for him. Ray is extremely distraught in that scene, those are soul sobs.

Not to out my own life experiences, but I've only ever seen people cry like that when they're in withdrawal, there's been a death, or they’re facing jailtime. Yes, it definitely could be heartbreak, but it would have to tremendous like the disillusionment of your whole life kind of thing.

All of these are significant life-altering events and mature situations that Mew will face and have to navigate through.

And they are all in the storm brewing and waiting to collide into Mew.

#only friends the series #only friends series #only friends mew #topmew #ofts analysis

94 notes · View notes

oceanbug · 9 months

Text

when worlds collide

smau non!idol ningning x reader

13. library meetings.

•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•

Aeri ‘Giselle’ Uchinaga, better known as Spring Hill’s backstabbing drug addict, What could she possibly want with you? You’re almost positive she didn’t know about your existence in high school, so what could she want to talk about three years later?

Study room 3B, How’d she even reserve a study room if she doesn’t go here?

Before you even get to open the door, it shoots open, and you’re greeted by the empress herself.

“Hey girly! How’s it hanging?” She spoke so casually to you, almost as if you had been friends for years. With all the rumors circulating about Giselle, you expected a cold aura to surround her, but she seemed pretty warm and happy. Still, you had to keep your guard up; she does have a backstabbing reputation.

“Hi.”

“You don’t sound too happy to see me?”

“Oh, no, I’ve just had a long day. Sorry.” Thinking back on all the harsh texts you woke up to made your head ache, or maybe you’re still hung over. The thought of having to sit and talk with Karina was enough to make you want to vomit, so you intended to stretch this meeting out for as long as you could.

“I could only imagine. Well, then let's get straight to business! You and I have something in common.

“So you mentioned before... but I don’t understand.”

Oh, silly, don’t you see? We’re both Ning’s public enemy number 1 at the moment!” How could she say that so enthusiastically? I guess she’s been fighting this battle for 4 years, but still, how is there any positive to this?

“You mean the school’s gossip site? Yeah, I didn’t do anything, though! I swear!”

“That’s what we all say. Let me guess, Ning shut you down and threatened you.”

“How’d you know?”

“I have experience in the ways of Ning Yi Zhuo. Don’t worry, I won’t let her hurt you. We just have to work together, okay?”

“But why do you want to help me? I mean, we’ve never spoken.”

“I don’t want to see another hot girl get hurt; that seriously burns!” You didn’t understand her metaphors, but you appreciated them. The real decision is: Should you trust her? After everything you’ve heard about her?

"Look, Y/N, I get it. You have no reason to trust me. But you do know Ningning; if you’re going up against her, you’ll need backup.” She’s right; there’s no way you could face off with Ningning alone. You definitely didn’t want to get your friends involved, so this is the best way.

“Okay, let’s do it. Let’s take down this bitch.”

“Woah, hold your horses now. I said we'd go against her, not take her down.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Listen, I know she might seem like the spawn of Satan, but she’s really not. Ningning wasn’t always so uptight. It wasn’t until our fallout that she became the Ice Princess. Not until Yeonjun cheated.”

“With you.” Fuck, you just said that out loud? This is the perfect start of friendship—calling your fellow teammate a cheater.

“Those are the rumors, aren’t they? You know, I never understood why everyone believed them so quickly. There wasn't even proof.”

She was right. You never had any evidence of this. You just heard the rumors. Why did everyone believe them?

“It hurt the most when my own best friend believed the rumors. But I understand why Ningning did; they came from someone equally close to her. There is no way her best friend would lie to her about something like this.”

No way. She’s not talking about...

“Why would she think Wonyoung would lie about that?”

•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•

masterlist ~ next

(Synopsis) Y/N had never been the type to take life for granted. You grew up with the mindset that if you wanted something, you had to work for it; So getting paired up with the university’s “Rich Bitch” Ning Yi Zhuo for your midterm was the last thing you wanted. Are you willing to step into the world of fame for an A+?

taglist (open): @azraism ; @kimsgayness ; @sewiouslyz ; @winieter ; @llluvbluy ; @i06kkura ; @everydayiloveyves ; @edamboon

#kpop x y/n #kpop x reader #ningning x reader #ning yizhuo #ningning #aespa x reader #aespa #non idol au #kpopsmau #kpop smau

81 notes · View notes

trulybetty · 10 months

Text

Bad Day.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 1,473 Warnings: Bad days at work & a bottle of wine I wish I currently had Summary: You arrive home after a terrible day at work and Marcus wants to help turn it around.

A/N: Apparently I write fluff now? Think it's to counter all the angst I've been writing this week. As always, feedback and thoughts are always welcomed!

Bad Day.

The day had stretched on into an eternity of answering emails, taking calls, and handling one crisis after another. By the time you made it home, fatigue hung heavy on your shoulders, and frustration simmered just beneath your skin.

As soon as the front door clicked shut behind you, your purse slipped from your grip and collided against the ivory-painted wall with an echoing slap that reverberated through your home. Its intended destination had been the nearby bench, but your aim was off, and your temper led you astray. The sounds of your day ricocheted around the empty hallway, bouncing back at you in a symphony of stress.

In the echo of the leather crashing against the paint, the dull thud of your heels being kicked off sounded almost gentle. They skittered across the floor, coming to rest askew and forgotten. Their discarded state served as a silent testament to the bitter, angry, and eager-for-relief state of mind that had brought you here.

With determination guiding your steps, you stalked down the narrow hallway, your gaze fixed on the salvation you knew awaited you in the kitchen. Marcus, your ever-steady boyfriend, sat perched on one of the stools surrounding the island. His focus was on the newspaper spread out in front of him, his hand absently circling over an article as he read. As you walked past him, his eyes lifted from the print, following you with a quiet concern you didn't acknowledge. The world outside had captured your attention, and your boyfriend was left waiting for the weather to clear.

Normally, his quiet presence was a soothing balm to your weary soul, but tonight you barely noticed him.

Your hand gripped the handle of the fridge, pulling it open with a fervour that made the bottles inside clink against each other. Nestled in the back, your emergency stash—a bottle of wine—waited for days like this. The sight of it, familiar and comforting, eased your tension a fraction, and you reached for it without hesitation.

The glass appeared in your hand next, crystal clear and waiting to be filled. The top of the wine bottle unscrewed with a satisfying crack, releasing a bouquet of scents into the air. You began to pour, rosé liquid glugging into the glass. It filled and filled and filled, until it perched on the edge of disaster—a metaphor for your own state of mind.

