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eowynstwin · 1 month ago

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peristalsis - vi

selkie!soap x reader. depression. strangers to "lovers." somnophila. dubcon. smut. manipulative soap. unreliable narrator. terrible food. social isolation. suicidal ideation. suicidal resolve. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

A hand pets between your legs sometime in the early morning, fingers searching for tender flesh. The other slips up the front of your naked body, cradling one breast, thumb flicking gently across the nipple.

The covers over you are warm with yours and Johnny’s shared body heat, the both of you having gone to sleep naked. His body curves around you, the hair of his chest and thighs tickling your bare skin. Water laps at the outer hull in quiet breaths.

You’d dreamed. You don’t remember exactly what of. Only impressions are left behind—the rocking of the trawler following you into sleep. Darkness. A sense of displacement. Your throat closing and opening.

When you crack open your eyes you feel it in the pit of your stomach. A storm to match the one that blew across the night.

If you give into it—it will hurt. You recognize it in your bones.

Johnny groans behind you when his callused fingers find your cunt warm and soft for him. His cock is a column of heat against your low back, morning-stiff. He circles your clit, mouthing the back of your neck and nudging his knee between yours, hooking your leg over his thigh to spread you open.

Fresh arousal wells up to coat his fingers. You hear him huff behind you, amused; he reaches down between the two of you to palm himself, cupping his shaft up between your folds and thrusting shallowly between them. Catching the flow along the length of his cock.

You don’t move, other than to breathe.

He toys with the breast in his hand as he tracks humid kisses up behind your ear. When he angles the head at your entrance, he slides in with minimal resistance—seats himself to the root.

You release the airy moan it draws from you. Snug—he’s snug inside you, cockhead sitting against your cervix. When he rolls his hips, he barely pulls out, just far enough that you feel where his cock begins to widen, thickest in the middle, before pushing back in again.

He rocks against you, playing with your clit. His other hand moves to your leg, drawing it outward a little farther. You stay limp in his hold, eyes closed.

He can do what he wants with you. Anything. If it keeps what’s happening in your belly contained—anything.

It doesn’t take long—you’re not awake enough to brace against it. He winds you higher and higher until your spine goes-arrow straight, your climax spilling through you, drawing you tight around him, and Johnny pistons into you with a few rapid thrusts before groaning, long and satisfied, as liquid heat fills you once again.

“Mm,’” he murmurs, “mornin,’ bonnie.” Angling himself to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Gonna get us goin,’ hm?”

You’re not entirely sure what he means until he pulls away from you. He stands up from the bed and tugs the sheets back up over your naked shoulders, humming some tune you don’t recognize—it sounds vaguely like a hymn—as he dresses and disappears up the stairs.

You feel the trawler rock and shift as he takes it away from the pier, back into the open water. Gray morning light shafts in through the small window triptych above the head of the bed.

You turn onto your back. Johnny’s spend seeps out of you slowly as you shuffle into the heat his body left behind on the sheets. You look inward.

It’s still there. Quelled—for now. If you think too hard about it, you might summon it up.

But Johnny is just upstairs, and the last thing you want is for him to hear you, to hear the poor, crazed animal you can become. There is only so much of you that you are willing to inflict upon him. There is only so much you would ask him to tolerate.

Although it strikes you, as you stretch under the covers, that you don’t believe he would resent you for it.

Probably, he would just wrap his arms around you, and coo at you in that smarmy way of his. No big deal. You can have a breakdown, bonnie, and he’ll make you something for breakfast after. And do you want him to eat your pussy again? Bet you’ll feel better after that.

You almost give in then and there just thinking about it. Wind shear pressing against the inside of your tear ducts.

That would make it worse—if he were to comfort you. You don’t think you would make it out to the other side.

So you swallow hard. Swim your legs through the tangled sheets and find the floor with your bare feet. Your carry-on still sits up in the bridge, so you drag a blanket around your shoulders and climb the stairs to retrieve it.

“There she is!” Johnny exclaims as you surface. He looks over his shoulder at you, one hand on the wheel, the other holding a cup of coffee. He grins at you. “Hell’s bells, don’ you look beautiful.”

You sneer at him, knowing your hair is a rat’s nest and the bags beneath your eyes have had no chance to deflate. Another drop of his cum falls down your thigh; you grab up your bag and retreat back into the bedroom.

When you return to the bridge dressed and brushed, face washed and moisturized, Johnny brings you a second steaming mug, white ceramic, with “Hers” in black cursive printed on the side.

“Stupid,” you say, when you see it.

Johnny kisses the side of your head. “I’ll make eggs.”

“Shouldn’t you be driving?” you ask, as he sets a pan down on the stove. You eye the trawler wheel nervously, waiting for it to spin.

“Is no’ a car, bonnie,” Johnny snorts. “Dinnae have to watch for traffic.”

You eat the breakfast he makes you in disgruntled silence. Overhead, clouds pass, intermittent gaps allowing yellow sunlight to peek through, though never for more than a moment. You might’ve expected the day to be clear again, after the storm.

Six hours is six hours. You return to the novel you began yesterday, perched on the booth couch, though every time the hour changes your stomach draws tighter, as if winched.

At the end of the trip awaits more of the solitude you’ve been seeking. Johnny will deposit you onto the cove, and traipse off to his boy’s night. Possibly his old squad mates—team members—whatever they are, will be staying for more than one day.

You know. You know how it goes.

It’s better this way, you remind yourself. It’s what you wanted.

You pass the crags you saw on yesterday’s journey, and today they are vacant of their pinniped occupants. The island wildlife overall seems to be absent, perhaps hidden away in whatever sanctuary they found during the storm. A few seabirds circle above the dune grass, or trail after the trawler, but other than that, sky, sea, and land are vacant.

