#idk what this is really but here we are

[marisatomay]

there should be an oscar category called “movie my dad completed without falling asleep on the couch” and it’s more prestigious and contentious than best picture

[verflares]

collection of some loz origin au stuff i've been chipping away at for awhile now ^_^ with a healthy amount of dunmeshi insp for good measure LOL (the ooccoo isnt relevant she's just here for size comparison purposes)

feat my beloved good friend @linkvcr's hylia design also. because i am obsessed with her and you should be too 🫵

[firewasabeast]

once a year tommy goes to this little cafe outside of LA and sits at the same table and orders the same meal. he's done it since he got back from the army. no one knows about it except for the owner of the cafe, steve, who's been there since day one. he didn't always go alone. when he was young he would go with his mom. it was a yearly tradition when they'd go back-to-school shopping. they went right before he was shipped off to afghanistan too, just because they'd miss their usual date. when tommy was away, his mom died of a sudden heart attack. he didn't even find out about it for a few weeks.

he didn't go for a couple of years after that. the anniversary of their annual cafe date was somehow worse than the anniversary of her death. but one year, something inside him screamed for him to go back. go have that meal that they loved so much. sit at that table. do it for her. maybe you'll even feel her there? so he goes. and steve remembers him. how could he ever forget tommy? he'd watched that kid grow up!

the first year he went back was hard. he barely ate the food, felt indescribably lonely, and once he got back to his car he sobbed for nearly half an hour before he could even drive away.

then he came back the next year, and the next, and the next. he kept coming back, always alone. even when he had people in his life, he'd come alone.

then one year steve looked over at the table, knowing tommy should be arriving soon, and saw two men sitting there. he went over to tell them they'd have to move- the table was reserved, but halfway over he stopped. it was tommy... with someone this time. the other guy was looking around, then leaning in close to tommy. it looked like he was asking questions. he reached over the table and took tommy's hand and squeezed it and tommy... smiled. he smiled a real smile that reached his eyes. steve hadn't seen that smile since the last time he came with his mom.

so steve walks over to the table to say hello, like always. to ask him about his life and what he's been up to this last year. he'd always say "not much, really. nothing new." but this time he kept his smile, motioned toward the man across from him and introduced him as, "My boyfriend, Evan Buckley, or Buck. Evan, this is Steve."

and this boy, Buck, he stands and shakes steve's hand, asks to pull up another chair, says, "i heard you knew tommy's mom?"

steve nods. "i did." because while tommy only came once a year, his mom came more often. it was her little safe haven away from home.

"i've heard a lot about her from tommy," this buck said, a bright smile on his face. "but i'd like to know more. what was she like?"

so steve sat, and talked and talked, and the boys listened- Buck listened.

tommy never came to the cafe alone again.

[al-luviec]

big fan of these two

[inkskinned]

it is all chaos and entropy. the thing is that the chaos and entropy make it beautiful and lovely.

yes, it's true that nature and the universe are uncaring and unspecific, and that is terrifying. i have lived through some of the unfairness - i got born like this, with my body caving into itself, with this ironic love of dance when i sometimes can't stand up for longer than 15 minutes. i am a poet with hands that are slowly shutting down - i can't hold a pen some days. recently i found a dead bird on our front porch. she had no visible injuries. she had just died, the way things die sometimes.

it is also true that nature and the universe are uncaring and unspecific, and that is wonderful. the sheer happenstance that makes rain turn into a rainbow. the impossible coincidence of finding your best friend. i have made so many mistakes and i have let myself down and i have harmed other people by accident. nature moves anyway. on the worst day of my life she delivers me an orange juice sunset, as if she is saying try again tomorrow.

how vast and unknowing the universe! how small we are! isn't that lovely. the universe has given us flowers and harp strings and the shape of clouds. how massive our lives are in comparison to a grasshopper. the world so bright, still undiscovered. even after 30 years of being on this earth, i learned about a new type of animal today: the dhole.

chance echoing in my life like a harmony between two people talking. do you think you and i, living in different worlds but connected through the internet - do you think we've ever seen the same butterfly? they migrate thousands of miles. it's possible, right?

how beautiful the ways we fill the vastness of space. i love that when large amounts of people are applauding in a room, they all start clapping at the same time. i love that the ocean reminds us of our mother's heartbeat. i love that out of all the colors, chlorophyll chose green. i love the coincidences. i love the places where science says i don't know, but it just happens.

"the universe doesn't care about you!" oh, i know. that's okay. i care about the universe. i will put my big stupid heart out into it and watch the universe feast on it. it is not painful. it is strange - the more love you pour into the unfeeling world, the more it feels the world loves you in return. i know it's confirmation bias. i think i'm okay if my proof of kindness is just my own body and my own spirit.

i buried the bird from our porch deep in the woods. that same day, an old friend reaches out to me and says i miss you. wherever you go, no matter how bad it gets - you try to do good.

[ghost-proofbaby]

OH SAY LESS 14 WITH ASTARION PLEASE

so this is my first time publicly writing and posting astarion, so please be gentle. higher word count solely because i felt the need to add lore because, ya know, first time writing him! also, i changed the line just a tiny bit to better fit the character and scene. ALSO, uh... this is a little fade to black. i'm sorry. it just got too long.

14. "Oh, you're hard to please."

warnings: foreplay, sorta fade to black smut (it's there if you squint your eyes), an ungodly amount of pet names, mentions of past sexual abuse and healing from it, technical game spoilers, not edited, 18+ so minors do not interact

pairings: astarion x afab!reader (no pronouns used)

wc: 4.4k+

join the smutty party! send me one of these smut dialogue prompts with a character

How long had it been since Astarion had actually enjoyed sex? Craved it, even? 

If he recalls correctly, it had to have started to become tainted well over a century ago. Somewhere between the first and the third victim, when he’d realized how every single beautiful soul he had entrapped were simply being lured to their own death. And then, the sour taste left in his mouth only became more pungent the longer it went on, the more he came to the realization of just how used he felt. His body was no longer his own – it technically hadn’t been his from the very second he’d emerged from his own grave, and Cazador had been waiting for him – and everything about the act became an old rehearsed dance that he’d grit his teeth through. A chore, something to make his stomach churn, something to regret. A means to an end. 

Plainly put, it had been a while. 

But then you happened. You, who hadn’t blinked an eye when the first time you met him, he’d literally threatened you with a gods damned blade to your throat. You, who had repeatedly trusted him, even when it had been an objectively stupid thing to do. You, who had always offered him the utmost patience and genuine understanding, to the point in which if he thought about it too hard, he’d probably cry. You, who had led your group of misfits with brain worms right into victory, with plenty of personal demons defeated along the way. 

Personal demons including Cazador. 