As you brought the glass to your lips, you sensed Marcus turning his attention toward you. His brown eyes, usually so comforting, felt intrusive. A warning glare cut him off before he could open his mouth, the words dying on his lips as he recognized the storm in your gaze. You took a long, drawn-out sip, the bitterness of the wine mirroring your own mood.

"Bad day?" Marcus finally ventured, his voice a soft query against the thick silence hanging in the room.

“The worst,” you responded curtly, your voice clipped. Each syllable was a pebble skittering across the surface of your mounting frustration.

"Want to talk about it?" he offered, his tone full of genuine concern. Marcus was nothing if not patient, always there to lend an ear when needed.

"Not particularly," you responded, the words slipping out as you took another gulp of wine. The glass was becoming lighter, the wine within dwindling, but the weight of the day still lingered.

He sighed, folding the paper he'd been reading and setting it aside to make room for his full attention, leaning against the cool marble counter. "Can I do anything?" he offered, the sincerity in his voice resounding in the quiet room.

You eyed him over the rim of your glass, the crystal distorting his features. “I’m not entirely sure,” you confessed, the honest words hanging in the air, a testament to the day.

His lips twitched into a slight smile, his eyes meeting yours, "Hm, can I at least give it a shot?" His offer hung in the air between you.

“If you insist,” you replied, your tone softening despite yourself. The rage was ebbing now, replaced by an exhausting heaviness.

A ripple of amusement flashed across Marcus's face at your grudging acquiescence, a spark in the gloom of the evening. He pushed off from the counter, and the stool beneath him swayed with the sudden absence of weight. The soft pad of his shoes on the kitchen tiles was barely audible over the steady hum of the refrigerator. But it was enough for you to look up, your eyes locking onto his tall frame as he made his way toward you.

He was still dressed in his work attire—a tailored suit that hugged his form just right, the dark fabric accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the lean length of his torso. His tie, a vibrant splash of colour against the crisp white of his shirt, was already slightly loosened. You'd always admired the professional veneer he wore like a second skin. It was a sight that never failed to stir something within you. But you knew the man underneath, the one who could read you like an open book and was unfazed by the fiery melee of emotions that you were after a bad day.

As he approached, Marcus reached up to loosen his tie further, the fabric sliding easily through his fingers. He undid the top button of his shirt, revealing a glimpse of the tanned skin beneath. His fingers worked deftly, a calculated move he knew would rattle your composure. It was a small action, yet so intimate, so inherently Marcus, that it drew a sigh from your lips. This was the man you knew, the one who would willingly put aside his own comfort to ensure yours.

His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. It was a tender gesture, a whisper of comfort that helped ground you in the moment. You leaned into his touch, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your senses heightened—the scent of his cologne, the sounds of the house settling around you, the feel of his warm hand against your skin. It was grounding, a silent reassurance that you were here, with him, safe from the trials of the day.

His lips met yours in a soft, lingering kiss. It wasn't demanding or passionate, but rather a patient exploration, an statement of the bond between you two. His other hand found its way to the small of your back, holding you close as he deepened the kiss. The taste of him, warm and familiar, washed over your tongue, erasing the bitter aftertaste of the wine.

You responded, letting your glass of wine rest on the counter as your free hand tangled in his hair. Your fingers traced the nape of his neck, playing with the loose hairs there, eliciting a low hum from Marcus. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body seeping through the thin material of your blouse.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His brown eyes, normally so playful, were now clouded with tender seriousness.

He offered a soft smile, his hand caressing your cheek, the pad of his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. His gaze was intense, yet held a softness that had you melting under his touch.

"Have I been successful in making you forget about the terrible day you've had?" His words held a hint of amusement, his eyes twinkling with muted satisfaction.

You looked up at him, his eyes bright with curiosity. "You did," you admitted, the tension having melted away under the heat of his touch.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "Good," he murmured, pressing a light kiss on your forehead. "Because we have the whole weekend ahead of us, and I want you to enjoy every moment."

Your heart fluttered at his words, their promise of a peaceful respite adding to the comfort that he'd already provided. "Any plans?" you asked, looking up at him.

His smile widened. "None in particular," he admitted, his eyes lighting up with a playful spark. "Except for our standing date at Sweet Jane’s Sunday morning."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, if that was even possible. The warmth of his body seeped into you, grounding you, reassuring you.

As you rested your head against his chest once more, a sigh of contentment left your lips. The turmoil of the day seemed a distant memory now, replaced by the comforting presence of the man you loved. His ability to whisk you away from your worries, to make you forget the stress of the day, was one of the many things you cherished about him.

"I like the sound of that," you murmured, a faint smile on your lips.

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x female reader #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

104 notes · View notes

moralesmilesanhour · 3 months

Note

I'd love to hear what fundamental issues you have with spiderverse... 🎤

Hm I'm just gonna rattle off a few from most to least important before I forget (note: some of my issues with spiderverse are less about the concepts or characters themselves but more about how the writers or producers chose to handle them, or even just exploring the possibilities of what could've been. I still think it's a really excellent movie and complex story.)

If you're someone that skims through longer paragraphs a lot, I've also put my most important points in italics so that you get the gist of what I'm saying :)

Making Miles' story about everyone else but Miles. I understand that Miles' whole thing in Spiderverse is that by defying the odds, he inspires the people around him. But there's a certain point where the story become *about that* and the other characters more than him and his interiority. In its efforts to focus on his growing into the mantle of Spider-Man, the films only kind of allude to the fact that he has a life outside of the mask. His mental health and relationship to his community are pushed to the wayside so much that even Ganke is only on-screen for a few minutes at most.

(This is a long one sorry) Spiderverse as a movie doesn't seem to know for sure whether it likes cops or not. It presents the literal police and policing as a concept as something that is inherently neutral, likening it to the mantle of Spider-Man where they simply have power that they have to use responsibly, and that there are just "bad apples". But the way that Spider-Society operates quite closely parallels how policing and criminality work: you have a bunch of spiders go out and detain people and send them where they're "supposed to be" under the guise that a) the order of things will essentially fall apart if you don't, and b) there is a specific way that your story is supposed to go, and you should be willing to sacrifice lives to maintain that status quo. There's also the categorization of those who break those rules as an Other (anomalies), and the fact that Spider Society reacts to the presence of the anomalies instead of addressing the thing that created them (the collider. HELLOOOO). With all that being said, Miguel and the rest of Spider Society are clearly framed as anatgonistic forces by the film and even has a punk anarchist character calling them out and being right about it. The movies simultaneously critique policing metaphorically through Spider Society while trying to justify it in the real world.