You reach the naval battle, and discover what the author spent the most time researching. She describes in exhausting detail how long it takes to load cannons, the role of current and wind speed in the maneuvering of ships, the bailing-out process of a breached hull.

It’s dull, and completely incongruous with the romantic melodrama of the previous chapter. You can see exactly why a former soldier would enjoy it.

You do not tell Johnny you’ve reached it.

Finally, sometime after noon, the cove comes into view. Johnny brings the trawler as close to shore as he can get it, and then drops anchor.

You sling your bag over one shoulder as you stand, lungs shaking in your chest.

“Well,” you say, “have a good time with your friends.”

He pauses, and then looks at you. The expression on his face is completely nonplussed, lips pursed, brows raised.

“What?”

“Your guys’ night.”

“What about it?”

You frown. “Aren’t you taking me to shore?”

“Why would I do that?”

Apprehension trickles down into your belly.

No. Oh, no.

“So you could go meet them?” you say, with growing trepidation.

Realization opens up his expression. Brows lift over blue eyes blooming. “Aw, bonnie, s’that why you’ve been cranky? You think I’m gonna abandon you?”

No—oh, no.

He comes over to you and gently nudges the strap of your bag off your shoulder, smiling.

“Course you’re invited, hen, what kind of bastard would I be if I left you all alone?”

Something breaks.

“No,” you say.

“Yeah,” he croons, bringing his hand to your jaw. Caressing the curve of it with his thumb. “Want you to meet my mates—”

You slap his hand away.

Panic, fully formed, climbs up your trachea.

It’s one thing to be left behind for better friends. It’s quite another to be subjected to them.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap. Fury boiling. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

Johnny blinks. You wrench yourself away from him, shoving against the pull of his gravity—smacking him in the chest with both of your hands.

“Was it getting shot?” you snarl, pickaxing your temple with two fingers. “Was it drowning? Because something made you fucking delusional, and I don’t know what it was, but I’m fucking sick of it. I don’t fucking like you.”

Johnny’s expression flattens. The gleam dulls in his eyes as he gazes at you.

“I don’t give a shit about you,” you tremble on. “You’re nothing to me. You’re a hookup. You’re good dick and that’s it. You don’t mean anything to me. Nothing.”

He takes a step toward you. You step back.

“And you don’t give a shit about me either! You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that? You don’t have to act like this is anything but you do anyway, and you make fun of me the whole time, because you know I’m easy, because I’ll still let you fuck me, because I don’t have—because I’m just convenient pussy to you.”

He advances. You retreat. The cocky, confident Johnny that has been your unwelcome companion these past three days now is gone, as if a mask tossed away.

The line of his mouth is sharp and straight. His nostrils flare. A severe crease cracks the space between his drawn-together brows.

You’re not seeing the thing you saw on the beach, that first day. You’re not seeing the carefree bar cook or the island enthusiast.

You’re seeing the special forces soldier. Advancing on a target.

And you can’t stop yourself, even as terror runs a live wire up your spine.

“Like what do you think this was, Soap? I don’t care about you. I don’t care about your friends. I don’t care about your life. You’re wasting your fucking time. I don’t give a shit about you, and I never have, and I never will, and you’re too fucking stupid to notice—”

You run out of room to retreat. The backs of your knees run into the booth seat, but Johnny keeps coming. He invades every inch of your personal space, getting right up into your face, staring down at you with a hard jaw and sharp, spear point eyes.

“Stop it,” you flounder, “just stop it, just leave me alone, just—”

He closes thumb and forefinger around your chin and presses his warm mouth against yours.

You fight him. You clench your fists and beat their heels against his chest, but he wraps his other hand around the back of your head and sweeps his tongue between your lips. You screech into his mouth, but he hums back, the subvocal tones of calming an animal before it hurts itself. You sink your teeth into his bottom lip, seeking to draw blood, but it only eggs him on, makes him slant his head to kiss you deeper.

Even as you wear yourself out against him, his grip doesn’t loosen. He holds you in place as you struggle. Frighteningly strong—utterly indomitable; he overwhelms you with seemingly no effort on his part at all.

There’s bitter, black coffee on his tongue. Acidic. He presses it into yours, circling inward, making space for himself where you would give him none—

Insisting on it.

You gasp hard. Whimper futilely against his mouth. A few sharp tears escape the clench of your eyes, cutting down your cheeks.

Your fists land on him one final time, and then remain where they are. Your entire body slackens, submitting. Your lips find the curves in his where they fit the closest, and stay there. Bokeh spots dance across your closed eyes as your alveoli demand oxygen.

When you pull your mouth away from his to breathe, he lets you. Johnny rests his forehead against yours, hands coming around to cup your cheeks.

“Feel better?” he murmurs lowly, caressing the corners of your mouth with his thumbs. “Now that you got that all out?”

You take a shuddering breath. “You’re an asshole,” you repeat miserably.

Johnny kisses you softly again, first on the mouth, then the tip of your nose, then between your brows.

“Don’ be scared,” he says, mouth still on your forehead. “It’s gonna be alright.”

You sniff. “I hate you.”

He huffs—a small laugh, one that lacks his usual good humor. His hands slide down your shoulders to wrap his arms around you, and he tucks you beneath his chin, against his body. Even after so little time, the bulk of his frame is familiar, aligning with the shape of your body.

You don’t hug him back. You let your arms hang at your sides. If you nuzzle your face in between the soft slopes of his pectorals—you will take the truth of it to your grave.

John Price shows up in a motorboat, bringing along with him several grocery bags and a young man close to Johnny in age.

The two grin at each other and embrace, slapping backs in the masculine fashion and making loud, friendly noises as Price sidesteps them to bring his goods to the kitchen, where you’re hiding.

