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#long sleeve oscillators
forlix · 2 months
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𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・1.2k / 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・chan x gn!reader / 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲𝘀・fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, berry being the perfect girl she is. inspired by these bubble messages and @cosmic-railwayxo's treachery. (love u deni)
𝟬𝟲:𝟯𝟲 — “Where’s my baby, hm?”
This is the question on Chan’s lips the moment he lets go of the bedroom door, closed with agonizing caution as to not wake the figure still curled up under the duvet inside.
It’s early. Early enough so the walls are colored a rich beige by new rays of sunlight, so his footsteps are the only sound reverberating around the hallways when he commences his search. Early enough to evidence how he was only bestowed a few hours of sleep before waking up with a budding headache and leaden eyelids.
But he doesn’t mind the lack of rest, not this time. Not when there’s a wad of love with a freckled snout and floppy ears under the same roof for the first time in too long.
“Berry?” Chan calls, his voice tattered and low, like sandpaper. He rakes his eyes over the spots he remembers to be her favorite. Maybe they’ve changed since he was last home. Maybe everything has changed since he was last home.
The thought causes a familiar pang to go off within him, poignant and powerful, but the quiet scuffle of paws against hardwood takes the edge off the guilt straightaway.
Chan finds the beginnings of a smile on his lips before she even rounds the corner, and when she does, well. His grin might as well split his face down the middle. He’s on his knees in seconds, outstretched hands rediscovering home in the puppy’s silky fur as she clambers onto him with blown pupils and excited pants.
His adoring coos of her name falter into muted laughter, which then fragments into a sob. His vision narrows to his precious girl and then starts to blur. When Berry climbs up to give his cheek a few happy licks, she’s fascinated by its saltiness.
You emerge from the bedroom a little over an hour later. Sleeping is hard enough when you’re jetlagged, and even harder when there’s only mattress where you remember Chan’s warm solidity to be. The fabric of Chan’s hoodie suppresses your vocalization of his name as you ungracefully pull it over your torso, still struggling to rouse your body from sleep.
Your beckon produces no response. You wrap a hand around the nearest door frame and peek your head into the living room, a little more alert now.
“Chan? Baby?”
You feel silly. How many visits has it been for you to still feel this nervous, wandering around Chan’s family home? Yet you undoubtedly are, whether because of your absentee boyfriend or that his whole family is a few walls away. You pad through the silent abode with mounting trepidation and intense care to not make any more sound than necessary.
Then you reach the family room and instantly come to a standstill, hands drifting to your sides, features deliquescing to a soft smile. 
Lying on the nearest couch is your boyfriend, head propped up on top of his elbow, his fluttering lashes and gently oscillating shoulders indicating that he’s asleep. You can’t see his face below his eyes, as he has his nose nuzzled into the Cavalier spaniel resting securely in his arms, snoring tacitly into his sleeve, slumbering as deeply as her human companion.
You’ve been stumbling upon Chan sleeping in unexpected places for the better part of two years now, but you still liquefy every time as if it’s the first. These are the moments, you’ve come to realize, when you can care for him in ways he would never let you while conscious: a lift of his laptop off his thighs, a brush of your lips against his hairline, a cardigan draped lightly over his back. These are the moments when you understand in full how far you’ve come together, for him to trust you with his exhaustion with such transparency, to be so vulnerable as to leave you with memories of him that he’ll never have.
Despite your prolonged experience, it’s hard to describe what exactly you’re feeling in this moment. The mere mention of Berry has always dissipated the shadows that veil his face, has always chased off the burdens that cling to his spine. How do you put it into words, seeing your happiness at his happiest?
It suddenly occurs to you that the window beside them is cracked open. That, and you spotted extra quilts in the top shelf of Chan’s closet last night.
Chan’s eyelids lift when he feels the gentle weight of a blanket fall upon his body; so do the corners of his lips, when the culprit materializes before him. Sitting on the edge of the couch, a hand hovering over his frame, face creased into a flinch.
“Sorry,” you whisper, closing the distance between your fingers and the curve of his neck. The pad of your thumb moves over his cheekbone like a willow branch skimming water. “I didn’t think that would wake you up.”
Both of you up, you mentally amend, seeing as Berry has noticed your presence and is wagging her tail with enough vigor for it to thump against Chan’s chest. He lets her wriggle out of his arms and into yours; you emit a noise of glee and gather her into you.
If only you had seen the expression he wears then, watching your eyes scrunch closed at the frenzied kisses she presses to your face. His first love and his very last.
“Don’t apologize,” he answers. “I’m the one who should be sorry for leaving you in bed, I just…”
His voice trails off, but he knows by the softness in your irises when they meet his that you already know.
You move like clockwork. Chan presses up into the back of the couch, the quilt’s edge lifted in wordless invitation. It is your chest that Berry burrows into this time, the top of her head sliding into the space between your chin and the sofa’s cushion. It is Chan’s chest that you’re folded into, the arms around your waist like the coziest of cabins in a sun-spattered wood. It is the back of your neck that he nuzzles his nose into, but not before he litters gossamer kisses across the expanse of skin, as if printing the notes to a lullaby he knows well.
Everything is warm, so warm, so right, and jetlag starts to feel like a distant trouble.
You open your mouth while teetering on the cusp of a dream.
“Baby?” 
He hums into you, listening.
“Always be happy, okay?”
You don’t notice the solitary tear that traverses the bridge of his nose, lands in the cotton of your hood, and dyes the bunched-up fabric a few shades darker. You don’t notice how his embrace around you tightens marginally, like how one’s eyes can’t help but find their dearest possession when the building’s on fire.
“Okay,” he whispers, and kisses your nape once more. Your and Chan’s eyes close together. Berry licks your chin again, then follows suit.
(Another hour later, Chan’s parents walk into the family room. They decide to go out to breakfast for fear of making too much noise in the kitchen, Chan’s mother blotting away tears as she ducks into shotgun, Chan’s father laughing at her sentimentality while blinking back his own.
Another few hours later, Hannah takes maybe fifty-some photographs of the triad of unmoving heaps occupying their couch. Then she grumbles at Berry for being dead asleep at eleven in the morning: “Those two arrived here from across the world yesterday. What’s your excuse?”)
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🔖 (send an ask or reply to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・ @automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8
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© 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘅 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support.
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moonstruckme · 3 months
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hiiii ! im not sure if you take requests but i would LOVE just a small sirius x coquette reader blurb!!! nothing specific just anything!
i just think they would be so opposites and it would be so so cute <3
Hi gorgeous, I do! Thanks for requesting <3
Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 810 words
“I feel like I’m smelling smoke,” you say, and Sirius hastily lets the strand of hair fall from the curling wand. 
“You’re delusional,” he replies when it doesn’t look totally charred. “I’m a pro at this, sweetheart.” 
You hum dubiously. “Well, I appreciate your help. I can never reach the ones in the back, they always end up looking wonky.” 
“Yeah, you owe me big,” Sirius lets his voice stretch long and reluctant, as if you don't both know how much he loves getting to play with your hair. “Gonna do a ribbon today?”
“Sure.” You lean forward to apply your lipstick in the mirror. 
“Which one?” 
“You can pick, Siri.” 
He deliberates for a moment, taking the opportunity to let his eyes skim over you under the guise of assessing your outfit, before holding a pink one up in the mirror for your approval. You nod happily, and Sirius begins gathering your hair in his hands. 
“Hold still a minute, pretty thing.” He makes sure there’s a couple of ringlets loose in the front like you like them and pins the ribbon in place. 
“Is it straight?” you ask, twisting your lipstick shut and capping it. 
“Dollface, you wound me.” 
“Fine, I’ll trust you.” You roll your eyes with a smile. “Ready to go, love?” 
“Actually, let me get ready really quickly.” Sirius peers into the mirror with great concentration and shoves his hands into his hair, shaking it out at the roots until it looks as messy as possible. “Okay, ready.” 
“Hilarious.” 
“You’re just jealous,” he says, “that my routine is so much easier than yours.” 
“Siri, I’ve seen you spend hours cutting the sleeves off of all your t-shirts.” You give him a teasing look, slipping your feet, clad in frilly socks, into your Mary Jane’s while Sirius tugs on his combat boots. “Don’t act like you’re so low-maintenance.” 
“You wish you had tattoos this sick to show off.” Sirius feels sort of like a big dog you’ve got on a leash, the way you stroll towards the front door with him on your heels. 
“Not really, no. That’s your thing, not mine.” 
“Someday,” he says wistfully, following you out the door and shutting it behind him. “Someday I’m going to get you into a tattoo shop, and you’re going to come out looking so punk rock no one will even recognize you.” 
You give him a deadpan look, though the effect is made somewhat less intimidating by your sweet face and cutesy outfit. “Sure, love.” Sirius grins at you, straddling his bike and slipping on his helmet. You hesitate. “Can we walk? It’s not far, and I don’t want the wind to mess up my hair.” 
“Oh.” A tiny pang of disappointment goes through Sirius, but he understands. Hair is always the priority. “Sure.” 
“Actually, wait just a second.” You lean in close to his face, frowning, and Sirius’ eyebrows inch upwards before he realizes you’re using the reflective visor of his helmet to see yourself. You purse your lips. 
“I forgot to blot,” you say quietly, almost to yourself. You bring a finger to your mouth, tapping at your bottom lip to remove the excess lipstick. Sirius watches the motion with unchecked awe, your pretty pink lips supple and oscillating under your touch. 
“Siri, baby, can I have your hand?” 
He gives it to you without hesitation, and you raise it to your lips, stamping pink lipstick onto the backside of his palm. You press your lips together one final time before smiling, satisfied. “Okay, you can take the helmet off now.” 
Sirius does, almost in a trance, looking down at the mark you’ve left on his hand. It’s perfectly pressed, the pink a funny-looking contrast against his dark painted nails and the silver rings that adorn his knuckles. 
“C’mere, sweet thing,” he says. You look a bit perplexed, but step closer to where he’s still straddling his bike, the dainty floral pattern of your tights brushing his dark jeans. He takes your face in both hands. “You’re so lovely, you know that?” 
You’re well used to Sirius’ flirting, but the sincerity in his voice has a pretty blush rising to the apples of your cheeks. The pinkness of it matches nicely, the thinks, with your lipstick and the ribbon in your hair. Sirius pulls you towards him, smushing his lips to yours. 