Girl where is Pavitr. His character is literally perfect for Miles to interact with, but we don't see him again until the very last scene. Same thing with...literally everyone we just met. The movie is over two hours long, where did all that time go--OH WAIT

Gwen and the scene with her dad take up wayyyy too much of the movie's runtime, I'm sorry. We spent the entirety of the beginning of the film learning information about Gwen and her dad that could've been quickly conveyed in much less time. Not to mention that, apparently, Mr. Stacy literally gets fired in the comics for letting Gwen go, so that whole plotline didn't even need to happen. Why change that? To say he's a 'good cop' that does his job? The trauma of losing Peter would've been present in her story either way.

The art style. No, this doesn't mean what you think it does. I do not have an issue with the 3D and 2D hybrid style of animation obviously. Spiderverse has literally revolutionized the field, but there are some limitations to it that were made especially clear once TMNT:MM came out. You may or may not have noticed, but isn't almost everyone in Spiderverse...kinda gorgeous? Hear me out here. Someone has pointed this out before me, and it really changed the way that I look at aesthetics in animation. In Spiderverse, everything from the environments to the way that things are shaded and colored is extremely stylized and pushed quite far...until you get to the main characters. Yes, there is diversity in features the likes of which we haven't seen 'till recently, but I'm purely talking about the style in which they're drawn. Compared to everything else, they look closer to something Disney or Pixar might produce. This is not inherently problematic or "bad", but I do wonder how much cooler and cutting-edge and comic-y we could get if it wasn't so pre-occupied with beauty. You can disregard this one, it's just a thought. Apparently the idea that not every cartoon character you see on the big screen has to be hot makes people very angry.

I think those are all the big ones. I'll reblog with new additions if for some reason I come up with new things to complain about lmao

#another long post sorryyyyy #blabbering #not tagging this bc ummm no <3

38 notes · View notes

sophaeros · 5 months

Text

id:

twitter thread by richard siken.

So I just learned the word rarepair. In poetry we have a similar word. It's metaphor. It's when you compare things usually not compared to make a striking meaning or reveal an as-of-yet unconsidered connection or overlap. Rarepair generates fiction. Metaphor generates poetry

In poetry, the more rare the pair, the more powerful the image and the meaning. “the evening is spread out against the sky / like a patient etherized upon a table” takes the fandom of the evening and the fandom of the operating room and rarepairs them.

I mean no disrespect to any fandom, but the idea of crossover is exciting and filled with opportunity. Poetry makes meanings and images collide. I am going to make worlds collide to see what shakes out. All I do is connect and juxtapose and smash, all day, every day.

I use this venue to be playful. Sometimes a scrap or an idea develops and turns into serious work. I'm not trying to take the things you love and muddy them, I'm trying to open them up to possibility. Two things compared (Lestat/Leclerc) is there to make you think, not fight.

My text on a picture of Astarion is a juxtaposition meant to spark ideas. It is not a confirmation or an endorsement of anything, it is an acknowledgement that the concept of Astarion exists, and I am using it and my text to make a friction. I have never played Asterion.

/end id

#richard siken #fandom #writing tips #lestat/leclerc. his mind #and hes right as always #about the metaphor and connections. idk about lestat/leclerc i dont know enough to say x #my image id

33 notes · View notes

oneheda · 4 months

Text

๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ both our eyes lock to the tide.

— a neteyam sully short prose.

- ͙۪۪̥˚┊❛ people say this love’s for show, but i would die for you in secret. ❜┊˚ ͙۪۪̥◌

— taylor swift, ‘peace’.

┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈ ੈ✩‧₊˚

synopsis :

In the forest, grey clouds mirror internal turmoil. Neteyam emerges in the rain, offering solace, an anchor.

characters : neteyam x gender!neutral o.c

story type — word count : short prose • 373

genre — mini-tropes : fluff, hurt/comfort • two characters in the rain.

warning(s) : bomb metaphor

song inspiration(s) : anchor by novo amor

author’s notes : author’s note : ahh omg. this is my first prose that i’m publicly posting as ‘fanfiction’ on tumblr because i haven’t posted any of my writings on any form of media platform in like years. so, my writing’s a little ‘rusty’. short proses are what i’ll be sticking with for a while just to practice and fight against writers block, but hope to be able to write full one-shots and series one day! anyways, thank u sm for 100 likes, the reblogs on my last post! i love u guys sm and i’m so excited to start my tumblr journey here with y’all! <3

GREY clouds dangerously overshadowed the forest, looming over your head, parallel to the spiralling thoughts which consumed you. Once again, raindrops collided against the dew-kissed grass you sunk your feet in.

Pit-a-pat.

Humming against your knees that were tucked to your chest, you grazed your calloused fingers over the bioluminescent freckles of your arms, outlining and swirling small circles along the soft sensitive skin of your forearm.

Tick.

It was like there was a bomb in your head. You had been cradling it, desperately wishing for it to never explode.

But alas, it inevitably will.

And he would be a soft-blow.

At first, it was slow footsteps you hear. Then, they inched closer until it fell to a stop. From what your ears picked up, it was barely a foot shy away now — though, you did not want to hear anything other than the drizzles coming from the impending storm.

“Hey.”

It was a voice distinct from yours and immediately you knew who it was.

“Neteyam?”

Head slightly raised from the pit between your knees, you peered over your shoulder to take a look at the boy behind you.

There he stood, a calm expression consuming his visage.

You smile, helplessly. “It’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He seizes the empty spot beside where you sat curled up. Neteyam always had his ways of finding you, even when you did not intend for anyone to know about your whereabouts. It was getting dangerous, he thought.

Once again, he had found you in the rain.

Underneath the clouds, he can see a second one over your head.

“If your cascade ocean blues come, you can always talk to me.”

Because he would always be there, letting your waves crash against him — his skin, his body, everything.

Your tears were a sea for him to swim, being an anchor to any ship that came in. Whether it was a high-tide or a low-tide, it did not matter. There was no difference.

His words were a simple display of care. Yet, it meant the world. The world the two of you could close your eyes and see.

The world the two of you could build together.

Tock.

The bomb which you had tried to disarm yourself with no avail, did not go off. He had taken it in his hands and disarmed it for you.

