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with-my-calamitous-love · 1 month ago

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pieces of us both under every city light

katsuki bakugou x reader

katsuki follows all-might’s footsteps and studies abroad in america, leaving you in the winter night alone. long distance angst/comfort, for the yail series 🫧

have a warm winter 5sos nation ❄️ inspired by beside you

within a minute, he was all packed up, his ticket to another world tucked in his pockets, your scarf around his neck.

he doesn't wanna go.

but lord knows how much this trip has costed him. 8 months ago, he would have left without question. he'd have trusted his apartment to eijirou, taken a taxi to the airport and left. but now, things are different. someone is different.

"do you have everything?" your voice cuts through the silence. katsuki turns around, committing all your details to memory as if its the last time. it'll be the last time for a few months, after all.

"yeah, yeah, mom." he huffs, showing you all his suitcases. he's being a dick because he's sad- you know him well enough to read between his lines.

he walks up to you, hands on your waist and forehead against yours. his cologne wafts to your face, while his eyes land on the black fabric of your t-shirt. well, its his t-shirt, but what's his is yours, too.

"text me as soon as you land." you say, hands on his chest. "and don't be such an asshole. people there have your attitude, as well."

he laughs, a small smile curving on his lips while his arms rub your sides up and down. "yeah? everyone's like me? maybe i'll like it then."

"i highly doubt that." you smile.

theres a moment of silence that washes over both of you. silent words are hard to speak, especially when you're all he sees. you make him weak. you're the one thing that can shut him up. and he loves you for it.

"you gonna be okay here?" he asks for maybe the 30th time. your name hasn't been added to the lease, but in his mind, you've moved in. your laundry mixes with his. your beg him for cats that can share the bed with you, even when he religiously says no. he cooks and you wash the dishes. all the things that count are there.

"i'll be fine, kats." you say. i'll miss you. i'll wear your hoodies every night.

you hold back.

"i know, i know you'll be" he says. i miss you more than i want to admit. i don't ever wanna leave you, not even for some trip.

words he doesn't say.

"don't burn my apartment down." he adds. "and don't order in every night just cause i'm not here to cook."

"my cooking isn't that bad, katsuki." you say. "i burned your coffee like, once."

"how the hell do you burn coffee?" he scoffs. "only you could manage that, dumbass."

"yeah yeah, i love you."

"i love you, too."

you're both delaying the inevitable. the banter keeps up, even on the drive to the airport. for a moment, things seem normal, like just some trip to the groceries or to pick up your medication. normal, mundane things that katsuki made feel like 5-star dates. anything can be romantic if its with the right person.

finally, its time to say goodbye. you help him with his luggage, taking in the ambience of the airport. love is felt most when its leaving. even if its for a moment.

"its 2 months." you sigh, more for you than for him.

"i'll miss you, smartass." he says, with zero traces of anything superficial. he prays you don't see his red eyes. he's holding back tears.

you don't notice the tears, because you're too focused on holding back your own. "i'll miss you more."

so with one final kiss and hug, he leaves. so close, yet so far away.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

1 month in.

winter hits hard, snow blazing down, blanketing the streets in cold, ivory petals. winter takes everything down with it, frosting over and obscuring any traces of fall, spring, or autumn. but for all its coldness, there's an undeniable tenderness. everyone stayed in during winter, so you wouldn't look out of place for staying in your bed, wrapped up in clothes that smell like katsuki.

the apartment just didn't feel right without him. there's the obvious things- hanging only your clothes to dry, cooking dinner for one and washing one plate, letting the apartment fall silent. katsuki never liked silence. and though you never minded it before him, you keep the radio on- its what he would want.

you sleep alone. and more than anything, you want your heart to come home. but that can't happen so long as he's miles away from you.

you've told yourself not to call. at first, you two spent everyday on the phone. then maybe once or twice a week. now, katsuki's missed just one of your calls, and now you can't bring yourself to answer his. you don't want to hear his voice and know he's somewhere you can't see him.

the cold seeps in from your fingertips and into your bones. all your stimulus, dreams, and love, frosted over by the winter chill. maybe it froze your tears- you were tired of crying, anyway.

your homesick for arms that won't be home for another month. he never leaves your mind, not even when theres a million things to be done. you have to take out the trash. theres dishes in the sink you haven't touched in a few days. you need to shovel, but thats something katsuki would usually do.

either the heater's broken or katsuki's presence decided to really, really make itself known tonight. either way, you curl up in bed, debating on whether or not to call him. texts work, too. though its hard to type with your fingertips shaking.