You make a startled sound of protest. “Sirius!” you pull away, raising a hand to hover by your lips. “You’re going to mess it up!”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, but you’re already picking up his helmet from where he’d set it on the seat, checking your reflection. “It’s more punk rock that way.” 
“I told you.” You swipe at a smudged spot of pink at the corner of your lips, giving him a dazzling smile. “That’s your thing, not mine.”
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tarsusingkirk · 7 months
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i think difanghua fic that plays more with being hornie. like everyone is wearing long sleeved robes, there's hardly any skin showing. the best we get from normal people is a quick glimpse of slender wrists bones.
like yes, li lianhua was allowed to be a lil bit of a slut (affectionate) a few times, bare arms whn digging/cooking/farming, exposed chest courtesy of fang duobing but listen
more of that.
li lianhua stripping in the privacy of the lotus tower because he got all sweaty from gardening but fang duobing and/or di feisheng are there because they are obnoxious and want to be fed food. like he just walks up to his bed and loosens his belt, and starts pulling his outer robes away as he complains about how hot he is. fang duobing has a midlife crisis, oscillating between running up to him and turning on his heel so he can't see. di feisheng just sits at the table and drinks some tea, ignoring li lianhua('s purposeful show).
fang duobing turns to this placidly calm di feisheng whining in a slight hiss, 'why are you just looking!'
feisheng doesn't even shrug. 'nothing i haven't seen before.'
duobing almost qi deviates right then and there.
-
di feisheng tromping back to the lotus tower with half his robes, just, burned off. he stomps all the way into the eating area, past fanghua and then comes to an abrupt stop as he starts tearing at the remains of his robes. First, he pulls at the burned tatters on his shoulders, letting them fall still held up by his belt and then he turns around a pissed off look on his face.
'cultivators are fools.'
but duobing isn't really, can't, paying attention to whatever his lao di is saying because he just got an eye full of sweaty pecs and hard stomach, both smeared in ash.
and lianhua is standing behind duobing fingers fanned over his smirking mouth. he calls after duobing a couple of times before hitting duobing's shoulder, 'go get some towels for him, xiaobao.'
duobing pops up like an erratic metal spring, as feisheng crosses his arms, still glaring.
'ayio, ah-fei, the flexing was a bit much, wasn't it?'
-
fang duobing gets a face full of mildly poisonous powder and feihua force him to disrobe so it doesn't make him incredibly sick.
'xiaobao, come. you need to take off your clothes.' li lianhua says, reaching out and tugging at duobing's upper sleeve.
duobing's face is already slightly flush, eyes glassey as he sniffs and pushes lianhua's hand away. 'no, it's fine. they said it was only kinda poiso--'
he cuts himself off with a sneeze that leaves him lightheaded and swaying into di feisheng's side.
'i have no problem slicing your clothes off, fang duobing.' feisheng says, deep voice vibrating into duobing's shoulder from where it rests against feisheng.
duobing startles, jumping back slightly and then swaying a bit too far more before feisheng reaches out scruffs him like a wet cat. 'no, no, no. i'll-- okay, please don't.'
he starts with picking at the ties of his sleeves before lianhua slaps his clumsy fingers away and does it himself. sniffing, duobing realizes lao di is still scruffing him in silence, which is fine because he doesn't think he can stand by himself anymore.
when he feels the cool press of Lianhua's hands against his bare skin he refocuses. Lianhua's hand is wrapped loosely around his exposed wrist, fingers pressing into his forearm just enough he can feel their slight roughness, can see how tan lianhua's fingers look against his paler skin. his own fingers curl as he watches lianhua push his loosened sleeve up then remembers he's trying to get out of his robes. he brings his free hand up to his chest, going to pull at his robes. he pulls at his lapels, slowly loosening his outer robes until they are loose about his shoulders, one side drooping down and exposing the thin whites of his under robes. it makes him shiver, or maybe its the effects of the poison, they way he can feel lao di's strong hand slide down his back over his outer robes and then back up over his inner robes.
-
I WAS TRYING TO BE CHASTE AND SENSUAL BUT NOO THIS IS JUST HORNIE ON MAIN OTL
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lamaery · 2 years
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There is always another secret... Last week for #cosmerefashionmonth and this time it is cosmere themed! Well... mostly Hoid. But there is Kelsier bonus on top. :) image descriptions below the cut
[image description:  The first image is of Hoid in a black three piece suit with a black coat loose on his shoulders walking towards the viewer. He wears a black broad rimmed fedora hat and dark sunglasses and smiles a mysterious and confident smile. The coat flaps dramatically around him. It's exposed lining gleams in saturated colours, as is the lining of the blazer jacket, the ascot, bits of the shirt, Hoid's socks and fine lines on the hat. In the colorful mash symbols of all kinds of investiture powers overlap each other. There is a second version of the picture with the lining being more orange and dark purples and teals instead of the brighter pink and violets of the first version.
The third image pictures Hoid slumping more than casually in a dark red armchair, one leg hooked over the armrests the other stretched out in its long lengthiness. He is in the same dark three piece suite with the pink /purple glowing lining details, ascot and socks peaking out here and there. His long coat and fedora hat hang over the back of the armchair and his dark glasses are pushed to the top of his head. He smiles up at Jasnah, his hands broadly gesturing towards himself. Jasnah stands before him. She wears loose, wide dress pants of a dark teal colour and a vest in a lighter shade. Underneath the vest she wears a light cream high necked blouse with ruffled detail on the front. Her hair is in a big bun at the upper back of her head. She looks down with puckered lips and narrowed eyes, conveying deep suspicion. Her arms are crossed and she holds a looking glass in her left gloved hand. The fourth image is of standing in front of a white backdrop, wearing a white suit and shirt. He holds a tin bucket of paint in his right hand and a paint brush in his left. The paintr is smeared over his suit and broadly grinning face. It drips off the bucket and the brush. It colour oscillates between purple, oranges, pink and blue. On closer inspection cosmere symbols for different systems of investiture are showing up within the colour. On the inside of Kelsier's rolled up sleeves the allomancy symbols are visible.]
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slippinmickeys · 5 months
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Madam Scully’s Spiritual Services, Inc. (5/?)
He still wasn’t certain why he’d walked into the fortune teller’s shop. He was sure however, about why he’d stayed long enough for a reading.
It had been a blisteringly hot day at Quantico, one in which they were running outside, and one of the few nights the cadets had off, allowed to leave the Marine Base where they were housed and trained. Everyone had been close to heat stroke when they finished their five miles, Mulder included, but to him, a night out drinking with his classmates held little appeal. His plan, such as it had been, was to grab something to eat and study for the upcoming Legal II exam — a test even seasoned attorneys sometimes failed — but every restaurant he passed looked less appealing than the one before it. Until he saw the sign for El Compadre. A few tacos and a cold coke were just the thing.
But when he got out of his old Land Rover to head into the taqueria, he’d glanced into the window of the fortune teller’s shop next door and had seen the woman sitting behind the counter, her head bent low as though she were reading. Even through the grimy window, her hair shone like polished copper, and her skin was dewy with sweat. He was intrigued by her rather than struck dumb and had paused outside, reading the smattering of signs in the window. “Heal your past, learn your future” said one. “Walk-ins welcome,” said another. Well, he was a walk-in. And he did just that.
The inside was fusty and warm, an oscillating fan in the corner moving around a thick, stolid breeze. The decor inside was all kitsch, its shelves filled with new age crap; crystals and geodes, and lots of purple and black velvet. And when the woman looked up? The ice cave blue of her eyes fixing on him, well…
She led him through the door now, the night not nearly as uncomfortably hot as it had been the first time, and they were met by a taller, willowy woman who Mulder assumed was the “real” Madam Scully. She was a couple of years older than Dana, her hair a darker auburn. She wore bangles on her wrists, and a flowy, flower print dress over a white capped-sleeve tee shirt.
Dana inclined her head. “My sister,” she said.
The woman gave him a frank, penetrating look.
“Madam Scully, I presume?” Mulder said, holding out a hand.
“Melissa,” she said, putting a limp four fingers in his grasp, which he shook clumsily.
“This is Fox Mulder,” said Scully, looking between them a little awkwardly.
“Ah,” Melissa said. “So you’re the guy who brought the spirits into my shop and then left without paying.”
Mulder gave her a chagrined look. “I have rectified the latter,” he said. “But hoping you could help me with the former.”
Melissa stared hard at her sister before turning back to him.
“No,” she said firmly.
He and Scully both said “What?” at the same time.
Melissa sighed. “I’m happy to act as an advisor,” she said. “To both of you. But this spirit didn’t come to me. She came to you.” She turned to Scully. “And you . I am not a part of this triad.”
“But-“ Scully started, but Melissa held up a hand, and turned back to Mulder.
“Someone wants to communicate with you. You need to decide if you’re ready and willing to hear what they have to say. You may not like it.”
“And you,” she said, turning back to her sister and letting what Mulder assumed to be frustration leach into her voice. “You can’t dabble in this world while looking down your nose at it. You may not believe in these spirits, Dana, but one of them certainly believes in you.”
Scully paled and Melissa’s tone took on a more sympathetic bent. “We’ve been through so much.” She reached forward and put a delicate hand on Scully’s cheek. “You tried to pass through this door when Mom and Dad died, and now it’s standing wide open. Are you able to walk through it now?”
Melissa looked steadily at both of them and then turned and walked into the back of the shop, leaving them standing awkwardly in the small lobby. Scully looked shaken, stiff, and Mulder wanted to reach out to touch her, but didn’t dare.
He was about to open his mouth to say something but Scully’s quiet voice came first.
“She’s right,” she said, finally looking up at him. “I did try to talk to them. Our parents. I wanted to know if they… I wanted to know what happened to them. I wanted justice.”
He nodded at her.
“All I got was silence.”
With that, she turned and walked out of the shop.
He gave her a moment and then followed. She had walked back out to the picnic table, and was sitting at it, looking small and dejected.
Mulder gingerly slid in next to her.
“That must have been hard,” he said. He could picture her in the little back room, desperate to reconnect just one more time. He was certainly familiar with the impulse. It was why he was here in the first place.
“It was,” she said. “But I know you’ve been through something similar.” She leaned her shoulder into his. “When you think about it,” she went on. “We both just want answers.”
Mulder nodded, sighed. “Yeah,” he said, the wheels in his head turning.
He turned to her after a moment.