When he catches sight of you, his step falters.

“I don’t know why I’m here either,” you say, preempting him. You’re cloistered on the booth couch.

His mustache tilts at an angle. As with every other expression you’ve seen him make, you have no idea what it means, and it makes your stomach clutch.

Price is saved from having to respond as Johnny drags the other young man in behind him, beefy arm around his neck in a headlock. They’re laughing together, smiles wide as Price sets his bags on the counter.

The three of them populate the tiny space with the ease of years spent sharing little room between them, and you’d be shrinking back into the couch if Johnny’s friend hadn’t already caught sight of you. The surprise on his face is evident, even as he greets you with a polite, “Oh, hey!”

You make yourself stand up, pasting on a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Hi,” you say.

Johnny gestures at you with a proud, open hand, saying your name as fondly as if he’d just had it in a chokehold. “Stayin’ at the croft, the one I told you about? Just got back from Lewis today, we did, showed her the stones and everythin.’”

He winks at you. You fight not to scowl at him.

“Nice to meet you,” the young man says, disentangling himself from Johnny and extending a hand. “I’m Kyle, but everyone calls me Gaz.”

You shake. “Sorry to interrupt your, uh, your reunion.”

You can’t tell how sincere the smile is that Gaz gives you. Are the corners of his mouth too tight? The polite look in his eyes too saccharine? “The more the merrier, aye?”

“That’s what m’saying!” Johnny enthuses.

“Soap been behaving?” Gaz asks.

“Uh,” you say.

“Soap, you got a griddle on this dinghy?” Price calls, setting out packages of meat and buns. He bends down to root around in the under-cabinet, stored cookware clanging as he digs.

“Cap, tell me you didn’t get the patties,” Johnny complains, picking one up. Ground beef pre-molded into burger pucks, shrink-wrapped in their own thin red juice.

“What’s wrong with patties?” Price asks, still half-submerged. “Easy, innit?”

“For kids’ birthday parties, maybe,” Johnny protests.

“When’d you get so fussed about food?” asks Gaz, sipping from his can. “Not like this is London, mate, you get what you get.”

“Some of us have time to eat like human beings,” Johnny snipes. “You might have to choke on MREs, not like the rest of have to as well.”

“Soap,” Price says, “griddle.”

“Oh, nowhere near there.”

“You fucking muppet…”

Gaz and Johnny cackle. Price straightens, frowning gruffly, in a way that suggests he has regularly endured this hazing from the two younger men and no longer has the patience even to scold them for it.

Walking paths made together, now retread. Old stone, formed when the earth was young.

You step backward. Find the edge of the couch with your calves. None of the three men look at you as you settle back down into your seat. Your book lays half-open on bent pages.

“No Simon still?” asks Johnny as he cracks a beer off the pack.

“Still no word,” says Price. “Said he’d try, last we chatted, but wasn’t sure.”

“Hm,” says Johnny, sipping his beer.

His gaze slips over to you. You feel it like a rasp over your bare skin.

He cracks another can off and brings it over, sitting down to sling a heavy arm over your shoulders. You take the beer and open it, but do not drink.

“Not the same out there without you, mate,” says Gaz, folding his arms comfortably over his chest. “Neither of you, really, Cap.”

“Ah, you’re doin’ just fine, I bet,” replies Johnny. “You and Ghost? Dream team, right there.”

“Never gonna be you, Soap,” says Gaz.

Johnny’s replying smile is—contented. Satisfied. As if he’s hearing news he expected, but is pleased to hear nonetheless.

His arm hangs loosely over your shoulders as it continues like that. Johnny and the other two men punt the conversational shuttle back and forth, voices weaving with the cadence of an old scarf unraveling; the yarn thread frozen by time and tension into a shape that can wrap back around its fellows as easily as it came undone.

Unfamiliarity with their rhythm transforms the bridge—which has been, if not a safe space, at the very least something of a sanctuary to you for the past twenty-four hours. Someplace you could be your worst self without much worry of offending.

But Johnny’s old team members are not Johnny. You can’t speak to them the way you have spoken to him. They do not share his knack for inclusion—

At least, they don’t seem to, until, without you expecting it, the shuttle passes to you.

“What made you come out here?” asks Gaz, startling you.

You look up from the can of beer you have been staring at the whole time, warming between your palms, to find Gaz, Price, and Johnny all looking at you expectantly.

“Um,” you say, flushing with embarrassment. Completely unprepared to be treated like a conversational prospect.

“The quiet, didnae you say?” Johnny supplies, laying his hand along your upper arm, rubbing up and down.

He might as well have shoved that hand down your shirt instead—you catch the other two men seeing it. Noting it. Reevaluating who you are, who you might be, and why you’re intruding on their day together.

And Johnny mustrecognize it too, because he squeezes the soft part above your elbow.

Warmth like a candle flame in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, lamely. “Just—tired, of the city, I guess…”

“I like the quiet too,” Gaz says diplomatically. “Bet it’s good surfing here too, in the summer.”

“No’ much,” says Johnny. “The wildlife’s the point here, innit, bonnie? Great seal watching, out here.”

You meet his gaze. Edges of sapphire blue are soft in your direction, mouth corners curled.

No obfuscation. No derision.

“Yeah,” you find yourself saying—and meaning. “The seals—the seals are cool.”

“Birds, too,” Price says, unpeeling patties after finally locating the electric griddle.

“How can you tolerate mucking around with two old codgers like this?” Gaz laughs.

Something effervescent infuses your bloodstream. Light and bubbly.

“As if Johnny has let me hang out with anyone but him,” you say, as if it has been a desire of yours in the first place.

You hear Price snort at the griddle. Gaz quirks a brow at Johnny without making any effort to hide it, and then clinks the belly of his can against yours before drinking.

