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rosewaterandivy · 1 year

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10. a kiss is not enough

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

W.C.: 4.5K

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, cursing, sexual situations - SMUT & idolatry (my usual bullshit), real-talk with Nancy Wheeler, idiots still being idiots, Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance.

A/N: Holy shit, I can't believe we've come to the end (or is it 👀) of this series! When I started this, I had no clue how many people would respond to Trouble and Steve's idiots-to-lovers story - but I'm so glad that they did! This series will always be near and dear to my heart, for a variety of reasons, but primarily for the people it brought into my life (here's lookin' at you, babe!). This isn't a goodbye from Trouble and Steve so much as a see you later - don't hate me too much! Poetry excerpt from John Keats. 18+ mature content (minors dni). Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated, please let me know what you thought; enjoy & thanks for reading! 💜

series masterlist | playlist - newly updated!

Trouble’s playlist from Steve: trouble will find me

Steve's playlist from Trouble: rebel without a clue

previous || epilogue

Now, May, Finals Week

“Just think about it, kid,” Hopper says on his way out your classroom door. He’d requested a meeting during your conference block, when normally he’d amble in under some pretense just to shoot the shit.

You nod, at a loss for words. It’s not like you needed yet another thing on your plate— waiting to hear back from admissions and not spilling to Steve or the gang was bad enough.

Yeah, you’d applied for grad school (even though grad students were the worst) and Hop had been contacted as a reference, which prompted his little visit today. Apparently, the district had approved a stipend and sabbatical for faculty furthering their education in graduate school.

“I’d like to recommend you,” Hop said matter of factly, sitting in a desk across from yours. “Maybe not for the sabbatical until you’re further along in the program, writing your thesis and whatnot.”

“I, uh–” you stumbled to find the words. “Cart, horse. I haven’t been accepted yet.”

He leveled you with a look, “Are you shittin’ me? Of course you’re getting in.”

You swallowed audibly and busied yourself emptying your desk for the summer, “Well, time will tell I suppose.”

“This isn’t—” Hopper paused in thought. “This isn’t about Harrington, is it?”

“Huh,” you nearly yelled, clutching the cardboard box for dear life. You had been so careful too.

He cracks a smile, “I saw the pair of you at graduation, you think you’re so slick.”

That brings a smile to your face, good ol’ Hop sussing out the goings on like he’d never left the force.

“It’s nothing.” You assure him, “We haven’t— We’re professionals, okay?”

“I know,” he nods, voice lowering as if he could spook you. “I’m happy for you, really.”

A small smile breaks across your face, “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

Finals done and grades posted, you’d never been so happy to get home. Had plans to pour yourself onto the couch and not move for 72 hours.

But life (and Steve) had other plans.

He was sorting through the mail, chucking envelopes into various piles on the countertop. The loft was quiet that afternoon— Eddie had a gig in Indy that evening and Robin was crashing at Vickie’s for the night. Steve hummed a tune to himself, the occasional slap of paper hitting the granite punctuating it.

“Oh hey,” Steve turns with a large envelope in hand, “This looks important.” Tosses it with freakish accuracy, the white paper landing with a thwack where your shorts had ridden up against your thigh.

Distracted by whatever drama was unfolding on TV— something about a crew working on chartered private boats— you mindlessly slip your thumb beneath the lip of the envelope and tear it open.

It’s only once you’ve pulled the papers from it that you glance to see what’s what. The university’s crest shines like a beacon, your thumb worrying over the topmost letter. Steve, the bastard, has stopped his mail sorting and turned toward you.

He leans lazily against the counter, a knowing smirk fixed on his lips. You scramble up from the couch with the papers, too nervous to see for yourself. “Here,” you say, thrusting the envelope and documents to his chest. “Can you—”

Pulling you to his chest with an arm, he brushes his lips against the crown of your head. “Sure, honey.” You wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest— warm and familiar.

“You know,” he drawls, “The big envelope generally means something good, right?”

“I know,” muffled against his shirt.

He chuckles, hand coming up to cradle your head. Steve clears his throat, reads the opening of the letter in his best announcer voice. “Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that…”

The rest is drowned out by the rushing of blood in your ears, the tears pooling in your eyes breaking free to cascade down your cheeks. He squeezes you tight abandoning the acceptance letter and letting it flutter to the floor in favor of drawing you closer. Steve kisses you, licking your own tears into your mouth, your taste onto your tongue. And it’s so weirdly hot that your heart starts fluttering again, like you’re seeing him for the first time.

Because of course, just as things were going right something had to come and throw a wrench into things.

Plans for lazing in the early summer forgotten, the next few days saw you coming and going from the university campus for orientation, meetings with faculty, so on and so forth. As you were leaving the grad student mixer, a professor peeled off from a group of faculty to flag you down with a call of your name.

You turn, not recognizing them from the English department. She’s an older woman, has maybe a few years on your mother, and is swathed in a lovely linen dress— the cool elegance of minimalist style.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Holland,” she says shaking your hand. “I’m on the admissions committee and was very impressed with your work on Dante Alighieri.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“And you studied Italian as an undergrad?”

“Certo.”

That brings a smile to her face. “Perfetto,” she says with a perfect Italian accent and waves over another faculty member. “I only ask because there’s a summer intensive in Italy beginning next week that I think you’d be perfect for.”

Your mind reels. The new professor introduces himself and echoes Dr. Holland’s sentiments— a summer session of classes in Italy, in partnership with Università di Bologna, the oldest university in operation in the world. Scholarships that would cover the cost of tuition, travel, and accommodations for you to peruse.

What the fuck.

Vision swimming, you somehow come back to the conversation at hand. Dr. Holland presses a folder to your hand, “I know you were planning on taking the introductory grad school courses over the summer, but I hope you’ll consider joining us in Italy instead.”

You nod, gobsmacked and make your way to the car. Settling into the sweltering seat, you start the car and call Nancy. If anyone would know what to say in this situation, it would be her.

“That’s the thing,” you sigh, wine glass in hand as you slump on Nancy’s couch. “We’re not anything, haven’t discussed it. I mean, sure, we fuck like rabbits, but aside from that?”

She blows a raspberry and sips from her glass. “He’s in love with you, get over it.”

You jerk up, “Okay, maybe,” you allow. “But he hasn’t said anything.”

“And you won’t pony up to do it yourself?”

A scoff as you drain your glass. “I’m sorry, have you met me?”

Nancy laughs at that, loud and bright. “Unfortunately, yes!” She refills your glass before continuing, “Let’s be honest, you’re both hopeless when it comes to eachother.” She raises her brow before you can balk, “Full offense intended.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

She hums at that, head cocked to the side in thought. Her nail taps against the glass with a soft clink. A bite to her lips before she heaves a sigh, “Sometimes he just needs a push.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I am absolutely not telling him he’s bullshit, if that’s what you’re after.”

Nancy, to her credit, winces uncomfortably at the memory. “No, no,” a shake of her head. “Absolutely not, you would never.” She sets her glass down carefully, giving you her full attention. “What I’m getting at is this: do you want to be something with Steve?”

She lets the question hang in the air between you.

“Because if you don’t know Trouble, you should back away now.” A low warning tone. “You’re it for him, have been since he laid eyes on you, but you’re both too scared to do anything about it.”

You drain your glass to the dregs and hastily take your leave. At the sound of the door closing, Nancy grabs her phone and brings it to her ear, “Hey Harrington, I need a favor…”

Returning from a less than helpful hang session at Nancy’s, you find a post-it note left on your bedroom, door that reads ‘meet me at our spot on lover’s lake. - s.’

Prizing it from the wood grain, you make your way back to the kitchen to scavenge for something to eat, in an effort to soak up the remnants of wine in your system. Opening the fridge you spy another post-it stuck to the topmost shelf: ‘get your ass down here, i’ll feed you soon enough. - s.’

With a laugh, you let the fridge door fall shut and grab your keys.

He can see you now, just barley, even in the indigo dark. Wonders to himself, how are you even real? How is it that you’re mine? An explanation that won’t ever come.

You slip into the cool water of Lover’s Lake like a dream, with nary a sound. Steve stumbles after you on the piles of clothing you’d left behind—bunched up denim shorts here, a threadbare tank-top over there, the silk of your thong musky and damp.

Fisting his shirt to pull it up and over his head, it falls to the forest floor behind him, jeans shucked off and tossed elsewhere, boxers joining your lingerie by the shore. His patience is wearing thin as you wade further and further from him out into the lake.

Little minx, he smiles and takes a breath before diving beneath the waves. Arms cutting through the placid water at a quick pace until he’s occupying the space between your bare legs, and coming up for air.

One arm drags you near, lazily pressing you close, tight around the small of your back as the tide breaks around your waist, minute movements almost imperceptible— the slow roll of your hips against his.

Water shallow enough to tread and keep you buoyant. Steve kisses you slow and sweet, pulling you flush against his chest while you writhe under the water’s surface. Body slick and wanton and arching into his own.

His dick jumps when you lift yourself to drape your arms around his shoulders. A sharp breath replaced with a shaky exhale as he brings his forehead to rest on yours, dark eyes taking in the exhilarated flush of your body.

And Steve knows, under his skin and tucked into the cage of his ribs, near the beating of his anguished heart, that you’re the only thing left in this world worth worshipping. To keep you, and render you a flightless bird, to clip your wings, would be all for naught.

He has to let you go again, and so soon after you found him. From perihelion to aphelion before the moon’s full turning. The soft curve of your throat drawn taut as you glance upward, marvelling at the stars and planets in the northern sky.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Your voice is a husk, low and hoarse, in the dark. “Its loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness.” Your eyes, once fixed on the sea of stars above, shift to him once more.

Closer to the shoreline now, and unbeknownst to you, Steve had gently waded you both inshore, until he could draw you toward the dock.

You let him walk you back until you’re flush against a mooring pole, wood rough against your moon-bathed skin. Body yielding to him as both his hands slide beneath your bottom, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass before he pulls you forward by the hips.

“S’okay, honey,” He mutters—right into your panting mouth with a sultry pull of his lips. “I’ve got you.”

“Steve,” You gasp, “This is unfair.” Your body jerks with every teasing kiss from his lips that he laves and sucks to the column of your throat.

He ignores you, crawling his hands onto your hips to keep you from squirming. Works his thigh in between your legs for good measure. Once you’re settled, he moves one hand to your center a finger trailing up and down your slippery folds. His mouth latches onto the spot that makes you keen, just behind your ear. You fist his hair in both hands at the same time he slips a digit inside.

But Steve doesn’t move. Other than his tongue’s soft licks on your neck and into your kiss-bitten mouth, he doesn’t move at all. He happily lets his finger rest inside of you, gathering your juices all over his hand.

You whimper, trying to shimmy against them, anything to create more contact. Its intrusion lights a terrible match inside of your body, and goddamn it, you want to a forest fire.

Calming breaths in and out. Steady head, steady heart. When you’re able to meet his gaze again, you take a moment to see him as he truly is: dappled in moonlight, forelock hanging in front of his eyes, his entire focus trained on you.

It feels like an eternity passes before he finally lets you have another—adding one more thick finger inside, stretching you as he moves them both around, curling them, scissoring them, pumping them in and out.

Steve sucks enthusiastically on your sensitive skin and lips, fucks you with two fingers almost wildly, and your body responds with fervor. You gasp and moan, arching back into his hand, goosebumps blooming all over your shoulders and down your arms and legs.

You shake like a leaf in his arms, not knowing if it’s from the cool night air or due to the man before you.

Instead of increasing his pace, Steve continues to stroke you with his fingers, slowly prodding at your entrance with a third. Your eyes roll back and get lost in your head as you lean back with a whimper.

“Just trying to get you ready.” He murmurs, so soft and low that your heart stills.

Your legs wrap around his back loosely as he holds you still, his previous two fingers pushing inside gently. The third finger meets resistance as you tense up. “S-sorry,” You whisper, “I’m…”

Your head knocks back against the wooden pier. But you move his hand back and try again. He’s so tender and sweet with you as he turns his head to place kisses on your cheek and ear.

You blink owlishly, trying desperately to weave your threads of thought together. A shake of your head to rattle them loose. A sweet smile up to Steve, a barely there kiss to his lips.

Your eyelids are heavy, breaths heaving from your chest. Steve commits to memory the way your lids flutter when he touches you.

You gasp and moan, arching your chest into his and pulled as taut as a bow sting—back forming a crescent-shaped arc, a sliver of the moon radiant in the inky blue reflection of the water.

“C’mon, that’s it, honey. You’re so close. Almost there… Good girl… Good girl.”

With a cry, you come undone, rolling your hips every which way as you reach orgasm on Steve’s hand. His voice continues to praise you, lips kissing your sweat-slicked collar, bristles on his cheek and jaw tickling your sensitive skin.

Coming back to yourself, you shiver bodily. And Steve looks at you as if you hold infinities in the palms your hands.

You reach for him reverently, desperate for his shape of beauty and noble nature. A dream realized, a wish granted, gentle and true. You feel brave enough to shift and stroke him with determination.

You whisper, "Missed you," eliciting a shudder from him as your palm grips him tenderly.

Relishing in the temperature of his body, you sigh. Spreading the beaded precome at the tip of his cock up and down his shaft. Steve groans, head falling to yours.

“Missed you more,” He hums, eyes heavy-lidded and lustful.

Gasping as Steve guides your hips with one hand, and grips himself with the other. Slowly and without haste, he fills you inch by inch until he’s so deep inside you think he could burst from your throat.

You whimper. There aren’t enough words to describe it— the gratifying sting, an all-encompassing and chilling burn, a mystifying and utter fullness that nearly brings tears to your eyes. You’re fearful to move, to lose this sensation, and afraid to feel what comes next. But you know that you want it.

Steve kisses your lips tenderly, babbling praise, whispering affirmations, soothing the shock that surges up your spine with his warm palm. Slowly, he rocks you back, as water lapping against your thighs, holds onto your body with one hand, smoothing the hair that falls over your face with the other.

You’re gripping him so tightly it takes some effort to slide even an inch of him out— and there’s many inches of him. Sweat collects on your brow as you grind, dragging against his length, forcing shudders to course all over both your bodies. “Is this okay?” you cry, delirious, “Steve? You feel so good.”

He moves in you, like a prayer.

A groan escapes him as his hand squeezes your back just a little too hard. He’s holding back, trying to prolong your pleasure, but his own is chasing him down, only a few steps away from pouncing.

You coax it towards him with faster snapping of your hips against his, clawing at his back, nibbling on his ear. “Come on, lover… just a little more.”

With a grunt and a shudder, and a hard kiss to your lips that makes your teeth clack against each other, Steve thrusts one last time as deeply as possible, riding out his orgasm as he pulls your hips against his.

The two of you feel rooted together, sticky with sweat and so tightly flushed that you’re not sure where he ends and you begin. Your body slumps as you drape your arms over his neck. Steve turns his head to kiss your shoulder before making the effort to pull away, your shaky legs held in his secure grasp.

The black slik of night gives way to the earth’s rotation, stars and moon bending to the will of gravity. Splashes in its silent, dark depths as you broach the shore. A little shaky on your feet, but he’s close behind, sultry and brilliant like the summer morning quickly approaching.

Whispers and murmurs tucked between fervent kisses as you dress. Fabric sticking to damp skin as his hands roam. Frenetic movements as he backs you up against the car, the coolness of it causing you to shiver.

“You should do it,” he rasps against your lips. “The Italy thing, you always loved it there.”

“How did you–” you sputter.

You can’t see him roll his eyes, but you just know. “Nance, who else?”

The warmth of Steve’s body burns against you, a hand threading through your hair half-convinced the moon is hiding there, hanging like a jewel in the night. And you’re a mess when you kiss him. Your breath is warm and so sweet, and the center of his chest squirms like something alive.

In that moment, you love him but can’t tell him, not yet. You decide the sun that will kiss freckles to his face will do it for you.

The song of summer sings out as you load your suitcase into Nancy’s car a few days later. The trunk slams closed and your back is pressed against his chest, his arm hanging casually around your collar. It is the end of May, the first bloom of summer balmy on your skin.

Steve had not taken the news of Nancy driving you to the airport well.

At all.

A sponged necklace of kisses to your throat as the light creeps in. Sheets kicked to the edge of the bed so you’re tangled up in him. Skin already glinting gold in the summer sun. Twisting in his hold, desperate to glance at the time. “Steve,” muffled against the heft of his shoulder, “I gotta go, Nance will be here soon.”