“I don’t know what to make of all this,” he said. “And I don’t know what’s going to happen. But what if…”
When he trailed off, she looked up. Her eyes were watery, but wide and bright. It took him a moment to remember what he was going to say.
“I’ve been assigned to work in VICAP,” he said. “When I graduate in a couple of weeks. That’s the violent crimes unit at the Bureau. And I was thinking… Maybe we could get answers for each other.”
“How?” She wanted to know.
A frog in the knot of trees across the street began to make its nighttime noises. He took in her profile; her delicate chin, her Roman nose, and inhaled deeply, the smell of hot tar and cumin thick in the air.
“If you’re willing to help me talk to my sister…” She gave him a dubious look, but didn’t stop him. “I’m willing to bet I can get my hands on the casefile from your parents' deaths. Maybe there’s something in there the police missed.”
Her eyebrows rose slowly.
“So you want to make a deal, is that it?”
For a brief moment he was thinking yes, if that means I can see you again. But instead, he said:
“A mutually beneficial arrangement.” He smiled at her. “I have the resources and expertise to help you, and… Well, you have the same for me.”
“So it’s a business arrangement?” she asked. Did he detect a hint of disappointment in her voice?
“If you like,” he said.
She thought about it for a moment, licked her lips, then stuck out her hand for a handshake.
“Okay,” she said. Her grip was strong, firm, the opposite of her sister’s. “You have a deal, Mulder.”
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lakesbian · 11 months
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worm infinity train au. your thoughts
you may also be interested in the infinity train worm au! as for worm infinity train au:
perspective character taylor hebert has a dead mom and is chronically bullied at school. her life fucking sucks. she is, although she doesn't fully realize it, severely traumatized and suicidal as a result. one day, as she's heading to school in the morning, she stops and realizes she can't take it anymore. she's not sure if she just intends to skip or do...whatever else, but she can't force herself to take another step towards the building.
at this point, an entire fucking train manifests out of thin air and pulls up directly in front of her. the sign above the door displays where it's going:
ANYWHERE BUT HERE
she boards.
after: 1. waking up in some random place with a glowing green number tattooed onto her hand & wrapping up around her wrist (what the fuck) 2. stumbling out of the first car and realizing she's on some sort of massive train from hell running thru a seemingly infinite wasteland (what the FUCK) and 3. stumbling through several more cars in a more or less blind panic desperately trying to come to grips with whatever is going on here (WHAT THE FUCK, she reiterates to herself in her head)
...she runs into another person! a blonde girl named lisa who seems a little too calm about this whole situation. she's shockingly helpful and calming, and she explains her best guesses about the train and the purpose of the number to taylor.
"so you have a number too?" taylor thinks to ask, noticing for the first time that lisa's gloves & long sleeves are obscuring both of her hands & arms from view.
in what is absolutely not a smooth bit of redirection, lisa informs her that "yep, all of us do," and tips a thumb over her shoulder.
"us?" taylor asks.
at which point lisa leads taylor deeper into the car, introducing her to where the group of other teens she's traveling with are currently camped out. this group is comprised of:
brian laborn: de-facto leader with a number over halfway to his elbow. an amiable, somewhat stoic, and seemingly well-adjusted 17yo--although on closer inspection, he often seems to be masking unease. his number can often be seen going up at seemingly random, and has yet to decrease.
lisa wilbourn: default group advisor. her number is unknown to everyone else in the group. everyone but taylor has already learned not to bother bringing it up, and taylor learns shortly after lisa issues enough jokingly-condescending dismissals of her questions. despite remaining coy about her own history, lisa seems to always have a helpful opinion about the problems of her fellow passengers.
rachel 'bitch' lindt: quick-to-anger and tailed by several variously-doglike non-speaking denizens. it's not quite clear why she's sticking with the group, since she seems to respond poorly to really any direction or attempt at communication, but she's stuck with them nonetheless. has a number up to her elbow, and it gets higher every day.
alec vasil: has a number nearly to his shoulder, which ever-so-often oscillates a few digits either up or down, functionally remaining where it's at. has been on the train longest at 2 1/2 years. he's incredibly blasé about this, shrugging his shoulders and remarking that being on the train is "way more interesting than back home."
(aisha does also eventually join the group, having boarded shortly-ish after brian did. they're lucky enough to stumble into a reunion, which is equal parts relieving and awful for each. good news, you found your sibling! bad news, both of you are stuck on this fucking train! she has the lowest number--still entirely on her hand--and a penchant for being annoying like her life depends on it.)
taylor is integrated into the group, and wacky hijinks, bonding with people you would never hang out with otherwise via shared traumatic experiences, and extremely meandering character development ensues.
this goes a significantly more hopeful direction than worm--while the train fucking sucks, it is at least designed with healing in mind. the undersiders were never meant to be best friends for life, and rare few of them will keep in contact after they exit the train. but while they're on the train, there's a shared solidarity in crawling up from their lowest points side-by-side. for the duration of their time together on the train, they're family.
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tinydappledleaf · 4 months
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Title: Stay
Chapter: 4/6
Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader, Ezra x you (Reader is addressed by 'you' or nickname)
Rating: 18+, smut in chapter 6
Content: Situationship to romance, soft Ezra, intimacy, loss of limb (non-explicit), canon compliant
Summary: When you've almost given up waiting for him, a certain prospector returns to the Pug to call in a favor...
Ao3: complete fic
《 chapter 3 chapter 5 》
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Chapter IV
Ezra’s health steadily improves over the following cycles. So does his connection to Cee. More often than not you find them immersed in their respective reading, side by side on your worn couch, or discussing the novels that keep them busy. 
You hadn’t even known there was a library within walking range of your complex. You were told it was by no means large and consisted mostly of questionable survival guides for the odd floater prone to reading. But it hadn’t taken Cee long to sniff out a small section of old novels, idly gathering dust on a neglected corner shelf. 
Ever since Cee disclosed her secret lair of entertainment to curious Ezra, the two of them occasionally vanish for walks and return with a new stack of reading material. 
Each time you see them come in and witness the girl’s carapace of wariness thaw further, a content warmth settles within you. Their encounter, out in the Green, was nothing but a long string of unfortunate circumstances, tightly wrapped in the moon’s overall perilous conditions. There was no turning back time. No taking back rash and questionable decisions on either side. 
Still, they make it work, oscillating between forgetting and forgiving what can’t be undone – somehow saving each other from falling prey to the lurking spiral of debilitating ‘what if’s’.
Whilst they tentatively form their bond, you are more focused than ever. Measurements taken cycles prior, you ceaselessly work on Ezra’s prosthesis. And when he’s not out and about with Cee or poring over shared literature, he’s by your side and shamelessly nosey. While he certainly insisted on off-the-shelf design and basic functionality, you’re adamant on making it from scratch. A service you barely exercise with the clientele of mostly mineworkers from the belt or the unluckiest of prospectors. 
You delight in it. In creating shapely, reliable prostheses. In fabricating something that increases the quality of life in each aspect. You want him to feel good with it – and safe. So you pour your entire passion into the task and slowly but surely manufacture a prosthesis, that is him, in any possible sense. 
 
“Why don’t you join us?”
Cee’s question breaks your concentration. You had been so preoccupied by your work, that you nearly missed them leaving. Now Cee stands by the door and eyes you expectantly. Guessing by the stack of three novels in her arms, they’re about to move out on another run for the library.
You eyes flicker back to the elbow joint in your hands, almost ready to be attached to the forearm’s base.
“I ain’t gonna regrow a limb, Patches,” ribs Ezra, “No need to rush.”
He’s got a point, as nasty as that truth tastes. And… even though you won’t admit that out loud, as long as you’re working on the replacement for his arm, he might be inclined to share your quarters for a tad longer. As much as you want to help him get back on his own feet, that thought is tempting. You can’t deny it hasn’t crossed your mind before, mingling with the persistent yearn for his closeness. You’ve adamantly pushed it away, woven those pestering emotions into your drive to work. But now that he's suggesting you to shift down a gear…
“Alright, gimme a sec.”
From the corner of your eye you watch his growing smirk. Somewhat satisfied with hint of relieve. As you set your work aside and slip your arms into the sleeves of your jacket, you wonder if he feels guilty for accepting your help. What you offer has certainly outgrown a simple ‘favor’. Out in the harshness of the Frontiers, Ezra takes what he gets, no questions, no remorse. He’s not one to doubt his actions. You’ve seen him ravage with little care for his kind. But around the girl, around you, a softness surfaces that you adore. 
A softness that shines in the warmth of his eyes when you step outside with them. Sometimes you wonder what kind of man he would have been if he hadn’t been abraded by the roughness of the system’s fringes. A merchant, maybe? An author? Your mind paints a picture of him wielding a pen like wields his thrower. As daring as he’s proficient. You’d have succumbed to his charms all the same.
A stupid, happy smile glues itself to your face as you walk with him in the afternoon sun, listening to his literature shop talk with Cee.
Soon after your successful visit to the tiny dusty library - Cee has swapped her returned novels for a new one - Ezra excuses himself to take care of some business. Tie up a few loose strings of his travels and get himself back out into the world, now that he’s capable of it again. 
You don’t question him, hold back from asking him to be careful. You feel quite ridiculous for even considering that – not that he’d listen anyway. You really need to get a hold of yourself, shake off that weird anxiousness that sprouts whenever he disappears for a bit. You’ll have to deal with him leaving eventually, so better ease back into indifference before your resolve breaks. 
 
You're on your way back home, swerving by one of the rundown streetfood stalls to get some takeaway, when Cee speaks up.
“You like him.”
Its not a question, rather a statement. And for the briefest moments, you’re at a loss of words. She doesn’t even face you, has her nose buried between the pages of her new novel as you set down a bowl of fried ooka roots in front of her.
“’course I do,” you admit and sit across from her, not quite sure where this is coming from. Or going to. “I’ve known him for quite some time. Don’t find many people out here that keep returning, for… various reasons. He’s reliable, mostly-”
“Are you like a couple or something?”
You blink, your cup of tea paused mid-air, half way to your lips. Cut right to the chase, girl, why don’t ya?
“No,” you muster as you set the cup back down. “Ezra isn’t the type for that kind of relationship.  How come you think that?”
The question is out before you think better of it. 
It might have been wise to cut the conversation short at that point, never pick it up again. But if she has noticed, then…
“My dad and I lived here for a bit. People don’t help each other out like that, even if they’re friends. Or pretend to be. But you help us, even though you don’t really have to.”