you miss him dearly. you wish the winter wind would finally give in, bringing him back to you. you're underneath the same sky, finding solace underneath the same sun. this isn't forever. he will be home. yet, you still wish you could rewind. you wonder if he can hear you, hear your longing.

shaky, cold fingers type out a single message, first. then another. then another.

y/n: i miss you

y/n: ik i've said it like a million times i sound like a broken record

y/n: and i've told u im doing okay but i'm not

y/n: i really fucking miss you kats

y/n: im so tired of sleeping alone, i just wish u could come home right now. and i feel bad for saying that cuz ik you're having fun and i love that for you. i just miss you and i can't help it.

y/n: i'm tryna find the words to say but i dont know

y/n: i just wish i was beside you.

that familiar, blurry feeling takes over your eyes. a few minutes pass before he sees your messages. he doesn't respond as the tears finally fill your eyes.

you turn off your phone, place it on the bedside, and close your eyes.

exactly 5 seconds later, your phone rings.

its almost pathetic how fast you pick up, pressing it to your ear, not caring how cold it feels due to the air around you.

you don't say anything at first. you can't.

"...you don't think i miss you too?"

you almost scoff. "yes, i mean, no, i mean.. sorry." you stutter.

you hear him sigh, that shake in his throat you know all too well. even when you can't see him, he's trying not to cry.

like your hearts beat at the same time, he knows how you feel. because he's feeling the same, sinking down onto the couch of his air-bnb. he's had a shitty day, running into american fans whose obsession with japan is almost a little funny. he's worked hard, training and being better, but its not the same when you're not waiting for him at home.

his heart wants to come home.

"i wish i was beside you." his voice cracks. "god, more than anything, y/n. its like i see you everywhere, but you aren't actually here. its pissing me off."

"oh yeah?" you laugh. god, what he would give to hear that in person.

"yeah, idiot. i saw some stray cats chasing around a damn rat and thought of you." he recalls.

"yeah, i don't know if i miss you as much if you think i'm comparable to stray cats." you disagree, shaking your head. he may say stupid things, but you're just happy its his voice.

"not what i meant, smartass." he scoffs. "i meant... it made me think how you always wanted cats. we should get some, when i get back."

its that promise you linger on. when he gets back.

"yeah... we should." you smile, sniffling back some tears.

the fact that you're crying doesn't go unnoticed by him, mostly 'cause he's crying, too.

theres pieces of you both, under every city light, whether thats in the states or in japan. either way, he feels you, and you feel him. for now, he can survive on the wishing- on the photos of you on his phone, on your scarf around his neck, on the fingerprints left on his heart. all until he can be beside you again.

"its late there." he says, though he can't bring himself to end the call. you bite your lip, hoping he doesn't.

he sighs, closing his eyes after looking at the photo of you in his wallet. "do you want me to stay on the li-"

"yes." you cut him off. you can hear him smile.

it'll work until he can hold you again, until he's beside you again.

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astralnymphh · 10 months ago

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copy that, romeo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

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

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

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

Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

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

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

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

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

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

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

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

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

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

May.

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

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

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too grim?

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

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

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

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

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

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

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

Clothing, check.

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

Accessories and essentials, check.

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

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tree bears no reply.

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

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

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

“Say cheese!”

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

Joy is a luxury now.

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit.”

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

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

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

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

Un–fucking–believable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not so good for the respiratory system though.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sup Maple lake, you there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

Please.

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

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

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

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

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

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

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

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

You a hundred percent forgot though.

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

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

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

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

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“..”

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

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

An omissive summary, you meant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

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

Stygian tones.

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

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

“Yeah, man.”

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

How would you know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

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

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

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

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

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

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

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kdrtsz · 3 months ago

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Travel the World of Imagination: Journeys Beyond Border

Kieth Denmark M. Retes | BSIT1A OVERVIEW:

Switzerland originates from the Old Swiss Confederacy established in the Late Middle Ages, following a series of military successes against Austria and Burgundy; the Federal Charter of 1291 is considered the country's founding document. Swiss independence from the Holy Roman Empire was formally recognized in the Peace of Westphalia in 1648. Switzerland has maintained a policy of armed neutrality since the 16th century and has not fought an international war since 1815. It joined the United Nations only in 2002 but pursues an active foreign policy that includes frequent involvement in peace building.