Maybe that’s when things changed for Astarion. He’d already fallen for you before your group had reached Baldur’s Gate, he’d already gotten to know your body intimately before ever laying eyes on that ridiculously oversized brain you somehow made look easy to defeat. But that had been different, hadn’t it? He hadn’t really wanted to do that (not meant as an offense to you – certainly not after all was said and done), but had thought he needed to. To gain your trust, to gain your protection. And in the end, it turned out he never needed to do such a thing. You’d never said it outloud, probably at risk of making him feel even more regret after you’d learned all his secrets and darkest corners, but he knew. 

And knowing that you didn’t view him as something purely sexual, as a means to an end, as an item to use – well, it had the opposite effect of his request to no longer be viewed in that light. 

“What are you doing?” he says as he quickly looks up from his current book he’d been pursuing the moment you’d entered the room. He hardly cared for the words on the page – he just needed a way to pass the hours until you were available again. 

It was a hard habit to kick. Being so codependent on you, even with the end of the world resolved and the gift of safety being handed over to him on a silver platter. 

“We received mail,” you’re grinning wickedly as you hold up an embellished envelope, delicate fingers pinching the parchment as if it were the greatest gift to ever exist. He’d argue the real gift at hand was the last three months – time spent with you, in a place he can call home. But nothing could impede on your good mood as you throw yourself down on the mattress beside him, “From Withers, of all people!” 

His brows shoot up for just a moment before his face twists up with something akin to distrust, “Withers? What in the Hells does that sack of dust and bones wan-” 

“A reunion,” you cut him off, the look on your face warning enough against his attempt at an insult. “He’s reaching out to all of us to bring us together for a celebration, to check in on everyone, let us see each other again. Apparently, we were the easiest of the bunch to find.”

Astarion quickly lets out a tut as he snaps the book shut and discards it on the bedside table closest to him, “Well, we certainly need to fix that. Soon enough all of those little shits are going to end up on our doorstep, preaching about the power of friendship and how they want to check in on us.” 

You snort at that, laying flat on your back with your hair wildly spread out in a makeshift halo behind you. The sight causes something to stir within him, his gut twisting as he watches the way your knees knock together before slowly falling apart, your legs settling down as flat as the rest of your body.

He hadn’t taken you since that night at his grave. Before the epic final battle, before the two of you had made the decision to settle down somewhere for some well-earned peace and quiet. 

The moonlight dances past the open curtains, and his breath catches in his throat at the way the blue shadows dance across your skin. It almost reminds him of the first time he’d seen you fight. It hadn’t just been the blood splattered across your cheeks that had really gotten the better of his curiosity (even if that’s what he had told you when you asked), it had been the sunlight. Those rays of gold that had mingled with your own aura of warmth after you had helped the tieflings for the first time. 

You put the sun to shame, truly. And he missed it – Gods, did he miss it – but he was content to bask in the peace of night for a few months more before he finally cut you loose from the leash to begin your next phase of adventures to find him a cure. You had promised him you would, had already dedicated plenty of free time to research, and all you really needed was his word to begin. 

He’s selfish. The two of you can find a way for him to walk in the sun once more another day; all he wants right now is to bury himself in your warmth, to slot his body between your thighs, to hear every breathy gasp and the way you’d practically sing his name-

“Star?” you’re looking up at him from an awkward angle, eyes owlish and chin tilted painfully far back as you clearly await an answer to a question he’d been too lost in a daydream to overhear, “Did you hear me?” 

He clears his throat and adjusts the pillows behind his back, keeping him propped up as he admires you, “Of course I did, darling.” 

“Then what did I just say?”

“Something about how we’re absolutely not going to this reunion, yes?” 

Your smile is nothing but patient as you flip onto your stomach. He watches the way your shorts ride up your thighs, how the top of the soft fabric bunches at your waist. His fingers practically twitch with the need to weasel their way under it, to press his cold fingertips into warm flesh and hear you preen. 

Whenever you’re ready, you had whispered to him one night shortly after saving the world. Just tell me when, and I’m yours. 

He was ready. Insatiably ready, really. 

“Very funny. I said we should go, though. It’d be nice to see everyone again, wouldn’t it? All our friends?” 

You’re still talking about this damned reunion. Astarion has half the mind to figure out a way to summon the insufferable skeleton right here, right now, and drive a dagger into his bones until he’s truly nothing but dust. Solely for the distraction. 

“Your friends, my dear,” he corrects gently, “We both know they’re only overly fond of one of us in this relationship, and it certainly isn’t the one that they repeatedly threatened to stake.” 

The furrow of your brows is impossibly cute – he knows that look of determination. It’s the same one you wore when he mentioned it was likely that the two of you would never find a cure to his condition. 

“Our friends,” you insist, “Karlach adores you, Star. And Wyll has always been proud of you, whether he told you as much or not.”

“And what of Gale?” 

Your lips twitch at that, “Gale… certainly wouldn’t stake you on sight.”

“Ah, yes,” he flourishes, trying to keep his eyes from wandering anywhere but where your hands press into your cheeks as you prop your face up to speak to him, “Not staking me. The ultimate sign of kinship.” 

Focusing is a losing battle when you roll your eyes, and he finds his mind overtaken with insatiable lust again. Imaginative ways that he could have your eyes rolling for him under different circumstances. 

“You’re not getting out of this. They are your friends just as well as mine – so argue all you want, but we’re going to the reunion.” 

“Are you sure there’s no other way I might be able to…” he pauses with intent, finally lifting one of his docile hands to your cheek, letting his finger graze the skin with a feather light touch before it travels back into the mess of your hair, “Persuade you otherwise?” 

You almost fall for it, too. Your eyes flutter shut, your head tilts into his touch as if you were starved for the connection. But even with the lack of sexual intimacy, you both know there hasn’t been a day that has gone by in the last three months where Astarion hasn’t found a way to get his hands on you.

Holding your own, resting his cheek on your shoulder, spinning you like a child in the kitchen – he had quite the sudden arsenal of romantic gestures that didn’t involve old wounds. It had been awkward here and there, some of them landing and some of them leaving you both looking like fools, but he was trying.

Almost as hard as he was currently trying to not jump your bones. 

When you recognize the innuendo for what it is, however, you harden immediately. Your shoulders set, a frown settles, and your eyes open with set determination he knows he can’t falter without speaking plainly to you. 

“No.”

“No?”

You’re quick to lift yourself up onto your knees, putting distance between yourself and his hands, “The days of weaponizing sex are over. I don’t even want to joke about that.” 

And, oh, he’s finding himself in quite the mood tonight, because as soon as you’re retracting, he’s following. As you settle on the haunches of your calves, he’s lifting up from his reclined position, leaning forward so that his face is breaths away from yours. 

“I mean it,” you warn, narrowing your eyes and holding up a finger in that small space between you two. 