Her observation tells a lot about the crowds her father had surrounded himself, and her, with. Or had to surround himself with. You don’t judge a man you’ve never met on account of your own assumptions. But it explains and warrants her wariness - and keeps her safe in present day, at least.
“Maybe I’m just exceptionally generous.”
She closes her book, sets it aside and casts you a quizzical glance.
Pulling her food a bit closer, she inspects it before she carefully takes a bite and seems to be pleasantly surprised. Glad that she seems to have dropped the topic to enjoy her meal, you take a sip of your tea.
“I think he likes you, too. You guys stare a lot at each other when you think no one looks,” she mutters defiantly between chewing and you nearly choke.
 
*
 
The rest of your evening consists of tinkering on Ezra’s arm. It takes your mind off things, keeps you from mulling the girl’s statement ceaselessly. It remains in the back of your mind, however, quietly teasing, prodding, prompting you - regardless of how adamantly you try to ignore it.
Ezra returns home late, but with a few surprises. Its obvious he’s made money off his meager haul, traded it in – you don’t dare asking where, you know he’s made as much of it as humanly possible, no matter how shady the trade.
He’s brought another notebook, a few colored pens and clothing for Cee. She’s been wearing some of yours, but none of them fit her shorter and slimmer teenage frame properly. The new ones do, mostly, and for the first time in a while you’ve seen her truly, honestly joyful. None of it is fancy, in any way. But they’re new. And clean. And not some free extra to a pod rent. 
He promises she’ll get to pick a few more if she accompanies him to the shops. That he just got some basics for her to be comfortable in. As he got some for himself. 
He earns a hug for all of it and his dumbfounded expression is adorable enough to sear itself into your memory for lonely days to come. 
All new treasures piled in her arms, Cee retreats into her room, to try them all on properly and marvel her new writing and sketching utensils.
A befuddled Ezra remains with you and sinks onto the couch, still perceptibly exhausted by each trip through the Pug’s convoluted innards. He’s not back to full health yet, still visibly in pain, but you see him grit his teeth and tough it out anyway. Showing weakness out in the void puts you to bed with pickaxe and shovel quicker than two channelrats proliferate. 
There’s nothing to dread in your presence, but you understand it’s a habit hard to shake. 
“That was pretty nice of you,” you remark and slip down your googles over your eyes to sand off a particularly sharp edge. 
“Rather a matter of course than benignity.”
“Oh come on, give yourself some credit, Ez. You could have gone with the cheapest or not get her anything at all. You still did. That is nice.”
He hums to that, not convinced. You hear him smile nonetheless and its infective. The girl does him good. Gives him purpose, even though he’s been incapacitated. Its obvious he’s grown fond of her, will protect her by any means. It sure does feel a little like family, having them around. Like things could have been, in another life. You shake off the thought before it festers and continue your work.
 
When you lay it down eventually, you find the couch deserted, too occupied to have noticed Ezra slip away. To the bathroom, apparently, the light creeping out from under the door discloses.
‘The Streamer Girl’ sits on the provisory dinner table and, with a yawn and a stretch of your aching back, you give in to your curiosity.
Claiming Ezra’s usual spot, you pick up the booklet and sink into the story.
 
Until there's a bellowed curse and loud clatter, followed by a rapid string of inventive expletives in reducing volume. First startled, then alarmed, you drop Cee’s ‘Streamer Girl’ onto the couch and rush into the bathroom, skipping across all courtesies.
You find Ezra at the sink, pressing a towel to his jaw. 
Deep red seeps into grey fabric as he glares at his mirror image. The razor in the sink is your missing clue and suddenly the scene gains some sense. 
“Fuck, Ez” you swear, heart still hammering relentlessly against your ribs. “Lemme see.”
How dare he scare you like that? He’s done enough of that lately. 
He knows you well enough to understand you brook no dissent. Not if he’s hurt, regardless who’s at fault. Dabbing the fabric against his skin once more, he turns and lets you step in close to assess the damage. 
To your relief, it’s merely a small cut right at the seam between his jaw and throat. Not worryingly deep but certainly unpleasant. Just another sting that adds to his remaining pain. You catch his wrist as he tries to wipe away a drop of fresh blood and shake your head. 
“Let it dry. You’ll be fine. Head’s still in place, so all good.” As if to check, you gently cup his jaw and tilt it left and right.
“See?”
That earns you a low chuckle and it warms you that you accomplished to prevent his drop in mood. A warning sits at the tip of your tongue. The gentle reminder for him to be more careful, but it appears tone deaf, even if it’s meant well. You swallow it again. 
“Assist me, then?” He quips, “Lest I inadvertently behead myself.” 
He plucks the razor from the sink and holds it out to you, hilt first. An invitation you eye with surprise, but won’t decline. Ezra’s a proud man. Opportunistic and confident. But never above himself when it comes to asking for help. At least around you.
You gingerly take the razor from his hand. It’s an old-fashioned thing, wooden handle, steel blade. No standard laser utensil. It’s always been a quirk of his that both, appeals and baffles you. 
Once you’ve taken the responsibility from him, the lingering tension seeps from his form. He observes you rinse the blade and holds perfectly still as you spread the wiped off shaving foam back across the remaining salt and pepper whiskers. You pause then, purse your lips. You admit his beard has grown a tad too long, but you’ll miss the stubble. It suits him, compliments his roughness.
“The ‘stache stays,” you decide as you set to work, and he suppresses the amused twitch of his lips. 
“Hold still,” you chastise, and he obeys. His eyes close, a sign of trust, as you set the blade to his jaw.
Each slow pass of the razor across his skin stokes a silent fire within him. You observe it in the way he tilts his jaw into your free hand, in how his fist curls and uncurls at his side. You can hear the air crackle, sense the growing tension that seeks to break the surface. It tempts you. He tempts you.
His eyes flicker open and his fiery gaze burns into yours, honeyed irises darkening as you watch. It’s a well-known game for the two of you. Has been, whenever he popped by before leaping headfirst into his next adventure. It’s a game of desire you both excel in. The tiniest wordless step further than trust and friendship that you dare. A silent agreement for the sake of satisfaction.
You get it, his desire. Or at least try to grasp it. He's been trapped on a toxic moon with a silent brute for his sole company. Little to no means to just... let go. To gain just a spike of euphoria in otherwise dire circumstances. 
Still, you refuse to give into his pull. You won't be the one to tear his stitches, damage him worse. Still growing worn out by a shopping trip, he’s not yet back in shape. 
At least that's what you tell yourself, hiding the bitter truth of lingering fear. Like this, you only get him for glimpses. Briefest moments of commitment and intimacy. Then he vanishes again, the stars know for how long. He might have never come back if someone was to change the tiniest detail of his recent misadventure. You’re not sure if you can bear his closeness now, without begging him to stay right after. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?
No, you can't. You won't. Swallowing your own need for his affection, you finish your handiwork and swiftly press the towel to his face as he tries to lean in. He blinks, openly bemused and somewhat affronted by your mute rejection, but doesn't press. Once his face is gently wiped clean from the remainders of shaving foam, you drop the towel to the counter. 
One of your hands remains on his jaw, thumb gently stroking the softness of his freshly shaven skin. You meet his suddenly uncertain gaze with a soft, apologetic smile. 
"Another time, Ez. I don't want to hurt you."
You watch the 'but' form, the promise that you're not gonna hurt him, that he won't break. It disspates at your expression.
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terrifique · 2 months
Note
hiiii hello some questions :O 22, 7, 15, 32, 38?
hello my love <3 i'll start from the top and work my way down.
(ps: sorry this got so long love, sorry it took so long too<3)
7. If you read the book, what are your favorite changes from page to screen? 
Eeeeeeeasily, louis + claudia + armand! the changes made to these characters (at first louis + claudia and then armand as well once he is revealed) are the reason i started watching the show! also the depiction of louis' family/life before he was turned and the devolution of all of that once he became a vampire? that transforms the story imo, breathes so much life into it. though i'd never read the book before i started the show and had only seen a few clips from the film as a child, i truly believe that the characters became so much more compelling. i even went as far as to crack open the first book after my first watch through!
also the writers making leslou's age difference/power imbalance more pronounced? very sinister, monstrous and meaningful...very well done.
15. What were your favorite costumes? 
ugh this is soooo hard for me carol cutshall went craaaazy but um let me think for the main three...(please pardon the quality of the screenshots used)
louis is difficult because he's the main dresser in the show and has too many looks that i adore for various reasons.... but let me fight my nature and try not to be a sicko for a moment u.u
right now the one that comes to mind is the brown pinstriped three piece suite with tie pin from ep 1....he's in his human browns, so warm and looking full of life but still sharp and tailored to him so well. this is a charcater that has been stylish all his life, thoughtful about aesthetics, colour and composition, he knows how to accessorise! he wears the same suit in the family portrait..... did i mention the tie pin ((((:
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one of my favourite claudia looks is also featured in the photo. her long red cloak (with the embroidered edging) that she wears to florence's funeral, it's sooo dramatic and impactful. i'd imagine it would be jarring to see in a sea of the mourners dressed in black, especially because of the strange aura she has about her. also love her women's lib pussy bow blouse with the puffy sleeves from when she was laying the ground work for her patriarch assassination plot. love all her red looks really! (special mention for her date outfit with charlie. its not red it's just a cute little outfit. exactly what u wear on a first date ):)
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finally. and i know this is controversial but the black pinstriped suit with that mountain dew tie is one of the best lestat looks in the show imo (special mention to when he's in all white, covered in blood in the finale of course). he looks like the tall man, like a shadow you see in your room at night that your brain tricks you into thinking is a demon. but he also looks really sort of dashing in his coat when he invites louis up for a nightcap...
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22. Who's your favorite character? Why?