Switzerland is the birthplace of the Red Cross and hosts the headquarters or offices of most major international institutions including the WTO, the WHO, the ILO, FIFA, the WEF, and the UN. It is a founding member of the European Free Trade Association (EFTA), but not part of the European Union (EU), the European Economic Area, or the eurozone; however, it participates in the European single market and the Schengen Area. Switzerland is a federal republic composed of 26 cantons, with federal authorities based in Bern. references: Switzerland - Wikipedia

Switzerland, a small yet influential country nestled in the heart of Europe, stands out in many ways. From its awe-inspiring landscapes to its unique political system, Switzerland offers a blend of natural beauty, cultural diversity, and global diplomacy that few other nations can match. Its distinct character is a product of centuries of neutrality, innovation, and a deep respect for its heritage, all of which contribute to the nation’s unparalleled reputation on the world stage.

One of the first things that captivates visitors to Switzerland is its breathtaking scenery. The country is dominated by the majestic Alps, with towering snow-capped peaks that attract adventurers and nature lovers from around the globe. Whether it’s skiing in world-class resorts like Zermatt and St. Moritz or hiking through verdant valleys and along crystal-clear lakes, Switzerland offers outdoor experiences that are hard to rival. Beyond the Alps, the country is dotted with picturesque towns, lush meadows, and sparkling lakes, such as Lake Geneva and Lake Lucerne, each offering their own unique charm. The country's commitment to environmental preservation further enhances the beauty of these landscapes, ensuring that they remain pristine for future generations.

Swiss culture is characterized by diversity, which is reflected in diverse traditional customs. A region may be in some ways culturally connected to the neighbouring country that shares its language, all rooted in western European culture. The linguistically isolated Romansh culture in Graubünden in eastern Switzerland constitutes an exception. It survives only in the upper valleys of the Rhine and the Inn and strives to maintain its rare linguistic tradition.

Switzerland is home to notable contributors to literature, art, architecture, music and sciences. In addition, the country attracted creatives during times of unrest or war. Some 1000 museums are found in the country.

Among the most important cultural performances held annually are the Paléo Festival, Lucerne Festival, the Montreux Jazz Festival, the Locarno International Film Festival and Art Basel.

Alpine symbolism played an essential role in shaping Swiss history and the Swiss national identity. Many alpine areas and ski resorts attract visitors for winter sports as well as hiking and mountain biking in summer. The quieter seasons are spring and autumn. A traditional pastoral culture predominates in many areas, and small farms are omnipresent in rural areas. Folk art is nurtured in organisations across the country. Switzerland most directly in appears in music, dance, poetry, wood carving, and embroidery. The alphorn, a trumpet-like musical instrument made of wood has joined yodeling and the accordion as epitomes of traditional Swiss music.

references: Switzerland - Wikipedia

#switzerland #art #scenery #calming #beauty

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world-of-wales · 6 months ago

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❥ 7 JULY 2024 | Kensington Palace released a new portrait featuring The Prince of Wales announcing a new docuseries titled 'Prince William: We Can End Homelessness'

The docuseries will give an exclusive, behind the scenes look at the first year of the Homewards programme and will follow Prince William as he launches Homewards across the country, as well as the journeys of those currently facing homelessness or who have lived experience of the issue. It will be shown on ITV1 and ITVX this autumn.

The Homewards Programme also announced a ground-breaking exhibition that will utilise the power of art to help improve the nation’s understanding of homelessness & inspire optimism that it can be ended.

In collaboration with the Saatchi Gallery & Eleven Eleven Foundation the ‘Homelessness: Reframed’, will feature works from artists in the UK and beyond, sharing pieces inspired by their own or others experiences of homelessness. It will include pieces created by children and young people at a series of creative workshops held across the six flagship Homewards locations.

#prince of wales #the prince of wales #prince william #william prince of wales #william wales #7062024 #HomewardsDocuseries24 #british royal family #british royals #royalty #royals #brf #royal #british royalty #royaltyedit #royalty edit #my edit #will edit

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princessanneftw · 2 months ago

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Princess Anne attending the Autumn Nations Series match between Scotland and Portugal at Murrayfield Stadium on 16 November 2024 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏉

#a pic straight from my telly lol #bae #their mascot #no sign of jimothy yet #princess anne #princess royal #anne does stuff #scotlanned #british royal family #brf

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seneon · 11 months ago

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月光 ݁ ˖ MOONLIGHT ── CHAPTER ONE. THE CRUEL AND LONELY AFTERMATH OF A GREAT WAR BETWEEN NATIONS.

