inmate 13453
okay don't get excited, i just felt like writing a bit of a drabble to feel out the atmosphere of a potential start to this au (clicking the tag will give up the other stuff i've posted for it btw)
btw check out the playlist and the pinterest board made by @theageofsilver and @allicentsallure bc they're fab
cw: kidnapping
Soft seventeen.
Bambi eyes, bambi legs.
There’s a certain edge to the way people describe the age she’s at. Not quite eighteen, not quite legal, tangible as cherry juice on greedy fingers. She isn’t sixteen, sweet and tender. It’s a soft first step into adulthood, skirting the border, the in between, the unknowable horrors that lie ahead.
She fucking hates being seventeen.
It’s a shit number first of all. Odd numbers make her want to spew. They feel like nails on a chalkboard, polyester static on leg hair. She can’t even dance, so whatever ABBA are singing about doesn’t apply.
Amara sticks out her tongue and tastes the air as the breeze blows west. She swears she can get a sense of the world when she does.
Her stepfather mocks her for it. That blue-eyed, blonde maniac with the ugly Buick Electra he treats like a brand-name Italian from the southern coasts of Europe. He used to treat her mother the same. Until he began to tell Amara you look just like her when she was young. He leaves his porn tabs open on his computer, as if he wants her to know. ‘Teen’, ‘Latina’, ‘Stepfather’, ‘Rough’, ‘Face-fucking’, ‘Breeding.’
She doesn’t have a drop of Hispanic blood in her.
She really wants to tell her mother, but there is a chance her mother will look right through her instead. She’s been doing that a lot more nowadays. They can’t afford her meds anymore. She just sits on the porch and watches and waits. For what, is anyone's guess.
>> can you pick me up?
>> its dark
>> pls
>> sorry ik its inconvienant
'Step-Daddy' always replies quickly when it’s her. He has a heart next to her name on his phone. She never agreed to that.
>> it’s spelled inconvenient
“Suck my dick,” Amara tells the screen and switches her phone off before he can message again.
She can walk.
The route back runs dangerously close to the edge of the forest. All kinds rot away in there, but she doesn’t like to think of them by name. They’ll become real if she does. She wishes her mother had found a man who lived in the wetlands, and not here at the cursed border between life and the realm beyond. Marshes are easier to understand. Forests are cursed.
Still, life is horribly simple here. Her high school is placid and filled with the dull-eyed children of dull-eyed adults. The gas station where she works didn’t bother to interview her. She walked in and the guy behind the counter stared at her breasts until he remembered she had a face. Her breasts aced the interview for her.
Can I work here? Just until I graduate.
Sure, grab a nametag.
Four months later, and she doesn’t mind it anymore. Her brain shuts off. Her customers are a ragtag mixture of suspicious, ferret-eyed locals and the occasionally buoyant hiker from out of state. If she doesn’t look like she belongs, she’s pretty, and that usually gives people like her a pass. At least until the sleazy comments become ethnically charged. But even then, Amara has a way of making her eyes go ‘dopey’ and just smiling like she’s too slow to understand. Displaying discomfort is what eggs them on (kind of a nasty realisation she opened her eyes to one day).
An engine growls some way down the road.
Old Chevy pickup, faded gold.
She recognises it from the parking lot at the station near the end of her shift.
A guy stepped out, young, early twenties, with a shock of hair that looked white until she realised it was just really, really blonde. She remembers thinking it was odd. The range of blondes in town runs from deep and dirty to the artificial bleach rattled out of holographic boxes of dye. No one has hair like his. She’d have noticed.
His eyebrows were a little darker, and his lashes were darker still. He had a funny way of walking, and he looked at her like she had the head of a fish and the body of a human being. Amara did her best dopey eyes. She asked him if he’d had a good day, pointed out the offers they had on pork rinds. He didn’t say a word. His skin had smears of black grease, glistening with sweat and bronzed by the sun.
Deep blue eyes.
Horribly deep.
Not the kind you’d want to swim in. She likes a softer blue, blue like chlorine, reminiscent of the safety of swimming pools. His were anything but.
She picks up her speed, and for some reason, puts her phone to her ear as if mid-conversation. Nothing about him said he was dangerous at the time. At least not from the way he’d barely said a word or looked down at her body. He was just there, and then he was gone.
And now here he is again.
The Chevy hits the horn. He is creeping closer. Amara turns and waves at him to go on. She doesn’t want a ride. Why isn’t he rolling down the window to offer one though?
It slows to a crawl. Her throat closes up. She has a feeling speeding up will give him what he wants. He’s obviously trying to be a prick. But if she goes back to talk to him, that would be exponentially worse. She switches her phone back on and sees her stepfather’s message telling her to get back home herself after she didn’t reply to tell him her location.
She quickly shoots him a message, and prays he’ll respond.
He doesn’t.
Fuck it.
She walks faster. The Chevy matches the increase. Sweat blooms on the back of her neck.
Every woman has that oh fuck moment. That I’m going to be on the evening news moment. The please god if he catches me let him kill me before he gets to raping me moment.
None of that goes through her head. She keeps thinking of her mother’s cooking. Her mother hasn’t cooked in a year and a half, not since her mind began to slip. But Amara can taste the spices on her tongue, the way the rice was perfectly simmered, the cinnamon in the back of her throat, the smell that clung to the walls, the heat of it.