This one really depends on my mood. I tend to oscillate between Louis and Claudia. Right now it's louis though. I really think he is the character of all time. I could never claim to be the main louis understander, i know tooooo many intellectuals on here and louis is still so mysterious and unknowable to me in many ways, but at the same time she feels so real in a way that is almost uncanny? like i know this girl, kind of?? the aspect of the character where tragedy seems to hunt him down at every corner. the ultimate tragedy of how even in his desire to escape his current reality, when he is turned, he is still damned to a tormented existence by his maker. it's similar (and in so many ways more significant) for claudia. not only are they destined to endure hardship at the hands of society as a result of immutable factors (being black, and gay in louis' case and in claudia's case poor, young and female) but in their rebirth/forever death they are irrecoverably tied to a world of death and violence as well as to a maker whose grasp on humanity is suspect to say the very least, meanwhile that's their husband/father/uncle and louis isn't built for heartlessness...... how do they manage? how do they deal? what will they do to continue to endure? is there anything left to discover within yourself when you've lived for over a century? how distant/similar he is now to who he was back in new orleans? it seems to me that the tenderness that makes louis so compelling at the very beginning never leaves him. it shifts and evolves but never truly disappears. at the end of the day i guess i'm just really curious to know more about louis' inner workings, how does an immortal being decide to recount their life(?) when they're trapped in the depths of an inescapable grief??? he is endlessly fascinating to me and that's why i love him. also he is incredibly beautiful.
32. Is there a specific moment or plot point you’re hoping to see next season?
I have already typed too many words so i'm gonna try to keep the next few answers brief... Louis' lovers in paris moments with Armand. Claudia and Louis in eastern europe and with the theatre. I love the clip we saw of claudia with the vampire troupe, her on stage too(in the poster as well)! still haven't finished the book but that's not something that was in the source material if i remember correctly? I am terrified, horrified, trembling with fear and excitement to see how things pan out with all three of them in paris but also how things evolve with the interview in dubai! oooh also louis mentioned seeing jonah later on i think? in europe? really want to see what its like when characters from his old life pop up in the 40's.
38. If you read fanfiction, do you have any favorites? 
I do!!! not enough but i do there are honestly so many amazing writers in this fandom like it's actually crazy how talented people are, their command of their craft is outstanding! their ability to so beautifully expand upon and adapt these characters..... the genres explored, tiny characters as well as characters i don't even care about have been endeared to me so deeply.... i'm constantly in awe. this question is sooo difficult though....
but here are a few that come to mind
in the delta breeze [dare to breathe] by southernhummingbird
this literally had me in tears, i swear to god! so sweet and sentimental, truly moving. no one captures louis' voice the way they do. i don't think i've ever read the strange way guilt is tied to grief written like this in a fic before. southernhummingbird has my heart forever
House by baberainbow, disintegrations, gaypiratedivorce, kittyldpdl, nlbv, serpentskirts, weathermood
a tour de force, an magnificent undertaking, a maze of horror and fearful delights. all these writers are evil geniuses....i still can't believe this is real. if you see this and haven't read it yet please put yourself out of your misery and visit the house.
reformation by verseau
the first fic i ever read in this fandom. literally undefeatable. it opened my eyes to the transformative and reformative power of the au. such a tenderly written, thoughtful exploration of redemption and reconciliation. and it's tagged as crack??? i am forever changed
quizás by themasterletters
the second fic i ever read! this was a marvelous, tumultuous and vivid journey. not only for the characters but for me as a reader. what a gift that we all get to live in the same timeline, the same here and now as thee master letters (also partly responsible, along with weathermood, for the blessing that is twelve days. this work restored my faith in christmas miracles, yes)
Lunacy by The_Lame_Goat
just as the title suggests this work is insane. a monstrous take on an already monstrous dynamic, a transformative work that dives head first into the process of transformation (this horror genius is also responsible for THE hannibal au featuring another one of my favourite authors kittyldpdl)
Design; Intricate. by L(PastelLovelyBlue)
i've never felt so snatched up by a piece of work.... it is so intricately designed and mysterious, the prose is haunting. this writer is so measured and specific in how they've built their world and how they choose to reveal it's details. i leave every chapter feeling turned around, there is so much to uncover. they made me love sci-fi...
i have more favourites but this answer is already way too long and coming way too late. thank you for bearing with me dre 😭💗
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soleilnomoon · 2 years
Note
hello! I saw from your writings that you love doing angst.. so i have a request if you don't mind! But I don't know your "level" of angst tolerance so u can tell us later if u want!
So it's a scenario where Law falls for a s/o that's a strawhat, classic right?
But what if s/o has a devil fruit that makes it impossible to touch people cuz it sucks their energy or sum, it's very dangerous and so in her childhood she couldn't play with kids cuz they feared her, but she's at the same time a little goofy ball of energy and with a lovely personality?
Law at first (like always) didn't fall for the charms but after finishing Kaido and returning to the crews, he notices for the first time s/o's clothes and how she's all covered up wearing long kimonos with long sleeves (so that she doesn't accidentally hurt someone)
He feels a bit weird and dismisses the feeling as pity but it just makes him remember the amber disease and how he would hide the white spots sometimes when it was necessary and then he realizes again that s/o's case is worse than his cuz that's definitely not a disease and she can't remove her devil fruit... And also he 'Respectfully' thinks she's kinda cute tho (like Bepo a bit).
In his awkward ways he tries to make conversation with her about her DF but it comes of suspicious to the crew and he nearly gets cut off by Zoro the first time and Luffy in the second attempt, so he just does his 'research for SCIENTIFIC reasons' with the info he has, and in that period it takes like one to one and a half year (in wich he STUPIDLY feel in love even more with the strawhat) to realize that the more she uses her powers the less years she will live and... THAT just DEVASTATES him, cuz he read just some days ago that Luffy found the One Piece and actually became the King of the Pirates but also that two of his crew were in critical life or death condition and he immediately knew who: of course the right hand swordman and his strategist aka s/o.
But he searched for treatments to help her and actually found a very rare flower who's nectar is said to 'give life's and sprinted to the strawhats, but.. by the time they arrive the Thousand Sunny is silent like never before and they tell him s/o is dead and is not just the fact that he didn't even have the chance to express his feelings to her before it was too late it was that he couldn't save a person that never wanted anything in life but to genuinely smile and enjoy her time with her friends.
The only time he was genuinely interested and in love with someone voluntarily..
Sorry if there are any mistake or bad written sentences cuz English is not my first language lmao! I hope you understand the scenario! And Thank you so much if you're willing to write it! 💚
I'll be 🍥 anon in case u have questions?
Have a wonderful day!!
hiiii  ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡ it's finally done, i hope there's enough angst in here for you; i took a few liberties, and it got a little more morbid than i anticipated, but i had fun in the end 💕
2.5k words, fem reader, angst angst angst, cw: death, nothing gruesome but it does happen, there's alcohol at a certain point, also a plot twist dun dun dun. law's a coward and a dumbass & y/n needs to stop lying to herself
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lying became your profession after you turned three years old; no you didn’t make the neighbor’s child cry on purpose, yes you did push her but it was because she said you were a freak that deserved death, no you don’t want to reflect on your actions, yes you’d do it again. you oscillate between both extremes so much that it becomes difficult to tell the truth from fiction. it suits you just fine, life is much better when you don’t have to think about things like that.
you wear dishonesty like a shawl, draped over your shoulders protectively, as if you can’t bear to walk around without it. it’s your dishonesty that leads you to eat a strangely shaped fruit, propelling your childhood into something twisted and complicated; and it’s your dishonesty that gets ostracized from the other children in your village. you learn to mind your business, you take to playing alone, to talking to yourself, and are more or less quiet until provoked.
people learn fairly quickly not to make you angry.
it’s when you accidentally siphon your cousin’s energy by grabbing her tightly, fingers sinking into her thin arm, your palm warming, a deafening silence filling your ears, making it hard to concentrate on doing the right thing. you don’t understand what’s happening, but you know that you don’t want her to keep messing with you — so you hold onto her. you feel full somehow, like you desperately needed to do this, and now that you have… you can’t stop. 
when her skin pales, when her eyes lose their shine, when her breathing slows, a voice — faint, trembling, sobbing — makes its way through the silence and tells you to stop.
so you do.
your cousin spends weeks in the hospital recovering, and your parents are besides themselves trying to figure out how best to deal with you and your growing powers. after a few more incidents, your family packs up and moves to the countryside; away from most of the populace, in the hopes of keeping you away, as hiding you is their best option. you’ve always wondered if they loved you, and now you have your answer. it’s not love, it’s fear; they tiptoe around you, talk in whispers, lock their bedroom door at night. 
because of this, you develop complex feelings about yourself — and about the world. it also leaves you vulnerable; all of the negative emotions that fester inside of you, like angry dark scribbles, blotting out any feelings of happiness, and you almost lose sight of everything, but another voice — a familiar, one, the one that told you to grab your cousin — reminds you that you’re stronger than you think, that you shouldn’t let the others dictate how you live your life. that you alone should come out on top, while everyone else is left behind in your shadow.
you don’t quite understand; your insomnia worsens over time, so you pour the remainder of your energy into reading, into learning more about the human body — about its limitations, about ethical and unethical medical practices; your parents do just about anything to keep you busy, so if it’s books you want, you get them. no questions asked. you mess around with various fabrics until you find one that’s thick, but breathable, and make a pair of gloves. they fit around your hands snugly, and you test them out, touching your parents’ hands and watching them for any changes.
when it seems like they’re still all in one piece, you’ve found a solution that might help you reintegrate into society. your parents feel it’s a little too soon, but they also know they can’t keep you locked away forever.
as time goes on, you learn to mask your true emotions, filter your personality so that you’re seen as approachable, amiable, safe. when you’re old enough, you work part-time at various medical clinics, before interning at the main hospital. your proclivity for retaining information and your insatiable curiosity works to your benefit, and you become a staff favorite.
 it’s comical, really, almost as if they forgot that you’d been, essentially, chased out of town years prior. 
however, as fate would have it, your body has other plans; you’ve been mindful, you limit your devil fruit use, you don’t get too close to anyone. somehow, you’ve convinced the world around you that it’s absolutely necessary for your arms and legs to be covered as well. even in the heat, you wear long sleeved outfits, hiding yourself more and more from outsiders, much to the chagrin of your parents. they don’t necessarily understand your reasoning and don’t press you for more details. it’s a defense mechanism of sorts that protects you from yourself, really.
it doesn’t prevent the voice from being the proverbial devil on your shoulders, instructing you to eliminate those who get in your way, growing much more rash and ruthless as the months go on. you ignore it as best as possible, chalk it up to not having socialized with other children your age while growing up, or perhaps fatigue, or both. you don’t imagine your delusions have gotten stronger, but sometimes they’re tangible enough to feel real.