He tests his luck, wasting no time in snapping his fangs just millimeters from your skin. You both know he wouldn’t actually bite you, but it still humors him to see the way you whip your hand out of his reach. 

“Were you not the one who insisted that we ask before we bite?” you snap, and his smile only worsens. Like a cheshire cat, like a child never scorned by the world – he’s radiant and basking in the moment. 

He lets out a small hmph before saying, “You’re no fun, my dear. Come on – just play with me for a moment, won’t you?” 

Your face softens at his teasing tone, and he can see the way he’s withering away your defenses one by one. There was once a time where he’d done it with malicious intent, but this time around, it’s with nothing but good intentions. 

If you asked him, he’d go as far as to swear it on his own grave. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize as if you’d done something wrong, and it makes more than half of his own playfulness drain from his face in absolute displeasure. Before he can so much as open his mouth to scold you about unnecessary apologies, you’re continuing on, “I just… After everything we’ve been through, it’s not something I find particularly joyous to joke about.”

What a rare thing, to have found someone to bare your soul and all your burdens to, and watch them offer to help you shoulder the weight without second thought or regret. 

He’s never met someone like you in all his years, and he might never again. 

“And if I told you I wasn’t joking?” he asks slowly, carefully, trying to choose each word with the utmost care, “I’m not weaponizing – I’m offering.” 

Whenever you’re ready. Just tell me when, and I’m yours.

He was ready. Very, desperately, sorely ready. 

The topic of the reunion is all but forgotten as you process his words, nose twitching as you decipher all that’s he laying out before you. “I want more than an offer.” 

“Excuse me?” 

He can’t help the small laugh that leaves him as he sits up properly, leaning into your space fully now with one hand pressing into the mattress just beside one of your thighs. He can feel the heat radiating from you, smell your blood rushing to your head as you try to be sensible. It’s a pitiful excuse for an internal war; all he has to do is close that conveniently small distance between your lips with his own, and you’ll have lost all sense of logic. 

“You’re…” you trail off, searching his eyes as if he holds the answer you’re currently looking for, “You’re sacred to me, Astarion. You must know that. And it will take much more than some joking offer to convince me to have sex with you when I know-”

“I’m not joking,” he’s nearly whining, letting his forehead fall forward to press to yours, “Gods, I am not joking about this. Cross my heart and hope to die again.” 

If he has to beg, he will. 

He’s spent two hundred years in an insufferable position of pure misery, pure shit, and the realization that he’s finally free has everything clicking into place. Proof of the change exists solely in the fact that he could have resorted to his tired old seduction routine from his life before to get what he wanted, but instead, he’s trying to just communicate. 

It was a novel moment. 

But he could appreciate it later, when the crotch of his pants wasn’t becoming increasingly uncomfortably tight and he wasn’t watching you closer than prey. When his stomach wasn’t so tight with desire and anticipation, just waiting for your word to indulge. 

“Do I need to beg?” he sighs, his lips brushing against yours ever so slightly from proximity. He catches the shiver that runs up your spine. “We both know I’m not particularly fond of it, but if I have to get on my knees for you- well, actually, that’s the entire point of what I’m asking.” 

You laugh at that, and his gut twists again, because it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever had the opportunity to hear. Something more breath than any vocality, something sharp and spelling out the loss of words on your tongue. 

Your silence is enough for him to push it all a step further. Forehead still leaning against yours, he properly presses his lips to yours this time, slotting them between softer than a feather’s caress. Finding home as he can physically feel himself steal your breath away. His fangs just barely nip your bottom lip, unintentionally but still eliciting a delicious reaction of a gasp that makes him graze you a second time just to feel the way you’re leaning into him more, becoming absolute putty in his hands. Pliable for his taking, and Gods, he wants to take you. 

Something snaps. 

All hesitation has vanished as he grabs at your hips quickly, making use of the way your brain has gone blank from a simple kiss in order to lay you out below him. He moves you with ease, incredible speed in slotting himself between your legs before he’s caging your entire body in with his own. The squeak that leaves your lips from his manhandling affects him even more than your gasps had, a low growl shaking his chest as he kisses you deeper. Tasting, begging, searching – he wants this, but he needs to know that you want this just as badly. 

Your hands find purchase on each of his shoulders, squeezing tightly as if needing something to tether yourself to. You pull him in closer for a second, eagerly returning the kiss, almost feverish in the way you drink him in. But the next, you’re pushing him away, a game of want and sensibility still clouding your judgment impossibly. 

You always were stubborn about things like morals. And, well, it wasn’t very moral to just jump right into sex with your traumatized boyfriend who had explicitly said not to view him in terms of sex, was it? 

It was Astarion’s own damn fault. 

He could have just acted like a normal person, initiated a normal conversation in which he renegotiated his boundaries. But you’ve been on his mind all day, and he’s long since proven since the very day that you met him that he has little to none impulse control. 

“My, my,” he murmurs, pulling back from the kiss, eyes wild, looking at you with even more hunger than he had the first night you’d given him a taste of your blood in camp, “You’re just an impossible thing to please, aren’t you? Do you want me near, do you want me far? Tell me, my love, what do you want?” 

He settles all his weight onto one of his forearms as the other slowly brings his hand to your side, caressing over the soft fabric of your shirt – a shirt he’s quickly realizing is actually his own. He recognizes those flowy sleeves, that lacing across the chest, the off-white tone that had seen better days. Given all its wear and tear, he’s almost sure that it’s one of his shirts he had grown most comfortable wearing during the nights of your adventures against the Netherbrain. 

It’s cute. A sort of domesticity that he can ponder over later, when your legs aren’t hanging on his hips and your breaths aren’t coming out staccato as he hovers just out of reach from you. 

“I want whatever you want,” you whisper. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him with pupils so dilated they could swallow him whole. 

“Let me be very clear, then,” he hums, cold fingers creeping their way to the hem of the shirt, slipping beneath with practiced ease to find the smooth skin of your hips below. They dance and skitter up, up, up until he’s brushing against your ribs, “I want you. I want that warm cunt of yours, I want to feel every gasp and breath as your walls squeeze around me. I want to fuck you until you’re unable to walk on your own two legs, until you can only remember my name. I want to watch you come undone, my dear, and for it to be my own undoing.”

Your lips quiver in anticipation, and he feels your thighs tighten their hold on him, “Such pretty words. And… and no ulterior motives? No sense of obligation?” 

“None at all,” he smiles, a predator closing in on his prey, “I’m choosing this. If you want it, if you’ll have me, then I’m ready, pet.” 

Pet. The nickname rolls off his tongue, and he can imagine your walls fluttering just as your eyes do. 