CONTENTS. warnings of dead bodies, slight gore (slicing through the skin), suicide of an enemy party. wc of a thousand.

moonlight series masterlist ₊ 𓂃 chapter two

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊, night-time, right after the evening where the golden hour turns into dusk. the sun has set completely, allowing the moon to rise and take up on its duty for the rest of the night. it was only a few hours ago that humanity officially ended a war between nations. chaos ceased right then with only one victor left standing.

Y/N, nobody but a mere girl who was turned and twisted to be in the war not by choice, but by the lack of freewill. nobody but a daughter of a swordsmith. nobody but a daughter of a lady who sells potatoes and sometimes mooncakes during mid-autumn festival by the streets to make a living. you are nobody... but a doll of the battlefield, simply selected by some soldiers to be made into a weapon on the rough battlefield.

woe to you who survived through the hellish nightmare of watching your comrades get their chest pierced by spears. woe to you who survived the cuts all across your limbs by the blades of the other innocent souls, also forced to be on the battlefield. woe to you who was the only living being standing amongst puddles and mountains of corpses. and woe to you, for you had to lay a finger on your last standing enemy who eventually unalived himself for the sake of surrendering.

you still remembered the scene of the man standing in front of you, crying his eyes out and begging you to kill him. as the last person standing, shouldn't there already be some sort of peace? you didn't know why but before you could even say anything but to touch his shoulders, he used his blade and run it across the skin of his throat, allowing the substance you despised so much to swiftly flow out.

now venturing on your own after leaving thousands of corpses behind, you walked and walked and walked through forests, meadows, riverbanks, and eventually your journey halted as you stepped forth into a huge mountain.

you unsheathed your sword, pointing it at the direction where you sensed a presence lurking around. "who are you?!" you exclaimed at the person, a man with half a yellow and black hair. he possessed such blank golden honey eyes, almost as if you could drown in the dew, consumed by the sweetest of emptiness.

something about him doesn't feel right though. he is man, but he feels something more than man. something closer to a divine being that harbours magical abilities. why would a man be in the middle of a huge mountain anyways? why is the man dressed in such fine clothing and is alone in a mountain? is he a nobleman to be clothed such a way? what intrigues you the most is the two line that runs from his eyes down to his cheeks.

the grip on your sword tightens, ready to offense and defense for anything that might happen.

"what may a mighty warrior such as you be doing here?" he finally spoke, furrowing his eyebrows. the man spoke with authority, as if you aren't supposed to even step foot in this mountain. his honey eyes scanned all over your body, taking notes that you obtained cuts, stabs, and hurts all around. "you are injured. physically and mentally. perhaps you seek solace in this mountain. that is why you are here."

this man had read you like a book. the grip on your hilt tightened even more, before it loosens and you drop your arm. your eyes slowly dropping to the ground too. "you're not human. what are you?"

"the god of this mountain. rayne ames. i know the very inner being of any living creature that sets foot in my mountain," the mountain god said as he lifted his hands up and a group of fallen petals arise and danced along the wind. rayne spun his hands in a circular motion, the wind following to dance around you. then, the flowers slowly and beautifully flow down all around you. "everything of this mountain belongs to me."

as he uttered those words, a petal fell right at the palm of your hands. you gently held your hand out. even though it has fallen from its origins, it remains as beautiful and fresh as it first blossomed, unscathed even. the petal then jumped right out of your palm and flew away along the wind.

"if everything in this mountain belongs to you, may i... stay here and be one of yours..?"

rayne ames' eyes widened just in the slightest way, before it shuts, locking away the sweet honey dew. "i refuse. descend the mountain and return to your people."

"but i have no people!" you shouted. "i thought you knew that, stupid god..." that came out as a whisper, merely decipherable to one.

as much as rayne feels so much sympathy for the hurt, he cannot allow a human to live in the mountains with him. it is simply impossible. but your words strike him in a way that he couldn't quite understand. the words ‘i have no people’ reminded him so much of himself. just like how he is a mountain god and always alone.

"what is your name?" rayne asks, letting out a sigh.

"y/n."

"y/n, you may stay," he turns around and walks away. "but if you spill poison in the soil and roots of this mountain, i will cast you out." relief embraced you as worry left you when his words filled your ears. "you are now mine, y/n."

you are his, rayne ames the god of this mountain. the moment you spoke to him, the moon has already sent the stars to form a fate between the two of you. moonlight belonged to a mountain god who accepted a human girl and a mighty warrior who seek solace in the haven of a divine being.