and sometimes, on the really, really bad days, it’s almost as if your devil fruit takes flight, commanding your body, playing you beautifully, like the instrument that you are. one days like those, you try to keep away from others, feeling less and less like yourself, like a darkness has settled deep inside of you, ready to come out and suck in everything in its path.
it keeps you up at night, and it’s precisely the reason why you take luffy up on his offer, when he sees your powers in use. he’s the first person you come across that isn’t afraid of you; if anything, he sees it as a nonfactor, wanting you to join specifically because you fit in with his zany crew mates. you feel much more at ease, as if you can be yourself, like you don’t have to hide all the time — even though you’re not entirely honest with them, they don’t pester you over it. instead, they allow you to come to them in your own time.
the alliance with the heart pirates is a fruitful endeavor, as it puts you in law’s path. you find him absolutely fascinating, but his reticent persona makes it hard to get close. you know better than to push, so you leave him be. incidentally, it’s specifically because he cannot figure you out that he refuses to talk to you properly. bepo notices right away that his captain is captivated by you — by your uncanny ability to detect bullshit, by the fierce way you defend your friends, by the way you don’t seem to take life as seriously as you should. 
he always seems to find himself surrounded by those types of people, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, but it does. what he really wants to know, is why you insist on wearing gloves, on covering up your arms and legs; it would be rude of him to ask, but the way you’re careful not to stand too close to people, how you don’t really touch anyone, it makes him think there’s something deeper going on than you’re willing to admit. on one of luffy’s whims, you all throw an elaborate banquet, and it’s when you’re four drinks in that you babble on and on about the incident with your cousin and why you refuse to touch people out of fear of harming them.
there’s more to the story, he knows that; he can see it in the way you pause and consider your words, and in how you look away in order to avoid his scrutinizing gaze. when you leave in the middle of your conversation, law tries to follow after you but is stopped by zoro, who simply reminds law of his place. it’s not a threat, of course, he knows that, but the swordsman makes it abundantly clear that law is not to keep prying, no matter how much he wants to.
not one to be commanded, the pirate captain disregards zoro’s warning, and pursues you anyway. in time, he finds bits and pieces of the truth,  strings together theories, and comes to the conclusion that your recklessness, your reluctance to receive help from others, and your inability to open up is because of your past experiences with your devil fruit.
if anyone can understand the darkness that accompanies that level of trauma, it’s trafalgar law. for that reason, and that reason alone — at least, that’s what he tells himself — he finds himself tethered to you, unable to leave you alone, convincing himself that it must be out of an unexplainable morbid curiosity to understand you better. bepo says otherwise, but he ignores his friend, not wanting to listen and deal with the implications of possibly having romantic feelings.
what you did not tell law — what you haven’t told your friends, too — is that you already feel that you’re losing more of yourself every day. despite having a devil fruit that extracts energy from living creatures, the continuous use puts a strain on your body; and, because of the way your body has been on survival mode most of your life, it feeds on all of your anxious feelings, on the negativity that seems to surround you, and grows stronger. the voice gains a bite, has a vicious way of tempting you into removing your gloves and accidentally touching a stranger, just to do it.
you hate it so much you wish you could pull it out of you forever.
a memory is triggered and law searches through the various books in his library, until he finds one on obscure devil fruits; he finds the entry on yours — a short one at that — and frowns at the words. it barely gives him any clue as to why you’re not adapting to it, although the last line of text does strike him as odd. it makes mention of the user needing to want to use the energy, and since you reject every aspect of the fruit, your body can’t keep up. there’s no way to really neutralize those effects; it’s all mental, you see, but there’s no reason why he shouldn’t try to help you, right? because law is the sort to pour his all into whatever mission or project he works on, his crew indulges his selfish whims and assists him in locating a particularly rare flower, one that may help you.
in the interim, you find his letters comforting, and write back to him as much as you can. you tell him that he doesn’t have to keep searching, that you’ve made your peace with things. and he wants to tell you that it doesn’t have to be this way, that you can still live a long, fulfilling life — but that’s where you disagree. you know yourself; you know your bones, you know your soul, and you know that you’ve fought that voice for much too long to be able to keep living with it. 
and after a year of searching, of experimenting, of diligently working to find a cure, he comes to find you. except, he’s too late. 
the sunny is anchored on the coast of your favorite island; in your last moments, you make mention of wanting to be somewhere sunny, where the trees can provide endless shade, but where the warmth will always make you feel like you’re alive. because nami and robin are so apt at locating islands, they find one close by, and your smile is enough to break their hearts. while their time with you was short, you enjoyed it immensely.
law’s cowardice prevented him from talking to you properly, and when he arrives and he’s burdened with the truth, he’s left confused. you should be alive; you should be laughing as you normally do, you should be getting on his nerves with your outlandish ideas and your incessant talking. there are things he regrets in life, but this is at the top of the list. is it impudent of him to say that you look beautiful lying there, even in death? he doesn’t think so, but he keeps the thought to himself, resigned and ready to go.
but, before he can get off of the ship, he hears several gasps behind him, hears luffy shouting, hears usopp shrieking, which makes him turn around, confusion taking hold of him when he sees you sitting upright, stretching your arms over your head, yawning as if you’ve just woken from a long, long rest.
except, that’s not really true, is it?
he knows you’re dead, you have to be — but he also can’t discredit what he sees. you certainly move around as if you’re alive, although something feels off, raising the hairs on the back of his neck in alarm. everyone is wary, but you tilt your head at them, prying those silly gloves off of your hands slowly, a slow, sly smile growing on your face.
“you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
that’s your voice, he’d know it anywhere. except, it isn’t. blinking several times, law is the one who asks the question that everyone is, surprisingly, too afraid to ask. “who are you?”
swiveling on your heels, hair whipping around your head wildly with your movements, you march up to him, grab onto his face with your bare hand, much to the shouts of the others behind you, and smirk.
“i’m death, don’t you know?”
his eyes narrow sharply, but you don’t let go of him, almost as if you’re proving a point. but what’s most astounding isn’t that you said that, it’s that he feels absolutely fine. your touch hasn’t affected him, and in turn you also seem just fine too.
“how?”
it’s the only other question he thinks to ask, but you just laugh and laugh, pat his cheek in a patronizingly sweet way, and move away from him. “that silly girl didn’t know how to use my power, so i took it from her completely.” before the others can voice their complaints, you hold a hand up, and roll your eyes. “easy, easy, she’s still here somewhere.” not that you care; it’s your turn to have fun. “i know how not to kill people,” you boast proudly, leaning against the railing, admiring the ocean as if it’s the first time you’re actually seeing it. “but, don’t think that you’ll be able to get rid of me easily.”
it’s the haunting look in your eyes that law recognizes, the one that says you’re ready to set the world on fire, to let chaos reign; he knows that look because it’s the same one he has. if he thought he liked you before, you intrigue him even more now. a savage, untameable beauty, one that chills him to the bone. 
the question is, will you let him live, or will you take from him as you’ve already taken from others time and time again?
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ankaaz · 2 years
Text
[10:01pm]
There has always been something there.
Aside from the obvious fact that Kuroo Tetsuro is strikingly handsome, a different type of synergy has pulsated between the two of you. 
It’s the accumulation of a hundred tiny details: leaning over his shoulder to look at this laptop, fingertips brushing as you take a coffee from his hand, bumping against his shoulder; him nudging your ankle with his foot, him leaning down to hear you better, him winking after dropping off some files at your desk. 
It's a healthy rivalry born through figuring out the best graph, the best proposal, the best marketing strategy. Long nights in your adjoining cubicles leading to smartass jabs to genuine tips. Later, it turns to throwing paper airplanes through the spaces between your offices, many landing in the hallway or bumping into glass windows. 
It’s the oscillation of will he, won’t he and will I, won’t I’s. It’s the dim lights of the office and crossing paths as you’re both balancing various items in your arms. It’s watching him roll his sleeves up. It’s catching him watching you pile your hair into a bun. It’s the extra hours. It’s the snow falling elegantly from the sky, large white flakes drifting lazily about and casting the world outside into a surreal landscape of white and wonder. It’s being offered a promotion to a sister company and Kuroo telling you congratulations, you deserve it while glancing away as if it hurts to look at you.
And now, now it’s Kuroo taking four long strides to close the distance between the two of you in the copy room. 
It’s his hands cradling your face, calluses brushing lightly against your cheeks, lips pressing lightly against yours. It lasts for a second and then he’s pulling away, eyes wide and glittering in the winter night. 
Then he’s gone, a choked “Sorry” whispered in your ears. A blush stains his neck-cheeks-ears, and you watch, transfixed in pace as it creeps up, up, up. Gone is the sly, sarcastic man you’ve come to know and in his place is someone that you’d love to get to know. 
For that moment, you’re frozen, lips parted and head still tilted to the side. The copy machine whirs steadily away at its job, the smell of fresh ink and Kuroo’s cologne mixing together.
Once it clicks, you find yourself with raised eyebrows and let out a sound that’s equal parts amusement and disbelief. 
So, you do what you do best, you take control.
It doesn’t take long to locate Kuroo. He’s in his office and it’s easy to sneak inside considering he’s sitting pacing in front of his window, rubbing his face with his hands, muttering softly to himself. The click of his door closing causes him to jolt and he stares at you.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” He blurts out, turning around. “That was very unprofessional and I shouldn’t have put you in a compromising position. I am so, so sorry—”
You close the distance in two strides, your heels hitting the ground with a punctuating force, cutting him off. Kuroo takes a step back, inhaling sharply when his back touches the glass. He stares down at you, swallowing audibly. 
“Why are you apologizing for the wrong thing?”
Kuroo blinks. “What?”
Reaching up, you grab his tie, tugging him down. Mouth brushing against his ear, you tell him lowly, “If you’re going to kiss someone and leave, at least do it properly, yeah?”
This close, you feel Kuroo’s shiver. Shadows slide along his throat as you move back a bit, looking at him. You watch as something clicks in his gaze and his eyes darken. Most of the nervous energy drains from his body, leaving something much stiller and single-focused. His eyes leave a string of fire as they flicker from your eyes to your lips and back.
“Yes or no, Tetsuro?”
“It’s always yes for you.” 
The city is alive in the night, lights casting a soft cool haze through the room. It's snowing harder now and the warmth of Kuroo's body makes up for the chill emitting from the large glass windows. 
You kiss him slowly, deliberately.