The turn of his weight bearing down, trapping your body under his. A cruel circle of his hips has you shuddering. His breath ghosts along your skin, “Baby, baby please.” Nose trailing down from your sternum to the swell of your stomach. Pausing there for lips to lave kisses on the curves that trailed to your hips.

Eyes dark and heady with promise, “Just a taste.” Lips and mouth delving lower now, fingers parting the cleave of your cunt with a squelch. He hooks them back into his mouth with a groan. “Mmm,” he slurs, drunk off your arousal. “You taste good, sweetheart,” His nose bumps against your clit, “Like honey.”

Breath stuttering in the cage of your ribs, you fist his hair in one hand and tug. Steve moans overtly, pupils blown wide while he’s face deep in pussy. “Steve,” Your voice trembles. He glances up, smoldering and glorious, drinking you up. “Ah—fuck,” before you’re overtaken again.

You’re desperate, and he can hear it in your voice. A quiver in your throat, you swallow thickly mouth falling open in a pant. His fingers work into you easily, dragging exquisitely along your channel—warm and wet, only growing more so with every thrust of his hand. You mewl, hips bucking up as he sucks your swollen clit.

Legs thrown over his shoulders, as he cants your pelvis forward, arm heavy against your stomach to bully you in place. “Sweet girl,” He coos, lips ruddy and wet with your slick. “Doin’ so well for me.” You shiver in his hold, sunbeams hazy with orange glow, the refracting light makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.

Then you feel something pulled taut in your belly. A chord stretching like a rubber band before it snaps. The wind up is excruciating, Steve’s litany of devotions falling in hushed murmurs from his lips. His fingers plunging up into the chasm between your legs, pulling away wetter each time.

He bends back down, tongue circling your clit at a dizzying pace. A third finger slides in impossibly, a keen igniting from your throat—high and whimpering. God, you’re so close. You babble, hands scrambling purchase against his dewy skin.

“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”

“Oh my god,” you thrash on the bed, hair sticking to the sheen of your face, hanging on by a thread as his fingers drive into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” Steve promises, “You stumbling in there.”

The image flashes through your lust-addled brain, the telltale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.

“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of your cunt— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time.

“Stevie,” you mewl, “Steve.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.

You drily sob out something broken, a tiny echo of affirmation as he keeps fucking into you like he could break through. He’s really abused your pussy this morning, maybe gone too far, but every time you come like this, it’s like he’s seeing something holy.

“Oh my god…!” It’s a small shout as you shatter, and it makes Steve’s spine light up as you rub your face further into the pillow.

“Praying to me, sweetheart?” but doesn’t stop those tiny, hard circles, doesn’t stop melting into your body, his dick pulsing as he ruts against the sheets. “You can keep doing that,” he urges, “I like that.”

So, you’re not surprised when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished breakfast, as predicted, in a terrible disarray, and Robin crosses herself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”

On the couch, Eddie clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his ring-clad fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.”

As much as you tried to tell yourself that this wasn’t goodbye but instead see you soon, it didn’t stick. But the ache in your gut did—low and menacing, growling like an animal.

Eddie and Robin were easy, promises to stay in touch and bring back the best candy. Your parents were less so, tight hugs and dried tears on cheeks.

Steve, however, you needed to brace yourself for. Short of chaining yourself to Nancy’s car, you weren’t sure how you’d escape with your dignity intact. He was already kissing on you, soft and sweet, as Nancy slid into the driver’s seat while Eddie and Robin waved goodbye walking back inside.

You slip from his grasp in a flash, pulling him by the belt loops to knock hips. “Stevie, lover mine,” you sing, his palms cupping your ass as his hands slide into your back pockets.

Lover.

What a word.

You think about it every waking second—the way he stretches in the morning, how he sings in the shower, dances in the kitchen, smiles and beams at anyone who passes by—how good he is.

How you love him.

“Mm—” raspy, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Feet walking you closer and closer and you’re pressed against him. Nosing along the column of his neck, nipping at the delicate skin there, watching as his throat bobs when he swallows.

Hands free themselves from denim confines, a thumb caresses the small of your back. Steve pries your hand from his chest, and brings it to his mouth, placing a tender kiss against your palm.

You hum as his lips brush your skin, observing as he meanders to the thin flesh of your wrist. Hazel eyes near golden in the morning sun as Steve looks to you, face open and fond. Lips featherlight when they kiss your thundering pulse.

Only then do you start to break.

You thought you were prepared. But it steals the breath from your lungs, levelling you to ruin, a creeping sense of hopelessness in its wake.

He’s quick to notice, crushing you to his chest and hand cradling your head. Soothing murmurs of “S’okay honey, we’ll be alright,” and the rasp of your name. Fingers brushing hair from your face with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And it is hard to leave him, but you can do difficult things.

Forehead bent to yours, back warm in the sun’s decorous rays, a searing tear-laden kiss and you’re off. Turned back in your seat to see him recede in the distance until he’s a mere speck on the horizon as Nancy tugs you forward.

All the goodbyes had all been said, save one thing lodged in the depths of your throat.

I love you.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfiction #the kids aren't alright rosewaterandivy #modern!steve harrington #teacher!steve

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atsadi-shenanigans · 3 months

Text

Feeding Alligators 70 - Bad Blood

You and Astarion have nothing else to do but talk.

On AO3.

You lie on your side. Your sinuses burn and your mouth tastes of puke and blood. You try to spit as another gag hits you. You bring up less, this time, though you still can’t rise or reliably lift your head. Your chin feels itchy; it’s caked down the side of your mouth.

Limbs barely work as you inchworm and flop further away from this newer spill.

You are real careful not to look up beyond that, at the body lying nearby.

Your own body gives out before too long. Too shaky. Too weak. You’re probably in shock.

The clearing is still lit in dim, flickering torchlight, though the horse bolted a bit ago. Knocked the torch right off the saddle. Must’a been the screaming. It’s a small miracle the forest floor hasn’t caught fire.

Your face is wet. It ain’t just your earlier lunch and, and that red. You ain’t sure when the tears started but they sure haven’t stopped and there ain’t shit you can do about it.

A soft noise. A kinda guttural clicking.

Astarion lays where he got dropped, the big stake still sticking outta him. That ain’t the sort of thing nobody should ever see in a person; that one’s gonna come back in your dreams. But you don’t got any real control, much less the detailed hand movements you’re gonna need to free him of it.

But maybe it don’t have to be all the way out?

You wiggle over. It takes a fucking decade. You gotta flop yourself this way and that. Stop to huff and pant and gag—though your stomach is empty by now. Then you do reach him, and it’s a stupid display of rolling around to get your arms up, over him. Which is a nice distraction from thinking about how draped over somebody you are. He makes another sound, but you’re so busy with this job you cannot pay attention.

Your chin and cheek itch. Bits flake off. You don’t got to look to know they’re a rusty brown color. You seen dried blood before.

Every muscle in your body seizes as you try to lift an arm. You fall onto Astarion again and he reeks of blood and something sour. The gorge rises in your throat; you gotta close your eyes and take several, several moments to shove it down.

One job.

You get a trembling hand around that stake. Your fingers are cold sausages. Freshly dead fish still twitching. You jostle the damn thing and Astarion’s face goes dreadful.

“S-sorry. I-I d-don’t…”

One fucking job.

You fumble it. Try again. Fucker don’t budge. You risk a glance up to find Astarion’s mouth open in a silent scream that goes all blurry cause you eyes are fucking leaking again.

Get your goddamn, motherfucking shit together, Eleanor.

Fucking do it.

Another tug. You throw your body at it. Move the goddamn thing around and you can’t see through the tears. It twists, turns in your hands, slides less than an inch—

The body beneath you comes alive. He swats your face as he reaches for the thing. Wrenches it free in a fine spray of blood. Then he’s rolling, hacking, making horrible sounds—

You hit the ground as he surges away. He don’t even pause. And your strength is gone. You’re done. Can only lie there as he tries to stand. Then his legs give out and he barely clears you before he starts to puke.

Gandrel said that deer was poisoned. His body is apparently rejecting that blood.

You focus on breathing as it goes on and on. Much longer than he should. Brings up more than a stomach should be able to hold. You barely manage to shimmy a couple inches away from him as it slows. As it eventually stops, and he’s left crouching on all fours, head down like a sick dog.

Finally, he lifts a sleeve to wipe at his mouth. He’s near the torch; has the sense to pluck it off the forest floor.

And that seems to be the limit of his strength, too. He gives out entirely. Got just enough in him to drag himself the foot or so over to a tree and slump against it, legs sprawled out before him.

The giant hole in his chest is wet with blood. You’re pretty sure you’re looking past broken ribs and into oozing lung tissue.

Oh look, you got more to vomit up yourself. How nice.

As you lay on your side, panting and spitting, Astarion finds his weak, raspy voice. “Took you long enough.”

To chew open Gandrel’s throat. To kill him. To kill him bad and painful and horrifying. Cause he knew it was happening. Tried to push you off as your teeth finally broke his skin. But he landed on that rock and he couldn’t get his limbs to move right fast enough.

The irony ain’t lost on you.

He died knowing how. And you’ll have to live knowing the same.

“The f-fuck,” you say.

“I appreciate the dramatics,” the bitch says in the bitchiest tone. “But you waited entirely too long! Do you have any idea how much that hurt?”

Probably as bad as getting a neck chewed open.

“His f-fucking kids,” you spit out and almost scissor off the tip of your tongue. “W-what…his k-kids…”

“I have no idea.” He’s even sneering. You ain’t looking at him, but you can hear it. “Clearly he was making up some story so you’d let him take me, which you nearly did—”

Gandrel had been furious. Not shaking and throwing things; it was the quiet kind. Something somebody has to bury deep because showing it meant you were crazy and dangerous and one of those. But it burned like a coal seam fire in his eyes.

“Wasn’t-t a fucking l-lie! F-fuck was h-he talking ab-bout? A m-month a-a-ago? The fuck.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Bulls-shit! C-can’t move a-a-and neither can y-you. What’s he t-talking about?”

“I don’t know.”

You force your head to turn. Through shaking, shuddering eyes, he ain’t just pale; the man’s turned gray. Black bruises smear under his eyes, and they look…partially deflated. Like all the life and fluid in him got thrown up all over the ground and left him a moving husk.

And he looks mad. But…but under that is…scared. He starts to run a hand over his face, realizes it’s covered in bad blood, and stares at it. Then his hand flops limply into his lap.

“The thing about being tortured for two hundred years, my dear, is that it all starts to run together after some time. I brought back hundreds of victims to my master. Picking one or five or a dozen faces out of a sea of them would be like trying to remember which little bunny the wizard chopped up for your stew two tendays ago.”

And…oh. Oh god. There’s so much in that. So much fucked up shit you can only stare at him.

“A w-whole camp’s worth of k-kids?” You say and hate how your voice cracks and makes you sound like a stupid, little girl.

His face goes rigid with indifference. “There are decades I barely remember.”

He can’t just…you can’t believe he’d…

Except trauma does that, don’t it? Chews holes in your brain. That’s what all the forums and articles and even your own therapist said. Most times, you don’t think about the farmstead unless something reminds you of it—have to stomp that in the dirt before it can suck you in. When you do, when somebody asks or when you get stuck in your head about it, some parts of it are monstrous clear. But a lot of it…ain’t. It’s just gone. And you got no interest in unearthing it.

But a whole group of kids? How?

Two hundred years. Two hundred. You got fucked up from a decade and some change. Astarion ain’t human, ain’t even mortal no more. A living person can be hurt and fucked up for years, maybe decades. But two centuries? What does that even do to somebody?

What would that turn a person into?

Astarion sprawls there quietly. His eyes are glassy slits.

You twist around as best you can, thrashing around in the needles and dirt. “G-gonna find h-his p-people.”

You get to see the sneer this time. “Whatever for?”

Like that ain’t obvious. Like anybody but him would need it spelled out for him.

“Help them k-kill that fuckf-face.”

He looks at you a long moment, brow creased. Then a laugh bursts out of him. It’s an ugly sound, mean and condescending.

“Oh, my sweet, you think it’s that easy? You think I…that someone would have succeeded by now if it were that simple? Why do you think the gur wanted me so badly?”

You idiot fucking child, he didn’t say. Barely. And he’s right. The way he talks about that motherfucker, the way Gandrel did. The way all the others at camp reacted to Astarion? That piece of shit has to be a fucking monster.

Still.

“We g-got a whole g-group of m-murder hobos,” you say.

“And you think that will do it? That a band of brain-addled do-gooders—and a murderous gith—can take down a vampire lord? You think someone else hasn’t tried? A dozen of them? You think far more powerful groups haven’t come seeking his head? And for what. A band of filthy children you’ve never met?”

“Yes. A-Astarion. F-for them-m kids. And f-for you s-s-sorry ass!”

Which seems to slap the smug off’a him. The man boggles at you, until his whole face sharpens with suspicion and what looks a lot like pissed off.

“Why,” he says.

“The f-fuck you m-mean ‘why? ‘S-s fucked up!”

He looks even more pissed off. And chooses to express that with a sneer and a melodramatic, “And I suppose you expect me to fall into your arms over your good deed? Your boundless charity?”

The fuckshit, samhain hell? Ain’t no reason for him to spit in your face over common fucking decency.

“I-I don’t exp-pect nothing from you.” Sounds harsh. You want it to. Let it cut his stupid, ungrateful jackass face.

“Yes, you’ve made that quite clear.”

You just can’t win with him. No matter what angle you play, he deflects it and then insults you. The man is fucking insufferable.

“W-what’s your goddamn p-problem?”

And for what you suspect is the first time ever, the man drops his mask in front of you. All of them. The smarm, the bitch, and what you realize was the fucking polite. Beneath is a man made of teeth and sharp angles.

“You. You are my problem, darling. No one in the world does anything without expecting repayment. You want something from all of us. From me. But you won’t say what it is, and so I’m included to think it will be something quite extravagant.”

That’s…huh. That’s what that looks like from the other direction.

The worm in your brain shivers. You try to push yourself up—showing weakness in an argument lying on your side; too exposed, too horrifically vulnerable.

You can’t just tell him the truth. You don’t wanna be left behind. You got to be valuable to these people because without their help, you’re fucked. It’s too mercenary. Your last therapist frowned when you brought that up, and she asked you what made you think that cause you also know not everybody thinks that way (Sasha). That it’s farmstead shit.

But you ain’t at home, don’t got therapy and meds and motherfucking friends. That shit is gone. And all you got are these scraps to cling to, charity and goodwill and oh, that’s called irony, ain’t it? But you shove that down too, because this is bullshit and you fucking murdered a man and now this fucker wants to yell at you about it?

The fucker squints at you. The fucker is focusing way too hard on you.

The fuck—

The worm shivers again. Something else reaching for it. Someone else.

“Astarion,” you manage.

Then the brainworm digs tendrils into your brain and wrenches and you—

On the beach and it’s too much and you should lay down. Lay down and say nothing and wait for something else to come along and finish—

The potion burns your sinuses and you can hear them. And like that, you know how fucking weak you are. How pathetically reliant. Can’t even talk—

You’ll fuck up. You’ll make a bad call. You curl on your bedroll in the tent, nausea swimming sick and cold in your gut. It’s just a matter of time and Lae’zel is already watching you too close—

Raised voices in the living room and you crawl under the table. Edoda don’t never shout. He don’t never cry—

You’re bad. You’re dirty and stupid and bad and that’s why Mother put you down here, in the dark with the bugs and the scorpions and the snakes and you’re so hungry—

Not again! Never again! Get the fuck outta my—

Too fast. You swat at this, kick at it and bite and it’s all sand through your fingers. You sense startle and a fear and monstrous hunger that ain’t your own. He’s trying to untangle himself, trying to back free but you’re both wigged out and getting worse and your brainworms know safety in numbers, in being one and it locks you together even tighter.

Astarion watching you with your wrist bloody. Leaning in to whisper something, his lips on your skin and…

And he asked. He asked, and it’s the smart move—

You don’t want him to see this. You try to channel the two of you somewhere else, anywhere else, but he’s pushing back, a sick curiosity niggling at you both.

You sit by the lake as fat tears roll down your cheeks. All the deep breathing in the world ain’t calming you down. You don’t got a choice. Not really. You can be smart, or you can wait around until everybody realizes how stupid and useless you are. It’ll be fine. He’ll probably be good at it. It feels nice with yourself and lots of people love it and you’re getting a better first than a lot of people, you suspect. The dread builds anyway.