Your hands lift from his shoulders to bury in his hair instead. One cradling the back of his head, the other resting on the nape of his neck as you toy with a snowy curl. It unfurls him further, has him humming lowly as he dips down to recapture your lips and bring you into him even closer. Closer. He needs all and any space between the two of you to become nonexistent. To feel every inch of your skin pressed to his, to allow you to physically curl up into his chest just as you had his mind all those moons ago, to make a home in a room with your name on it already somewhere between his third and fourth rib. 

“Do you really have to doubt if I’ll have you, my love?” you mutter against his mouth, smile breaking the kiss momentarily before he’s back with a vengeance. You don’t care – you’re apparently in a chatty mood, dodging his kiss to get your last words in, “There’s been a space in my heart for you since the moment I first met yo-”

“Yes, yes, very romantic,” he interrupts urgently, suddenly tugging your shirt up, “But, truth be told, love? I’m hoping there’s a space between your legs for me at this moment.” 

You snort, eyes pinched shut as you attempt to shake your head at the ridiculousness of the words that just left his mouth. At any other moment, you might point out how the outrageous comment is just another defense mechanism, veering him away from having to acknowledge the gentle sentiment behind your own words, but now’s not the time. When you open your mouth, probably to say something exactly along those lines, he rolls his hips down against yours, pinning your lower half deep into the mattress. You feel just how hard he is through his trousers – it’s impossible to miss, but he’s deliberating being sure that you feel it as he lets the tips of his fangs sink into your bottom lip. 

The resolve of fighting against his wishes is quickly dissolved. One thing after another, and Astarion has you bare beneath him before any other distractions or annoying conversation can send the two of you further off track. Your, his, shirt is tossed to one side of the room. Your parents fly to the other side of the bed. Only once he has the entire spanse of your body nude and vulnerable to him does he take the time to pause, to look down at you with absolute adoration. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” 

He’s said those words to you a million times before. Consistently greeting you with them, muttering them in the dead of night, whispering them as he kisses you awake. But they never lose their weight. And certainly not now, as he’s looking down at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen that freckle on your chest or the curve of your stomach barren before him. 

“Please, if you’re comfortable with it…” you start, voice laced with desperation, but he shakes his head. 

He’s full of interruptions tonight, “Consider me comfortable with anything unless stated otherwise for this moment, my sweet.” 

“Take off your clothes, Astarion.”

His giddy smile should annoy you. That smug satisfaction in finally, finally getting his way as he undresses himself at almost twice the speed that he had stripped you. And yet he knows you’re enjoying yourself just as much as he is. You’re reveling in drinking in the bare caricatures of his body, every inch and every curve exposed to you just as you are to him. And when his cool skin meets yours again, his body sinking right into that space between your thighs that you’ve granted to him, you let out a short gasp that reminds him that you want this just as badly as he does.

You’ve waited just as long as he has. 

It almost mirrors that night on his grave. The slow descent of his body against yours, the way he slides a leg up to spread your own even further for him as he crawls his way back home to your lips. Unlike that night, however, he isn’t taking quite as much care, his movements far faster and far more needy. 

He’s been waiting long enough. He’s denied himself long enough. 

It really doesn’t matter when the last time he had enjoyed sex had been, because all that he cares about is that here and now, in this moment with you, there’s not a trace of imperfections to taint his enjoyment. 

Cazador is dead. The brain has long since been defeated. You are both safe. 

As he sinks into your heat, the only thing on his mind is that contentment, overwhelmed with the feel and smell of just you. 

He’ll never be a slave again. Never be viewed as something to simply be used and disregarded again, if you have any say. And one day, some day, he’ll even feel the warmth of the sun again. Thanks to you.

But until that day, the warmth of your love is enough.

When you sigh his name out so delicately, jaw all but unhinging itself in bliss as your back arches in reaction to his touches, he knows he’s made the right choice. 

And he supposes he lied, in a way, earlier. 

You’re not that hard to please – not when it comes to him, at least. Not when it’s his hands trailing along your skin, not when it’s his lips and fangs nipping at every opportunity. And certainly not when it’s his name that’s being chanted like a prayer from your lips in time with every thrust, every stroke, every single movement with the sole purpose of making both of you come undone. 

Astarion no longer questions when the last time he enjoyed sex was in the aftermath of it all. With you, pressed into his side, sweaty forehead nuzzling his chest, the only thing he cares about is the next time he’ll be able to do so. 

“We’re still going to that reunion,” you murmur, half asleep, fading away from him quickly to fall into blissful unconsciousness. 

He almost doesn’t breathe in fear of disturbing you. He’ll waste the night away, laying here, still as a statue for your comfort. 

It’s no surprise when he refuses to put up a fight, instead his hand simply drawing soft stars across the back of your bare shoulder blades as he sighs, “Yes, dear. We will. Now sleep.”

“I love you.” 

The words tumble from your lips so carelessly, so easily and without hesitation, he nearly shakes you awake to hear them once more. Again and again, he needs to hear them, to be reassured that you feel for him as ardently as he does you. 

But he has the rest of your forever to hear them. So he lets you sleep, sending you away with a simple press of his lips to your temples as your breathing evens.

“And I love you, my dearest sun.”

[honorarypines]

I finished the sitcom ever, so text posts be upon ye

[blackbatcass]

listen I know it’s kind of corny and inaccurate to act like every single person in the dc universe knows each other and is besties but it IS endlessly funny to me to follow the web of connections and see how many degrees removed from each other everyone is.

like look at the arrowfam okay. ollie and dinah are together, ollie is homoerotic best friends with hal, dinah is homoerotic best friends with babs. roy is dating dick, has a kid with jade, and is basically an adoptive father to both grant emerson and rose wilson. connor is dating kyle and is constantly followed around by eddie fyers. mia is friends with a lot of the second gen teen titans kids, had an on-again-off-again thing going on with steph for a while, and is currently dating sienna. emiko is besties with courtney and some of the other recent teen titans. sin has a small army of protective aunts from the birds of prey. the real question is how far does it go before ollie puts a cap on the number of people who are invited to family brunch on sundays

[baeshijima]

mmm thoughts of private executioner!blade, who is high priestess!kafka's bodyguard. well, more like her guard dog, as many fearfully seem to think.

he is aloof and gruff and rough around the edges, his name capturing it perfectly. when in the eyes of the public he either keeps to himself or stands ready by kafka's side, but when out he lurks in the shadows ready and waiting to carry out her death orders.

you, yourself, haven't had very many pleasant encounters with him... if you can even call them that. that being said, you haven't had many pleasant encounters with anyone. notorious for your... less than pleasant disposition, for a lack of better words, you have more people who'd rather see you run through than those you can call a friend.

in a dog-eat-dog world, you had no choice but to protect yourself. that, however, ultimately became your demise.

"oh? so you're the one sent to kill me. can't say i'm all that surprised."

standing before you is the feared executioner. his sword is tucked inside the sheath attached to his hip, that ever-present dark swirl of an aura stifling the air. he doesn't say anything, instead opting to silently stare down at your slumped and worn-out form. you find that his gaze doesn't bother you; rather, it's oddly comforting knowing someone will see you in your last moments.