He follows your lead and reaches out, wrapping a careful hand around your waist and tugging you closer to him. His body is solid, unyielding, grounding. You reach up with your free hand and tangle your fingers into the hair at the back of his head, guiding him to the left to deepen the kiss. When you begin to pull back slightly, he follows, and you smile against his mouth.
“Someone’s eager.” You murmur. 
Kuroo just deepens the kiss, mouth opening slightly as though to swallow your words—and you—whole.
(He’s waited too long for this to bother with words. Kuroo Tetsuro, after all, was a man of action.)
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jacktorjoseph · 10 months
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Set-Up: 🔅In the land of sunny El Paso, It is a beautiful 100 degree weather day and the studio is DEFINITELY feeling it. Fans are running on max, all the ice in the water coolers have melted, and no matter how many times the producer sticks his head into his mini fridge, there’s no sign of relief anywhere. I guess it’s the price you pay being the new show on the block! Repairs and renovations must be reserved only for the cash cows of the company, hence why being forced to shoot in a studio lot last updated in the 30’s was no surprise at all. No need to install A/C if the building can’t support it structurally, the finance department would say! Luckily for you though, being the lead of a children’s television program had some perks. One of the crew members was able to find a lone, oscillating fan to sit in front of your folding chair, but it didn’t do much except blow more hot air around. The production team promised official actor chairs with their names embroidered on the back once the Sunny Time Crew Show took off, but for now, you had to settle for the static clinging variation found at small events and birthday parties. You are reading through the latest episode’s script, noticing a few changes made last minute by the writing staff that made your brow lift. There were characters you’ve never briefed on before. The Sun and the Moon? How’d that work? Sure, they were early in the production process and have only aired the pilot so far, but you’d think you would’ve at least met the person by now. You hear a number of hurried footsteps echo off the vinyl flooring.🔆
*My heels clack loudly against floor as I scour the premises for any sign of life or people. I had already met so many dead ends that there was a part of me that refused to believe this studio is actually shooting anything at all. It didn’t help when the people I did run across didn’t even glance in my direction as they scurried off. Finally reaching an entrance much larger than any of the small offices I rushed by, I took it as a sign that I might be on track. A panicked look is plastered all over my features as I scan the area for anything that hints I’m going in the right direction.*
Oh god, I’m absolutely going to be late at this rate! I knew I should’ve came three hours early instead of two! Where in the world-
*That’s when I spot you flipping through your script in the distance. No one else was around and you didn’t seem like you were rushing to get anywhere, so maybe you’d help!*
OH! Excuse me! Sir!
*I lift an arm up, securing the black binder more tightly against my chest as I lightly jog over to you. My hand instinctively grabs my knee for support once I reach you. Taking a deep breath, I straighten myself up and tuck a long strand of dark brown hair behind my ear. My bangs cling to my forehead for dear life. With how old the building is, people would assume that I’m a ghost or someone who just walked off a princess set with how out of style my puffed sleeve dress is. The bow clipped behind my head becomes more crooked and a relieved smile graces my face*
Oh thank goodness you’re here! You’d not believe the day I was having! I swear I thought I had the plague or something with how much I got snubbed today.
*I let out a breathy laugh, my free hand emphasizing my emotions. I bring my arm back to meet the other along my binder and squeeze it tighter against my chest.*
I’m sorry for interrupting what you’re doing, but my agent set up a vocal audition for me for the…Sunny Time Crew Show? I think that’s what it’s called?
*My brows furrow in thought before I wave a hand dismissively.*
I don’t even know! My agent says it’s the beauty of last minute auditions, but not being able to study up makes me feel more anxious than anything! Anyways, I was hoping you’d know where they’d be at. I’m not really used to being on a film lot since musical theatre productions is more of my thing, but I didn’t think that they were THIS big. Memorizing directions is not my specialty as you can tell.
(OOC-Hi! I’m sorry this is so long, I just wanted to set up the scene! I love how you portray Joesph and I hope I can RP with you!)
-🧜🏻‍♀️
OOC// okay, to start this off, I legit was trying to think of shit all day for this, but got busy with work (ask my s/o they offered help when I saw the absolute NOVEL you had written /positive ) however, it's time for my brain to go back to 2012-2014 (my peak roleplay years)
Joseph looked over at you, his white tank-top both slightly see-through and stained from his own sweat, soon fanning himself with his script.
well, you came to...I guess the right place. Though, it feels more like hell right now. No damn clue why the idiots higher up decided the new show would get the worst building in the area.
He stands up and stretches a bit, if you looked over you'd notice his jeans sitting on his chair, the man in a pair of fitted shorts instead.
If I knew it'd be this hot I wouldn't have even bothered to come nicely dressed.
He offers his free hand to you, it obviously very sweaty.
I'm Joseph, I guess I'll be the main part in this children's show. But, I'll warn ya, some of these actors? Serían mejores para los espectáculos nocturnos, if you get my drift. (translation: they'd be better for the late night shows,)
He gives a very half-caring smile.
What position are you here for? So far, I know about....3, 2? other actors, and none of which have given anyone any hospitality other than the manager and director.
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saunne · 4 months
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Pass the happy! 🌻🌈 When you receive this list 5 things that make you happy and send this to 10 of the last people in your notifications!💖
Ooooh, cute ask ! I can't promise to send to the people in my notifs tho, I tend to avoid sending things to my non-followers or moots, I'm always afraid of bothering people 😥
For the things that make me happy...
Cats ! I really like them, little fluffballs of pure joy and cuddles. I often go to a cat cafe when I visit my brother and I have the luck to live in an area with lots of cats around. Most recognize me on sight now, since I've been here since the beginning of last summer. I can approach them to pet them without them running away ! My favorites are a pretty black and white cat with golden eyes, who oscillates between slaloming between the posts and perched on the low wall and who is very talkative every time he sees me. The other is an adorable gray and cream tortoiseshell, all small and thin and very cuddly, who likes to slalom between my legs and follow me when I walk.
Cardigans ! It's my favorite type of clothing and every time I thrift, it's what I look at first. It's a cliché librarian's item of clothing for a reason: it keeps you warm when standing still at a reception station, and it can be easily removed to avoid overheating when switching to mobile storage tasks. My favorite at the moment is a big white wool cardigan with a wide knit, with slightly puffed sleeves, 4 large buttons at the front and a little oversized. It's very comfy and I love snuggling up in it when I'm reading on the couch.
Perfumes ! I think my ridiculously long post about which perfumes I own and which one I was obsessed with (which I own now, as an early birthday present to myself) wasn't clear enough. My mother and I both have a fairly sensitive sense of smell, Mom more so than me. She tends to avoid strong smells while, as with sounds, I tend to use smells as a "shield" to deal with social anxiety. And also, the outside world tends to stink quite a bit (public transport and dirty streets, I despise you) so being able to bury my nose in a scarf that smells good helps.
Fanfics ! I enjoy writing them as much as reading them to be honest (looks at my 4k bookmarks) well maaaaybe more reading them lmao. My mental energy can be quite limited and I often don't have what it takes to tackle new novels/series. With fanfics, since I already have prior knowledge of the fandom, character, settings and other things, it's simpler.
Libraries ! Yes, it's because I'm a librarian and I fucking love my job. And also because libraries are one of the best inventions of humanity ? Access to more books than you'll ever own unless you kill a millionaire to get their money ? Activities for all ages on lots of different subjects, to open you up to the culture and the world around you ? As great a place for working as for spending leisure time ? Also it's fucking FREE ???? In this economy ???? Go to your libraries for the love of Gods up there, because there is nothing more tragic than a library that closes because there are no users.
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chicinsilk · 1 year
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Tumblr media
US Vogue March 1, 1955
Barbara Mullen wears a dress, with short sleeves, with deep oscillating pleats: the jacket, long and supple. By Benham of Toast, black and white silk shantung. Part of the good look: gold earrings by Hattie Carnegie: calfskin bag by Greta: black Kislav gloves. The bun pill box, by Sally Victor.
Barbara Mullen porte une robe, à manches courtes, avec de profonds plis oscillants : la veste, longue et souple. Par Benham de toast, shantung de soie noir et blanc. Une partie du bon look : boucles d'oreilles dorées par Hattie Carnegie : sac en cuir de veau par Greta : gants Kislav noirs. Le pilulier chignon, de Sally Victor.
Photo Leombruno-Bodi
vogue archive
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paperbackribs · 1 year
Text
The Bar (A Prequel to A Selkie's Pelt)
Tim has a secret, a magical secret. And he wishes he wasn't so damned relieved that he had never told his wife, Isabel. (A prequel to my chenford story A Selkie's Pelt)
"Here's to changing the locks." Tim eyes his whiskey before slugging back something more like a shot than the sip he would usually take.
Despite the chaotic noise behind them, Tim had still seen Angela give their bartender the nod. Las Torres is a cop bar so Shawn knows what that signal means and will keep the liquor flowing for the two officers seated at his counter.
Again later, "here's to a bigger TV screen." Angela, like the good friend she is, clinks her glass with his before subtly pushing the basket of fries closer to him.
Much, much later, "here's to first marriages, may yours end swiftly and painlessly." Angela doesn't tap back at that one, but it's not his fault she has no sense of humour. He's funny.
This is funny.
His wife, who left him, who he hasn't seen in months, decided that she needed a little extra cash.
At least, that's what Tim assumes. Since their home wasn't broken into, but the empty spots throughout the house tell of a sudden exodus of valuable household goods.
He snorts, some of those were wedding gifts. Half Isabel's after all.
And he won't suddenly see them flung back into his wardrobe or draped over their bed.
No clothes hanger will magically hold up that stupid blender he hadn't even wanted in the first place. Isabel can have it. Let her have it all since she doesn't want his help.
It not like he can help her anyway. His wife is out there and he's here, useless.
"Hey, Angela. Angela. Your abuela, she's knowing right. You know, like knowing."
"You mean, can she curse a man half way across the country?" Angela wipes the salt off her fingers with a paper napkin before nodding.
When did they get fries?
"Yeah, she has the Sight. She knows what she's doing," the other woman confirms.
Tim squints at her. She needs to stop bopping around like that for a minute because he's got an important question. "Do you think she knows how to uncurse someone? Something?"
The two Angelas grin briefly, "oh yeah, what needs to be uncursed?"
He broadly gestures, sliding a little off the vinyl seat in the process. "Me, of course. What else?"
Angela sighs, "you're not a thing, Tim."
He snorts into his glass, "that's what you think."