You don’t want to see this next part. Please, please no. It’s private. It’s your stupid bullshit and nobody else’s business and your brainworm peels layers of your mind back to expose the tender parts, and he’s horrified but you’re both pulled in anyway.

The clearing. That fucking clearing. He’s on you. Lips on yours, tongue in your mouth and you don’t know what to do with your hands, with letting somebody so close to you. It can feel good. You’re getting that. But the more you try to lean into that, the further it pulls away. All while that churning ball of cold mud and broken-bone—shame shame SHAME—chews up your insides. Filthy, sinful slut whoring herself out. Then his fingers press between your legs and all thought stutters as the sin comes screaming up your throat—

“Fuck FUCK! Jesus fucking christ!”

The connection snaps. It should feel like falling, like reeling away, staggering, tripping. But you’re already on the ground and your vision swims so bad you can’t see as hot water pours over your cheeks. Your brain is flayed open. Tender flesh, jellied and quivering and you make some horrific, guttural sound and curl up, fingers clawing at your scalp, lips peeled so far back it hurts.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again!” you say. “I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll fucking find a way to fucking kill you!”

Nobody answers. Nobody moves. You rock as best you can with your horrifying body twitching like a dead thing. A fucking disgusting thing.

Those memories are yours. Yours alone. Your head is your space, your only one. The only place you can be, even when you barely knew what that was. Even when you knew the lord and the Pastor could see into it, listen to your secret thoughts. It was yours. Yours.

And now he’s seen.

You ain’t sure what, exactly. Probably the worst parts. Things you don’t tell nobody and that sonuvabitch went fucking snooping around your goddamn skull and he got no fucking right.

You blink enough to make out the pale form across from you.

He stares at you. Quiet. Wide eyes. Ain’t never seen him look like that. Won’t again, once you get hold of yourself and can get up and find a rock to smash into his goddamn, fucking face.

“You didn’t…want to,” he says, more breath than sound.

“T-that ain’t y-your fucking b-business.”

And down come them eyelids. His glare a blade hidden inside the halloween apple, waiting to slice soft, unsuspecting gums and tongue and cheeks.

But he pulls that sharpness back. You actually see him do it. Reigns himself in like a normal fucking person. Says instead, “Why. You’ve never been with anyone before, so why say yes when I asked?”

Your laugh is just as ugly as his. All rusted spikes and shattered glass. And once that loosens, the rest of the torrent pours out after it. All the shit you been bottling up. All the fear, the anger, the guilt and the shame and the goddamn helplessness and it bursts free like puss from a lanced boil. Sour and stinking and tinged with blood.

Astarion sits there. Watches you like you’re the danger here.

You kinda lose it for a while. At some point, you ain’t laughing no more and your face is wet. It’s too much to keep the structure in you upright. All the scaffolding you built to hem yourself in, keep yourself standing, strong and confident, it all finally groans and shudders and collapses in on itself, before crumbling down into the pit inside you.

Why did you agree.

“You asked,” you say.

“Pardon?”

Of all the things he saw, everything that happened, that is what he fixes on. The goddamn sex. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn narcissistic.

“Why I a-agreed to sex. Y-you asked.”

Astarion blinks. “Surely others have done so.”

You know what? Fine. This is what he wants to talk about? That is the most important little nugget of wisdom he pulled out of your bruised and screaming brain meat? Sure! Why the fuck not.

“Only as a j-joke,” you say. And maybe it’s all the crying, or maybe you just been out here long enough for the motherfucking toxin to be wearing thin. “N-not a looker.”

He sits there. Like he’s waiting for a real answer.

You got blood in your mouth that ain’t even yours. That man has seen the worst moment of your life while digging his grubby fucking fingers through your memories. So fuck him. He wants answers, you’ll give him fucking answers.

“It s-seemed like a good id-dea,” you say. Deep breath. Only stutters once. “Fucking you.”

“What do you mean?”

You snort. “I ain’t from here. I don’t g-got no useful skills; can’t fight, can’t use m-magic, and I can’t even fucking talk without Gale’s potions. I got n-no friends or family.”

Aww, you thought all your tears was dried up. Surprise, bitch! The human body is good at one thing and one thing only: producing mucus and tears.

“I got no people here. No s-safety net and nobody to turn to. I should be dead in a ditch. I would be except for y’all. So you asked, and…and I knew you was p-probably just looking to get your dick wet and I’m…”

You swipe at your face and almost run a thumbnail over your eye.

“I’d be the most desperate. The weakest one. B-but I thought…” You hold your breath a second and do your best to force calm (until another tremor shoves the air outta your lungs). But you’ll be damned if you hyperventilate now, in front of him. “I thought it’d be the easiest way to make an alliance. I-I could do that. People been doing that for thousands of years. And it’s fucked up, and I know that. B-but I was a chicken shit and I couldn’t f-follow through.”

Getting too hard to talk. You’re a useless asshole. A hot, fucking mess. Astarion carries his own weight, but you? Made a couple of good calls and it worked out thanks to sheer luck more than not. But that shit is precarious. You got to pay attention to everything and everyone all the fucking time. Got to watch them and balance what they want and what they say and you gotta be engaged every fucking second you ain’t in your tent or unconscious, and you lived alone before this, for Christ’s sake. You don’t got the energy for this.

“You agreed to sleep with me to make an alliance,” Astarion says, voice completely flat and unreadable, every syllable precisely enunciated.

Your own voice is thick. Your face throbs as your sinuses try to burst through your forehead like an overinflated balloon. “Sounds shitty when you say it out l-loud.”

It’s a douchebag thing to say. You think you’re aiming for humor? A real fucked up version of humor? Mother and the Pastor were right—there’s something really messed up in you.

“You truly…truly didn’t want me?” Astarion says. At first, you think you hurt his feelings. Not getting staked, not you fumbling to wrench that stake outta his ribs, not even you telling him you’d kill him. It seems the part that really gets him is the implication that he ain’t fuckable.

Then you manage to squint at him, and that ain’t hurt he’s wearing. He just seems…baffled.

So now you get to explain the wonders of human sexuality. Peachy.

Maybe you should’a just inhaled the dirt and ended this whole travesty.

“Don’t see people like that,” you say. “It ain’t n-nothing against you or anybody. I just…I gotta know somebody first. You’re pretty and all, but it d-don’t mean nothing to me. Pretty is like a sunset or a painting. It don’t travel down south or a-activate any of the hardware. I don’t know why. I don’t even know when or why it does switch, neither. J-just, outta nowhere, I’ll notice somebody. Y’know, like that.”

Like Rachel Olmstead and her tits.

“But not me,” he says. His face is still so, so goddamn blank. If he didn’t blink, he’d look like a dead man.

“I k-known you like a week. So no.”

He stares. Then that mask cracks. He snorts, and has to cover his mouth with a hand as laughter spills out around his fingers.

Oh hey, you got enough energy to muster up being offended. “What’s funny?”

He drops his hand and his smile is a weird, twisted thing. “Nothing, darling. Just…this. All of this, and here you are. After all this. None of my very considerable charms will work on you, will they?”

“I got roofied by a sex g-god and halfway turned him into pizza. And you practice them ‘charms’ where Shadowheart can overhear you practicing.”

He waves that off. “The cleric seems much more interested in the gith for me to bother, my dear.”

Wait, what?

He must see that in your face. Lets out an honest to god guffaw. “Oh, you really don’t catch on at all! You poor thing.”

“They tried to k-kill each other.”

“Yes. But they didn’t, and that sort of passion tends to turn itself inside out, darling. You just wait. They’ll be flopping about on top of each other before long.”

Well that certainly is a visual.

You try not to grimace—that scientific curiosity (does Lae’zel even have humanoid-compatible genitalia, or like, a cloaca) takes a backseat when it’s regarding somebody you know and have to look at while eating breakfast.

You both lapse into silence. Wonder if Gale’s noticed your bathroom break is taking way longer than it should.

“Why did you let me feed on you?” Astarion says. “And why kill the gur? Don’t get me wrong, darling, I appreciate a good murder here and there, but that was all a bit gruesome.”

He is a vampire. He got to bite people. Maybe got that wired into his brain as instinct. But you?

You still ain’t looking at that body. You don’t intend to. You’ll avoid that until y’all can put the man into a respectable grave, if at all possible. And maybe that’s another chicken-shit thing to do—you chewed his fucking throat out; the least you could do is bear witness. But you also read that seeing dead faces makes it more likely to eat up a person’s brain, and you already got a worm doing that.

You don’t want to carry that image around forever. Even if you absolutely deserve it.

“I don’t know,” you say.

Cause it’s a whole mess inside you. This is all so fucked up. Nothing makes sense no more, and all the rules you ever knew and followed done flew out the window. You’re splashing and kicking around, just trying to keep your face above water. Can’t put no attention to the shit brushing up against your legs down there in the depths.

But that answer makes his face go flat again. So you try again.

“You know how I got pissed w-when you wanted to torture that guy?” you say.

His eyes narrow. “I recall.”

“You ever think that same thing m-might apply to you? I might not like anybody g-getting hurt for no damn reason if I can avoid it?”

The sneer is a bit more delicate, this time. “So it’s charity.”

“Returning a favor.”

He frowns. You close your eyes a moment. Can’t track where your memories went when your minds crashed together. Aside from y’all’s half-naked forest encounter, you ain’t sure what he saw.

“I…was in a bad spot,” you say, glazing over a metric ton of shit. “I got out cause s-somebody helped me.”

“So you’ll swoop in to save me, now, will you?”

Since you can’t throttle him, you settle for, “I can’t even save myself here, let alone you or anybody. I can help you watch your own back, a-and try to support y’all. And part of that means not letting you go hungry, asshole. Ain’t nobody should go hungry.”

And he got a look to him. You know then, that he saw the root cellar. Or part of it.

“And what would you want in return for this generosity?” he says. His tone is way too light. It kicks off all kinds of alarms.

Your eyes are puffy, skin hot. The air stinks of blood and shit and vomit.

A friend. You wanted a friend. Thought you had one, too.

But you will not tell him that. Vulnerability ain’t your strong suite.

You’re being mostly honest with him. Truly honest. You wonder what it says about you that the first person you spill your guts to is a shithead vampire man. And maybe you been pushed too far for one night, or maybe (being honest with yourself) you still ain’t safe enough to go that far.

So you say, “How about an alliance? Not a sex o-one. But just…just a regular one. I watch your back, you w-watch mine? Let me know if Lae’zel is getting stab-happy in my direction?”

He tilts his head back to rest against the tree trunk. Looks at the sky through the canopy. He seems…softer, somehow. Then he looks to you again.

“Alright,” he says. “I can accept those terms.”

Goddamn, you’re tired. So tired your body feels a heartbeat away from sinking into the earth and becoming mulch. But that don’t stop you from saying, “Oh good. That was my last card to play.”

Y’all fall silent again. Something hard digs into your lower ribs but you can’t be fucked to try to move just yet.

Then Astarion makes a sound, and when did your eyes close? The man gives you a smile. Not even something smarmy. Just…a normal fucking smile, his eyes rounder than you ever knew they could be.

“You know,” he says. “We might be more alike than I originally thought.”

Well. That can have so many goddamn meanings. He might be stealth-bitching you. But something about the tone, about the look he fucking wears. You think there’s something there. Something under the surface, with a soft underbelly. And you can’t have that.

“That we’re both lying next to our own puke and can’t move?” you say.

Because you been way too exposed tonight. Too exposed for a comfortable lifetime. And if you kick enough sticks and leaves over that throbbing, open-to-the-air pit of vulnerability, maybe nobody else will notice it.

“I am rather stuck where I am, barring a healing potion or some blood. You?”

You lift your shaking arm as another spasm wrenches your fingers around like a cartoon character playing an invisible piano.

“So that’s a no,” he says. “Did no one see you leave?”

You been wondering that. If Gale tripped and fell into the fire. If he was just so tired he passed out on watch. Fuckers go on about security, yet here the two of you are, gone at least an hour, with no goddamn sign—

A shout echoes in the trees. Speak of the goddamn devil.

Astarion’s little sigh sounds as peeved as you feel.

“What timing,” he drawls.

“Fuckers couldn’t have shown up thirty minutes ago?”

A purple flare bursts like fireworks overhead.

“Over here,” Astarion calls pretty loud for a man with a hole in his fucking lungs. And then he starts to hack up one of them lungs, more blood burbling outta the corners of his mouth and you wince in sympathy.

Gale is the first to find you. His gaze skitters over Astarion—covered in blood—to Gandrel—clearly dead and covered in blood—before landing on you—twitching and covered in blood.

“Ah,” he says, all grimaces. “I suppose you’re not alright, then.”

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

#feeding alligators fic #these two shitheads #astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #astarion x eleanor #plus size tav #demisexual tav #slow burn #the disclosure part of the disclosure arc #a motherforking confession!#they're both a hot mess okay?

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laundrybiscuits · 2 years

Text

(grace coming out of the void tag)

He mixes Eddie a passable gin and tonic, adding a little squeeze of lime and a couple cucumber slices, while Jeff heads back out to the party.

“So, you and Helen…?” Steve asks. He thinks he sounds totally normal. Casual, even.

Eddie laughs, then stops abruptly. “Oh, shit. You’re serious? I’m gay, dude.”

“Oh.”

“I—huh. I really thought you knew.” Eddie looks thoughtful. He’s frowning a little. “Guess this puts a few things into context. Gonna be honest, I’m surprised you missed it. Hell, I’m surprised Robs didn’t spill the beans one way or another. Love her to death, but our girl’s not the greatest with keeping a lid on things.”

Steve feels a wash of heat in his face, and he’s not even really sure why. “I mean…it’s not like I didn’t guess you were, y’know, something. I thought—bisexual, maybe?”

It’s not totally true, but it’s not totally false, either. Steve hadn’t gotten so far as putting any specific words around what he thought Eddie might be or what Eddie might like, he’d just wondered in a formless sort of way.

“Nah,” says Eddie. “I mean, never say never, but. Historically, no.”

Steve lets the word historically roll around in his jaw, in his back teeth. He feels okay about it, he decides. He knows it’s not—Steve had a serious long-term girlfriend less than a month ago. He’s just always been the jealous type, even when he knows it’s not right or fair. He’s working on it.

Steve gets these stories in his head, is the problem. He gets to thinking like everything’s going to work out because it has to; like all the pain and bullshit will all make sense someday and be worth it.

It’s kid stuff, thinking that way. Sometimes things just hurt, and there’s no point to it. Sometimes pain’s just pain, and Steve Harrington is single at Christmas again, dying slow in a one-horse town.

“Hey, this G&T’s pretty good,” says Eddie. He grins all bright and boyish, looking nineteen again for a second. “Thanks, man.” He tips his glass towards Steve in a little salute, then saunters out of the kitchen.

———

Once, Steve had asked his mom: why didn’t you guys ever move out of Hawkins?

I don’t know, Steven, she’d said. Well, your dad’s job was here. We thought it was a nice safe town for you to grow up in. Don’t you like Hawkins?

Steve had shrugged and said sure and that had been the end of it. He does like Hawkins. He likes seeing familiar faces around, though it seems like there’s fewer of those every year. He likes how safe it feels, because he’s made it that way. He’s bled for Hawkins. Feels like that’s some kind of bond he can’t break. Sometimes at night when he can’t sleep, he grabs his old nail bat and goes to stand out in the woods, breathing hard, waiting for something anything anything to come at him.

Nothing ever has, not since 1986. It makes him feel a little crazy to remember that the time when he fought monsters and Russians was only about three years all told. It had felt like forever at the time. He really had thought that that was going to be his life, his real life. Everything else—school, work, girls—had felt like stuff he’d been doing in his downtime between the real stuff: hauling around ungrateful brats and beating the shit out of the forces of evil like something out of Saturday morning cartoons.

But it’s been six years of downtime, and lately he’s been wondering if that’s just how life goes. Vivid and wild at the start, but then the colors fade.

Last year, he’d gone to Christmas at Laura’s parents’ house. It had been a big house that looked almost exactly like the one he’d grown up in, with twinkling white lights outside; inside was a big tree by a crackling fireplace. There’d been an Irish Setter named Dooley who was pretty great. All the ornaments had matched. He’d had two glasses of white wine and went home by nine to have perfectly good sex with Laura and go to sleep at a reasonable hour.