Like he knew how to manoeuvre through its coloured wires and fixed it for you.

One day, you would learn how to do the same. For yourself and him. When things get too hard for the both of you and when both your ocean waves crash against each other. When it gets all-consuming and too much.

You will find an anchor within each other to latch onto.

To disarm.

“Thank you.”

#atwow #avatar #avatarwayofthewater #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam x reader #neteyam x you #neteyam x y/n #neteyam sully x you #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam sully fanfiction #avatar fanfiction #novo amor #taylor swift #anchor #anchor by novo amor #avatar atwow

23 notes · View notes

what-would-have-happened · 1 year

Text

MHA FIC REC LIST

Because apparently this is a thing that people do; so, I’m going to list the best fics I’ve ever read as well as why, exactly, you should read them. It’s a very varied collection, but you’ll find a lot of dimension/time travel, as well as Todoroki-family centric fics here.

Dragonborne — Ojiro/Shinsou. Set in an AU where Ojiro’s quirk isn’t just Tail, but something insane and awesome, actually. This fic has incredible writing and a very compelling plot that gets PERFECT around the middle of the story; if you are someone who likes either Ojiro or Shinsou for no good reason, this is the fic focusing on them that you’ve been looking for. 125k, complete.

Mild-Mannered School Teacher/Adrenaline-Junkie Vigilante — Fuyumi/Miruko. Fuyumi becomes a vigilante and runs around vigilanting with Dabi, without realizing who he is; she gets a girlfriend along the way. Check this one out for a peak f/f ship and lots of Todoroki drama; funny and emotional at the same time. 136k, complete.

Back To Me — no ship. A story about Kurogiri finding Shirakumo, or maybe about Shirakumo finding Kurogiri. Either way, it’s a rollercoaster; mental conflict abounds as the man of mist tries to figure out who he is, and villain-hero conflicts aren’t exactly making doing so easy. 214k, in progress.

Quirked — Erasermic. Izuku travels to a parallel dimension where no quirks exist, and manages to bring a quirk along with him. Despite not having had one before. What else to do than to become a hero? This is the vigilante Izuku story to surpass ALL vigilante Izuku stories, full of fresh and interesting ideas as well as a carefully evolving plot. 133k, in progress.

Cracked Glass — no ship. Essentially a Promised Neverland AU, but it takes place in a dimension parallel to canon; when said dimension collides with canon, it begins the first chapter of a brilliant disaster. Ojiro stans, this is another fic just for you. If you’re not an Ojiro stan, read this anyway and become one. 192k, marked incomplete, but it more or less is finished.

Dermabrasion — Dabihawks. This is a world where Shouto goes looking for Touya, and wouldn’t you believe it, he finds him! Naruto is vaguely involved. No, that wasn’t a typo of Natsuo. SO MANY GOOD TODOFAM FEELS. God, this fic is excellent; really explores the dynamics of everyone in the family in wonderful detail. Yes, everyone. All the Todorokis get screentime here. 410k, complete.

make this feel like home — Tododeku. A story about the three younger Todoroki siblings trying to get along over the holidays; eventually, they drag the oldest brother in too. Short but sweet, funny, and hits you right in the heart. 26k, complete.

Cair Parallel — Shinsou/Kaminari. If you don’t ship them (as I do not) you can simply ignore that part; and it is beyond worth it, for this fic’s magnificent story. It’s gotta be one of the most creative things I’ve ever read. Modern no-quirks AU, but the gang plays dungeons and dragons; so many varied character arcs, all developing with an equal amount of focus, and so much humor alongside the complex relationships. If you’re of the opinion that Iida needs more fics where he’s a main character, well, I am too, so come check this out. 590k, complete.

Artificial Parenthood, Affectionate Brotherhood — no ship. If you read only a single fic on this rec list, read this one. It’s metaphorically every single chaotic Dabi-gets-deaged fic you’ve ever read, but combined into a vaguely coherent narrative that’s glued together by innovative word usage, that good old Todoroki angst, and Bakugou. There’s also time travel. There are so many thoughts in this story, and they’re all condensed tighter than a steel rope. I can read this again and again and again, and I still don’t know if I’ve found everything this has managed to express. Probably not. If I had to say the story was focused on anything, I’d say Dabi, Bakugou, and the escalating terror of existence. 208k, in progress. (the other fics in the series are worth a look, too.)

The World Ended Before It Could Begin (Time Doesn’t Heal All Wounds) — no ship. Shinsou time travels back from the Nomu apocalypse to save the world, and runs directly into a pre-Dabi Touya. Events proceed with a lot of confusion from there as Shinsou tries his best while trying not to rope his friends into danger as well (he does not succeed) and with no intention of gaining a family (he gets one anyway.) Lots of family feels and humor here; Touya goes undercover as Dabi at one point, which is hilarious. Also: duck feet. 72k, complete.

Lost In The Darkness — no ship. Shigaraki kidnaps Bakugou at Kamino, but instead of the events we all know, there’s an earthquake, and they both fall in a pit and die. Okay, they don’t die. They do become besties, though; a hero-villain team up that’s determined to change the world and recruit each other to their respective sides, Bakugou and Shigaraki are like a pinball machine that wrecks everything else around themselves for the better. The League attempts redemption, Midoriya and Kirishima try their best, and the Todoroki brothers get dragged into the situation one after the other. If one thing’s clear, it’s that no one’s life will ever be the same again. 394k, one chapter left.

Ignite to the Call — no ship. The dimension travel is premium here, my friends. A group of UA students wake up in a world that’s both similar and different to their own; where reality could have gone, if one thing had changed. What is that one thing? Surprise, no one knows! Featuring Izuku as Shigaraki’s little brother, Dabi as a guy who wants to know why Shouto froze him in an iceblock, a collection of teenage runaways and dangerous animals, one or quite possibly two ghosts, A Great Escape Plan, and copious amounts of kidnapping. 600k, in progress.