NOTES. omg what an exciting fic!!! jokes anyways happy valentine's day! this series will be updated every day 🖤

TAGS ݁ ˖ @kyoghurts @anqelically @caelivir @bbladie @ansbobcar @rjasmin2021 @lunareclipses-moments

#❨ MOONLIGHT ❩ ݁ ˖ ˚ ☽#⋆ ❨ writing ❩ ֢֢֢ ۟#rayne ames #rayne ames x reader #rayne x you #rayne x y/n #rayne x reader #mashle #mashle: magic and muscles #mashle imagines #mashle fluff #mashle angst #mashle x reader #mashle x you

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scotianostra · 15 days ago

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On December 27th 1904 J M Barrie's play "Peter Pan" premiered at the Duke of York Theatre, London.

J.M. Barrie created his character based on his older brother, David, who died in an ice-skating accident the day before his 14th birthday. His mother and brother thought of him as forever a boy. The "boy who wouldn't grow up"

The story of free-spirited and mischievous young boy who can fly and never grows up, Peter Pan spends his never-ending childhood having adventures on the mythical island of Neverland as the leader of the Lost Boys, interacting with fairies, pirates, mermaids, Native Americans, and occasionally ordinary children from the world outside Neverland.

Peter Pan has become a cultural icon symbolizing youthful innocence and escapism. In addition to two distinct works by Barrie, the character has been featured in a variety of media and merchandise, both adapting and expanding on Barrie's works. These include a 1953 animated film, a 2003 dramatic/live-action film, a television series and many other works.

J. M. Barrie first used Peter Pan 2 years before, as a character in a section of The Little White Bird, an adult novel where he appears as a seven-day-old baby in the chapter entitled Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. Following the success of the 1904 play, Barrie's publishers, Hodder and Stoughton, extracted chapters 13–18 of The Little White Bird and republished them in 1906 under the title Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, with the addition of illustrations by Arthur Rackham.

Barrie never described Peter's appearance in detail, even in his novel, leaving it to the imagination of the reader and the interpretation of anyone adapting the character. In the play, Peter's outfit is made of autumn leaves and cobwebs. His name and playing the flute or pipes suggest the mythological character Pan. Barrie mentions in Peter and Wendy that Peter Pan still had all his "first teeth".He describes him as a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile, "clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that flow from trees"

Traditionally, the character has been played on stage by a petite adult woman. In the original productions in the UK, Peter Pan's costume was a reddish tunic and dark green tights, such as that worn by Nina Boucicault in 1904. This costume is exhibited in Barrie's Birthplace museum at Kirriemuir.

In the Disney films, Peter wears an outfit that consists of a short-sleeved green tunic and tights apparently made of cloth, and a cap with a red feather in it. He has pointed elf-like ears, brown eyes and his hair is red. In Hook , the character is played as an adult by Robin Williams, with blue eyes and dark brown hair; in flashbacks to him in his youth, his hair is light brown. In this film his ears appear pointed only when he is Peter Pan, not as Peter Banning. His Pan attire resembles the Disney outfit (minus the cap). In the live-action 2003 Peter Pan film, he is portrayed by Jeremy Sumpter, who has blond hair and blue-green eyes. His outfit is made of leaves and vines.

Barrie commissioned a statue of Peter Pan by sculptor George Frampton which was erected overnight in Kensington Gardens on 30 April 1912 as a May Day surprise to the children of London. Seven statues have been cast from the original mould, they are in, Egmont Park, Brussels, Belgium, Bowring Park, St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada, Bowring Park, Johnson Park, Camden, New Jersey, USA, Queens Gardens, Perth, Western Australia, Sefton Park, Liverpool, and Glenn Gould Park, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Various other statues have appeared around the world, including three in Scotland, the first is at Mearnskirk Hospital for children in Glasgow, the first superintendent of the hospital, Dr John A Wilson, was a school friend of Barrie, the other one in Scotland is of course in Kirriemuir, one in the main town square and the other in the Peter Pan Garden by Barrie's Birthplace, now owned by the National Trust of Scotland.

The most famous of the other statues is at Great Ormond Street Hospital in London, who JM Barrie gifted the rights to the play in 1929, the copyright first expired in the UK (and the rest of Europe) in 1987, 50 years after Barrie’s death, but the government of the day made an amendment to the copyright act giving Great Ormond Street Hospital the unique right to royalties from stage performances of Peter Pan (and any adaptation of the play) as well as from publications, audio books, ebooks, radio broadcasts and films of the story of Peter Pan, in perpetuity.

#scotland #scottish #history #theatre #play #peter pan

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hpowellsmith · 1 month ago

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My games are in the Steam Autumn Sale!