He’d woken up at two in the morning for no reason. He couldn’t grab his bat and go into the woods because Laura had been right there sleeping next to him, so he’d just stared up at the ceiling not thinking about anything as his heart beat faster and faster for a very long time. He’d known then that he had to break up with Laura, even though they’d only been going out for a couple months, but he kept putting it off because it just hadn’t seemed worth it to end things. There hadn’t seemed to be any point.

#fic: grace coming out of the void #this is increasingly unseasonal and idc #something I have discovered about myself is that when I am on a cold damp island I write about morose winter angst #and when I am on a sunny tropical island I write about sassy summer shenanigans #who could have predicted!! wow!! I need to leave this country.#anyway I also wrote the ending to this fic today so it'll be finished for sure at some point.#I think I have...maybe three more scenes until the end? depends how long I spin out Steve's Depression Hour.#just gotta post the scenes so I stop fussing at them

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lacrymatoryao3 · 11 months

Text

Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 5: December, 1899 (Continued)

[1][2][3][4]

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there’s smut in this.)

Tag: @photo1030

3,848 Words (AO3 Link)

It was too early. Much too early. It wasn’t long ago where Arthur wasn’t phased by waking up as the sun crept into the sky. Just a cup of usually sub-par coffee and he was good to go. Then again, it also wasn’t that long ago where he was contented sleeping under a tarp open to the air and elements, on an old cot with a shitty inch thick pad for a mattress and nothing else. He often did it fully clothed to roll out and get going on whatever harebrained scheme or errand Dutch thrust upon him. When they could finally escape from Colter, settling the camp at Horseshoe Overlook, Uncle had remarked on the way to Valentine with the girls in the wagon that Arthur was ‘going soft’. Maybe it was true, given he stopped and helped a stagecoach driver who wrecked outside the town get one of the horses back, but he imagined the old man’s remarks if he saw what Arthur lived currently lived like. In a few short months, Ana had spoiled him. Tamed him. Civilized him.

The breakfast on the table was something Ana could whip up quick. They were thick tortillas stuffed with ground beef, fresh cheese, tomatoes, and corn. Ana sat listlessly with coffee. The only one fully awake was the boy, buzzing in his seat. He was the first in his outerwear, the first out the door, bringing Delfina and a horse to pull the flatbed sleigh.

“Can I ride with Mr. Callahan, Mama?” Arthur Francisco cried with boundless energy.

“If he’s okay with it, sure.” Ana mumbled crawling into the sleigh driver seat as Arthur attached the horse.

The boy looked at Arthur beggingly with his bright and youthful blue eyes… Which, in all honesty, made Arthur uncomfortable sometimes, “Yeah, come on.”

He picked up and put Arthur Francisco onto the back of Delfina, lifting himself into the saddle.

“It’s a bit of a ride, but if everything goes well we’ll be back by lunchtime.” Ana said, “Arthur Francisco will navigate and I’ll follow behind. The game trails are pretty wide so we shouldn’t need to carry the tree far.”

With that, they headed West into the dense forest, farther and farther away from what little civilization there was. Delfina whinnied indignantly as Arthur urged her through the high snow drifts. Arthur patted her on the neck, trying to soothe her with soft and comforting words through the cigarette between his teeth. The sunlight broke through the tall evergreens in the dense forest in brilliant beams. There was no sound except the heavy breathing of the horses and the babble of a creek flowing under ice nearby. The isolation was a familiar comfort for Arthur, as well as something that heightened his guard. He gripped the end of his repeater, his ear pricking at any crunch of the ground or snapping of twigs. There was so much lurking. Wolves, cougars, all were hungry and mean this time of year.

Arthur and the boy wandered ahead. Arthur Francisco waited until his mother was out of earshot, chewing on his lip, “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Callahan?”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder and shrugged, “Sure, kid.”

“Did you and Mama meet before? She acts like she’s known you a long time.”

“We did, yeah.” Arthur explained, “We were both real young. That was a long time ago. You wasn’t born yet.”

Arthur Francisco quietly considered things before pushing on, “Does that mean you know who my father is?”

Arthur slowed Delfina to a walk. His stomach felt like it did a nauseating flip. He cleared his throat, mouth going dry, “What you mean? Ain’t that the feller your Mama married?”

Arthur Francisco shook his head, “No.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well… I figured it out when I was little. Jacob was good to me, we had fun together before he got sick, so didn’t ask Mama until after he died. She told me the truth.”

“I see… She ever tell you anythin’ about him?”

“Not really. She says I’m like him, is all. She doesn’t talk about him much. I think it makes her sad. Like she misses him.”

“Well, your Mama had went through a lot of nasty things,” Arthur said, swallowing hard, “I’m sure when you’re older, she’ll tell you things you need to know.”

Arthur Francisco sighed, “Yeah. She said they did bad things to survive once. I just hope he’s still out there.

Arthur stammered, “Y-yeah… I do too.”

The trail ended at the rocky foot of the mountain range. Arthur hitched Delfina to a fallen log when Ana caught up. They trekked the rest of the way on foot. In the spring and summer it might not have taken long, but with the buildup it was a challenge the entire way. Except for Arthur Francisco who bounded through the snow and making a fairly even path for Arthur and Ana to follow. At the bottom of a ridge there was a cluster of young fir trees. Arthur looked to Ana. He didn’t really know what qualities a perfect Christmas tree comprised of.

Ana carefully inspected each of them in the group. She compared their heights to her own, reaching to touch the very tips. She scrutinized their widths, so that it could fit through the door into the house. She took of a glove and felt the cold needles with her bare hands, seeing which ones were soft and not sharp and prickly. She lightly bent a branch or two, determining how sturdy they were for the weight of the things that was going to be put on them. She even smelled them, so the scent wouldn’t be unpleasant. Once she settled on the best one she checked with her son. He agreed with high enthusiasm.

“Okay!” Ana called out, “I’ll hold onto it. Arthur, you’re the strongest so I think you should start cutting it. Leave a little for Arthur Francisco to do, so he can learn.”

Arthur started sawing it low and evenly to the ground. Once it was three quarters of the way, Arthur Francisco took over. He helped Ana keep the tree in place, so when it was free it wouldn’t topple onto her. Together they all carried it to the sled, covering it with a large canvas sheet and tying it down with heavy ropes. The boy did everything he could to assist. He wasn’t as powerful as Arthur was, yet anyway, but he had an iron determination.

“That is beautiful! Good job you two!” Ana cheered, climbing back into her seat, “We’ve certainly earned Champurrado when we get home!”

Arthur smiled, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. Ana recognized it when she gazed at him. She knew what it meant, like all those years before, there was a thought in his mind troubling him and he didn’t want anyone to notice it. She called over Arthur Francisco, convincing him to ride with her under the guise that he should watch to make sure the tree was okay as they started back. She didn’t dare inquire about it with her son around. She didn’t ask him, either. God… What had that boy said?

She looked at Arthur now and again as he rode beside them, with that look on his face when he was deep in thought. She was so close… But so, so far.

The house was a welcome relief. Ana sighed feeling warmth again, as they brought the tree into the living room and shoving the trunk into the tree stand waiting in front of the bay window. She rushed to close the door to keep the heat in. They stripped from their snow covered coats and hats, pulling off their wet and icy boots.

She heard her son say “it’s going to be so exciting to decorate!”. Arthur followed him, only replying with a half-there “mhm.”.

‘Christmas’ had a different meaning to Arthur. He couldn't remember what it was like when his mother was alive. When it was just him and his father it didn’t exist. With the gang it was just another night of drunken revelry around the campfire, with gifts of necessary items for him when he was still young. That later was the same with John. It didn’t have all that much importance until Jack was born, Abigail trying to give him some semblance of a normal childhood. Though even then, what he was given was limited.

It didn’t mean much to Ana when she was with them, either. Granted, she didn’t have the means or the ability. She was making up for it, with a mixture of things from her own country and the more familiar traditions found in America. On the walls were boughs of cedar that gave off a pleasant scent. Draped over the door frames and fireplace mantles was garlands of holly with bright red bows. On every table imaginable were vases filled with a flower with wide red petals from Mexico, Ana called them Nochebuenas. In every room there was some image of the Nativity, if not more than one. On top of the fireplace mantle was the most important one, figures carved from wood and painted, Ana adding the characters to it on certain days.

She opened a chest and pulled out multiple kinds of decorations. They wrapped a garland of glass, opalescent pearls around the tree. In an orderly pattern they hung colorful glass baubles, walnuts painted gold with ribbons at the wide end, handmade straw ornaments shaped like snowflakes, and seasonal paper graphics cut out of old cards on the branches. From the tip they draped paper chains and covered by a hollow skirted figure of the Virgin Mary holding the child Christ. It was like they were a family, admiring their work for a moment when it was finished.

Ana brought a tray of bowl-like cups filled with Champurrado, a sweet hot chocolate drink flavored with cinnamon. The boy sat on Ana’s lap. She tenderly wrapped a heavy quilt around him.

Heavy hearted, Arthur imagined Eliza and Isaac. He calculated how old would that boy even be now if he had lived. 13, maybe 14? He would be starting to become a man. What would he have looked like? The misfortune of resembling his father? Or the long, round face and kind eyes of his mother? He looked away, focusing on his drink, staring into the fire. He bottled it up as quickly as it came, the searing pain that tore through his mind and soul. He didn’t do enough for them. He told Eliza he would do what he could to do right by her and the child he helped create in an ill-thought moment of heartbroken passion. With their fate as it had become, he failed them.

Like a spectator he saw what he had always longed for. Like a fool, he threw every opportunity to have it away. All for the loyalty of the man who saved him, molded who he was, threw him away. Near him could have been Mary and whatever child they could have had if they had actually had ran away like they both wanted and even planned many times before. It could have been Eliza and Isaac if he hadn’t been an idiot and fully took responsibility. They would have lived.

He never let himself fully grieve.

God damn you, Dutch…

Arthur ended up drowning his demons the best way he knew. When things wound down, the boy in bed, Ana slipping into the dining room to wrap the gifts delivered to the house in the mail, he sought solace in a bottle of old unopened bourbon that was dusty and forgotten in the back of the kitchen cabinet. He ripped the yellowing label covering the plug with ease, jamming a knife into the cork and pulling it out. It made a loud popping sound with a short burst of visible fumes escaping the top. He put it to his lips, not bothering with a glass. He swallowed a quarter of the liquid in one go, burning down his throat. He hadn’t had a proper drink in so long. The warmth of it spread through his body, the effects quickly hazing his thoughts and vision.

Everything was destroying him. Every doubt and fear. The questions, the unknown. Why couldn’t he have just died? There was too much before him. What can he do? He never had a proper job before all this. What was he even really good at? Besides robbing and killing, that is.

He slammed the quickly empty bottle on the counter. With his inhibitions thoroughly suppressed he staggered into the dining room. He stopped at the entryway, Ana sat humming to herself while wrapping something in blue paper.

Through the fuzziness he saw her like she was when he was wild. The anger she had… It was so strong once, so fiery, there were times when she sat alone in the camp she shook with it. She was just as beautiful. A kind he only had for a brief moment in time that slipped from his grasp. They had once found comfort in each other. Heartbreak and pain melting away in one’s company, connected and entwined by limbs and a bed sheet. And one day… She was gone. She would never admit it, but he knew it was his fault somehow. It always was.

She was different now, as was he. Their anger became forlornness, but she had more to hold onto. She was a successful landlady with a group loyal to her as any gang would be. She was a mother.

A mother… To a boy… Ten years old with cerulean blue eyes.

He couldn’t take it any longer. He marched into the room, running into one of the fancy chairs. He held onto its back to keep himself upright. He stared at her through glossy, unfocused vision. Her brows furrowed with concern at the sight of antics. She opened her mouth to speak, but Arthur was first.

“That boy is mine, ain’t he?” He said with no hesitation.

Ana’s worry changed to seriousness. She looked down and sighed, “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

She motioned him to sit down, holding the chair’s arm steady as he wobbled against the table to do so.

“He is, yes.” She said.

All this time. All this time there was another child he had and barely knew. If he had any idea, so much could have gone differently. He could have made up for where he went wrong before. Some of the hole in his heart could have been filled. He felt so many things, anger, anguish, and sorrow.

“Is that…” Arthur sputtered, “Is that why you left…?”

Ana’s long silence terrified him.

“Yes and no. I had been thinking about it for a time before that. After Fernando was dealt with, I thought I’d feel better. Feel safe. Instead, I only felt hollow. All I knew was that life had tired me. I couldn’t do for much longer. All that was keeping me was you… And that fell apart when I saw you had a meeting with Mary.”

Ana reached over and squeezed his shoulder, bringing down her walls and letting her vulnerabilities be known for the first time in years, “And I’m not going to deny that it didn’t hurt me. Then, as fate tends to do in those instances, I found out I was pregnant. Miss Grimshaw, of all people, was the one who told me. I had been feeling ill for a few weeks. I was good at hiding that most of the time, but that day… I was helping Pearson with the cooking. I don’t know what it was I was cutting up, but the smell was awful. So I excused myself and walked into the forest. I threw up like I had been doing. I didn’t realize Susan had followed me. She confronted me, sat me down and asked me several questions. How long it had been going on, when my last cycle was, the last time we had intimate, then she told me. She was horrible about it. She called me so many names, I was surprised she didn’t beat me. That was the push I needed. That wasn’t the environment to raise a child in, I knew that first hand. Reluctantly I wrote a letter to Dutch thanking him for all he had done for me, dropped it into his tent, took what I had and packed it on Enrique, and off I went.”

Arthur buried his flushed face in his hands. He knew what she was talking about with Mary. He had no idea Ana had witnessed it, or how. She had asked to see him, to tell him in person she was going to be married to someone else. It was the last time he expected to lay eyes on her. There wasn’t anything inappropriate about it, they held hands and she kissed him on the cheek as goodbye.

He beat hit fist against the table, “I’m a goddamn idiot!”

“No… No you’re not. I knew where your love was from the beginning. I knew it would never be with me, and I respected that.” Ana replied, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Arthur Francisco sooner. It was selfish of me.”

She never forgot when Arthur got that letter. After Mary had broke things off due to her father’s pressure, Arthur had met a young waitress named Eliza. It was a one night stand, as far as Ana understood. She had never met Eliza, but she had somehow found where the gang was staying once her condition was apparent. Ana was the only one he told about it, stoic until they were alone and broke down into a full on panic attack. Eliza knew about his life and didn’t expect much from him, but he did as right by her and their child as best he could. He gave them money, he saw them for several days every three or four months. She was the only one he told when he returned and saw their graves. She never asked how he knew they died in a robbery. It was too painful.

Perhaps that’s where her selfishness came in. Her son was the only thing that kept her going, aside from the business. She would protect him with bullets and blood, if she had to kill or die for him so be it. She knew Eliza was different. She didn’t experience the violence she had. She was outmatched, and lost her life as a result. That would never happen to them, but she could only imagine Isaac waiting for his father. He probably asked all the time, so used to the irregularities of Arthur’s life. Ana couldn’t bring herself to put her own son in that situation. He asked enough as it was, but to have it change from “can you tell me anything about him?” to “when do you think he’ll be back to see us?” was too much. It would be like losing him again and again.

“I don’t blame you, Anie,” Arthur conceded, “after all, the ugly and savage bastard I am, I wouldn’t want the boy to end up like me either.”

Ana shook her head, “I wish I knew who convinced you of that. Because if I did I would kill them. I… I can’t show you how I see you. If I could I would make whatever trade with God or the Devil to do it.”

She couldn’t put the thought that this was in part Dutch and Hosea’s doing, despite her deep respect for both men. It may never have been intentional, Hosea repeatedly said Arthur was smarter than he tended to let on, but as they made the man what he was they also ruined him. If given the chance Arthur was and could be a much better man, in all regards compared to Dutch. It may have posed a threat to his authority, and in the end it did. If he wasn’t so loyal to the fault he could have easily gone on his own or simply taken things over after Blackwater started to unravel Dutch’s fragile sanity.

Her own emotions were much more simple. Where Arthur thought himself as ignorant, she recognized his intelligence. He may have never gone to school, but he was smart, a quick learner, competent and well rounded in his skills. Where he saw nothing but nastiness and ugliness in the mirror, to her even after a decade he was still the most handsome man in the world. If she could prove that to him, he would be able to have whatever he wanted, whoever he wanted.

“And before you ask why, it’s because I care about you.” Ana continued, “I want to see you succeed. I want you to be happy, you deserve that just as much as anybody else.”