Bakugou Bewitched — no ship. I can think of no better way to describe this fic than the term Platonic Bakudeku; the friendship is strong in this one. In summary, Bakugou is inflicted with the curse of obedience from Ella Enchanted. (I’ve never watched Ella Enchanted.) It makes his life increasing flavors of difficult, and the relationship between him and Midoriya is the most twisted spiked thing, and also stronger than the hardest steel. These two are inseparable—to Bakugou’s great distress. If you want a fic that treats the Bakugou-Izuku relationship like the insane shard of intensity that it is without once touching the line of romantic, this is the one. There’s also lots of neat Bakugou family content, which I don’t see often. 155k, complete.

sunshine in the library — Shinsou/Izuku. A vampire AU with the most beautiful feels, this fic is coming for your heart, and dragging a new OTP along with it. The plot is best described as a bundle of awesomeness with Shindeku the main and magnificent focus. Featuring: Izuku as a guy way in over his head, Shinsou as the brooding vampire who needs some light in his life, and Iida and Uraraka as vampire hunters who are rather unhelpfully misguided. They’re trying their best. The plot that’s planned out for this fic is fifty two forms of brilliant, and I can’t wait to read it all. 46k, in progress.

Where your love has always been enough (for me) — Enji/Rei. Endeavor time travels after his death to twenty years in the past; to a time before he broke his family. He doesn’t break it this time. Endeavor redemption arc, and a Todoroki family where only the father holds the weight of what he had once done. Where sometimes there’s a second chance. I dunno, but maybe the Todorokis need a little less angst inflicted on them, every now and then, and positive emotions, instead. You’ll definitely feel positive emotions reading this. 160k, in progress.

This Is Why We Have The Rules — no ship. Kirishima makes an entire chapter worth of accidental innuendos, Iida almost becomes the overlord of UA out of sheer exasperation plus a lack of sleep, and Ojiro is the only normal student in class 1A. That’s it, that’s the fic, and it’s one of the funniest things I have read in my entire life. 8k, in progress.

Soulmates and Wormholes — Kiribaku, Tododeku. It’s a modern AU featuring the well-loved soulmates trope; but with a twist, and that twist is parallel universes. This fic is consistently hilarious throughout and tells a compelling story that only gets more and more interesting every chapter, and I cannot wait to see where it’s going. It’s excellent. 76k, in progress.

And that’s all for now! Thank you for reading!

#mha fanfiction #mha #bnha #fanfic #todoroki #todoroki family #todoroki shouto #shinsou hitoshi #ojiro mashirao #kurogiri #dabi #touya todoroki #bakugou katsuki #deku x shinso #shindeku #midoriya izuku #fic rec #rec list

231 notes · View notes

annikin-annotates · 6 months

Text

Tear You Apart - Chapter 1

Hi hello, back with another chapter! This chapter deals heavily with SA trauma, so if that isn't something you feel comfy reading; please take care of yourselves first, love ya'll.

Content warnings: Non-con, Cannibalism as a metaphor for love, Smut, Dom/Sub, BDSM, Choking, Antagonist is NOT Astarion, Collaring.

Word Count: 5,282

Sunsets were always gorgeous this time of year, when the waters became frigid and the pack moved on to warmer waters. She would always spend the last night watching the sunset from the mouth of the Chionthar. The deep gold of the setting sun waning to hues of purple and blue, broken up by mottled clouds of violet and gold. It sent the waves around her shimmering with the last moments of sunlight as it dipped below the horizon, giving way to the moon.

She had always found great comfort in these moments, the tranquillity of being surrounded by nothing but the ocean and all those who lived under her protection. Her pack had found safety and protection beneath her waves for centuries, each generation more fearful of the surface than the last. They had every right to be terrified, humans had hunted them to near extinction for the sake of their own selfishness and curiosity, sentencing them to a miserable life on land, forever longing for the touch of the sea.

Another head surfaced from the depths of the water, slitted eyes and familiar dark tresses spreading a smile across her face. “Decided to brave the surface, have you?” she asked her friend, her eyebrows raised as she watched her sink below the surface again and popping up closer to her.

“No Na-Mara, I’m here to tell you to hurry up. Everyone is leaving,” she huffed, feigned annoyance crossing her delicate features as she rolled her eyes.

“Oh come on Muir - Who knows how long it’ll be before we see another sunset like this. I mean, look at it, it’s gorgeous isn’t it?” she countered, grabbing her friends shoulders and angling her towards the sunset, the hue changing almost entirely over the course of their short conversation. The light blues and violets traded for deep indigo, the seemingly endless expanse beginning to sprout stars that glittered like jewels.

Her eyes scanned across the cityscape, watching shadows pass by windows in houses and lovers walking along the boardwalk arm in arm. She couldn’t deny the pang of jealousy that shifted in her, digging its claws into the pit of her stomach. What a delight it would be to walk among them, to enjoy the sunshine and cool breeze as a human.

Muir sighed and rolled her eyes before agreeing “Yes, I guess it is somewhat enrapturing,” Na-Mara couldn’t help but chortle. Both of them floated idly, resting their heads on one another, taking in the scenery before it would become nothing but the endless expanse of deep inky blackness of the ocean.

Creaking of a ship pulled both of them from their daze, it was a sound she had heard many times before, and yet this time was all the more harrowing. The shouting and pointing of the crew alerted them to the fact that they had been seen; a pit settled in her stomach. Na-Mara turned her head towards her friend, “They can’t catch us both, get out of here!” she shouted.

Muir shook her head furiously, her wet tresses skimming the water, “Not without you!”the panic rising in her voice as a net was tossed over the side, ensnaring Na-Mara.

“Go Muir! Get out of here! Save yourself!” she begged, hoping her friend would find the bravery to flee. One of them had to make it out alive, one of them needed to live; it had to be Muir, she was sweet - new to the world and all of its cruelties. Muir looked up at her in horror as Na-Mara was lifted from the water and onto the ship, before diving back beneath the waves to the darkness below.

She landed on the deck of the ship with a wet slap, a dry gasp tore through her as the air was knocked out of her lungs, her back colliding with the hard wood of the deck. The worn rope net was thicker than what she had seen normal fishermen use, which indicated that they weren’t out here fishing - they were hunting something, and with the way several people descended on her, Na-Mara figured that it was her kind they were after.

She lashed out with a swipe of her talons, though it only caused her to become more tangled in the net. Voices overlapped all around her as her body became heavier and heavier, her willingness to fight dwindling. This was it, she was going to die. She was going to be slaughtered on the floor and thrown back into the ocean, all for the sake of a pelt.

In her final conscious moments she casted her mind to warm memories of the life she had lived - however short it was. Her mother would weep for her, they all would - she would no doubt be the source of insurmountable grief to her family for centuries to come. She regretted not embracing her mother before she left, she wished she could tell her not to worry, and that she loved her. Blackness danced at the edges of her vision, a sign her end was nearing, she used the final breath she had in her lungs to let out a bitter laugh.