You finally have a sip. It’s nice—hoppy, lightly sweet, fizzing on your tongue. Still cool enough to enjoy.

“Might take ya diving tomorrow,” Soap begins, fingertips twirling up your shoulder—

But then a distant voice cuts through the afternoon.

“Oy! Johnny!”

The three of you look around. Soap pulls away from you, warmth retreating with him, as he goes stick his head out of the door.

And then he dashes toward Price’s motorboat.

The engine revs as you, Gaz, and Price follow him out, watching as he speeds toward the shore. On the beach, a large man in dark colors, half his face covered by a black surgical mask, angles toward him, hands on his hips.

Johnny stops just shy of beaching the boat before he leaps out into the water, wades up the sand, and launches himself at the man.

They embrace like tectonic plates colliding. Even at a distance, you can hear the sound of hands slapping backs, feel the way their bodies meet and sway—so resonant with shared affection that you can feel the shocks of it across the water.

Glacial ice pushes through your veins.

“There he is,” Price says fondly. “Knew he wouldn’t miss this.”

“Ghost’s always gotta make an entrance,” Gaz agrees.

Ghost.

Or, as it must be—Simon.

Simon turns the snugness of four bodies into an overcrowd of five. In the bridge, there is little room to maneuver around him, massive as he is, and he seems disinclined not to claim as much space as there is available.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims. “Want you to meet my old partner, Ghost.”

His eyes are dark, the color of a full whiskey bottle. They gaze at you without interest, even as he proffers his huge hand.

“You’re Johnny’s tourist,” he says, in a flat, brassy tenor. The sound of a metal grate closing.

Johnny.

“Yes,” you say, in a voice as irrelevant as a minnow’s.

He shakes your hand with a perfunctory grip, and says absolutely nothing more to you. He turns, and leans his bulk against the counter in the kitchen—galley, Johnny informs, as he explains the ship, and its story, to Ghost in rapid fire.

Had he been as excited to introduce it to you?

Ghost swigs from his beer, mask hooked under his chin. “What the fuck you even do on this thing, anyway?”

“Fish from it,” Johnny says. He’s standing close to Ghost, second can in one hand as he gestures with the other. “Got crab and lobster traps all over the place, that’s where the money is.”

“Always did like fishin,’” says Ghost, as warm to Johnny as he had been uninterested in you.

You cloister back in your place on the booth couch.

You can’t blame him. You can’t blame either of them. You can’t. You can’t. You are extraneous in this situation and always would have been.

“This isnae really fishin’ though, see?” Johnny goes on. “I mean, I use the dragnet time t’time, but rich tits on the mainland, they can get cod anywhere.”

“Become a real foodie, he has,” Gaz chuckles.

“Knob,” Ghost agrees.

Johnny grins. It’s a soft thing, an expression of sinking into warm bath water in a familiar tub. Ghost grins back at him, more with his eyes than his mouth.

If what’s between Johnny, Gaz, and Price is an unraveled scarf, easily knit back together, then what’s between Johnny and Ghost must be the tight-woven threads of fine, raw silk. It’s visible to the naked eye; if you reach out, you think you could brush against it with your bare fingertips.

Impenetrable. Gleaming.

You, a loose, dropped thread.

Price announces that the burgers are ready, and the men crowd the counter before he snaps at them to back off. You hook one heel around the other, twisting your fingers in your lap. An invisible wall between you and them.

The men bring the food over, setting down plates of sliced onion, limp lettuce, squishy tomato. Everything has been sitting out too long. Price sets down a platter of patties, cookie-cutter uniform, some blanketed with yellow, processed cheese.

Your empty stomach cringes in on itself. You don’t want to eat. Johnny slides in beside you, trapping you in, and his friends drag chairs over. Ghost claims the head of the table. They dig into the food with gusto.

“This is awful, Price,” says Johnny. “Told you, shoulda had seafood.”

“I’m sick of fish,” Price grunts.

Something about fresh oysters is at the tip of your tongue, but it’s trapped behind the bars of your teeth. And anyway, Gaz beats you to speaking.

“So you decided to kill the lot of us?” he asks. “Forgot we never let you cook in the field.”

“Nah, that was Johnny’s job,” Ghost says. “Where’s a meathead Scot learn to cook anyway?”

“Quite disrespectin’ my mum,” says Johnny.

They all chuckle at that. It loops around them, that ripple of laughter, and they go on to bandy stories about their captain’s culinary misdemeanors on deployment.

You shrink.

You look at Johnny. His face is animated; vibrant. The lines at the corners of his eyes have not smoothed once, with how much he’s been smiling. It’s as if sunlight is radiating from his chest, warming the room.

It visibly brightens his friends, sitting around him. Price’s gruff demeanor has softened. Gaz leans inward, elbows on the table, as if magnetically drawn. And Ghost—

You catch them exchanging a look. Speaking without words.

You don’t belong here.

The few bites you’ve managed to take of a burger surge against the walls of your stomach. Your trachea quivers against your spinal column.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you say. “Excuse me.”

It halts the flow of conversation. The four men look at you as if suddenly remembering you’re there, expressions paused in whatever shape they’d been in before your interruption.

No one says anything at all.

And why would they?

Johnny stands to let you out of the booth. You extricate yourself, and hold your gaze on the stairwell, refusing to look twice at them.

The belly of the ship swallows you with a whirlpool’s vacuum; you veer into the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Overhead, the conversation resumes, as if you left no empty space within it to compensate for.

Heat leeching up your face. Heart beating against your sternum, so hard it must be about the split the bone.

You don’t belong here.

You start heaving. Big, hard breaths, truncated, refusing both to be drawn in or released without a fight. You stagger to the sink and grip it with both hands, shaking so hard you can barely stand.