“No-”

“Yes! I will do whatever it takes for that to happen! After Christmas, we will discuss what you could do next. If you want to stay here, which I would prefer for… Our son’s sake. There’s plenty of land around. You could easily stake a claim and build a homestead. I’ve been considering buying some farmland and if I did I would need someone to run the operation, I could offer that position to you. It would work like the general store, all profits are split 50/50 after paying the hands.”

Ana took a deep breath, “It will never be like with Mary, but find a bride. There’s many, many young women here looking for husbands. You would be considerably more preferable than most men. And… If you really still want to continue with the idea it’s Mary Gillis or no one… I will help you find her. She may not have heard the news. If you two are meant to be, she will come for you.”

Ana stood and dimmed the lights in the dining room. She helped Arthur into his room, making sure he was comfortable. She wished him goodnight, dimming the rest of the house on her way upstairs and him her own bedroom. She caught sight of herself in the mirror of her vanity. She picked up every one of her own flaws. The faint lines slowly appearing on her face as she aged, the scar above her upper lip from where her brother struck her wearing their father's ring and cutting her when she was 12, the faded and barely noticeable circular burns from cigars on her upper arm that traveled to her back underneath her nightgown.

She crawled into her bed, alone like she had since she became the lady of the house. Appearances aside, she called herself a fool for the lingering hope that it would work now that they were older. They simply weren’t meant to be. A pained ache bubbled in her chest. She closed her eyes as her tears fell. She locked the hope away.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 posting #rdr #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 community #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr2

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the-monkey-ruler · 1 year

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Was Ao Lie really just there to be a horse? Why is he not also a disciple?

I can’t say for certain why he wasn’t a disciple but it could be that he wasn’t needed to be a disciple as honestly… the horse is kind of more important in symbolic ways.

Bailong is noted to be the only one that goes TO Gaunyin to beg for help, it looks like it was a more 'please save me' rather than a need to repent for his past actions as he was to be executed.

Wukong, Bajie, and Wujing were already given their punishments and the pilgrim was a way to redeem themselves while Bailong needed it as a lesser punishment for his execution.

Perhaps in the story, it has more to do with the legality of not being able to change a punishment into him having to convert to Buddhism as his need to be on the pilgrimage is only slightly different.

Or maybe it's less to do with in-story reasons and more out-of-story reasons.

There is an important metaphor that is the “horse of will” that BaiLong is supposed to represent and it is in that representation of a real horse that this can play out. The Horse of Will coincides with the metaphor of the Mind Monkey, giving Wukong and Bailong a lot of reflection of each other interestingly enough.

The meaning of the horse is less impacting in the story narratively wise because, yeah, Bailong doesn't have any lines and doesn't get any action beyond maybe 2 arcs.

But symbolically he is to be seen a lot like the extension of Wukong and his character development to conquer his own mind.

The Horse being of the Will to overcome one's own mind (Funny enough this says metal and wood are also reflections of each other and Bajie is to be wood, so I just like to point that out as well) and Wukong is the Mind Monkey, the image of impulsive thoughts needs to have a strong Will in order to control his impulses and conquer himself.

I think this could be also seen with how Wukong was the BiMaWen, who was in charge of the horse but gave up that position when he thought it was too lowly for himself. Kinda showing that he wasn't ready to control his own thoughts or think about the long-term consequences, rather acting on his first emotions of anger and rage and going down to earth to claim a new title for himself.

It is only when he starts his pilgrimage does he start to practice self-discipline and restraint in his actions (overtime as you see his character progress throughout the novel) and it's not an immediate change or even obvious at some points but I think that when looking back it shows a great growth from start to finish. Because Will isn't a one-time thing.

It is dedication to a cause.

It is walking every single day for 14 years. Without thanks or recognition. It is a single job, a single goal, a single mission that will not be stopped until it is completed.

It is keeping a slow but steady pace to win.

Each party member plays with an important aspect and while he isn't an 'official' disciple I think he is the Second Brother of my heart (I'm sorry Bajie). And even if he doesn't get a long of screen time, I like to also think that he still plays an important role considering 14 years is a long time and who knows how many horses you would have to go through to get to India.

He's not just a horse! He's THE HORSE!

#jttw #journey to the west #xiyouji #ao lie #bai long ma #anon #anon ask #anonymous #ask

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the-martyrfication-of-the-matron · 2 years

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Do you have any Logan HCs?

Obviously.

Can’t forget my greasy little dog man that I find really attractive for no real reason.

-Brothel regular pre-Dating Donna. Because he’s a little slime man.

-He does bathe he just… doesn’t look like he does…

-He’s got the mouth of a drunken sailor.

-Trilingual, in Tu’Lan, Gal’Run and Ru’Auni, since they’re the big three regions for trade and he is a merchant.

-He was 5’11 when he first arrived in Phoenix Drop, but the werewolf transformation bumped him up to 6’5. He’s actually really short for a werewolf, and so he no longer does any trade with Brightport and Pikoro himself, he typically sends Malachi to do it for him.

-He would probably smoke if there were cigarettes available in MCD time.

-He doesn’t get drunk easily.

-He can play the lute, a little side hustle he used to have when merchanting was slow, but he usually only plays when it’s to entertain his kids or to make Donna happy on a stressful day.

-He looks like 5+ years older than he actually is.

-He is incredibly sunburnt all the time

-He has a horse called Captain.

-He’s chubby buff because, like idk if anyone can tell, that’s my type. And since a lot of his muscle came from the werewolf transformation, he has a load of stretch marks.

-He worships the Gal’Run gods, though prays to the Ru’Auni saints occasionally. He’s found more luck with his own gods, but he’s not against experimenting.

-He’s only not considered the alpha of the Phoenix drop wolf pack because every time the werewolves try to talk to him he just… leaves. Like he’s the eldest one there but he’s more likely to spontaneously combust than actually be useful.

-Donna introduced herself as a merchant when they first met, so imagine his shock when he found out she was basically just a pimp.

-Banned from Nana’s tavern but still goes there because he gets in little brawls all the time.

-His dad was also a merchant, and his mother was a farmer, so he grew up fairly wealthy. Those that control the food supply have the most power in small communities.

-He enjoys reading, even though Donna took him for being stupid. It’s a good way to get a grasp of the local culture and what’s valued there, and therefore what sells better.

-He loves his wife so much, like maybe he did only get with her to get some ass, maybe she only got with him for his money, but fuck if what he feels for her now isn’t love then love doesn’t exist.

-He isn’t home all the time because merchant things means he has to travel, but when he is, he spends every non-work hour with his family. He acts like they irritate him but there’s honestly no one he’d rather spend time with.

-He enjoys picking on Aphmau way to much.

-he helps Brendan out on occasion. It’s something to do when he needs a break from work.

-He was a really weak werewolf at first, but over the 15 years he really bulked up and now he’s definitely up there with some of the strongest people in the village.

-He’s a cat person. Like okay yea he’s part dog, but cats are where his love lies. To contrast, Donna is a dog person.

-He keeps his hair about shoulder length, so it’s not too long, but Donna can still play with it.

-He wears a lot of iron jewellery, and like most human-presenting werewolves, a silver ring to keep himself in check.

-He’s not got any magicks, but he has a natural immunity to it, so charming spells don’t work on him. But on the same note, he’s a little slime man, so normal charming and flirting works way too well.

#aphmau #aphverse #rewrite #aphblr #minecraft diaries #mcd #amaranth #logan (mcd)

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ozonecologne · 2 years

Text

Review: Keep On Ramblin’

It’s been a big year for Radio Company! They had their first live concert on December 19, 2022 where they debuted two songs from a new album to be released early the next year. That day has come, so let’s dive on in! Is it worth the listen?

This new release does not follow Radio Company precedent. Instead of being called the expected Vol. 3, the album has an actual name: Keep On Ramblin’. From what I can find, the reason for the change is that this album was planned to depart from Radio Company’s usual style of rock and jazz and instead lean more into bluegrass, folk, and especially country. Keep On Ramblin’ is being presented to us as a completely different project, but it doesn’t look that much different in terms of construction; the album still only has 10 tracks – same as Vol. 1 and one more than Vol. 2. The run-time is just slightly longer than either of its predecessors: Keep On Ramblin’ is just over 38 minutes long, more than Vol. 1’s 36 minutes and Vol. 2’s 34 minutes. Also notably, the longest song on the album is 5:39, a length that Radio Company has never attempted before. The shortest is under 3 minutes long at 2:58. The final track off of Vol. 1, Dume, is the only song in their catalogue that’s shorter. There is quite a range in the material to go along with the style shift.

For anyone that cringed when they read “country,” hang in there. I can only assure you that this isn’t Blake Shelton country, this is Emmylou Harris country. It’s not Dolly Parton, but maybe a little Loretta Lynn (if we’re being generous). I’m going to tell you now: if you don’t like country music, then you’re not going to like this album. It is going to bore you and sound a little kitsch. I also don’t think that it will convert anyone that might not have enough exposure to country music to actually like it. This album is clearly made for people that already relate to this kind of thing, and it doesn’t try to ease you in.

MUSIC

This is immediately clear from the first track, Right Kind of Trouble, which I can really only describe as hokey. This one is not like Radio Company’s usual openers, which are pretty gut-punch strong. This is a much slower take, almost bumbling, featuring Steve and Jensen in equal measure. Even though it plays to the beat of a horse rider bouncing in their saddle, it does still manage some cool electric guitar around the 1:40 mark. The tempo also starts to increase around 2:25 after a pretty nice instrumental buffet, and it is undoubtedly the best part of the song as the power builds.

While there are still some traditional rock notes as somebody shreds a guitar in the background, that opening twang never goes away. And Forever Ain’t Long slows down the pace enough that you can really get used to it. This is the first real slow dance scene song on the album, the kind of thing that plays at the end of a wedding reception by the time most people have already gone home. Jensen takes lead on this one, and his voice is really steady in this middle melody; this is the sweet spot for him and he sounds pretty professional on this one.

One problem that I have (which will recur throughout the album) is that Steve’s harmonizing doesn’t always feel super intentional here. It’s a little limp in the background and keeps fading in and out. I’m not sure if this was an intentional mixing choice, but if it was then it wasn’t a good one. The choir coming in behind for the bridge almost makes up for it.

Around the 1:45 mark, we get a surprising piano solo, which is very much giving saloon. You really don’t hear many of those too often anymore (though maybe there is a reason for that), and it’s admittedly a pretty fun touch. We get some more traditional guitar solos later, but this one stands out for the group. This definitely is not a modern or hip album, and it’s not trying to be.

Steve takes over for Every Light, with its now customary twang, while Jensen takes a higher register in the back. At this point, I’m still a little confused about the harmonies; they lack some commitment beyond the first track, which is unusual for this genre! For a two-piece set, Radio Company is making duets that aren’t really duets, and that feels like a mistake when you’ve chosen the perfect vehicle to deliver that. There’s also not much call and response – another staple of folk country. Look at something like Golden Rings for example and look at how strong both parts could be.

Maybe downplaying the country duet is Radio Company’s way of “modernizing” country, but I think that if you’re going to make an old-fashioned album then you need to commit to an old-fashioned sound. Turn up the mics, you cowards!

That being said, the fiddle rocks. The most interesting part of this song is the belting repetition at 1:54, but then they never do it again? What was that even about then? The whole song is as flat as a midwestern highway without the instrumentals cutting in.

The first major departure (and the first thing I’m actually impressed by) comes with Ain’t No Tellin’, which opens with an organ. The notes are much softer and more graceful than anything else so far, and Jensen takes the lead with an incredible head voice that sounds just beautiful. The longest song on the album is long for a reason; it starts as church music that slowly transforms into a solid electric guitar solo, and we even get a brass section coming in towards the end. It’s the most complex song that actually takes itself seriously, and I think we could have pushed it even further: a more sustained choir, longer solos, more, more, more!

I’m impressed by how much Jensen’s vocal ability has improved based on this song alone. Listen to 3:40 to 3:46 with that sustained note and then the run immediately after – he’s exercising a lot more control than in the past, even at 4:25 when he starts to get more gravely the way he likes to do but can’t always achieve.

This song is worth all 5 of its minutes, which I rarely say about songs that long. I love the slow fade out at the end but hate Jensen’s forced laughter at 5:19, which brings us right back into the realm of cheesy again.

...Which is probably a good thing seeing as the next song is You Made Me Blue, a Steve song that doesn’t fit with Ain’t No Tellin’ at all. It’s got some more fiddle on it, which I do like, but the lack of transition kind of ruins the vibe. And I thought we were doing so well with that this time around!

This is a square dance song that’s extra good for stepping. It’s really charming in its own way, and I’m weirdly endeared by this one. Maybe because I love Blue Kentucky Girl so much? These opening harmonies feel intentional, which is immediately more country to me (and they even do call and response later in later choruses)! It starts like that anyway, but then as the song goes on the harmonies get pushed to the back again. Steve fronting with Jensen being soft and weak in the background is not a formula I super enjoy; I’ve said before that Steve’s vocals are almost too clean and I reiterate that here. Still, I actually like this one for how distinctive it is.

The title track, Keep on Ramblin’, is fine but reminds me of an old complaint... inconsistent capitalization. In the title of the album, the word “on” is capitalized, but in the song title it isn’t. That’s weird, man! Hire an English major!

Jensen fronts here in a pleasant register with a richer tone than Steve’s, but he’s not pushing himself. It’s a little boring. There’s some nice picking around 2:20, and the backing vocals are giving me I’ve Just Seen a Face, but the Dawn & Hawkes cover. Like, listen to 0:47 – 1:02 of Keep on Ramblin’ and tell me you don’t hear that. Those are all the parts that stand out to me on this one.

Sadly there’s no Akon to be found on Sweet Escape, and to be honest, I’m getting bored at this point in the album. The truth is that most of these songs sound really similar to each other and I can’t remember most of them except for Ain’t No Tellin’ and You Made Me Blue, which are really clearly distinguished from one another. The rest all follow a pretty standard formula. I’m not sure if this is an issue with the quality of the music (probably) or if it’s just a matter of sequencing (definitely) – but there isn’t enough variation to break up the songs. I guess I like the “ooh ooh oohs” in the background of this chorus, but that’s about all that stands out here.

The harmonies are a lot more balanced on Return to Me. Like Right Kind of Trouble, Steve and Jensen are on equal footing on this one, even if the note at 2:04 is a little weird.

This one kind of rips off Sam Cooke’s Bring It on Home to Me but it’s obviously nowhere near as good. We get more of a brass feature at the end, which is nice; I didn’t realize how much I missed the brass section until it came back in this one. They tend to feature more heavily than this in Radio Company projects! This song has a pretty weird ending in that it’s pretty abrupt, like they just chose not to finish the phrase. This is the shortest song on the album and I don’t really think it should be?

Restless Man is another slower song with Jensen at the front. There’s a strong piano but Jensen is vocally a little less strong (I wonder if this song was recorded earlier in the process?). It’s another sobering moment of the album that I find myself gravitating towards just because the rest of it is so homogenous. We get the dynamite combination of the harmonica and the fiddle around 0:45 that continues on, and there’s also some nice layering around the 2-minute mark. There are lots of great instrumentals on this one and the variation is so needed. This one is fine, but looks better in comparison to what’s around it. I’m missing any kind of emotional journey or payoff.

The album ends with Velvet Sky, opening with a slow fiddle introduction in what I think is kind of a weird way to end an album. And you know what? I think it’s because Steve here inexplicably reminds me of Alan-a-Dale. This is for some reason giving me Oo-De-Lally, and there’s already a more impressive version of that out there so I’m not really seeing the point.

The song starts in earnest at 1:08, adding in some more layers where the vocals become a bit firmer, and ends by just trailing off. It’s like we’re watching Robin Hood and Little John walk deeper and deeper into the forest as the screen fades to black, leaving merriment behind them – the party’s still going, but they’re taking it elsewhere. Or, perhaps the audience has finally gotten tired enough from their evening of dancing to walk away, leaving the band behind in the barnyard to stumble back home and sleep it all off. For what it’s worth, at least it ended the same way it began.

STORY

Radio Company writes more... efficiently than they have in the past on this album, with vague impressions and mixed metaphors that really do their damndest to create clear characters. On Vol. 2, we got the story of Roy and Lori on Truly Forgotten, but this album has broadened the idea of doomed lovers to span a full album. The bare writing works against them on occasion in confusing the point of view in several places and withholding important information, and so I can’t say with certainty that I follow the complete arc of an album narrative. However, maybe being vague is the point, so as to not give too much away.