Fucking humans.

The rocking of the sea pulled her from her forced slumber, waves lapping against the worn hull of the ship. A yawn escaped her as she tried to stretch her arms and legs, only to be met with the resistance as she did so, the rope groaning as she tried to slip from the bonds.

Her heart began to thrum in her chest: Why could she not move? Why could she not see? Why was she bound? Why was she still alive? The memories of how she got there were foggy at best, whoever had captured her did not want her to escape.

Capture?

She felt cold. Colder than she had ever been, the type of cold that reached the very marrow of her bones. Her skin pulled taught over her trembling fingers, flesh groaning each time she flexed them. She tried to focus on any prominent sounds she could hear, she could see naught but darkness, unable to see her fingers if she held them directly in front of her face - the bastards had taken her eyesight from her.

Her head swam with thoughts, all of them screaming over one another to be heard, You fool, why did you stray so close to the harbour? The only thing you have gained from this is your obituary, the voices spat. How could she be so stupid? Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, Gods, the last thing I want to be before I die is a crying maiden.

“Where’s my pelt?” she asked out into the expanse of nothingness that surrounded her, feeling the air in the room shift as someone new entered.

“I am sorry, truly, but I cannot tell you,” he replied, almost sounding remorseful, though something in his voice told her that it wasn’t the first time he had done this, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Please, I’m begging you. My pelt is important to me, I need it to get home!” she cried, desperation becoming clear in her voice. Her pelt was the key to get home, she was nothing without it.

—

Time passed in a haze of blackness, without the use of her eyes she could hardly tell up from down, never mind how long she had been…well, wherever the hells she was. But she could feel that she had been placed on a bed of straw and if she focused hard enough, she could hear footsteps overhead. Every now and again she could hear soft voices and clinking glasses, though even with her hearing she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

There were chains around her wrists that pinched and nipped at her skin when she moved, anchoring her to an unseen point in the room. Her knees pressed to her chest as she tucked herself tightly into a ball. Rocking herself back and forth softly, emulating the ever changing push and pull of the ocean; her only source of comfort.

Gods, if you can hear my prayer, please offer me a kind hand. The prayer rolled around in her head, spilling from her lips away from the safe confines in her mind, like a snapped string of pearls tumbling away never to be seen again. Something shifted beside her, causing her to press herself against the cold stone wall backing as far as she could from the noise.

“I-Is someone there?” a male voice asked softly, she could taste the fear in the question. She nodded, though she was unsure if he had his sight taken like she had.

“Yes, I am here. What is this place?” she responded, back still pressed firmly against the wall.

Silence hung between them for a moment, both of them too terrified to acknowledge the fact that they didn’t know, the fact that they were on borrowed time. “Do you know where we are?” she pressed again, panic beginning to thrum in her veins. More silence followed.

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly, surprising even herself, it seemed like such a personal question - given the circumstances.

“It’s uh…” he trailed off as if lost in thought, “I don’t remember,” he replied after a moment; he sounded sad.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up anything painful,” she said, scooting closer towards him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “My name is Na-Mara,” she added softly.

“Na-Mara,” he repeated softly, “I like it - it suits you.” There was a solemness that hung in the air, as if the entire place was steeped in pain and terror. She opened her mouth to speak again, to ask him if he knew anything about where they were, or who was keeping them here, the words had hardly formed on her lips before he was shushing her.

“Sh! They are coming,” he hissed, she went to bite out a reply when shuffling came from her left, thudding boots upon creaking stairs sending her heart thrumming from her chest. The footsteps landed heavily on the stones, multiple by the sounds of it, all of them branching off in different directions. Clinking of bottles and creaking of opening crates, perhaps they were not here for her or her friend just simply gathering supplies before moving back upstairs.

There was silence for a few moments after that, then movement along her chains. She had opened her mouth to begin pleading with her captors when the air was taken from her lungs, being forcefully thrown over a strong shoulder. She wriggled and writhed in their muscular grip, though there was nothing she could do - he felt as though he was made from stone.

They ascended the stairs again, the hinges of the cellar door groaning as it opened. The room they entered was well lit, though she couldn’t see the light, she could feel the warmth of the candles.

The world shifted around her once again as she felt solid ground beneath her feet, “Ah, there she is lads, isn’t she a beauty?” a hand gripped her cheeks between his thumb and forefinger to get a proper look at her.

“Give me my sight back!” she hissed, though with the days without water, it came out hoarse and barely more than a whisper.

There was a chorus of gruff laughter, it sounded as though it was coming from everywhere, “What was that? You’re going to have to speak up darlin’ -”

A smooth voice cut him off, the air in the room changing as he spoke, “Come now gentlemen, surely you have something better to do than to terrorise my merchandise?” he asked, even though he wasn’t looking for an answer. Candlelight seared her eyes, her hand coming to shield them as the blackness ebbed away. She scanned the room, there were three men to her right, she assumed they were the ones who had brought her upstairs.

The man in front of her - by all means - was attractive. Half of his wily chestnut hair was tied back in a bun, the rest hanging loosely over his shoulders, stopping at his mid chest. His eyes were a stunning shade of green, almost glowing in the light of the room. Long healed scars puckered the skin along his chin, cheek and eyebrow, though it did not distract from his beauty.

He stood a foot above her, enough to stare down at her as he began to speak “I apologise on their behalf, they are not used to handling such…pretty merchandise.”

She tried to keep her tone as even as she could, ignoring the hummingbird that had taken up home in her heart. Anger began to simmer in her veins, her temper getting the better of her before she had the chance to control herself, “You abduct me from my home, take my sight - which I don’t much appreciate by the way - and then you have the gall to call me merchandise?” She laughed incredulously.

In that moment, as the tall form stalked around her, tracing the curve of her cheek with a softness unbefitting of what was to come. She pulled away from him, a grimace clear on her face. “Do not touch me,” she spat, venom dripping from each syllable. He merely stared down at her in response, a lightness in his eyes - he was amused. She swallowed thickly as it dawned on her, she was no longer the predator - she was the prey.

She was moving before she could process it, running through hallways, blindly pushing her way through disgruntled patrons of whatever establishment this place was. She turned a sharp corner, colliding with a silver tray full of crystal glasses, the sound ear piercing as they shattered on the floor. Jagged shards sliced open the bottoms of her feet, causing her to cry out as she continued to run, leaving a trail of blood in her wake.