Even if he weren't a part-time selkie sea-creature, surely a man--a good man--would not oscillate so strongly between fear and relief like he has.
Wouldn't feel that greasy ball of guilt roiling in his stomach that tells him he had never trusted his wife to begin with, that he had never even tried to tell her about the magic of his pelt.
The pelt that is currently wrapped around him in its disguise as a jean jacket. The piece of clothing intrinsic to the very core of his selkie nature; that he has never lost, that has never left him, and that he will always be bonded to. Its power gifting Tim with the freedom to transform into his seal form, unless stolen away from him.
And tonight, well, it would normally be another in a series that are breaking his heart. But the combination of now knowing Isabel would violate their house, the home they carefully made together, against the question of 'what if' has struck Tim through with white-hot fear.
What if she had known his secret? What if his pelt had been laying there, vulnerable without him?
What would a strung out, desperate Isabel do for money?
The terror conjured by those images contrasts so incredibly sharply against the relief blanketing his chest. The awful, guilty relief that he had never taken that final, trusting step and told his wife his truth.
He's still mumbling when Angela firmly replaces Tim's whisky with water. Her dark eyes are cop sharp as they trail over his blue-clad shoulders and long-sleeves.
"Come on," she urges, "drink that down and we'll get you back home to bed."
"It's my fault, Ang," Tim slurs, half-heartedly swiping at the fresh glass.
Angela's expression softens. Once he drains the liquid she supports her friend's tilting body towards the exit. She'll make sure he gets home okay. She'll make sure he's safe tonight.
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percivallorraine · 4 months
Text
i want to cry
by Percival Lorraine
My darling,
You must know the taste of despair,
Like peeling six oranges but chewing bitterness.
My darling,
Yet you surely don't know the desolation
of my wasted and barren youth,
It's like childish metaphors,
empty desks from skipping classes,
the acidic flow between gum and teeth,
immersing in the sedative,
weariness, insomnia, lost.
Sitting still impossible,
restless,
stiff,
eyes losing focus,
trembling utensils,
tendons unable to relax.
My darling,
The numbness of quetiapine,
striking the brain,
consciousness like butter in your palm,
oscillations in the cortex,
relaxed muscles,
soft and savage,
gnawing at me,
Can I complete this poem before sleep?
Or like countless days,
doze until the next midnight?
My darling,
My body filled with fragments of longing,
mirror shards reflecting your shattered silhouette,
I know,
I understand,
No matter how described, cannot recreate the departed,
only becoming more unfamiliar,
I shed tears,
using fragmented words to piece together your face,
Death's cracks can never fade away.
My darling,
I know, crumpled paper,
cannot be smoothed again.
My darling,
I cry, I shout,
I condemn my incompetence,
the childhood jigsaw puzzle irreparable,
How did I reach this point today?
I've asked myself countless times,
The pills I swallow,
the blood I shed,
stubborn, willful, fragile,
brave, fearless, weak.
How do I pick up all of this?
How do I speak of it?
My darling,
Weeping cannot be called eloquence,
like tasting the forbidden fruit cannot be called liberation.
Those folded nails,
hangnails on fingers,
the evasions and disguises,
escaping in the face of danger.
Rage, complacency, obstinacy,
falsehood, vanity, indulgence in carnal desires.
Can all this be explained?
Can it be turned into stains on sleeves?
My darling,
I'm going to sleep,
Can you hear me in heaven?
Will you respond to me?
Wiping the swollen eyes,
closing once again.
Goodnight, my darling.
May you and I have sweet dreams
我想哭(中文版)
by Percival Lorraine
我亲爱的,
你一定知道绝望是什么滋味,
就像剥了六个橘子,
却只干嚼了苦涩,
我亲爱的,
但你一定
不知道我荒废荒芜的青春,
是什么样子,
是幼稚的比喻,
缺课的空桌,
牙龈间
横流的胃液的酸水,
浸泡在精神安定剂里的,
困倦,失眠,迷失。
静坐不能,
躁动,
呆板,
失去聚焦的眼睛,
颤抖的刀叉,
无法舒张的肌腱。
我亲爱的,
喹硫平的麻痹,
敲击大脑,
意识就像你手心里的黄油,
皮层里的震荡,
松懈了的肌肉,
柔软又野蛮,
啃噬着我,
我能否在睡前完成这首诗呢?
还是像无数个白日一样,
昏睡到下一个下半夜?
我亲爱的,
我身体里充斥着思念的碎片,
镜子的碎片,
反射出你破碎的影子,
我知道,
我明白,
无论如何描摹都无法再现故人,
只会越发陌生,
我流着泪,
用碎裂的文字拼凑你的面容,
死亡的裂痕却再无法褪去。
我亲爱的,
我知道,揉皱了的纸,
再无法熨平。
我亲爱的,
我哭啊,我喊啊,
我谴责我的无能啊,
我童年里再拼不回去的七巧板啊,
为什么会走到今天这一步?
我也无数次的问过自己,
我吞的药,
我流的血,
执拗,任性,脆弱,
勇敢,无畏,软弱。
我该如何捡起这一切?
我该如何说起?
我亲爱的,
哭泣并不能叫做娓娓道来,
就像尝了禁果不可唤作解放。
那些翻折的指甲,
手指上的肉刺,
那些逃避的伪装,
临阵脱逃。
暴怒,自满,刚愎自用,
虚假,虚荣,沉溺肉欲。
这都是可以解释的吗?
都是可以化作袖上的脏污的吗?
我亲爱的,
我要睡了,
你在天国听得到吗?
你会回应我吗?
擦拭到红肿的眼睛,
又要再一次阖上了啊。
晚安,我亲爱的。
愿我愿你,做个好梦。
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eternalstretchofmuses · 10 months
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Name: Kimu Yodoya Text colour: Orange Title: Forgotten Wanderer With a Brazien Shell Age: 111 Birthday: August 12 Species: Shougorou Location: Wanderer, most often found in large open areas Height: 5'9" (175.7 cm) Weight: 171.2 lbs (77.7 kg), her gong shell weighs 569.8 lbs (258.5 kg) Gender: Female
Appearance: Medium-length bronze-coloured, almost metallic hair, styled in a large ponytail at the back. Red strings are attached directly to her wrists, ankles and nape. They're prehensile but usually tethered to her limbs when not in use. Most often, they're seen tethered to a large (1.1 m in diameter) and exceedingly heavy gong that she carries on her back like a turtle's shell. It appears to be made of brass or a similar metal but is far heavier than it should be. It's patterned with black hexagons and has the character "轟" written in the centre in bold. Due to its weight, she can't stand up entirely straight. Attached to her lower back is a thicker red rope with a large wooden mallet tied to the end. Usually bears an expression ranging from a blank stare to a slight frown: not very visually emotive when it comes to positive emotions. Has brown eyes that are reflective.
Clothing: Wears a black samue with metallic bronze lining, the sleeves of which have red string woven into them. She also wears knee-length pants that follow the same style. On her head, she wears a metal object resembling a takuhatsugasa. However, it's actually a decorative gong she wears as a hat (what an odd choice). Due to the sheer weight of the gong on her back, she's unable to wear shoes unless she puts the gong down (its weight breaks them).
Personality: Quite stoic and sometimes almost emotionless to the point where she may seem aloof. Despite how it'd appear, she's very emotional on the inside. If she's feeling exceptionally emotional, she often repeatedly strikes her gong with the mallet attached to her rope-tail-thing, sending loud GONGS throughout the nearby area. Several topics can cause this state, the most notable being inquiries about her past. She's also a bit eccentric, occasionally speaking as if writing a poem with her words. Not opposed to using violence to get what she wants.
Background information: Kimu is a tsukumogami that was born from an old, long-forgotten gong that was never used, not even by its creator. She was created from the Miracle Mallet incident, but due to something not even she knows the true cause of, she persisted after the incident ended. Plagued with insomnia around most of her past, she wanders Gensokyo in search of answers as to who made her, why she was never used, and how she persisted after.
Abilities: Manipulation of resonance and vibrations: Kimu can control the resonation of anything struck by her mallet, ranging from slow oscillations to buzzing vibrations. This ability will function on anything that can vibrate.
Predicting future events: By striking the gong on her back and reading its frequency, Kimu can predict events up to 7 days in advance, the margin of error increasing the farther ahead she predicts. She usually uses it to predict the weather, though. This ability takes a few seconds to work, making it unviable for combat.
Likes: Enjoys loud noises and metal polishing. While she carries it around for a reason, she also likes taking a minute to set her gong down for a while. She also appreciates having her presence recognized, even if she doesn't usually go out of her way to make it known. If you strike her gong yourself, she'll remember that for quite a while.
Dislikes: Hates being ignored, though she won't go out of her way to tell you that unless you make her mad by doing it. Strongly dislikes being told to smile more. Doesn't like feeling useless, either. Being reminded that she doesn't remember a lot about her past is a slight peeve, but nothing she'd fight you for. Has a lingering resentment for humans: one of the only things she knows about her creator is that they were human, so she always goes in with the assumption that any human she talks to might be related to her seemingly ungrateful creator.
Strengths: Being high in physical strength (due to the giant gong) and heavily armoured from behind (also due to the giant gong), she's tough and resilient. Her gong appears to be almost indestructible. While she seems aloof, she's a good friend if you treat her with the respect she wants. Her legs are strong, so when she puts down her gong, she can run alarmingly fast.
Weaknesses: The nature of her gong as an immovable object comes at a price. Due to its immense weight, she's incredibly slow while holding it. She also can't protect herself entirely with it, only one side at once. Her tendency to bottle her emotions up can end with her lashing out at people when it becomes too much. This happens a little more frequently with humans due to her resentment for her creator.
Theme: A Forgotten Resonance Named Vedanā ~ The Rumbling of All Things Abandoned
Spellcards: Resounding Future 「Rumbling of Tomorrow's Thunder」 Buddha's Bowl 「Spouting Resonation of the Waters」 Karmic Retribution 「Return of Yesterday's Deeds」 Metallic Tone 「Frequency of Wealth and Surplus」 Resonating Cries of Sorrow 「The Instrument Used by No One's Hand」 「The Future Holds Nothing For You」 Thunderous Earthen Rumbling 「Youkai's Forgotten Seismograph」 (Last Word)
Tag: Forgotten and Directionless Wanderer ~ Kimu Professional Artist Rendition:
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