We open with the familiar trope of a devoted speaker that just can’t seem to win the heart of their beloved in Right Kind of Trouble. No matter how hard he tries, it’s never enough to make her stay: “It’s not if but when you’re gonna go / By the time you leave, well, we both know / Who and what we are.” He even idealizes her to the point of sainthood: “Slow down baby / Before you fall from above” – fall off her pedestal, or from Heaven, etc. It’s clearly an unhealthy balance of devotion and flippancy where the “black magic woman” keeps leaving the speaker over and over again, even as he begs on bended knee for her to stay.

But maybe, the speaker alludes by the end, that’s not such a bad thing? This kind of tenacity at least proves that the lover is strong and dependable, in that she sticks to her guns: “But you just won't break at all / You're the right kinda lover.” This is a person that can be counted on not to break under pressure, if only because she seems not to care too much about the speaker.

This idealizing and yearning continues into Forever Ain’t Long, where the speaker pleads for his lover to “take me to heaven / Or wherever you're from,” to a time “before the hurt came along.” We learn that at least one of these two is really in denial about how dysfunctional the relationship is, and try to just ignore that or push it aside:

The truth is in knowing, only makes it feel wrong, so we go right back to that old feeling we want it to be

Wouldn’t it be nice to return to the very beginning of a relationship, before any problems start to set in or things get difficult? Wouldn’t it be nice to never fight, or butt heads, or deal with anything tough? Our speaker yearns for that ignorant bliss when we can still project our lover as an angelic fantasy. The title of the song comes from the phrase that the speaker repeats, “Take me forever, forever ain’t long” – denial is a fundamental part to making their relationship work. Forever IS a long time, but the speaker doesn’t want to acknowledge that. He even begins to doubt if it’s worth it to stay as things become more complicated: “all the hours I spent here / Was it wasted all this time / Cause I'm slowly losing all hope.”

In Every Light, we discover through third-person narrative the picture of a troubled salt-of-the-earth soul that lives for the thrill and pushes his luck and can’t be tamed even by the person who loves him most – all very familiar stuff if you ever read any bad boy!Harry Styles fic on Wattpad in 2013. We learn that this person is caught up in “cheap tattoos and booze” and keeps “runnin’ every light that came upon them / Proved his love with the pedal down to the floor / Though she knew he was a wanted man / And always dreamed of having more.” This is someone that “rambles,” that cannot be tied down and lives passionately and in poetic pain, “hid[ing] in darkness.” This is the emotionally unavailable antihero that our lover romanticizes and pines for.

Ain’t No Tellin’ speaks to the false bravado that our rambler carries and also to his deep conflict, first hinted at in Every Light (he was “destined for a life of being torn”). The song opens, “Oh the fact is / Cold but true / Ain’t no tellin’ / Who I am.” This is the exact opposite of the line in Right Kind of Trouble that suggests certain actions tell us everything we need to know about who we are. But the rambler doesn’t seem to be self-aware enough to understand himself so easily; he speaks one minute of unbridled sweetness and laughter, only for anger to replace it the next. (This same disquieting anger appears on Vol. 2 in tracks like Quarter To, so this inability to make sense of oneself because we contain darker aspects has clearly been weighing on these writers for some time.)

It is perhaps this very fear of self that makes the rambler so distant, and provides insight into why he acts the way he does: “When you need it / And you know that I’m a little far away / Ain’t no tellin’, no, / Where the hell I am.” He’s running from himself just as much as he’s running from love, because what is love if not looking right down into someone, seeing them for who they are, and choosing to stay with them? If we don’t know what is really underneath the performance we give to the world, how can we ever feel ready to accept unconditional love? If we are unsure of who we are, that would mean to trust someone else to know better – would they give us what we need, even if we don’t know what to ask for? He asks his lover over and over again, “who are you / holding onto now,” unsure of her intentions.

As in Vol. 2, the solution lies in faith, though the advice here sounds less wise and more placating: “Just believe in / Every time / When we feel it again.” Rest assured, things will work out even when we’re not our best selves, because we can always believe we’ll get back to that original feeling that first brought us together. That will never go away. This moment is connected with Forever Ain’t Long and that original desperate denial we need to make an unsatisfying relationship work; it’s also connected to Right Kind of Trouble, when the rambler says,

When you’re lonely You can hold me close Oh then go and leave me Needing and knowing We’re one in the same

So maybe we DO know who we are: we are the same, at least there’s that. This assertion diminishes the fear of abandonment with the knowledge that being apart cannot destroy their relationship – the foundation has always been strong.

But is that enough to keep a relationship together, despite its problems? When is the right time to cut someone off?

For this couple, maybe that’s the right thing to do. You Made Me Blue is a celebratory breakup song: “You made me blue / For the last time.” The speaker is finally free, having given up on the promises their lover used to string them along with for so long. You promised we’d be happy, and you left me instead, the song says. So, good riddance! We get the repetition of things “going wrong” in the relationship, causing the lover to leave them and “[take] everything I had” with them. The speaker reflects on that desperation from Right Kind of Trouble and realizes that they actually deserved a lot better: “I was doomed the day we met / But now I see / That you’re no good for me.” The lover went from being TOO good to NO good at all, one extreme to the next. But instead of getting too down about it, the speaker revels in their newfound freedom. It’s a blessing, actually, to be left!

The song ends, “Yeah, you’re out there and / I’m here taking care of me / I don’t care / I’m just happy being me” but it’s just another denial. Letting go of those dreams of “more” mentioned in Every Light of course would be painful, but the speaker refuses to acknowledge that, and I’m left unconvinced by the end.

Keep on Ramblin’ is a delusional continuation of Every Light post break-up: “Left town again for no reason / Hit the floor I was away” echoes the “pedal down to the floor” line in Every Light. The reference to a “life of crime” later also suggests this link to the “wanted list” and “bad crowd” in Every Light. The rambler continues to live in denial of the hurt that he causes and the pain that he feels: “Nothin’ wrong bout how I’m livin’” and, “Time is only passing if you think of it that way / This life of crime is lonely, but only if you let it in to stay.” If we just “keep on rambling,” keep moving, keep running away from our problems, then maybe they’ll never catch up to us. If we never gaze into the abyss, it can never gaze back. This is why the rambler packs up and leaves “for no reason,” and why he doesn’t care to feel the passage of time.

It’s never really clear in the album who’s doing the leaving when: they both seem to be constantly leaving each other, even though it also seems like neither of them really wants that. That’s how relationships are, I guess: a series of miscommunications can break us, when not saying how we really feel is the greatest possible sin.

Sweet Escape is all told to us again from a third party: he (the rambler) said all of what we’re about to hear – his words are being reported to us from someone else. The flawed rambler thrives on attention: “He said, ‘I want to be the one people turn to / Even if it means I may be wrong.’” He needs to be needed at whatever cost. And just as things go south, his desperate bid for control comes out in narcissistic claims that “I had planned it all along.” Nothing’s wrong, everything is going according to plan. He’ll continue to boast and brag and wind the lover up with hot air even “knowing somewhere in the dead of night / A better man with a bigger fight may show / And give it a go.” Some day, someone with more integrity may come along and force him to face consequences for the way he treats people, losing his beloved forever – the rambler fears this, but will never confront it. In the meantime, he’ll continue living freely, “sail[ing] through waters [that] no one [else] has the nerve to,” actively trying to “reach rock-bottom… in a bottomless sea.” More thrill-seeking, more self-destruction, fueled by the impulse to destroy ourselves.

Return to Me is a little tricky to place. There are two possibilities for this song as I see it fitting into this story of the rambler and his lover:

1. This song is from the point of view of the lover waiting for the rambler to come back to her. On the one hand, it may represent a kind of yearning that can set in even after the elation of a break-up with someone toxic in You Made Me Blue, but feels like a moment of weakness that sets a journey of personal empowerment back a few steps. In the first line, the lover asks, “How far will you go?” And even though the lover does say, “I can't wait another day” – she’s through waiting around for them – she also confesses that “I’d go to the end of the world for you / If only you return to me.” She once again proposes marriage like in Forever Ain’t Long – “Ride with me / Round the lakeside / Got a raincoat and a veil” – impulsively jump into my car, run away with me, let’s get married. A moment of doubt as well for the abandoned lover, attempting to rationalize the behavior that hurt them: “Maybe I deserved it / To be left this way / I’m not sure / How I was so blind.” Maya Angelou wrote, “When people show you who they are, believe them the first time” and maybe that’s what the lover is saying too. He has always shown himself to be unreliable and untrustworthy, so how could I have expected any different from him? Maybe our relationship breaking has always been my fault, from expecting too much from someone that could never deliver. I should have known better. It’s a very familiar feeling.

2. On the other hand, this song could also still be from the perspective of the rambler, whose running has finally caught up with him to the point where he now understands the finality of the lover’s decision to leave him in You Made Me Blue. The line about “riding round the lakeside” would make sense given the rambler’s repeated association with cars, and instead of a rationalization we may find a moment of clarity: “Maybe I deserved it / To be left this way / I’m not sure / How I was so blind.” Maybe my actions really do hurt people, this was never as casual as I liked to make it seem, and I deserve to be left behind for treating this person who really cares about me as disposable. Maybe she was never really indifferent to me – maybe I just kept pushing her away all this time.

I don’t think it really matters which interpretation of this song you go with, and I prefer to think of it as both at the same time. These two people can think the exact same things for different reasons, which perhaps shows how well-suited they actually are for each other. For once, they are totally in sync. The irony is that they’ve also never been further apart.

The latter interpretation does make more sense as we enter into the epiphany of the rambler, our “Restless Man.” He confesses that he’s “had my time / Spent it livin’ off my mind / When all along it’s wrong that led the way” – he’s finally seeing his actions clearly and knows that he hasn’t been making the best choices, for himself or for others attached to him. He’s still not promising his lover perfection – “Ain’t saying I’ll be the greatest,” and it is definitely a “gamble” – but he knows that he cannot continue the way he has been living so far. He has to change. He pleads, then:

So keep on coming around To comfort me Oh and find us A place to land And slow down This restless man

The song ends with a desire to slow down, or, more accurately, to be made to slow down: exercise some of that strength that we saw in Right Kind of Trouble and make me new, the rambler asks. The question mark hangs in the air as we approach the last song, the end to the rambler’s journey.

I can’t fully make out Velvet Sky, and as the final track to the album maybe that contributes to the reason I find it to be such an odd ending. There’s enough to suggest here that Velvet Sky may be a reflection on the life that the rambler has led now that he’s decided to settle down (to a point). He’s seen everything he’s needed to see in the world: “I've walked down every street / Dragged both feet across most all the land / Bathed on every beach / So I know each grain of sand.” BUT, the song goes, the only thing that’s stuck out to him after everything is the sky over the sea. What’s left unspoken and what could give our rambler some peace is that the sky is the same everywhere. It’s constant, and you can’t outrun it. The speaker repeatedly mentions that the velvet sky is “the one thing that I love” – not a person or a home or a feeling, but the open and inviting sky, which has never abandoned him and never can. However, it’s later clarified that it’s the sky over the ocean that makes him happiest because in silhouette there he can see “where a sail finds a friend in the wind.” The sight of two boats on the water is his favorite in the world: an indirect way of saying that a loving partnership really means the most out of everything to him, where in Sweet Escape he only “sailed” alone.

While the wording is troubling, it’s suggested elsewhere that the rambler has abandoned the rambling lifestyle, as he is left “prayin’ I won’t end up just like the one who ran away / If in fear is where I'm livin’ for the most… away from all this wretched sin.” There’s still some uncertainty, some fear that this won’t work out and that the change won’t stick, because that beautiful velvet sky out there still calls his name. But this line does seem to imply that he’s through “running away” and doesn’t want to be the guy that does that anymore. The biggest piece of evidence that things are ending on a good (if complicated) note is that “you’re headed toward the shore to follow me.” If he is still running away, at least someone is running with him instead of away from him.

Ultimately, it does little to resolve the fundamental issues at the core of the rambler’s relationship with his lover about identity and darkness. There’s also an argument to be made that this last song implies that the rambler has been left alone and abandoned forever, rejected, longing for something he can never have. “Pay me no mind” he dismisses, and he “drink[s] wine from a bottle each day,” recalling the “booze” he was mixed up with in Every Light.

The story of this album poses a flawed but passionate character afraid to do any self-reflecting, and then refuses to ever force that introspection. It seems to me at least that the rambler never fully solves his own problems, and what little peace he may find comes at a cost. The album instead, I think, poses a challenge to its listeners: will you run? Would you stay?

For what it’s worth, I don’t think that any of this comes across well in the music of the album – there’s a total disconnect here between form and content.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Keep On Ramblin’ fits into country canon without standing out. Most of it is, and I do hate to say this, mediocre bar music. This is not the sweeping indie rock with quiet ambition that I was just getting used to from Radio Company; I wouldn’t put these songs on anywhere other than a backyard BBQ to fill in the spaces between better and more recognizable performers like Willie Nelson and Gram Parsons. It’s fine, but they just don’t go far enough here for my taste. Too many cliches, not enough belting or strong feeling, weak harmonies, and the instrumentals barely even get started before they’re over. There is no discernible arc in either the music OR the story that I can find, and if there is one then it’s too much work for me to even want to unearth. A lot of it more or less blends together, and it’s not an album that I care to think too hard about.

I grew up with classic country music and I appreciate it. I’m trying to be impartial about the style change, but I have to be honest: I just like this less than Vol. 1 or Vol. 2. I know that Radio Company are capable of better! As of now, my favorite project from Radio Company might actually be Vol. 1; I did not expect to feel that way, but that’s the project I feel most nostalgic for out of all of them so far.

Track ratings out of five stars:

Right Kind of Trouble ⭐️⭐️

Forever Ain’t Long ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Every Light ⭐️⭐️

Ain’t No Telling ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

You Made Me Blue ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Keep on Ramblin’ ⭐️⭐️

Sweet Escape ⭐️⭐️

Return to Me ⭐️⭐️

Restless Man ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Velvet Sky ⭐️

Average song rating: 2.5/5

Favorite tracks: Ain’t No Tellin’, You Made Me Blue, Restless Man

#radio company #text #music review #music #this album is EXTREMELY dean winchester coded fyi #the rambler is dean. jensen is dean. jensen wrote a dean country album.#and it should have been much better than this so everyone boo this man #i started this review so early this morning and i've been looking at it ALL DAY i need to be done with it #if i'm incoherent sorry!!! i rewrote this like 8 times

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roxannarambles · 7 months

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Hi Again, Roxy! I hope you're doing/feeling better lately. Just wanted to share this headcanon with you. :)

I like to think that Rika would let Nemona ride her Draft Horse, Mudsdale. Sure, Mudsdale is slow as dirt, but Nemona would adore riding astride an 8 feet tall/2.5-meter-tall Ground Draft Horse that can cause Earthquakes. Nemona gave Mudsdale apples, pats/pets, hugs, and thanks after every ride. And Nemona would definitely return the favor by letting Rika ride her Swift Horse, Spectrier. Well, if Rika could stay on the Ghost Horse. Spectrier would try to buck off anyone who is not Nemona or Juliana. Even then, Nemona got bucked off Spectrier's back the first few times she tried to tame and ride the Swift Horse. Though, Nemona can stay astride a horse rearing up on its hind legs, Rika can't. Mudsdale or Spectrier, whenever Rika tries to get her steed to rear up, she usually falls off her mount. Maybe Rika and Spectrier have a petty rivalry with each other. At the very least, Rika definitely looks cool riding Spectrier. What do you think?

Have A Fantastic February!

- Horse (🏇) Anon

Hiya!! I've been up and down, to be honest-- trying to taper off some meds with real lousy side-effects and get myself a better therpist, so we'll see how that goes. I peck away at fanfic too when I have the energy.

I think Nemona would love Mudsdale tbh. Slow, yes, but powerful, as you said, and also . . . that thing has stamina. Which is something I think Nemona would really appreciate, since it's something she sometimes wishes she had more of. But I guess that's the thing about stamina, sometimes you gotta learn to pace yourself out and go a tad slower if you want to make it for the long haul.