“Run child, you cannot hide from me forever,” he called after her, the lilt in his voice sending fear coursing through her as he trailed her through the halls; like one would walk through a park with a lover. She pushed down the urge to cry out in fear, as she continued to rush down the long hallway. The hum of chatter broke the ever flowing stream of fearful thoughts, relief flooded her body, its soft warmth leading to a sigh of escaping her.

“Please, someone help me! I am not meant to be here, please!” she cried, the patrons did nothing but stare at her for a moment before continuing on as if she didn’t exist. Her teeth ground together as she searched the room for an exit, she didn’t have much time before her captor would descend upon her. A door! Her thoughts cried out, she twisted and weaved through the patrons to cross the room, she could taste her liberation - it smelled of salt and petrichor.

She pushed the door, the chill of the rain flooding around her. She had her freedom, only for it to be snatched away from her at the last moment. An arm wrapped around her middle, heaving her away from the door, away from her freedom. She struggled in his grip, kicking and twisting to escape the vice that only seemed to tighten.

“Let go of me you beast!” she hissed, trying to jab her elbows into any soft flesh she could find. Her nails bit into his forearms hard enough for small droplets of blood to well on his skin, like rubies on a string.

“Well aren’t you just adorable,” her captor chuckled, like she was a petulant child asking for a sweet before dinner - an inconvenience and nothing more. The room followed suit with laughter, she screamed in frustration, still kicking and twisting in his arms as he carried her back through the halls.

“Please! I beg of you, let me go!” she begged, a broken gasp escaping her lips as he dropped her unceremoniously on the floor, the hardwood sending a jolt of pain up her spine.

“You sound so pretty when you beg, pet.” he crouched in front of her, reaching out a finger to lift her chin to look at him, she bit down on the ring clad finger without hesitation, hard enough for his blood to flood her mouth.

She wasn’t sure what came first, the crack of his knuckles connecting with her cheek, or the sting of her lip being crushed between her teeth. The crack reverberated through her body, both his and her own blood intermingled with saliva, dripping from her maw in long strings. She must have looked like a vicious animal.

Good.

She hissed at him, a guttural sound she didn’t even know she was capable of making, blood splattered across his face he recoiled from her. A silence hung in the air as they stared at each other, she glowered up at him as he stared down at her, hungrily. Her assailant lunged at her as she tried to shift away from him, trapping herself between him and the bed. His hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her forcefully to her feet, soft skin dimpled under the harshness of his grip.

“Come now, love, surely we can enjoy each other’s company for a while?” he whispered, she could feel the hotness of his breath fanning out across her face, she shook her head.

“I want to go home,” she begged - if he could just see reason, perhaps he would let her go and she would be free to reunite with her family. Maybe he would find it in his heart to take pity on her, or see the error in his way, to see that what he was doing was wrong.

His eyes darkened as he backed her against the bed. “You are not going anywhere. I am going to devour you, again and again, until there is nothing left of you,” he hummed into her ear, a nip punctuating the sentiment.

“Then I hope I rot in your stomach,” she gritted. If she was going to die, she might as well go out with a fight.

He chuckled again, the sound off putting, sending her stomach heaving and twisting painfully. “Oh my dear, sweet girl, I’m going to have you wishing for death.”

Fear enveloped her.

There was nothing more bitter than betrayal, but to be betrayed by one's own body was something else entirely. She couldn’t fight the feelings that washed over her, waves of pleasure lashing against her like waves upon a shoreline. How could she enjoy this? Why was her body doing this to her? She didn’t want this. Disgust had begun to take root in the pit of her stomach, making home within the darkest depths of her being. She just wanted it to stop.

Please Umberlee, if you can hear my plight, I beg of you. Please do something - anything, I will give you my flesh and bone as recompense, anything you ask of me and I will do it. Please, just make him stop.

There were no gods that answered her plea, nor did any passerby acknowledge her cries for help. All she could do was let fear consume her, to let it ravage her from the inside out. Like a wild animal clawing at the soft confines of her body, she was too soft, too young, but maybe this is what she deserved. Maybe this was her penance for her stupidity. She cuocooned herself within the confines of her own mind, residing herself to the fact that she would have to bury part of herself tonight, but on the morrow she would emerge changed.

A metamorphosis.

—

She awoke to the cold darkness of the cellar again, though now she had been afforded the ability of her sight back. It was the very least that monster could do after what he did to her. Her skin rippled and hissed as though she had been set alight, pain encompassed her whole body in its shroud. She sat up with a groan, rubbing her eyes and trying to piece together what happened the previous night.

She saw flashes, fingers tracing her skin, kisses that were all teeth and tongue, and pain, pain, pain. A sob wracked her body as she pulled the tattered linen of a dress she wasn’t sure how she got towards her mouth, desperately wishing to breathe life into it; desperately wishing for comfort. For her mother.

Her mouth was dry and her lips were cracked, her tongue darted out to relive it only for her to realise that it was dried blood. He had struck her when she bit him, she recalled, touching he had to her cheek hissing from the tenderness. There was tightness around her throat that wasn’t present before, her hand instinctively came to rest on her neck to find a thin silver band around it.

“Are you alright?” she jumped as that same gentle voice from the night before broke the silence in the cellar. She could see him now, a large red tiefling, his horns curling around his head in a regal crown, his hair was as white as fresh snow and his eyes as blue as the summer sky.

Fresh tears bit the corners of her eyes, “A-ah, yes I am fine, do you know how long I’ve been sleeping for?” she asked, trying to change the subject. She just wanted to forget that the night prior ever happened.

She could see him shrug slightly, eyes beginning to get used to the light once more. “You have only been returned to the cellar a few hours ago. But you were above for a day.”

She scoffed in disbelief. A whole day? It only felt like hours. “Thank you for telling me, I do not remember being away for so long,” she apologised. It was a lie she wished that she could believe, she remembered more from that night than she wished.

More silence hung between them, only their breaths, the near constant dripping coming from somewhere in the cellar and the low chatter coming from upstairs.

—

Time seemed to pass differently in the cellar, perhaps it was the lack of natural light or the fact that she had been so thoroughly distraught from being plucked from her home. She had just begun to settle in again, eyes growing heavy, the little patch of hay feeling more comfortable by the second.

Light spilled into the cellar from the opening door, sending her heart pounding once more, feeling the throbbing in her ears and fingertips. Fear prickled the base of her spine as heavy footfall came down the flimsy steps, making her way towards herself and her tiefling friend. For a brief moment she had hoped they were there for him, to take him up to do gods knows what - just anyone but her, she couldn’t bear it.