You don’t belong here. You don’t belong with anyone. You don’t deserve—

Your stomach shoves upward. You tip your face over the basin, throat convulsing, but nothing comes up.

Your vision swirls. You feel Johnny’s hand on your back, but it’s only a ghost of his touch. He’s still upstairs, with his friends.

You hear a sunburst of laughter above you, hearty and deep and shared by four voices.

Tears start streaming from your eyes, though you can barely feel them. You vibrate. It builds and builds inside you, a scream, a hurricane, gale forces whipping around and beating the inside of your skin. The quiver of your skull sends a high-pitched squeal up through the canals of your ears.

You sink to your knees.

“No,” you whimper, in the midnight zone of your voice, so that no one can hear you. “No, no, no, not again, no…”

The bath mat touches your forehead. Your shuddering mouth hangs open. You dig into the soft skin of your forearm with the nails of one hand, seeking blood.

You are a wound in the world that refuses to close. A cyst. Something here that should not be. Wherever you go is a mistake.

Heartbeat like a drum in your ears. Entire body drawing up, higher, tighter, trembling, seams pulling, self receding, bones exposed, so far out you will never make your way back.

You’re going to burst. You’re going to make a mess, right there on the floor, and they’re all going to come down and see it. It’s building in your throat. It’s at the dam of your teeth.

You wrap your arms around yourself, gripping tight.

You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here—

You don’t belong anywhere.

Suddenly, you go still.

Flying debris settles. Your airways open.

Stillness. Quiet. The next breath you take is slow and smooth.

You hear the far-away slosh of the ocean moving beneath the hull of the trawler.

Yes, of course.

You clamber upward, using the counter as leverage. As you rise, you catch yourself in the mirror.

Your face glistens. Your eyes are swollen, bags heavy beneath. It does not reflect what’s behind it—

Tranquility.

It isn’t about resolve, after all.

The truth of it settles gently in your chest. Of course. It’s about certainty. It’s about knowing, in your bones, what should and shouldn’t be. What is and what isn’t.

The way things will be, and the way they won’t.

Simple. Natural.

The evolutionary processes of your body simply hadn’t caught up. The genetic predisposition toward persistence, the silly, reactionary aversion to pain, to danger, the biological imperative of a time before now.

Now—

Turning the cold tap, you wet your fingers and dab at the puffy skin. You pull some toilet paper from the roll and pat at your face. You breathe easily through your nose, and on steadied feet, you leave the bathroom.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” you hear Gaz saying as you climb the stairs.

“Aw, gimme some credit,” Johnny protests.

You stop.

“No,” Ghost says, and it’s odd to hear contemplation in the knife’s edge of his voice. “Somethin’s changed.”

“What’s that?” Johnny asks.

“You’re…calmer,” says Ghost. You hear Price hum. “Never seen you sit this still, not long as I’ve known you.”

You hear Johnny huff a little laugh. “Guess this place’ll do that to you.”

“Hey, Johnny?” you say, surfacing.

The conversation pauses again. He looks up at you. Blinks beautiful, blue eyes.

The rueful smile you give him is easy.

“I don’t feel very well. I’m sorry. Can you take me back to shore?”

Some tiny muscle at the edge of his expression shifts.

You don’t know what, exactly, it could mean, but it doesn’t matter.

“Sure, bonnie,” he says slowly, setting down his half-eaten burger.

“It was nice meeting you all,” you say to the three other men.

They echo something back—insincere. Obligatory, you know. They’ll forget about you the moment you leave their view.

That doesn’t matter either. Nothing does.

You don’t think about it at all as Johnny helps you down into the kayak, taking your overnight bag first and then your hand. It’s cloudy overhead, cool without being cold. The wind is gentle.

He stares at you the whole time he rows. You don’t meet his gaze. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his eyes narrowed, the line of his mouth tight again.

“Thank you,” you say, when the kayak reaches the beach. “Have fun with your friends, Johnny.”

“Sure, bonnie,” he says.

You indulge yourself—you look him up and down.

He really is an attractive man. Beautiful. Like the crash of a wave. You get that sense again—that he’s more real than anything surrounding him. More real than the ground beneath your feet. Than the ocean behind him.

More real than you.

“See you later,” you say, and turn away from him.

You walk the trail back, thinking about the anonymous feet that carved it into the grass. Years, generations walking the same way, down to the beach and back up. People you’ll never know. A part of something you never will be.

When you crest the rise, you see the cobbled siding of the cottage. You’d never looked at the back of it before—never thought to. It was unimportant in the face of everything else, irrelevant.

Maybe that’s why you look now. The finiteness making room for it.

At the cobbled wall’s base is a little mound of piled sand.

You go to your knees in front of it. The soil is cool to the touch, loose. Easily disturbed.

Somehow, you know what you’re going to find, even as you dig. Your fingers brush against it even before you uncover it fully, and it doesn’t surprise you at all.

Folded tightly, in a divot in the ground, is the paint-splash riot of Johnny’s pelt.

a/n: had to add one more chapter because otherwise this would have been 9k words long lol

forreal this time—two chapters left!!

#soap x reader #soap x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #mwritessoap #madi writes #selkie soap #peristalsis #walked for an hour on the beach today before posting this #very evocative #made friends with a pelican

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potato-lord-but-not · 9 months ago

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it’s who we are

mhm yeah just wanted to post em all together because look at themmmm I’m gonna yap about this under the cut don’t mind me

having them all lined up is giving real triptych vibes, which honestly opens up a whole new level of symbolism I’m too lazy to explore rn.

And didn’t even realize Oscar and Arthur were basically in the same pose until after I finished them all. LIKE ?? ok what was my subconscious brain on… the position of the star… the little sun in Kayne’s knife in the same spot as the sun in the celestial water in Oscar’s piece.