"i've never asked you for a favour before, so this will be my first and last request for you." in all honesty, you're not sure where this chattiness stems from. considering you're currently in a holding cell under the crime of attempted murder towards kafka (a poisoned wine you were most definitely framed for, though you can't say you were surprised) and are awaiting for your turn to be under the guillotine for your public execution, you probably should be a little desperate towards the private executioner in front of you.

and yet, your mind is nothing if not peaceful.

with a huff, you relay your request, "can you make sure it's quick? painless, preferably, but i'd rather you just get it over and done with."

silence blankets the cold chambers. moisture accumulated along the cobble ceiling drip in a steady rhythm, like a clock ticking away the seconds. it's unnerving, almost, how there is not a single sound other than your impending countdown.

"why?" comes his low mutter, effectively causing a ripple within the stagnant air. you almost think you misheard him, but his following words cease the thought, "why won't you ask me for help?"

had it not been for the abrupt shuffle and clanging against the metal bars, you would have never looked up to see him in your last moments.

his scarred hands gripping the metal until his knuckles turn a ghastly white and blood dripping from his palms is what greets your sight. as your gaze slowly trails up, you almost let loose a laugh of disbelief; who would have thought blade, the infamous guard dog of the high priestess, could make such a desperate expression? one looking as though his whole world crumbled before him, in which he can do nothing but sit and watch.

(you will never know of the anger and desperation which coursed through his veins the moment he heard of your predicament. had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have cared. but you're not anyone else; you're you — unapologetically, wholeheartedly. it didn't take him long to hunt down those behind it, cutting them down without thought and putting an end to their miserable lives. he rushed as soon as he could when kafka gave him the order, no thoughts other than you, you, you, occupying his mind.

you will never know of the anguish which overcame him when he found you in such a state, your once healthy complexion and defiant gaze reduced to nothing but a tiredness which had always sat quietly behind your disposition. he's almost positive the muscle which unwillingly keeps him alive tore at the seams from your request, the acceptance in which you displayed causing his mind to go astray. even as he damn-near begs you to rely on him for help — to run away with him to some place no one knows of you and start anew there — you merely smile, resigned and peaceful.

you will never know of how much blade is willing to put on the line for you, for you never made it to see the complete and utter carnage he wrecked in your name.)

[iamhereinthebg]

Let's talk about the clock keepers in the new chapter!!

It's not a surprise to see that they had more in their sleeves, putting up an act to get all the information they wanted. Kako said it after all, he is the one observing. And he will gather what he needs before making a move, showing he deserves his title as the oldest supernatural. Hanako being the leader doesn’t seem to matter a lot to him in the end. He clearly has had his plan for a long time. It's not a shock to see he recognizes what came back with Tsukasa from the red house, probably knowing the entity from before.

Even if it was an act and all of them knew what the end result would be. The reactions Akane and Mirai had for each other in the last chapter were real. Akane was never shield in the manga, being the one doing it most of the time. So his reaction towards Mirai taking the blow for him is absolutely genuine, especially when he tried so hard to make her run away. And we can see it again when we see how slowly he takes her out of the water to give her back to Kako. Akane even reprimands the old man about being slow and Mirai having to go through this at first. 

This chapter highlights the clock keepers relationship too. Akane has been before in the innermost reach, he clearly knows what he is doing here, entering the house like nothing and actually setting things up for tea knowing Kako would like it. Being considered as a whole clock keeper, Kako and Mirai trust him not to do anything bad even in their most vulnerable state.

Kako watches over Mirai like a worried father, being happy when she is back and is still pushing Akane to find the answers himself, always in a teaching position. Akane is quick to scold Mirai about her actions, clearly seeing her more as a kid than a real supernatural being. He is seen worried for her and tells her right away not to do something like this ever again. On her side, Mirai is overjoyed to see Akane, the first question coming out of her mouth asking if he is hurt, and she seems rather shocked to see him being so worried about her, jumping on his head right away to praise him for being a nice boy.

They are way more genuine in their physical contact and actions. Akane is not refusing Kako’s headpat even though he has an angry/solemn expression when accepting it, the old man is smiling at Mirai and Akane the whole chapter while Mirai is being her usual clingy self. 

Kako clearly has been observing things and waited until the right moment to take actions. They are coming back in time to fix things up, and will sleep until the new present is stable. And for this they trust the clock keeper of the present to take care of the duty that was placed upon him.  

Akane is a wonderful pick for the present. His personality and way of life has always shown he was the only character who would be able to handle this role. He is a duty centered and really proactive boy, and most of all, sees how life is worth living. Even if he never feared the idea of getting hurt, we can clearly see how much he takes his role at heart. He now knows he has to live if the idea of a better present can exist. 

Kako knows Akane is able to handle all of it which is why they can leave without being worried about the new present, they absolutely believe Akane will be able to fulfill his duty. In the end, it’s Akane who keeps the yorishiro with him.  They trust him to make sure everything is in order and not die until he can use the key to get them out of the clock once they awaken. Kako’s last word to Akane is once again one with a teaching tone, praising him for a job he will do, showing he thinks he will handle it. 

One of Kako’s strongest traits is observation too. And Akane is really good at that, he is one of the most observant and perceptive characters of the whole cast. His mission will be all about seeing if the events really changed, acting like a memory of a present which doesn’t exist anymore. Having a human among the clock keepers to have eyes in the human world seems also like a logical choice. To know the whole situation Kako needs eyes in the human realm too, and Akane shares his informations with him when he think it's important.

Akane has known his role for a long time. Once he heard that he had his duty to do, his expression is hard to see because he KNOWS what the implications are. He is aware of what it means, he isn’t happy with this, he clenches the yorishiro once he has it, he says he doesn’t have a choice to Teru. Because even if Akane complains, he does things he is asked to do.

 Akane’s sense of justice has always been a big part of his character, and it’s also a big part of the clock keepers. Of course he wants the present to be better and goes with the clock keepers’ idea, erasing a problem at its root to help the majority of people and protect the persons he cares for is something Akane would never refuse.

He has no problem doing it even if he doesn’t want to be on the clock keepers’ side, because he knows he can do something ‘right’. He still trusts Kako on this one, embracing his role as the guardian of the present fully. The old man did say it would be good for humans after all.

How long has Akane been thinking about changing the present? Even if it means erasing the severance I don’t know how he would react seeing that Aoi never lived it. Having a world where she never got to know supernaturals, never was left dead all alone on the far shore and never got her hand hurt. It can’t be so bad right? 

But the more I think about it the more I go ‘was this present really THAT bad?’ Aoi has to go through her horrible everyday life once again, thinking that no one will ever love her for who she is and Akane definitely doesn't want that.