I hope you're having a good week! If you fancy a little treat for the weekend, titles from Choice of Games, Heart's Choice, and Hosted Games are on sale on Steam, including:

Crème de la Crème (39% off): Climb to the very top of the class at your exclusive private school for socialites! Will you study hard, find a perfect match, or embrace scandal? A 440,000 word interactive novel.

Noblesse Oblige (40% off): Spark romance amid secrets in a crumbling mansion! What will you sacrifice for love? Can you trust your own heart? A 180,000 interactive gothic novella.

Royal Affairs (39% off): At your exclusive boarding school, will you rule the roost or be a royal disaster? Court publicity, sway the fate of nations, and find love! A 440,000 word interactive novel.

Blood Money (29% off): By the power of your blood, you and your ghosts will take over your crime family! A 290,000 word standalone dark fantasy interactive novel.

Harris Powell-Smith Bundle (47% off): save on all of the above, plus Elite Status: Platinum Concierge by Emily Short with additional writing from me.

Along with the rest of the Choice of Games, Hosted Games, and Heart's Choice library, my wife's games are also on offer:

Heart of Battle (29% off): Battle for love as a gladiator in this epic romance! Win glory, victory, a better life - or spark a revolution! A 220,000 word interactive novel by Fay Ikin.

Asteroid Run: No Questions Asked (29% off): captain a freighter across the Solar System and keep your mystery cargo and your crew safe in the face of corruption, cultists, and revolutionaries! A 325,000 word interactive novel by Fay Ikin.

And while you're on Steam, please wishlist Honor Bound, fourth in the Creme de la Creme series and out on Dec 5!

Enjoy!

#interactive fiction #choice of games #hosted games #heart's choice #text games #indie games #choicescript games #dashingdon #choicescript #interactive novel #interactive romance #romance games

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crazy-ache · 9 months ago

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SJM is a Zutara Shipper? That sounds like Elucien....let me explain

It was recently brought to my attention that Sarah hinted in 2017 at being a Zuko/Katara shipper in the Avatar the Last Airbender series. This was exciting to hear as I was in the ATLA fandom over a decade ago and Zuko/Katara was my first OTP and introduction to fandom. I have loved them a long time and they will always hold a special place in my heart. I want to explore why Sarah shipping Zutara is really important when it comes to Elucien because there are a lot of great parallels.

Note: if you know anything about the ATLA shipping fandom/wars...you immediately know what she means by this. Zutara is a fanon ship that was often baited by the writers. Her disappointment is a shared, common reaction to the ship.

A very long, detailed analysis is below the cut. This NOT for ATLA discourse. This is intended to focus SOLELY on Elucien. Read below if you are a fan of Zutara/Elucien....

ATLA Characters vs ACOTAR Characters

Let's start with the characters themselves.

We have Prince Zuko, the exiled and scarred prince of the Fire Nation, who was banished after his evil, power-hungry father (the Fire Lord) horribly punished him for embarrassing him with his kindness (not wanting innocent soldiers to be used as bait in war), which he viewed as morally inferior and weak. It is implied his mother, a gentle-hearted woman, was abused in the marriage. She disappeared when he was young to maintain her husband's political power, only so that her children would live. The loss of his mother is his greatest trauma, along with his desire to go back home and gain his honor and father's acceptance.

Then we have Lucien Vanserra, exiled and scarred son of the Autumn Court, who had to flee after his evil, power-hungry father (the High Lord) horribly punished him for embarrassing him with his relationship with a lower-Fae female, which he viewed as repulsive and below their High Fae status. It is implied his mother, a gentle-hearted woman, was abused in the marriage. His lover was brutally murdered by the hands of his father/brothers and he had to flee, never having the chance to see his mother again. Losing Jesminda is his greatest trauma, likely along with losing his home, Court, and family.

Let's also not forget...they BOTH WEILD FIRE! I do think the Lucien/Zuko comparison is quite obvious and direct, where the Elain/Katara is a bit more symbolic.

For our ladies, we have Katara, master waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe. She is the youngest daughter of the Chief. She begins the journey as someone untrained and incapable of bending her own element, in a small, impoverished village due to the effects of war and destruction on their nation/culture by the Fire Nation. Her mother was tragically murdered by the Fire Nation in order to save her daughter's life. This is singularly her greatest trauma. Throughout the show, we see Katara become a powerful and master bender.