Arthur having a light silhouette and dark background, and Oscar having a dark silhouette and light background… THE BLOODY ROSARY WITH A MOON ON IT !! ARTHUR COVERED IN BLOOD !!!! THE HALOS IN THE BACKGROUND THAT MATCH JOHN’S SUN !!!!

John holding the moon…. his little star earring… the overwhelming background that the sun entirely envelops…

Here’s a much better analysis for each one @absoluteocellibehavior did bc they go CRAZZYYY— Oscar, Arthur, andd John !!

and also their interpretations of the cards in general <3

ough now I wanna do more characters…. I’m ill

#I WANNA DO NOEL AND KAYNE SPECIFICALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#also faroe and the butcher and kiy heheheheh #anyway they’re sooo EHEH #I may have ordered prints of these. just maybe tho #malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolent fanart #artist on tumblr #digital art #arthur lester #arthur malevolent #john doe #john doe malevolent #john malevolent #oscar malevolent

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sponsoredbyadhd · 10 days ago

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Celebration Zine Art Submission Open Call is now on until April 4 APRIL 6!!

SUBMISSION FORM

Timeline

March 26 – 29 Interest check

March 30 – April 4 Artwork submission (open call)

April 5 – 10 Physical zine production

April 6 Physical zine submission changes deadline

April 14 Physical zine delivery

April 28 Digital zine submission changes deadline

May 1 Digital zine release

Submission Process

Once you submit your art and info, I will review the file(s) and text, and reach out to you via email within 24 hours. If you don’t hear from me, please contact me on Tumblr or Bluesky directly.

Please only submit one piece per person. Diptychs and triptychs are allowed.

If you’d like to make changes to any part of your submission, please contact me ASAP. I cannot accept changes for the physical copy after April 6; however for digital I can still make changes until April 28.

Submission Guidlines

Redraws, artwork inspired by the new visual, and cosplays are welcome.

Submission is limited to one piece per person, however diptychs and triptychs are allowed.

SFW, artistic nudity are allowed on a case by case basis.

All creation must be your own; AI generated images are strictly prohibited.

Along with the art, you also have the opportunity to submit a message for Studio Orange/Nightow. It will only be included in the one-off physical copy that is to be given to Studio Orange.

Any hateful, abusive language will not be tolerated.

General FAQ

1. What is this zine about?

The purpose of this fan zine is to celebrate the new announcement of Trigun Stargaze and the Trigun Stampede Exhibition, and Trigun manga’s 30th anniversary. It’s a collective love letter to Studio Orange and Yasuhiro Nightow.

2. What is in this zine?

This zine will feature a collection of art inspired by the new visual, including redraws, reinterpretations, and cosplays.

3. Can I submit my art? What are the requirements?

Everyone who is interested is encouraged to participate! This zine is submission-based, all skill levels, styles, and mediums are welcome. The artwork can be fully rendered or a sketch. The only requirements are SFW and it must be your own work. Artistic nudity is allowed on a case by case basis. See submission guidelines and submit your artwork here.

4. Where/when can I get this zine?

Free digital copies will be available to download in May. A link will be provided on Tumblr, Bluesky, and Twitter/X on my personal account, @/sponsoredbyadhd.

5. Can I buy a printed zine?

A one-off physical zine will be produced and gifted to Studio Orange; I will cover the production cost and hand deliver to the Trigun Stampede Exhibit. There is no planned commercial run of physical copies at this time. This project was inspired by the surge of fan redraws following the new visual reveal; the physical zine is a collective love letter, a fan mail to the creators and the series. But hey, you can totally print the digital version out yourself, that’s how you make zines. ;)

I will be in touch regarding important updates via email. Feel free to follow me @sponsoredbyadhd or on Bluesky as well regarding this project (not very active on Twitter/X but will share the major stuff). Please note that these are my personal accounts and I post and reblog whatever I like, including NSFW, so follow at your own discretion. Otherwise, I’ll tag everything with #redraw zine.

#Trigun #trigun stampede #redraw zine #if you’ve filled out an interest check with your email this info is also in your mailbox #LETS DO THIS!!!

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chernobog13 · 3 months ago

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It's raining Kryptonians!

Alex Ross triptych cover for Superman titles during 2007-2008's New Krypton storyline.

#Superman #Flamebird #Krypto #Nightwing (Kryptonian version)#Supergirl #Superwoman #DC Comics #Alex Ross

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mxwhore · 3 months ago

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some more affectionate hands from my safehouse comic! you can find the tree main triptychs + the cover & back cover of this beast on patreon

#do you understand why ive taken literal years #tma #jonmartin #tessart #im finishing this. i will do it

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geritsel · 4 months ago

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Utagawa Hiroshige and Utagawa Kunisada - Prince Genji triptych; a snow-covered garden with a group of girls building a giant snow rabbit. Color woodblock prints, 1850's.

#ukiyo e #genji #japanese art #winterscape #Utagawa Toyokuni III #japanese woodblock print

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jenaissvntes · 2 years ago

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the jim lee trinity triptych is finally complete! the new wonder woman cover looks great :)

#dc comics #superman #wonder woman #batman #dc comcis

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griseldagimpel · 2 months ago

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Fandom Trumps Hate: The Magnus Archives/Protocol

There's lots of offers for The Magnus Archives/Protocol for Fandom Trumps Hate. Bidding opens on Tuesday, February 25th!