His talk to Teru also implies that Teru and Nene may remember since they were stopped by his time power. He trusts Teru to understand what is happening and help him with this new reality or hoping not everything will have changed. 

If we focus quickly on Amane and Tsuchigomori. They seem to have go back in 1968 so Amane was a middle schooler. Tsuchigomori and him had the talk about the moon in 1969 (after the 20th of July) so Tsuchi may not have the same yorishiro either. Would Amane live this time? Not sure, the reason he was trying to destroy the big clock may be related to the clock keepers going back in Time. I wonder what the clock Amane was working on really represents.

We can see this clock indicating the hour exactly like when Akane is stopping time, suggesting that it is really the one controlling the whole school time. It’s the first clock we see when the clock keepers are introduced too.

If Kako and Mirai really go back in time and erase everything they are visualizing on this. It would indeed mean a better control over the mysteries situations and the protection of the Land.

It means everything the mysteries went through won't happen. So the second Mitsuba won't exist, n°3 would still be here, Yako would still be waiting for Misaki to come back and won't go berserk, Shijima-san would still be in her boundary thinking she has no reason to exist expect hurting Mei-chan's memory, Hakubo would still be doing his duty without feeling anything and Sumire would still be living her death over and over again, not having anyone go see her in more than a century.

It means erasing all of the mysteries’ struggles and acceptance of what they are, not being bound by grief and regrets to do a job most of them didn't want to do. Would this present really be a good one? For the humans mostly it would be, it's the mysteries duties after all, and n°1 is ready to undo all the things each mystery went through to make sure humans have a good Present. They always have been more about humans than supernaturals. And this may also be the reason why Akane is okay with everything going on too. Kako sees this as his ultimate duty in the end, forcing all mysteries to embrace it even if they don't want to. Taking the matter at end without warning anyone since after all, no one will remember.

Another thing that has always been interesting to me, was the fact that the clock keepers look nothing like something out of Japanese Myths/folklore. It has always been strange to me to see they were labeled as the oldest supernaturals, when clocks weren’t that common in Japan before a long time.  The way they dress look way different compared to anyone else from the cast too. The closest look you could find was from the Meiji Era, which was mostly about Japan importing a lot of Western culture into their Land. I always thought that the clock keepers just couldn’t be from a Japanese folktale and this was confirmed in the last chapter. I had my supposition about where they were from,  but having an actual image of their old town helped me to focus more on it.

If we look at Clock making history we can easily focus on some countries, The Netherlands, Germany and England being the main ones. Now if we look at the architecture we get in this chapter, we can delete England from the list easily. This type of house is called Timbered framed houses. It can be found in Europe in different countries.

It’s important to note that the roofs on those houses are really really sharp on the illustration AidaIro gave us. Which means they were built for snow, so it can slide off the roofs more easily. The trees in the background are too blurry to see but it looks like forest of pines and the kids shown are holding one.

Now if I combine the two ideas of clock making and architecture I found here, my thoughts came to one city. Nuremberg in Germany. It’s a city known for its clock making history, there are mountains nearby and there is snow in this region during Winter. And more importantly The Nuremberg Egg.

It’s known as the ancestor of the pocket watch, created in the XVIth century.  

I don’t think AidaIro was inspired by a precise place but I think somewhere in this region of Europe could be a good pick for the inspiration of the city the clock keepers are from! Same can be said about the clothes the kids are wearing and the toy's shop which have vibes from this region too.

I’ve been thinking a bit more about what Kako and Mirai are really and it’s hard to say. With how Akane introduced them it could imply they were humans before. 

Why did they move to Japan and how did they become supernatural? Were they created or were they humans before? The idea of Kako creating a body to survive and creating Mirai is not out of the way since he is clearly the oldest and more experienced supernatural there is. A lot of questions with no answers for now but I am happy we get some glimpse of their old life.

I am also interested in the clock keeper of the present status too. Are they used to create different presents or if the present is fixed their role is finished? Did Kako and Mirai go back in time to change stuff before?

I don't think it happened recently. Nothing special has been happening at Kamome even with the whole Yugi suicide/murder history. The real problems started really once Nene met Hanako and Tsukasa woke up. Kako may have been observing things since a really long time, maybe putting some students as clock keepers of the present but never ‘activating’ their real role. Which may also be why Akane never was shown that stressed out about his role as a clock keeper, why would he be if all the previous clock keepers of the present never had to do this? What is supposed to happen to them once they have fulfilled their duty? Are they erased from the timeline to represent completely this new Present? Do they get to continue their life like nothing happens, being the only person having the memories of a world which doesn't exist anymore? How long do they stay alone until the other two wake up? Why insist so much on the idea he has to stay alive? So many questions I hope we will have answers on soon.

The story of the clock keepers is still really blurry but we are slowly getting more on them . AidaIro really showed us that they were mysteries the other characters shouldn't mess with and I am all for it.

[mishidefresa]

Sketches

[bizarrelittlemew]

[whump-queen]

Silver (Part 2)

continued from this

tags: forced intox, manhandling, “servant” whump but let’s be honest he’s basically a pet. words: 3k

✧ ─  ༻✦༺  ─ ✧

Seven stumbled through the crowd, making his way towards the white cabinets of the adjoined kitchen. The penthouse was precariously dark for how crowded it felt tonight. The sun had set and all that shone through the ceiling-high glass was the glimmering lights of the city. Of tiny people in distant windows. They danced and flickered like highway beams across Seven’s wavering vision. 

He braced himself against the glass-paned wall, a handprint he would be cleaning up in the morning, along with the rest of the night’s inevitable damage. He felt his mind buzzing, he placed his other palm against the cool glass, and for a moment, he let himself forget it all. 

The ceiling was all that stood between him and an endless sky of blinking lights and stars. There was a vastness about the view beyond that both captivated and terrified him. Skyscrapers surrounded him on all sides, towering to the starry heavens—a gateway that could suck him right up at any moment and send him floating, boundless, through the black night.

He blinked, snapping his gaze from the windowed walls to focus instead on the purple glow of the tacky LED strips Wes had stuck up on the crown molding. Wes was living proof that money couldn’t buy you good taste. He had a gorgeous place on his father’s dime and squandered it with cheesy, bachelor-esque decor. No, if you asked Seven, the penthouse would be much better suited with a simple, elegant aesthetic. But nobody ever did, in fact, ask Seven. 

He let his mind wander back to the immaculate halls of the family estate. He wouldn’t say he missed it, rather, it was no better than his current circumstance, but he couldn’t help but feel as though his talents had been better suited there. 