Finally, we have Elain Archeron, who was once human and is the middle sister in her family. She was the daughter of a once-successful merchant. She also loses her mother and is very close to her father, who she also tragically loses in the war. She loses her humanity and her fiance, Graysen, in one fell swoop when they put her in the Cauldron. This is singularly her greatest trauma, one that we see she has trouble letting go, even becoming practically comatose when it first happens. We later learn Elain possesses magic and is a seer.

A little less here, but I am not surprised. Katara and Elain, personality-wise, are very different. However, I will add that both Elain/Katara are often associated as symbols of HOPE in the narrative. But this brings me to my next point which is where I believe SJM was influenced by Zutara when writing Elucien....

Shared Grief as the Catalyst

Every Zuko/Katara shipper knows the crux of their relationship is from their shared trauma. Despite being on opposite ends of the war, they both carry an immense grief in losing their mothers to the war. It is the first thing they realize they have in common, the first moment they share a genuine, sincere connection, enough for them to reach out and open up to each other.

Elain and Lucien also have a shared trauma. They both lost their first loves/fiances. Lucien lost her tragically. Elain lost him in a brutal rejection. It broke both of their hearts, and they both carry grief and complicated emotions around it.

The hurt and pain brought Zutara together. As a result, they understand each other in ways others can't. I have no doubt that Elucien will spark from a similar place of understanding.

Complimentary Symbolism

One of the most beautiful parts of Zuko/Katara is the use of opposite/complimentary symbolism. Two halves of a whole. Balance and unity.

Zuko= Fire and Sun and Blue Spirit Katara= Water and Moon and Painted Lady

Lol can you believe we got the line below...I couldn't come up with a more romantic symbolic line if I tried and that's canon folks

Lucien = Day and Fox and Spring/Loss

Elain = Flowers and Fawns and Spring/Life

Elain, often associated with gardens and flowers and roses, was asked what she needed at her lowest point. She said "Sunshine." Enter Lucien, the secret heir to Day Court and Helion, whose name means Light. The Fox and the Fawn. Elain "Made for Spring" Archeron and Lucien "Spring Court Emissary and Courtier" Vanserra. I wrote Spring/Loss and Spring/Life because Lucien had to see Spring become ruined/flee the one place he called home. There is strong foreshadowing that Elain will help in some way to revive spring and possibly bring it back to life, hopefully with Lucien's help.

Let's also not forget that Elain was formerly human and now living as a High Fae in the Night Court. Lucien is a High Fae who looked down on humans and now lives in the mortal lands. It's an interesting dynamic!

Betrayal

Okay buckle up. This one is important. The feeling of betrayal is important to the development of both ships. Let me break this down.

Katara is a victim of the Fire Nation. Zuko is the prince of the Fire Nation who once hunted them down to retrieve the Avatar. She often conflated her feelings toward Zuko with her feelings regarding her mother's murder by the hands of the Fire Nation', as evidenced here.

Katara: I'm sorry I yelled at you before. Zuko: It doesn't matter. Katara: It's just that for so long now, whenever I would imagine the face of the enemy, it was your face.

We see these messy emotions come back when Zuko joins the team to teach Aang firebending.

Zuko: This isn't fair! Everyone else seems to trust me now! What is it with you? Katara: Oh, everyone trusts you now?! I was the first person to trust you! [Places her left hand on her heart.] Remember, back in Ba Sing Se. And you turned around and betrayed me, betrayed all of us! Zuko: What can I do to make it up to you? Katara: You really want to know? Hmm, maybe you could reconquer Ba Sing Se in the name of the Earth King. Or, I know! You could bring my mother back!

Now, at this point, we know she has not forgiven him for Ba Sing Se. Remember, this was the moment they shared their intimate connection over their shared Dead Mother trauma. (In an episode called The Crossroads of Destiny nonetheless). She offered to heal his scar, and later when given the chance to choose between what is right vs. what he wants....he chooses what he wants, which is to return home to his father for his acceptance. Katara took this as a personal betrayal and we see she still imagines his face as the enemy by demanding he bring her mother back (even though it isn't possible/he isn't responsible for it).

You know who else has mentioned betrayal?

For a long moment, Elain’s face did not shift, but those eyes seemed to focus a bit more. “Lucien,” she said at last, and he clenched his teacup to keep from shuddering at the sound of his name on her mouth. “From my sister’s stories. Her friend.” “Yes.” But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.” He wished she’d shoved him out the window behind her. “It—it was a mistake.” Her eyes went frank and cold. “I was to be married in a few days.” He fought against the bristling rage, the irrational urge to find the male who’d claimed her and shred him apart. The words were a rasp as he instead said, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Elain associates Lucien's involvement with Ianthe/Hybern/The Cauldron as a personal betrayal. Lucien, much like Zuko, is sorry for his actions that have hurt her.