@antichrists-plus1

Type of fanwork: Fan art Subtype(s): Drawing/painting/etc. Fandom(s): Dead Boy Detectives; The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Saw franchise Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: I have no set rules, but generally a higher bid gets more detail/time put into the piece. Least i'll do is clean lineart, most is a fully rendered piece Including a background and up to 3 characters. Special interests (what is this?): Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Genderswap/genderbending, Rarepairs, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@cyburnya

Type of fanwork: Fan art Subtype(s): Banner, Book cover, Comic, Drawing/painting/etc., Icon(s) Fandom(s): Minecraft Youtubers: QSMP, QSMP RPF, Lifesteal + Lifesteal RPF, Yogscast; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: For ANY animation, it must be over $30. Special interests (what is this?): Ambiguous endings, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Poly ships, Rarepairs, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters, Unhappy endings

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Frankenfishy

Type of fanwork: Fan art Subtype(s): Banner, Book cover, Comic, Drawing/painting/etc., Icon(s), screencap study/hybrid screencap study Fandom(s): Interview with the Vampire; The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Any fandom I've created for before Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $20 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: Basic drawing/coloured sketch - 20, Comic Page linework/B+W simple 20, Coloured 30. Tarot Card 25, Fully rendered icon 25, Screencap Study 30, Hybrid Study (see Triptych) 40 Book Cover 50 Special interests (what is this?): Ambiguous endings, Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, F/F ships, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters, Unhappy endings

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@griseldagimpel

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): Locked Tomb Trilogy; The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Valdemar Series by Mercedes Lackey Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $10 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: 100 words per $1, up to 15k words Special interests (what is this?): Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, F/F ships, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Poly ships, Rarepairs

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@ecchima

Type of fanwork: Fan art Subtype(s): Comic Fandom(s): Dead Boy Detectives; Good Omens; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: M Minimum Bid: $100 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: 100$ per additional page Special interests (what is this?): Ambiguous endings, Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Genderswap/genderbending, Unhappy endings

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@sekrap

Type of fanwork: Fan art Subtype(s): Banner, Comic, Drawing/painting/etc. Fandom(s): Rusty Quill Gaming Podcast; Critical Role; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, F/F ships, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Poly ships, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@waldosakimbo

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new), fan fiction (remix of an existing fic) Fandom(s): Stranger Things; Good Omens; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: 5 -10k words Special interests (what is this?): Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@joshuakellin

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; DC: Any; Sherlock Holmes: Arthur Conan Doyle stories, BBC Sherlock, Sherlock & Co. Highest rating: M Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: Less than 5k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Poly ships, Rarepairs, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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EybeFioro

Type of fanwork: Fan labor Subtype(s): Translation Fandom(s): Good Omens; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: M Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 5 -10k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, F/F ships, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Rarepairs, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@aryashi

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new), fan fiction (remix of an existing fic) Fandom(s): MXTX (works): The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $10 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: 5 -10k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Gen (no ship) or platonic works

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@awritingbookworm

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: M Minimum Bid: $20 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 5 -10k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, F/F ships, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Poly ships, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@mediums-georg

Type of fanwork: Video Fandom(s): The Stanley Parable; Welcome to Night Vale; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: T Minimum Bid: $10 Audience: All ages Length/scope: $10 for each 30 seconds up to 10 minutes Special interests (what is this?): Ambiguous endings, F/F ships, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Genderswap/genderbending

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excessnight

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: Under 1k: $5, 1k to 3k: $10, 3k to 5k: $15, each 1k after 5k: $5 Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Rarepairs, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters, Unhappy endings

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@whoknowsyourfuture

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new), fan fiction (remix of an existing fic) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Pirates of the Caribbean; Queen's Thief Highest rating: M Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: Less than 5k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Gen (no ship) or platonic works

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Mouse9

Type of fanwork: Fan labor Subtype(s): Betaing Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Sherlock Holmes: Arthur Conan Doyle stories, BBC Sherlock, Elementary, Enola Holmes, Sherlock & Co.; 9-1-1 and 9-1-1 Lone Star Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 5 -10k words Special interests (what is this?): Ambiguous endings, Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, F/F ships, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Rarepairs

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WonkyElk

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Stargate Highest rating: M Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: Less than 5k words

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Sourboi

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new), fan fiction (remix of an existing fic) Fandom(s): Star Trek: The Next Generation, Deep Space 9, Alternate Original Series Movies; The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Any fandom I've created for before Highest rating: M Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 10 - 20k words Special interests (what is this?): Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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cinnamon_fryy

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): Arctic Monkeys/The Last shadow Puppets; BBC Ghosts; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: Less than 5k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Nonwhite characters' racial or cultural experiences, Rarepairs, Unhappy endings

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Shibara

Type of fanwork: Fan art Subtype(s): Drawing/painting/etc. Fandom(s): Malevolent (podcast); The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Lovecraft Mythos Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $30 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: Rendering will increase with the final bid, but depend also on the complexity of the scene chosen (for example, for a winning bid of $100, it could be a flat colored lineart of a complex scene involving three full characters and a background, or a polished painterly portrait of a single character from the waist up). Starting bid of $30 is for a black and white simple sketch, a fully rendered painted illustration of some complexity would be around $150~$200. If you are aiming for a specific level of rendering, please don't hesitate to contact me to explain the scenes you have in mind and I can give a more accurate estimation.