At least his Mistress shared his proclivity for cleanliness, and he felt his efforts were more…appreciated. That felt like a strange word to assign to someone like her, but he found himself sick of Wes and his particular brand of chaos. Of constantly cleaning things up after he’d only just tidied them. Of his drunk friends constantly throwing things, knocking things over, and getting sick in less than opportune locations. But most of all, he was sick of never getting a moment of space. Gone were any quiet afternoons spent cleaning the mansion, polishing silver or waxing wooden floors. He could at least let his mind wander, back then. Sometimes his Mistress would even let him out onto the grounds. Sometimes it was bearable, when she wasn’t busy tormenting him. 

But there was no yard in this penthouse. Only stacked compartments that soared high into the atmosphere. He’d only ridden the elevator once, on the day he and Wes had moved in. To see so much of the city and never be able to touch it—he felt like a little bird in a high tower, its wings clipped by its captors. Kept in a tiny cage, enveloped in tiny, glimmering lights. 

He was suddenly hyper aware of the bracelet around his ankle. The unwelcome feeling of its strap pressing against his skin. An ugly, black, clunky thing. It hadn’t come off since that first day. 

He was thinking too much for the amount of tequila he’d ingested, and was rudely reminded of that when his throat clenched up and he realized he’d meant to get water several minutes ago. He turned and blinked again, jostling his twirling stream of consciousness, yet he hadn’t so much as another moment to himself as he was nearly toppled into by a drunk girl with red hair. Brie, some part of him remembered. She was a regular. 

She said something to him. He couldn’t make it out over the blasting music. She was holding something. 

Make that two things. 

She offered him a hand. A blue Jello-shot. 

He shook his head, a slightly slurred “Am’good.”

She stepped in closer, sliding her free hand up his chest, “Yeah? I can see that, pretty boy. But we’re just getting started with you.” 

Her voice rang clear this time, and Seven felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He just wished they would all leave him alone. What on earth would she make him do this time? 

“Please, come on, Brie, I just need some water, I–”

“And I just want you to take a shot with me!” She smiled cheerfully, as if he would have any choice in the matter. 

“Now, you can be a good boy and we’ll do it together. It’ll be fun! Or, we can do this the hard way, and I can have the boys hold you down again.”

The memory of being grabbed and harshly shoved to his knees, his arms wrenched behind him and his hair pulled up, of being force-fed liquor like a pathetic dog—

Fuck—he was gonna gag again.

He knew he couldn’t get out of this, but maybe he could stall and buy himself some time to metabolize the tequila Wes had made him drink earlier. 

“Please! I swear I just need a minute, I just—”

“Yeah, isn't that a shame? Cuz I want to do it now.”

She turned and called out into the crowd, her red curls bouncing as she moved. And like a supervillain summoning two goons, a pair of hulking jocks seemingly materialized behind her. 

Seven froze, two pairs of eyes locking onto his like predators eyeing their next meal. Seven couldn’t even remember their names. Didn’t want to. The tall one with the curly hair and the slightly less-tall one with that awful sneer—they never missed a chance to rough Seven up. 

Just like that, they were on him. The tall one kicked out his right knee while the other twisted a hand in his hair and yanked his head down. There was a burst of white light when he hit the floor face-first, hot wetness splattering under the clash of his temple against the tile. 

Fuck. Fuckk. It was all white for a moment. Then Seven couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel his entire body. He felt weightless all of a sudden, he’d forgotten where he was, he was hurling through a vortex, somewhere far away, far from this penthouse and the music and the booze. It was a heavy, dull pulsating that stirred him back to whatever half-lucid dream this was. He was lying on something. A hard surface. Fuckk. Where was he? 

“Where am I…” his lips moved. No one heard him. 

Then the pounding in his temple began to slowly morph when the bass of the music faded back in, thumping against the inside of his skull like an alarm he just wanted to sleep through. 

He groaned, and he was reminded, slowly, that this was indeed music, that he was lying on a hard surface and that his head fucking hurt. 

He was coming back to himself by the second now and dreaded his position, the memory of reality. To be painfully and blissfully whisked away, if only for a moment—reality hit him harder than the tile flooring.

He was just grateful he’d had the reflex to turn his head. He’d been slammed into the floor enough times to know that failing to do so meant a broken nose. 

He was still reeling from the blow when he felt his wrists grabbed. He knew what came next. He tried to struggle against the hands, but he still couldn’t see straight and fuck he was so dizzy everything was whirring too fast. Arms double the size of his own yanked him up into a kneeling position. He felt hands pressing his wrists together, another hand was in his hair, yanking his head back and forcing his spine to arch painfully. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. Just do it already, he thought, hoping she’d be finished with him if he just took the shot and left it at that. He should have just taken it the first time. God dammit.

He cried out and his head snapped to the side. Brie had slapped him. 

“Pay attention!” She was excited. Smiling in that cheerful beautiful way that would make anyone shocked at the cruelty she was capable of.

She leaned in, sliding her hand down the side of Seven’s reddening cheek, his jawline—he bristled when she reached his collarbone, his sternum, until she was fiddling with the button on his shirt, flicking it until it came free. Seven felt a whine of embarrassment leave his throat, thankfully deafened by the music.

She flicked open a second button and Seven thrashed against the hands that held him, twisting this way and that, giving all his strength for a brief few moments of valiant effort before he felt the back of Brie’s rings cut across his other cheek. He had no time to recover—she grabbed his face and dug her pink nails into the sides of his cheeks, forcing his mouth open. She held the shot up, and he shuddered with the taste of what he knew was coming. 

“Now, I was gonna let you use a spoon, but since you decided to be a bitch about it, you can lick it out with your tongue.”

Seven whimpered. Fuck, he was really going to have to do this.

“Go on. You can either eat it from my hands, or off the floor like a dog. Your choice.”

As if there was ever a choice. 

Seven complied, scooping the blue jello from the cup with his tongue, and swallowing obediently. It was the only way out. He just prayed she’d be satisfied and leave him alone so he could slink off into a corner somewhere where no one would find him for the rest of the night. 

Brie laughed, delighted. She ruffled his hair with her manicured hand. “Good boy!” she exclaimed. As though he really were a dog performing some kind of trick.

He supposed that his obedience was the trick. He was the trick. The dog. Even his title was a farce. Servant. Like his cleaning ever did this place any good. They all treated it like a trap house, anyway. 

His stomach was in knots. At least he had done it. He thrashed against the men that still held him. 

“Aren't you gonna—” his tone slipped. He caught himself. Be respectful. Plead. 

“Please, Brie, jus’ lemme go.” His head was pounding, still bleeding from being slammed against the floor. Everything hurt. As he said it, he realized he might just topple over if they were to release him now.  

“Hmm..” Brie posed her hand against her chin, in mocking consideration. 

“No, I don’t think I will.” 

She smiled, “I’ve remembered how much I like you this way. You’re just so cute!” She ruffled his hair again. He twisted his head to the side, trying to avoid her hand. That earned him another slap. Harder than the others. Seven seemed to have run out of chances. 