Or just drink ungodly amounts of caffeine and go into a hyperfixation fugue state lmao (I don't recommend this dear readers)

Love your headcanons for Rika & Spectrier too, they're both prob pretty stubborn, a rivalry would be amusing 😂 Would probably earn each other's respect eventually. maybe lol

Nemona on a rearing horse would be super coooool too, she'd look like such a boss

Hope you're doing well! ❤️

#asks #anon #horse anon #nemona #rika #headcanons

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naoyaslut · 2 years

Text

pairings: gojo satoru x fem reader, nanami kento x fem reader, getou suguru x fem reader

synopsis: heartache, deception, and beautiful memories.

minors do not interact with my works, or you will be blocked! 18+ only.

tw. angst, love triangles, pining, slow burn, multi-chap, mention of death, hint of polygamy,

wcount.1.9k+

a.n. - there is no real plot established for this fic, tbh it will probably be a bunch of little ficlets. my brain just goes BRRRT sometimes and I have to write it out.

The airport was relatively empty once you made your way off your flight. Following behind a small group of random patrons, you pulled the backpack you were carrying further up on your shoulders before you began to scout the concourse for any familiar faces.

A familiar head of white hair caused your frown to flatten out, your mood going from anxiousness to mediocrity. Gojo stood front and center towering over the other passersby, wearing black sunglasses even though he was inside of a brightly lit airport.

He got a few glances from a few passersby here and there while he looked onward. He looked so out of place, a lonely giant in the middle of the concourse. Once he spotted you; his hand went up to wave high in the sky as if you wouldn’t be able to see him standing heads high above everyone else.

“Oi! Y/n, over here!” Gods, that man was obnoxiously loud, and a small frown found its way back onto your features as you quickly walked in his direction rolling your carry-on behind you.

He smiled big and bright once you approached, offering to take the backpack off your back before the two of you left to head out.

“See, I’m right on time,” he replied smartly, watching as you removed the black backpack and put it in his open hand.

“I’d be surprised if you of all people were late, Satoru,” you mused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

It had been a long while since you’d laid eyes on Satoru, he still looked as youthful as ever, granted he seemed to have grown at least another head taller. He was all around larger, solid. Maybe he had put on a lot of muscle, you couldn’t decipher.

Idly your thoughts went back to Suguru and Nanami. You wondered how everyone else had faired. Though you knew the answer something that you didn’t want to hear. The only reason you were back was that something felt off, something was… wrong. And you needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth to figure out what was going on.

You’d been away from Japan for the past three years or so. After graduating Jujutsu High, instead of becoming an instructor you left to work for the FBI the sorcerer Branch. You weren’t aware that such a thing existed beforehand, but you learned that this branch dealt with curses and rogue sorcerers that existed outside of Japan.

Something was happening in Japan. Something sinister. Even though your branch operated outside of Japan, you were ordered to come back to assist in the upcoming mission that the branch in Japan would be overseeing.

“It’s good to see you, y/n. Though I wish it were under better circumstances,”

Satoru slipped your backpack over one of his arms and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to motion towards the man who had been a few feet behind the two of you, waiting in silence.

“He’s been sulking about seeing greeting you first the whole way here,”

Stepping off to the side, you peered around Satoru. Nanami stood stiffly one hand shoved in the pocket of his tan slacks and lacking his trademark glasses.

Gasping in surprise, you released the handle on your luggage to sprint in his direction. An ecstatic squeal left your lips while you threw your arms around his neck to embrace him.

“N-Nanami!” you cried, your eyes beginning to tear up once his own hands went to clasp around your lower back. “I missed you so much!”

His stoic expression slowly began to wean itself into a faint smile as he stared down at you, brown eyes taking in your suddenly reenergized appearance.

He didn’t have the chance to respond to your overzealous greeting, because you’d pulled him down into a smoldering kiss pressing your lips heavily against his. His hands remained in place at your waist while he allowed you to kiss him not so innocently.

Kento Nanami, you were infatuated with him all throughout high school. You were sure he didn’t have the slightest fleeting interest in you at all, but you still pursued him anyway and almost hesitantly he seemed to warm up to you.

The two of you did grow close and dated for a few years before graduating, but once you got slated for work outside of Japan, you both made the decision to break it off.

“How come I never get greeted with that much enthusiasm?” Satoru complained loudly.

Satoru’s voice knocked some sense into me instantly. Pulling away from Nanami instantaneously, you shifted out of his hold in embarrassment. Bending forward in front of him, you bowed over and over again voicing your apologies.

“I’m so sorry!” you whined, holding your hands in front of you together as if asking for forgiveness. “Nanami, I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking!”

The prickle of embarrassment began to creep its way up your chest, your ears on fire from the lack of thought you put into your greeting. You didn’t know if Nanami was dating anyone, and you completely disregarded Satoru who had only been standing a few feet behind the two of you.

Nanami only smiled in return, resting his large palm on the top of your already mussed hair. He didn’t seem to mind the greeting but did shoot Satoru a tired glare as if he knew better than to make comments like that.

“No need to apologize,” Nanami turned his eyes back on you, before walking past you to grab your luggage.

Satoru had agreed to pick you up from the airport, which you were eternally grateful for, but the bottom line was that you weren’t back in Japan for a vacation. A dark cloud was falling over Japan, you could sense it.

There were dark clouds around the people that you cared for as well, Gojo, Nanami, and Geto. You knew that something had happened to him, but you didn’t know the details. A few months back while you were out on a mission of your own, you felt something heavy sitting on your heart.

When you followed up with Gojo, he wouldn’t give you any information. In your heart, you felt as if Suguru was far, far away. You couldn’t feel that demanding presence of his any longer, it was weak and almost out of touch.

Satoru and Nanami escorted you to the hotel that you had booked for your stay. You wanted to catch up with Nanami, but he insisted that he had to leave for the night. He had to work early in the morning.

You were stuck with Satoru, and you utilized the alone time to pry information out of him about Suguru and what was really going on in Japan.

“I killed him with my own hands,”

Satoru’s sentence echoed throughout the back of your head as you stared at him from across the room. Satoru was insisting to you, right here in this room that he’d killed Suguru, his best friend after he’d gone on a rampage, set out on a mission to destroy all sorcerers.

You didn’t believe him. Not that Suguru wasn’t capable of something as such, but that he killed Suguru. Just replaying his words left a bitter taste in the back of your throat. Suguru and Satoru were friends, they were close. How did something like this happen?

Collapsing on the edge of the mattress of your hotel room bed, you swallowed down dryness that had seemed to lodge itself in your throat before you replied.

“You’re wrong,” It was whispered. Placing your hand over the rhythmic beating of your own heart, you let your eyes fall onto Satoru who was still wearing his black shades pushed down over his eyes.

“How can you tell me I’m wrong?” he asked. “I know what I did,” Satoru sat next to you on the mattress, pulling off his glasses to pin you with a brilliant bright blue gaze. His eyes nearly blinded you with their brilliance. You knew he could see this too, those eyes of his saw everything.

“I can feel him here, Satoru,” by here, you meant in your entire being.

Reaching out to Satoru, you intended to place a hand over his chest but were prevented from doing so. That infinity of his was up and active, preventing you from making contact with him at all.

You smiled bitterly, returning your hand back to your breast allowing your eyes to fall shut for a moment. Geto Suguru was alive. No matter how faint his life force was, you felt it and you knew he was still alive. It’s faint, but he’s still out there somewhere.

“You know, that’s the reason you and I were never close, Satoru,” you scoffed, letting out a bigger-than-needed sigh before sending him a glare.

Satoru looked at you, clearly confused. He had no idea what you were going on about now.

“Your infinity,” you mused, again attempting to press a finger to his chest. You watched the space between his shirt and your finger ripple and distort while you continued to prod at him. Satoru’s infinity allowed him to control space… you couldn’t lay a finger on him unless he wanted you to. “But I don’t blame you, it’s good to have that defense mechanism… it can protect you from a lot, not just the physical but the intangible as well,”

Feelings, emotions, and things that would scathe you mentally and physically.

The feeling of Satoru’s chest underneath the pads of your fingers you’d been trying to jab him with shocked you out of your own private thoughts. Never had Satoru ever dropped his Infinity with you so close and within his bubble.

He was sturdy as you expected, but he still had a little give just like any other human being would. He wasn’t some indestructible fortress; Satoru was still a man who could still be hurt physically and emotionally.

Meeting his fluorescent gaze, a heavy feeling of trepidation began to fall over you once you saw the look in his eye. Something was amiss, you felt, but what was it?

You’d always been more attuned to the individuals you cared for, and you could sense a thick black thundercloud hovering over both Kento and Satoru.

“All you had to do was ask,” Satoru said, his lips quirking up into a playful smile.

He must have sensed your uneasiness and the sad look in your eye. You couldn’t see the future, but you knew, you could feel it in your bones that there was nothing but death and destruction ahead.

“Satoru…” you began, keeping the contact between yourself and Satoru intact. You could feel his heart beating beneath your palm steady and strong.

The strongest.

“Please protect Nanami, I worry about him…” Chuckling dryly, you turned your eyes away from Satoru’s opting to stare at your hand still over his heart. “You men are reckless,”

You could feel your eyes begin to prickle as unshed tears began to gather along your lash line. You were going to cry; your constitution wasn’t as strong as you thought it was.

“I care about each of you, a lot. I want nothing but the best for all of you, please protect th-”

Satoru’s much larger hand enveloped yours, keeping it pressed firmly against his chest and the opposite came to cradle your nape. His lips were pushed against your own, swallowing down the remainder of your plea as if a kiss would silence you completely.

Satoru had never kissed you before. Satoru was all teasing, all jokes, and no seriousness. He’d never held onto your hand to keep you close or made a move to kiss you into silence. That wasn’t Satoru’s style.

He broke away from you abruptly, his thumb rubbing a comforting arch at the column of your throat.

“Don’t cry, I’m the strongest, remember?”

#jujutsu kaisen fan fiction #reader x multi #fem reader x gojo satoru #fem reader x nanami kento #fem reader x getou suguru

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thegeminisage · 1 year

Text

sneaking in a bit of zelda!! i wanted to explore the coliseum (overworld version) today but im not sure if my armor can stand up to the gleeok in there lol

last night btw i finally turned in the last of my korok seeds - my inventory is completely expanded, and i have collected a total of 664 seeds. 236 to go.........

im thinking about switching back to the old bike. the new one makes sharper turns but i have a harder time controlling it, especially if im carrying something. the old one lists to the side a little bit but i barely notice anymore as ive learned to compensate...

i wish you could sell sleepover ticket. i almost never use the stables and when i do i wanna pay for them so i can get points. i usually have tons of rupees so they dnt really save me money i desperately need...after early game theyre completely useless. i'll never use all the ones i have saved up at this point

farosh was going one way a second ago and is now going the other way?? girl whats up

evil korok seed. you have to dive into a ring of lilies but the place you have to dive from is a place that link sort of automatically jumps over when you try to step there. smh

ok. im at the coliseum. without a doubt i am gonna get my ass kicked bc my lightning armor sucks ass. i have a potion i can drink and wear normal armor for the first bit of the fight but after it runs out i have to wear shit armor and cross my fingers :/

it could have been a lynel. they could have put a lynel here. it would've been fine.

on the other hand, i guess i'm lucky it's not hands.

ok. best gear. potion ready. here i go

ok, first 3/4 down REALLY easily. still plenty of time left on my potion, but the armor is superior bc the shocks still make me flinch without it. unfortunately this mf is now in the air and idk how to get up after it. ascend??

there has to be a better way, this is so much ascending, what do i do for thunder gleeoks not in the coliseum??

KEESE! WING! ARROWS!

i got all the way to the top and still couldn't get to it, so i improvised lol. i saw that wind gusts started but by then it was too late!! im so pleased

truly incredible. i beat it in under 3 minutes without electric armor! i can't believe the one on hylia bridge killed me so many times. i really have leveled up

maybe i should fight the ice gleeok in hebra...thats the last stable quest i need...

armor sitch is gonna be worse for this though. even with cold resistance, some of my defense is gonna be taken up by my having to wear these fucking snow boots (or i have to be slow during the fight...)

man i hate cold regions in these games. this is making me nervous

AAAAA it saw me so soon!!!!

omg lol it's blowing snowballs at me

DEFFOOO not doing as much dmg to this guy as the lightning one...i had zora weapons for that, so they all got powered up when wet, but i cant use ice attack food here bc im using my food to PROTECT myself from the cold

also, bc im in snow boots, i dont get the atk up bonus from the oot link armor :| fuck it, im barely moving, ill take them off next time it drops

up it goes...now what

i found shelter to protect me from the big attack but idk how to get up there 😭 wheres the WIND

OH MY GOD WAIT...OH MY GOD

oh thats so FUCKING cool

recall and ride the icicles up!!!!!!! AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!! i think i love fighting gleeoks now?!

now to find that damn horse

found it. got kicked in the face before i could mount, bc riju was in my fucking way. disabling sages 😔

got it! i thought this horse was supposed to be a yiga or something? am i riding a couple of yigas in furry suits?

awwww my bestie is sad to be retiring from the news business :(

i guess it is a real horse lol. maybe i got fake spoiled with some wack fanart

I HATE NAMING HORSES...it's so much pressure 😭

googled some named and went with aurum (something made of gold). thanks internet

time to go get my last paycheck!!!

FROG ARMOR COMPLETE!

awww my bestie's not here...do we not get to see him anymore after this...? what a bummer

ok, i have to quit for now!! maybe next time ill kill more gleeoks lol

#personal #loz blogging #totk lb #totk spoilers

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tamyrawilliams · 1 year

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Tomas and Tamyra get called over to the fisher’s hut by Gedeon that doesn’t quite go as Gedeon hopes it would. ft. @sagetomashardy

"Gedeon just seemed so insistant that I should get you too, that you need to see it too, but he just came and told me and then insisted I got you and rushed off to the hut," Tamyra explained as her and Tomas were making their way towards the fisher's hut. "I think we should be good with the path, too, unless whatever this is takes hours. I don't mind a swim, but I am assuming you would rather not do that.

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

"I'm a strong swimmer," Tomas said, but it was mostly just to say it because he immediately scrunched his face in distaste and continued, "...better to have the path to use, though. I'm starting to think we should just demolish the damn thing." He stared out at the structure with distaste, its corrugated aluminum walls creaking in the distance. Tomas had good control over his air-attuned hearing by this point but some noises got through, and that galvanized creak was one of them. "What good is it? Nobody goes there to fish."

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

"Honestly, I wouldn't mind it. That map inside creeps me out, so I'd be happy without it existing and in general, this place is good for nothing more than punishing people or giving them the creeps." Maybe Tamyra was still annoyed over Esther being banished here for no actual good reason, too, that was part of it was well. "Though if that map is real and is some island magic, I doubt the island would let us actually destroy it."

They were getting close tovthr hut now, though, and finally Gedeob appeared, waving them to hurry. "Come, come, I've got to show this to you guys. I was playing with the water and found these scribbles on the stands of the hut and then what seems like drawings of events that happened on this island, it's craaaazy!"

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

"I don't even know why it's used to punish people. We shouldn't be doing that. We don't need an island jail." Tomas was grumbling to the choir, but sometimes it was nice to have a good grumble session, and the two of them were on the same page -- about Esther, at least. Opinions could vary on Emre's tenure in the Hut.

Gedeon popped up, as frenetic as he always seemed to be, and Tomas deliberately slowed his steps a fraction when urged to hurry. "Hold your horses," he grunted, eventually reaching where Gedeon was standing. The water was in its slow rise, hitting just above the ankle, which made Tomas frown as he looked up at the stilts. "So," he said, "either somebody ... climbed these posts to write up there, or they did it when the tide was high?" Some of it was drawings, some of it was words -- Tomas was squinting at a line of tidy block capitals at least three feet above his eyeline that read UNDER HERE THEY'VE GIVEN ME STARFISH FOR EYES, cut into the wooden post neatly as if it was done with a machine press.

"That's not the point," Gedeon said, clearly disappointed at Tomas' flat dubiousness. He looked over at Tam as he scraped his lank blond hair from his face. "You get it, right? It's messages. For us. Probably for water attuned like you and me -- sorry, Tomas. Maybe that's why you don't get it."

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

It was amusing how Tomas did the exact opposite of what Gedeon was asking and Tamyra already felt a bit better about all of this. Something that didn't last too long - once they reach the so called signs that were carved into the wood (seemed more like scribbles to Tamyra, but sure, yes, there were drawings there, if one squinted hard enough), and Gedeon looked expectently at Tamyra for answers.

"That just reads like somebody tried to be poetic and write some kind of metaphor or something and failed miserably. That, or somebody wanted to be cryptic about cutting somebody's eyes out," Tamyra said, her eyes running over the line again, missing how the disappointment only grew with Gedeon, mixed in with some annoyance now. "What kind of message do you think it?"