Both Zuko and Lucien don't argue about the anger/accusations of betrayal. They own it. They just want to make it right.

In the same episode of the snippet above ("You could bring my mother back!") Zuko and Katara go on their infamous "field trip" or journey together, just the two of them. Despite Katara's anger, the two of them are in perfect sync. They are the perfect team and pair, moving fluid in their elements, sneaking around enemy ships. Zuko defends her desire for closure (however dark it may be) against her friends and family wishes. He never questions her. He supports her emotionally. He yells at an enemy solider- "Don't lie! You look her in the eye and you tell me you don't remember what you did." (OH COME ON, what is hotter than that!?) In the end, she forgives him. Not because of what he did. But because he understands her and gives her space and places no expectations of who she is or what she should do. He accepts her. All the dark and pain and light inside.

Don't mind the romantic sunset in the background

Going on an adventure? Likely against the wishes of friends and family due to it being dangerous? Doing whatever is necessary to help the girl forgive you/trust you? Giving her the necessary space and support to do what she has set her mind to? Helping her find closure and healing along the way? Falling love? Sure sounds like an Elucien book......wonder where SJM got the inspiration?

Azriel vs Aang

I cannot write this post without mentioning Aang and Azriel. This is NOT an ATLA shipping discourse so please no comments regarding the Kataang/Zutara ship war. I am using this as a comparison to Elucien/E/riel.

I have a feeling that SJM has written Azriel (specifically in the Bonus Chapter) to serve as a foil to Aang's dynamic to Katara. Which is that both characters feel entitled to their crush.

Aang, the young hero and savior of the world, has a long-standing crush on Katara that is not really reciprocated romantically throughout the series.

When the group goes to watch a play based on themselves, there is scene where the actors on stage go:

Actor Zuko: Wait, I thought you were the Avatar's girl! [Aang in the audience nods in agreement.] Actress Katara: The Avatar? Why, he's like a little brother to me! I certainly don't think of him in a romantic way. [Aang in the audience grows concerned.] Besides, how could he ever find out about ... this? [Actress Katara and Actor Zuko embrace and hold hands while Actress Katara pops up one leg. Aang gets up from his seat to leave.]

It can be interpreted that his nodding and getting upset is attributed to feeling possessive of his crush on Katara. That she belongs to him, as he is the Hero and the Avatar, and should get the girl. He is jealous of something that didn't actually happen between the actors on stage (he is only 12 to be fair).

Further evidence here:

Aang: But it's true, isn't it? We kissed at the Invasion, and I thought we were gonna be together. But we're not. Katara: Aang, I don't know. Aang: Why don't you know? Katara: Because, we're in the middle of a war, and, we have other things to worry about. This isn't the right time.

...and then he kisses her, and she doesn't want it/isn't expecting it, and runs away back to the theater. We won't get into that here.

Hm, this story sounds familiar....

Azriel ignored the question. "The Cauldron chose three sisters. Tell me how it's possible that my two brothers are with two of those sisters, yet the third was given to another."

There is a similar sense of entitlement, that also ended with Elain running away from the scene, upset. The difference being he rejected her at the urging (and convincing) of Rhysand because he knew it was a mistake.

Tension & Healing & Growth (What's Next)

"There is a great deal of tension, growth, and healing to be found for both of them (together)." - from Sarah J Maas herself. If she was a Zutara shipper, I can totally see her inspiration in elements of Elucien.

In the end, many Zuko/Katara shippers really believed these two brought out the best in each other in the best possible ways. (I know I did). And I think that's a big reason a lot of Eluciens ship Elain/Lucien...the potential of how they'll complement each other is so huge.

Just as Katara and Zuko were once extremely tense in their relationship, they underwent an incredible and beautiful journey of healing and growth. One that ended in....Zuko sacrificing his life for her. Animated in slow motion with romantic/epic musical scores. For the girl who lost her mother (who sacrificed herself to save her daughter). An epic friendship but no romance....which Sarah herself agreed she wasn't a fan of....

So I imagine she is going to rectify that narrative for Elucien. I for one cannot wait to read their story in their book.

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #SJM is a zutara shipper #elucien meta #THIS IS NOT ATLA SHIPPING POST #DO NOT ENGAGE IN ATLA SHIPPING #this is purely elucien comparison #anti elriel #antielriel #elucien supremacy #i wrote this because i fucking love zutara and elucien #also these ship wars are so similar lmao

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