I wanna come home, Momma.
Her mother’s face gathers into shape in her head, built with sand particles and saltwater. When the Chevy roars, she starts running. Her mother vanishes.
The lights of the truck blink across the tarmac. It’s a signal. But it isn’t for her.
She looks over her shoulder, and she can’t see him.
Run me over. Leave me like carrion on the road. Let the maggots eat me. Don’t cut me up first.
He slows when she starts to tire out. Picks up when she tries again. No other car has graced this road since she first turned onto it. A sign points her to the right, ushering her deeper into the backwoods. The town is to the left.
He figures out where she’s going when she suddenly makes a dash for the bend in the road.
There’s no time to dodge the pickup when it goes for her this time. The wheels skid as he yanks it at an angle and blocks her way. The door flies open and misses her by an inch. His arm grabs for her. She dodges, animal fear and rust on her tongue. He still doesn’t say a word.
A heavy fist connects with the small of her back and she drops like a stone.
The pain is electric. Air turns her lungs into taut balloons, but she can’t make a sound. She twists around and the bruise forming over her spine grates. Adrenaline quickly numbs it as she lashes out with her arms and legs. Kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Her teeth hit home. A mouthful of tattooed flesh, car oil and sweat. Still no sound from him.
She never sees the fist coming, just like last time.
A blow to the head and lights out, nancy.
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Aaaaaa!! I love the pretty bird series so far!!
My mind is running rampant with possibilities I love some miscommunication between species tropes
- I can't remember which type of bird (I think eagle?) but I know a species has a courting practice where they lock talons and dive through the sky before flying again, which I consider pretty romantic
- Avian Mihawk, doing research on human courting methods but his research is outdated bc time is fickle to fae
- Trying to give reader more and more extravagant animals for "dowry" ("three goats? How disgracefully frugal... Are mammoths still considered impressive?")
- Or giving up on human courting methods and grasping at straws thinking that if reader loves animals so much maybe he should try that and hope they recognize something
(Mihawk reading about giraffes:)
- "many female insects will kill their mates after copulation... So back to mammals it is"
- also, reader treating the crow as a diary in which they can dish without fear of judgement bc it's not like it's a human that can judge them (technically true)
- reader, sharing the goss from the market "so now her parents are getting divorced, her boyfriend slash possible biological father skips town, but guess who else conveniently disappears? Her sister!" Mihawk: :V
Mihawk, after he finally wooed (talked to without smelling every two seconds) his One True Mate (the human who was nice to him) into courtship and marriage (a Walk) and they forsake him (call another bird pretty) despite their fated bond (he hasn't revealed he's a bird):
The way I wasn't expecting "Pretty Bird" to become a series, but it's now just becoming such fun to think about.
Locking talons and diving, my heart 🫠.
Mihawk researching ancient courting rituals for humans and not interpreting the correct methods will never not be funny -> BUT, what if our reader accidentally initiates avarial courtship and shows her pretty bird a dress that she hasn't worn in a while, enjoying how the skirt twirls and fans outwards while she spins. Our Pretty Bird just going: "My human wants me. My mate desires me. This is my moment, my time has come. Even now, she dances for me."
Treating Pretty Bird as a diary, offering him trinkets and treats for listening to her woes. "The lord of high keep has invited me to work his field and establish his grounds for flowers. How do I tell him he scares me when he watches? How do I tell him his presence both enchants me and terrifies me. Oh, pretty bird, you're the only one who understands me." I can't, this is just too funny.
We all know Mihawk in all forms is a gossip-loving goth.
I just need to see how far I want to lean into the more animal-like instincts for him. He'd be so cute preening and grooming while his expression is stone-faced and cold. The duality of the man.
Also, I have missed you Snail! I hope life is treating you well, love!
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https://www.tumblr.com/starfxkr/753378059967676416/i-feel-like-sugar-baby-reader-would-not-even-live
idk if you’ve already created lore for them but hear me out 🤚🏾 sugar baby! reader a caribbean girl that was working as a bartender or showgirl on a cruise rafe went on when ward & them was running to the bahamas. he thought she was cute so he decided to bring her home + whenever he takes her w him to outings w his friends like a casual business dinner or sunday morning golf he’s like *rich boy laugh* look what i found on shore
THERE ISNT TOO MUCH LORE YET but i love this idea...ima tweak it a tad though bc sugar daddy!rafe is much older but i think him running into you while working as a bartender still works though because he's just...going to have you.
since he has a giant fucking house in the bahamas he knows his plan is to convince you to stay with him for a bit. and you're working at some super fancy resort and you aren't new to the whole "rich guys wanting to spend time with a local" thing but you never had one as persistent as rafe.
he pulls some strings to get you a new dress and shoes sent to your house (he paid your best friend a pretty penny to find out the info he needs), he sends flowers and picks you up in a nice car the whole deal. it's literally so overwhelming to deal with. but it works. by the end of the week you're missing shifts because rafe gives you 2x the amount to compensate.
it takes a little convincing but you do end up going back with him, and the mask starts to slip a little once you see how controlling he really is, and he truly treats you like a trophy and talks down to you in front of his friends and business partners. but you're locked in now. he could just as easily get you deported.
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