“Mikey!” She exclaimed to the goon on the left, “Tie him up!”

The hulking man chuckled. “Looks like he hasn't had enough yet.”

The goon, Mikey, released Seven’s left arm, only for the other man to grab it immediately, twisting both arms behind his back and pressing him down to the floor. Seven didn’t struggle this time, fears of a broken nose or worse running through his mind as his face was rubbed into the smear of his own blood. He let it happen. 

There was a knee on his back, pressing him hard against the tile. He felt a thick leather strap encircle his wrists, cinching tightly before the hands released his arms and tangled back in his hair, yanking his head up until he was kneeling again. He tested the leather, pulling to see if it would give, but it seemed he’d been successfully restrained with no more than a leather belt. 

“Aww, come on Seven, that was nothing! Surely you can take more than that.”

By this point, they were really starting to draw a crowd. Dark figures gathered around him, laughing and swirling, their faces shrouded into dark silhouettes. 

“Please,” he begged, “W-water…”

No one heard him.

“I've got somethin for him!” one guy shouted, approaching through the crowd with what looked to be a jar in his hands. 

“Ooo lemme see!” Brie turned, thrilled, “No way. You got Moonshine Maraschinos? Where did you even find these?”

Seven paused his struggling, confused. He hadn’t heard of that before. He imagined it would be painful, whatever it was. 

“My buddy makes ‘em himself,” the man declared proudly, no doubt invigorated by Brie’s approval. “Best moonshine around. Won’t find nothing stronger than these.” He tapped the lid of the jar.

“Well? Chop chop!!” She clapped her hands at him impatiently. “I’m not opening that thing myself.” 

When the lid was open, Brie reached in and withdrew her hand, her pink fingertips clasped around the stem of a single red cherry. She turned to Seven, leaning down and dangling it in front of his face. 

Seven twisted and scrambled away, “No! Wait, please I jus’ need—” He made it a few feet before one of Brie’s goons caught him by the hair. He let out a yelp as he was dragged backwards, and thrown back down at her feet. His knees cracked against the tile again and he knew they would be beyond bruised by morning. 

“Oh Sevennn,” Brie sang from above him, “Did you think I was finished with you? That it would be that easy? I haven’t even told you what they are yet! Don’t you wanna know?”

Held tightly in place by the goons, Seven said nothing, indignant and content to stare her down until she did the inevitable. 

She let out a big, dramatic breath. “Since you didn't ask, I might as well tell you. These are maraschino cherries, sugar cherries. Soaked in moonshine. You’ve heard of moonshine, haven’t you?”

He grit his teeth and scowled. Her tone was beyond patronizing, but he had not, in fact, heard of moonshine. 

“No,” was all he said.

“Don’t worry, you’ll feel it soon enough.” 

Before he could react, her hand was on his face again, pinching his cheeks until his mouth opened. She dangled the cherry over his parted lips. He could still see her smiling over him. Fuck—why did she have to drag this out?

She lowered the cherry into his mouth, and he took it obediently. He swallowed and immediately gagged when she released his face. It tasted awful. Like someone had soaked a cherry in rubbing alcohol for 8-10 business months. He supposed that was probably exactly what it was. 

She fed him three more before the goons finally released him. Seven curled in on himself at once, folded over with his hands still bound behind him, just trying to quell the nausea in the pit of his stomach. His throat burned, and he couldn’t get that god awful taste of moonshine out of his mouth—out of his nose—his head.

He collapsed onto his side, his shoulder hissing with pain when it hit the floor. He begged for water. No one heard him. 

✧ ─  ༻✦༺  ─ ✧

Seven was floating somewhere. Somewhere high, high above. Diving in the starry depths that loomed overhead, just above the ceiling plaster. 

His mind was elsewhere, but his body remained curled on the floor, crumbling between hyperventilation and bouts of nausea that made him gag, when he felt the tip of a shoe jab him hard in the ribs. 

He ignored it. The shoe persisted, jabbing him harder and harder until it kicked him ruthlessly in the ribs. 

He groaned in pain and stirred, coughing, as he awkwardly propped himself up on one elbow with his hands still bound uselessly at the small of his back.

Slowly, he managed to look up, and felt his liquor-soaked blood run cold. Wes’ hulking shadow loomed over him.

“Well, don’t you look fuckin’ pathetic,” he spat.

Seven could hear that he was smiling. Wes continued, wiping slick strands of hair across his forehead, “Looks like they already got you tied nice and tight, you want some more?” 

Seven scrambled back, “No—no’more, please!–”

Wes didn’t give time for Seven to escape. Grabbing his collar and yanking him forward, he forced that now half-drunken bottle of silver tequila right to his lips. 

Wes’ other hand found Seven’s hair and yanked it back again, following with the bottle until Seven was nearly bent in half limbo-style.

For several agonizing seconds, Wes’ hand in his hair was all that held him up as he was forced to chug that horrible nauseating poison. It was. It was straight poison. And Seven would never be free of it. Free of them. Free of him.

Too many seconds—let up Wes for the love of god please—let up!—god—Seven begged in his head, tears falling and whimpering, he gagged mid-gulp and felt lukewarm, stinging poison spill from his lips and run down his chin, before Wes pulled the bottle away and released his hair. 

He collapsed instantly, coughing and retching and curling in on himself when his knees hit the floor and he felt his kneecaps ring. 

They thought it was funny to get him drunk like this. Just because they could. 

Seven lay on the floor for, he didn’t know how long. Someone finally brought him water. He didn’t know who. There was a light touch on his shoulder, the gentle cupping of the back of his neck, guiding him towards a red solo cup. He flinched away before he realized its contents didn’t reek like its predecessors. It was water. 

He was back on his knees so fast it made his head spin with heavy vertigo, swallowing him in swirling molasses for several moments as he tried to stop the blurry red shape in front of him from oscillating back and forth.

That hand was back around his neck again, gripping, but not squeezing. Holding his chin and guiding him towards the water. He tried to reach for the cup. His arms did not budge. He remembered now, slowly and to his detriment, that no one at this party had any intention of releasing him from his belted circumstance any time soon. 

He decided he didn’t care. There was no time to care when there was water.

He lurched his head forward when his lips touched the plastic, causing the cup to tip too fast and the water to cascade down his face and neck and his exposed chest.

He didn’t care, gulping it up at a breakneck speed until every drop was gone.

His savior pulled her hand away and he gasped and bent forward, realizing the front of his shirt was soaked through.

He probably looked like a mess.

He didn’t care. 

This was no place for pride.

He just hoped he’d survive the night. 

✧ ─  ༻✦༺  ─ ✧

Oh boy that was a long one! Let me know if you have any suggestions/requests on what to do to him next :3

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saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.