Once again her prayers fell on deaf ears as the man in front of her unlocked her chains and hoisted her to her feet. “Come on, get up,” he replied gruffly. She looked pleadingly towards her friend, or perhaps the better term was cellmate, his eyes suddenly finding the mason work far more interesting.

The moment her feet touched the soft carpet, she was ushered onto a raised wooden stage, the thin tattered linen of the dress doing nothing to shield her from prying eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he started, making a show of turning around and addressing the people in the room. “I would like to formally introduce you to our newest attraction. Our gorgeous little Selkie,” he hummed, lifting her chin with his thumb and forefinger to look him in the eyes.

The delicate fabric of her dress was torn away from her, she gasped in shock, unsure of why she was now naked in front of all these people. She could do nothing but stare out into the crowd, looking at them with pleading eyes, her cheeks aflame with both fury and embarrassment. She had been abducted from her home, placed in shackles, sold into slavery and now stripped bare in front of a room full of people who now ogled her like some oddity - like she wasn’t real.

Her captors arms snaked around her waist, inching towards the apex between her thighs. “Let go of me!” she hissed, trying to free herself from his iron grip. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly at her outburst, hand encircling around her throat hard enough to elicit a gasp from her. A choked cry fell from her lips as he placed more pressure, blackness beginning to dance at the edges of her eyes. “Please…” she wheezed.

Air rushed back into her lungs with a gasp that tore through her, sending her stumbling forward a few steps as he released her, while the crowd murmured with various tones of approval. What kind of awful place is this? I just want to go home. She scanned the crowd again, looking for any sign of sympathy, any form of guiding light to lead her home. She turned to her captor again, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “Please,” she begged, “I just want to go home, please let me go home.”

“You have no choice in the matter. I have your pelt - I own you,” he hummed, that ever present predatory glint in his eye catching the candlelight. Anger boiled in her stomach as she took a step towards him, her teeth bared in a hiss, he only raised his eyebrows at her before holding his hand up, stopping her in her tracks. A humming surrounded her, so overwhelming in its volume that it forced her to her knees with a surprised cry. Hushed voices circulated around the room, their eyes bulging and gawking at her, vaguely reminiscent of fish.

“And look at that, a perfectly subservient Selkie,” he turned to face her again. “Now, was that so hard, pet?” he asked her, his tone indicating that he found her childlike - less than.

“I hope you fucking rot!” she hissed, spitting in his face. A quickly hidden grimace crossed his features, his dark eyes clouding with something sinister.

“Now, now, is that any way to speak to your betters?” his voice like poisoned honey, “I think I deserve an apology. What do you think ladies and gentlemen?” he was making a show of it, making a show of her. And whatever was to come, she had no choice but to take it.

Another hum surged through the crowd, scrutinising eyes looking down their noses at her. He tapped his chin in mock thought, “I want you to beg, I want to hear those pretty lips beg for forgiveness.”

The air crackled around her, every bone in her body bent to his whim as she leant forward onto her forearms, head resting at his feet. The words came clawing up her throat and spilling from her mouth before she had the chance to force it down; they tasted sour on her tongue. “I am sorry,” she gritted her teeth, a desperate attempt to stop the words from pouring out. “Forgive me.”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, “Hmm…I think that performance was a little lacklustre, shall we give it another go?” Every muscle in her body felt poised to strike, to launch at him and rip out his throat; and yet, she could not move, he would not let her move. She was still in that meek and mild position - the very picture of subservience. “Though this time, I would quite like for you to address me as master,” he added, she could hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke.

This time she could not stop the words that flowed from her, though they were words of subjugation, they were laced with vitriol. “I apologise, master - truly, from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

—

They had hauled her back to her captors office after her stunt on stage, she had no doubt that her disobedience would be swiftly punished. The side door of the room opened, and her captor sauntered in with all the satisfaction of a cat who had dined on cream for dinner, a wide smirk across his face. Instinctively her shoulders moved upwards to her ears, if she could make herself small enough perhaps she would disappear into the fibres of the carpet beneath her.

He rounded his desk, leaning against the intricately carved wood, looking her up and down again, surveying the peaks and valleys of her body - it made her skin crawl. Without warning he began to speak, jolting out of her disgust, “I want you to work for me,” he stated simply, examining his cuticles as he spoke.

She cut him off, taking a step forward as she shook her head. “No,” she started, steeling herself. “I will not do it, do with me what you will. I am as good as dead anyway,”

“You will work for me, you lure in patrons with that exquisite voice I know that you have. You will tend to every need that I may have and you will do whatever I ask of you,” she felt him tug on the invisible bond that connected her to him, a reminder that this was an order, not a suggestion. He sighed longingly, as if evaluating the situation. “In exchange I will give you everything you could ever want; gold, jewels -”

Desperation laced her voice, she was scared. “I want water, I need water.” She felt disgusted, she had to beg him for something as basic as water, her life’s blood - the thing that keeps her alive, she couldn’t help the shiver that ran up her spine.

“You will find that given your rather precarious predicament,” he started, placing emphasis on the last two words. “That you won’t have a need for it, but as I am benevolent, you may have what you ask for. I will allow you to think it over, I shall await your answer on the morrow,” he replied, leaving her with her thoughts.

That felt entirely too easy, she thought as she was ushered down the hall by one of the many servants he had bustling around his establishment. She couldn’t fight the sinking feeling in her stomach that screamed at her: You have made a deal with something worse than a devil, much, much worse.

—

She had been pacing for hours at this point, eyes tracing the grain of the wood in the simple room she had been afforded. She needed to come up with a plan as she would not survive long if she kept going the way she was. They would keep her alive as long as she was useful, so she needed to find ways to continue doing so. She hadn’t had water in weeks and she was growing weaker by the hour, she wouldn’t last long like this.

If she agreed to her captors terms then she would be forced into servitude, luring poor souls just like her into this monster's grip. But what choice did she have? The bastard had her pelt, she was already his slave.

She knocked on her door and stepped back, waiting for it to be opened from the other side. It cracked just enough for another elf to poke his head into the room with a sneer. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“Tell your bastard master I accept his terms,” she replied, returning his tone in kind, before the door was closed and locked once again.

And so it begins.

#astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #astarion romance #astarion x female reader #dead dove do not eat #dark fic #dead dove fic #please mind the tags

27 notes · View notes