"Don't you understand? It means that the water and the ocean is the key. The starfish for eyes signifies that we have to look under the surface of the water and if we can figure out all of the clues in the messages, we can reach the secrets of the island!" Gideon seemed so convinced and started getting riled up as he spoke, started getting into it. "Can't either of you see it? Here, look," he pointed to one part of the drawings, "this is what remained of the map. It's tricky, it's only part of it, a good chunk got ruined, but it's still there."

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

Tomas looked where Gedeon was gesturing, at the supposed map, but he couldn't really make out anything like that. "It seems like it's up for interpretation," Tomas said finally, moving around a little in the rising water to circle one of the support posts. A series of drawings continued around the back of what Gedeon referred to as a map, looking like they were incomplete but on purpose -- like somebody had cut the complete drawing in half. "It's intriguing, I'll give you that, but there's nothing definitive--"

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Gedeon demanded. He was smiling, but it was an angry smile, his eyes hard as he flicked his gaze between Tam and Tomas. "God, the favouritism on this island is unbelievable. If it doesn't come from one of your little cronies then you dismiss it right away."

"Take it easy," Tomas started, holding up one hand with the other on his hip, but Gedeon wasn't about to be stopped.

"It's clearly clues that somebody's trying to communicate to us," Gedeon insisted. "Tamyra, come on. You got your face all fucked up going off on a wild goose chase to get off the island but you won't listen to me showing you something that's so obviously an actual way to understand what's going on? I made a huge discovery here and you two assholes should acknowledge it!"

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

Was Gedeon right that sometimes (each time she tried, but Tamyra wouldn't admit that to Gedeon, especially not after this) Tamyra went on wild goose chases while she tried to get off of the island? Yes, he was. But he was being an asshole about it, an asshole to Tomas, and when he brought her face into it, that was the point where he lost Tamyra completely.

Tamyra's back straightened, her expression darkened. "One, you have no idea what 'fucked up' my face as you say, nor do you have any right to fucking bring it up and use it as some argument when you wanna win something. Two, if you wanna ask our opinions about something because you think we would recognize the real stuff and then we don't, maybe that is indication for you that it's all bullshit. Like, really, you talk about wild goose chases - have you considered this might be the one? It's practically nothing, and even that has been cut in half or something."

The water was lapping at their legs through all of it, the water getting stronger and stronger, and Tamyra could have sworn, as Gedeon twisted his fingers into a fist, it felt like the water was trying to give the punch. "Or maybe you never got off of this place because you were too stupid to truly recognize the real signs, you just went following pointless misdirections.

"And you," he turned back to Tomas. "Why did I even think I should come to you. You have a hole in your head, Kotka fucked you up so badly, you probably cannot even tell the difference between a proper map and a scribble. Of course you cannot see the truth! Are you even fit to run the farm? Or are you just running it in name, your little pet dog Emre doing most of the work in the background to save your ass from embarrassment?"

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

"It looks like a deliberate sectioning, though," Tomas noted as he continued to look at the cut-in-half drawing. "That's pretty strange--"

Tam had already gotten all riled up, though (Tomas had groaned inwardly when Gedeon brought up her scars; that had been a very bad move on his part) and was dismissing anything that the other man might have that bore thought. The water nearly at their knees gave a sudden strong tug, and Tomas repeated, "--easy, now," with a little more urgency as he saw the way Gedeon's fist was clenching. Not to mention the way he was starting to match Tam's ramped-up confrontational stance.

But Gedeon had some words for Tomas, too, and he blinked as his eyebrows raised but didn't say anything until Gedeon had vented his spleen. "That's enough," Tomas said firmly, pressing down a heavy stamp of emphasis on the second word. "I don't know if these markings mean anything but that doesn't mean we should ignore them. We can't look at them now, though, Gedeon, the tide's coming in fast. And you need to fucking cool off for a bit before you say something you regret."

"They could get eroded," Gedeon insisted, looking feverishly up at the markings and words and drawings. "They could disappear. You know how this island works, it could make them vanish and then we'd lose our only clues. If you two would stop sucking each other off and help me then we could figure it--"

"No," Tomas said, reaching out to hold one of the posts as the water started getting rougher, the pull stronger. "We need to get back to land right now. Either that or up into the Hut and if we do that, we're stuck till the tide goes out again."

Gedeon's long face turned mutinous, then downright sinister as he looked between the other two. "We'll stay until you help me," he said, voice coming out low and silky. "Or I'll let everyone know that you let a chance to figure out the island's danger slip right through our fingers because you can't stand anybody else actually being right about something."

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

While Tomas tried to remain calm and collected, Tamyra was quite the opposite, and really, could anyone blame her? First Gedeon came for her through her scars, than he brought up Tomas and his head injury and twisted and turned both of them into something horrible and offensive and then turned around and kept telling them to listen to him as if it could ever actually work, as if this was the winning tactic.

How Tomas wasn't more annoyed, Tamyra was baffled.

Tomas did have a point, though - the tide was coming and coming fast and hard, another stronger hit of the water hitting them.They'd need to go one way or another soon. And the propect of being stuck in the fisher's hut while the water went down again was not at all appealing. "Are you fucking kidding us?!" Tamyra snapped at his threat. "Why do you even want our help? You just told us we are stupid and useless, and yet you are willing to threaten us just to keep us here and yet you don't seem to even like us one bit? Why?"

"Because people listen to you! He" Gedeon pointed at Tomas, "runs the farm, did so much for the community, people look up to him. If he agrees that something is important, that it's real, then people'll believe it. And you spent three decades trying to get out and finding these clues, that will have some weight to it, too."

"And you think against all of that, if you just say we don't give a shit because we don't want anyone else to take the glory, people will just believe you instead?" Tamyra asked as she tried to at least control the water around them enough to calm it down, not let it pull them in, not let it end badly. It was hard, though, this wasn't like creating a water monkey and making it jump around - this was the force of the ocean and she could only do so much in the long run.

"They will listen to me, especially if other people back up my claims," Gedeon shrugged. Did he actually have friends who would do that or was he bluffing? Tamyra couldn't tell, but it didn't bode well.

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

"I don't have to like you in order to see what needs to be done to get heard in this place." Gedeon's smile wasn't looking any more genuine, even though he kept smiling; in fact, the anger in his demeanour made it seem even more sinister. "There's favourites. There's the people who think they deserve the spotlight all the time--" he nodded at Tam, "--and the people who think they're tin pot gods dictating from on high." That one was for Tomas. "I'm playing the percentages. If I get in good with one of you two jerks, then people will actually take this seriously."

"Look," Tomas said, fed up at this point. "I already said it looks like there's something here. But we can't deal with it right now! The tide's coming in and Tam can't keep it held back much longer and I can't--" He cut himself off, making a fussed sound. "I don't know how long I can maintain breathing for more people than just me. Hell, since I got shot I don't know if I could even do it for myself."

"Maybe Miss Island Movie Star can't handle her water," Gedeon said scornfully, "but I can." He started to demonstrate, wrenching the water out of Tam's attunement-grasp and sending it gliding up the columns of the hut. More water rushed in immediately and Tomas gave an alarmed shout, finding it crashing almost up to his waist.

"We have to go," he said to Tam, eyes wide with urgency, too much white showing. "All of us. We gotta get--"

He was cut off by a shout from Gedeon, whose water skins were ... peeling off the columns. That was the only way Tomas could think to describe it. The water in their immediate area rose in a leap, up to mid-chest on Tomas, and swamping Gedeon over entirely. His blond head disappeared beneath the choppy waves.

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

It was actually calming for Tamyra to see Tomas getting fed up and annoyed as well - he needed more to get enough of this, but he was getting fed up.

And somehow in the middle of it all, Gedeon still felt like he could come out of this as a winner. And in light of that, he actually started messing with her water attunement! Tamyra was shocked to feel the push against her own power and if nothing else, that surprise caused her to slip in her focus, letting Gedeon take over. They were supposed to be getting out of here, and he was all about the petty fighting of whose attunement was better!

(To be clear, Tamyra was all for that kind of pettiness when she was being petty, but she was on the other side of it so she was all annoyed about it.)

Well, if he wanted to play like this, then so be it. "Yeah, we gotta go. You can play the hero for all I care, as long as--" she couldn't finish though, just like how Tomas couldn't because the water took over and suddenly they were close to submerged - Gedeon actually submerged. "Fuck my life, if he gets us kil..." She was not going to let that happen but there came a wave next and Tamyra was fully submerged then, pushed off of her feet. She frantically reached for Tomas and grabbed his hand, pulling both of them above the water.

"Do you see that idiot anywhere?" she asked, looking around, her hand not letting go of Tomas'. The water was still rising and she could feel the pull of the ocean inward and see bigger and bigger waves coming towards them. But no Gedeon. What a fucking asshole. "We gotta get out of here before the ocean pulls us in, Tomas, we can't just stay here and wait for him to show. He is water attuned, he should be fine getting back himself."

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

"I don't see him," Tomas said, spitting out water as the waves chopped at them. "I can't--" He ducked under the waves, expecting his air-attunement to kick in the way he'd learned to do it with Tam, but ... nothing happened. He actually started breathing mechanically the way he'd stopped doing on land, which made things worse. Tomas didn't know if it was because he was panicky, or because his body was fucked up from his brain injury, but it was clear he wasn't going to be able to search for Gedeon.

Coming back up to the surface, Tam wasn't gonna be able to do much better; the water was rising at a hellish clip. "Yeah," Tomas said, subdued and muted. "Fuck. We need to get outta here."

The current was dragging at them as they swam-waded towards shore, and by the time they reached land they were exhausted but Tomas still kept squinting out towards the Fisher's Hut, hoping against hope to see Gedeon's pale head bobbing up somewhere. "He's good with his attunement," he muttered, half a prayer. "He'll be fine. He'll be fine."

— ⋆ ✯ ⋆ —

Gedeon was an asshole and if it came down to it, Tamyra would have gotten Tomas out than him, but as much of an asshole as he was, he was in the same position as she was for years, and she didn't wanna see him be taken by the water.

But they didn't have a shot to look for him, they needed to get out to the shore themselves - that was hard enough job as it was. Tamyra was breathing hard - swimming didn't often tire her our but the waves and the current sucked her energy out and she leaned forward, rested her hands on her knees, but her eyes were scanning the water too. "He'll just need a bit more time to get out," she tried to reassure both Tomas and herself. Darkness was falling over the island, though, and soon it was hard to see anything, let alone Gedeon's blonde head - they most likely missed him getting out, but they couldn't know for sure.

#tomas #tomas 019 #interlude 11 #i am so sorry this took me so long to post this #but this was so much fun #thank youuu for this!!

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pandawriterstuff · 2 years

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Writeblr Introduction Post

So, I figured it was probably time to make a proper writeblr introduction post instead of leaving my ramble about finishing my last WIP up forever.

I'm Panda, I'm in my thirties, I mostly write middle grade to new adult(maybe?) stuff if it's original, fanfiction is more a bit all over the place. I dabble in Sci-Fi and Fantasy, but generally my stuff is set in the real world, or at least adjacent to it. I follow a decent amount of writers, but not really any active middle grade authors, and I definitely see (and love) more fantasy than anything on my dash, so if you're writing realistic fiction or middle grade please interact with this post so I can follow you!

I tend to write about families, the ways they can fall apart and rebuild themselves and all the things in between. I love happy endings, but they aren't always possible-hopeful endings can be.

You can find the things I deemed worthy of it, ie actually finished, on my AO3 page.

My Stuff

So, The Buster's a Narc... My finished Fast & Furious AU! When Brian is recruited out of Juvie to go undercover with Toretto's team it changes a lot things. Hurt/Comfort and found family, with a tiny bit of romance between him and Mia(I'm aro/ace, but I tried), and an attempt to deepen characters that I felt had a lot of potential, but got short changed in the actual movies.

Home Is Where The Crankshaft Is My current wip! Mia/Brian Hurt/Comfort, found family, and deals with both past child abuse and current abuse of an adult child to warn you. Also a whole heck of a lot of Brian being torn between the team and his job/sense of right and wrong. It gets angsty. But there will be a happy ending! Because I write what I want to read. Summary below :)

Brian's big challenge today was supposed to be not breaking Vince's nose while helping Mia pick up stuff for a garden project. That was it. Nice and simple. He sure wasn't expecting to see his dad.

Untitled Brian & Vince as half brothers AU. This is a pre-series AU, where neither Brian or Vince know they're related until their dad dumps Brian on Vince when his mother goes to jail. This is going to be my nanowrimo, and it already has a massive outline and a couple test pages. When I shared a small chunk in the comments of Buster, a commenter used the phrase 'platonic slow burn' in response, and that sounds about right, it's not going to be an easy fix with Brian or Vince instantly or quickly getting along. I am really excited about it :)

Superhero 'Series'-an original series, though initially inspired by prompts from @writing-prompt-s and @gingerly-writing. A cartoonish, golden/silver age of comics without the chaff, inspired world, where all the superheroes and villains except a few rebels have two part names (The Charming Gunner, Golden Cricket, The Dapper Daemon, Mighty Mamba...I had fun), superpowers and mad scientist type devices are plentiful, and every powered person(they don't all go into heroics or villainy) has a familiar. Only two stories so far, but a sequel to the first is outlined.

Pinehallow Ranch-Monty, an eleven year old boy who has spent most of his life traveling from place to place with his in-demand lawyer mother, Irene, is sent to live at his uncle's horse ranch because she thinks he needs roots. Used to nearly everyone but his mother not being around long enough to get to know, Monty is more than a bit uncertain about this. But in scrambling to find his place in a town different to anything he's ever known, he finds friends, both human and animal, makes discoveries, and even manages to foil a plot against Pinehallow Ranch itself. (an actual summary!) This story is on hiatus for the moment, but here is a link to a WIP introduction with a bunch of character and some town/location descriptions and if you search #pinehallow ranch you can find a bunch of excerpts/last line tags I shared.

Middle Grade sort-of-suburban fantasy WIP-Wally and his friends aren't pretending to be secret agents, they're practicing for their future careers. Also walkie-talkies make it much easier to alert each other of bully sightings. In this world certain magical animals exist, but they've always been there and aren't too special, some people have powers, but they're almost always pretty mundane-being able to change your own hair color, to hover a few inches off the ground, heal minor injuries, etc. Wally's power is on the extreme end, it lets him sense people with bad intentions-but what a ten year old considers bad intentions, so it's sometimes pinging on his teacher on the day of a pop quiz. In the first of this 'maybe a series' Wally and his best friend Alison are convinced there is something nefarious in the eyes of the class hamster...(inspired by a prompt, but I don't remember from where)

Middle Grade Sci-Fi Wip-inspired by a prompt from @writing-prompt-s. "When Glenn saw the proof, he packed up his little sister and they went. That was all it took." A story about how sometimes the promise of the unknown, whatever it might be, can be better than what you have. Also a story about two kids getting adopted by aliens that look like a cross between spiders and teddy bears. Only a few pages long so far, but this one calls deeply to my heart and is going to be finished. Probably Novella length.

Aiden's Day-planned future rewrite of an old WIP I started when I was 17. Parts of it have been rewritten many times, and there is still a copy of it up on an old Fictionpress account I can't get into anymore. "Aiden knows his mom had to leave. If she hadn't left town, she was going to leave them permanently. It burns, but he gets it. But he's still a 20 year old drop-out with four siblings he suddenly has sole responsibility for and has to try and feed on a gas station salary. When desperation leads him to reach out to his long absent father, things get complicated." Themes ranging from, 'we get by with a little help from our friends' and 'family is something we make' to suicide, neglect, and religious abuse, and with a definite touch of 'broken doesn't always mean you throw it away'. Angsty and humorous. It was originally written as a diary style novel, and while I don't want to entirely drop that, in this version each chapter would start with a diary entry rather than it being solely that. (I had the man grocery shopping with three teenagers and he was writing in his diary while doing it. My only excuse is that it was very, very fun to write, and I was very young.)

This is getting ridiculously long, so I'm just going to end it with, 'Happy Writing!'

#writeblr intro #writeblr #fanfiction #original writing #am writing #middle grade #new adult #my wips #I just realized that all my 'serious' projects have male main characters #what the f Chandra #Wally and Allison might switch roles #and Buster is multi-view point with Mia and Letty having plenty of chapters #but other than that #also #hi tumblr

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