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Snowfilly1

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Welcome to Night Vale Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: Less than 5k words Special interests (what is this?): Ambiguous endings, Aro/ace characters, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Unhappy endings

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Morning Softness

Type of fanwork: Fan art Subtype(s): Book cover, Drawing/painting/etc., Icon(s) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Original Work; Hi Nay (podcast) Highest rating: T Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: For $15 or less, I'll do an icon or a simple half-body portrait without background or shading. For bids higher than $20, I'll do a full-body portrait of a single character. For a bid higher than $40, I'll do shading and background, or draw multiple characters. Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Rarepairs, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@kieraelieson

Type of fanwork: Podfic Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; The Murderbot Diaries; Sanders Sides Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 15 - 20k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Poly ships, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@kneesntoess

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): Leverage; The Murderbot Diaries; The Magnus Archives/Protocol Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $10 Audience: 18+ only Length/scope: 5 -10k words Special interests (what is this?): Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Poly ships, Rarepairs, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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sleepingcreep

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new), meta/analysis Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Slenderverse; Skulduggery Pleasant Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 5 -10k words Special interests (what is this?): Ambiguous endings, F/F ships, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Genderswap/genderbending, Rarepairs, Unhappy endings

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@featheredboaconstrictor

Type of fanwork: Podfic Fandom(s): Good Omens; The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Dragon Age: Any Highest rating: E Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 5 - 10k words

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ShakespeareStoleMyURL

Type of fanwork: Podfic Fandom(s): The Magicians; The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Wicked Highest rating: T Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: 5$ per 2500 words you want me to record, up to 40k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Canonically trans or nonbinary chars, Gen (no ship) or platonic works, Poly ships, Trans or nonbinary interpretations of canon characters

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@thehumandictionary

Type of fanwork: Written fanwork Subtype(s): fan fiction (new) Fandom(s): The Magnus Archives/Protocol; Minecraft Youtubers: Hermitcraft, The Life Series; Original Work Highest rating: T Minimum Bid: $5 Audience: All ages Length/scope: Less than 5k words Special interests (what is this?): Aro/ace characters, Gen (no ship) or platonic works

#fandom trumps hate #the magnus archives #the magnus protocol

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mjrtaurus · 2 months ago

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Okay, I gotta dig out my Society of Tinfoil Hattery credentials from the junk drawer for this one piece business, so strap in and get ready for some flow of conscious yapping.

And just to be clear: ELBAF SPOILERS

Okay. So the triptych(?) mural. I’m gonna be very insufferable about the mural because that feels like THE center point of this arc. Not so much the poems, because as far as I know, the translations are still unofficial and I can give my thoughts on them then.

Okay, so, the first third. The “First World”

We see people- we can assume slaves- coming out of complexes with machinery beneath and steam billowing from above. Is this a refinery? A power plant? A reactor, maybe?

We see these people go down deep, and come back up carrying something starlike that they bring to a crowned figure on top of the hill. Ore? Precious stones and metals? Some sort of fuel source? It looks the same as the stars depicted, so… nuclear energy?

We also see beneath the ground- perhaps hidden?- a winged figure (sky islander?), next to a very large ship with animals trailing towards it (Noah??) pointing skyward (to the moon???).

Above the crowned figure at the top of the hill, we see a ship in the sky sending a lightning bolt to the feet of the crowned figure and towards the roots of the tree centerpiece (Uranus? Something like the Ark Maxim and Enel?)

And the central piece to the first world portion of the mural… this “Serpent of Hell” coming up from beneath the earth where the slaves are going down into getting into a conflict with the bird-like creature at the top of the second world’s tree (Nidhogg and Hraesvelgr imagery? Who would be the Ratatoskr of that?). It seems from the fire the two are spitting at each other, that the whole world has become enveloped in war and- if the bit about the Earth God becoming enraged is translated correctly- rendering it uninhabitable (the reason why the sky islander is taking the animals to Noah? The reason why the sky islanders went to the moon to begin with? Was the land irradiated?)

This one is the most dicey for me, but bear with me.

The Second World is a tree with the Hraesvelgr-esque figure perched at the top, warring with the Nidhogg-esque figure going down into the earth beneath the roots. We might assume, though I’m not exactly certain about it, that this tree could be symbolic of this eight hundred year reign of the world government? Its branches don’t stick out very far from the trunk, so this could just be to keep the image from being cluttered, just something that wasn’t thought about, or because the tree is giving shade to only a select few.

This Hraesvelgr looking beast seems to have won the conflict with the Nidhogg one. So the Nidhogg beast might have been symbolic of a rebellion coming up from where the slaves toiled away? (The x marks on the serpent’s sides do make me think of a certain tattooed someone with a certain ophidic moniker with certain unsavory opinions on the Celestial Dragons…)

And then we see the last portion of the triptych. Nika leading the charge with an army at his back against a winged demon holding the sun.

I see Nika and Imu (or maybe even Teach…) depictions here, obviously. I see a whale with two people on it’s back (Laboon, Crocus, and that one dude who was drinking with him that one cover art (that might be the man marked by flames))? I see a Lunarian (King and/or the Seraphim?). I see Emmet. I see Dogstorm and Catviper. I see Shirahoshi and the Megalodon. I see Leo. I see Loki! We see several ships, too! All of these people fighting against one big demon and one tiny ship with just a handful of people. The world has turned on the powerful few.

In conclusion… I think this is a sort of history-prophecy thing like with Alduin’s Wall in Skyrim. These aren’t “worlds” per se, but Ages. It just gives that illusion because it feels like how humanity speaks of bygone eras as totally different worlds. I think this is the Void Century, Imu’s reign (specifically Imu, because clearly something or someone was calling the shots before them. Perhaps the Nerona were ruling? And Imu formed the alliance of the 20 Kingdoms when the Nerona family was being threatened by this “Serpent of Hell”? Maybe Imu was the only survivor of their line and refused to let go of their power?), and Imu’s downfall respectively.

I… really don’t think Nika brings the end of the world. I think he just brings in a new Age.

I’m going to go on my “Imu is an eternal child” soap box when I say that I think Imu is embodying a sort of foil to Nika (a moon god/dess mythical zoan, maybe?). Both Nika and Imu seem… childish to me. Nika is all the positive things we associate with childhood. Play and laughter and imagination. While Imu… Imu is all the negatives. Selfishness and moodiness and “I’ll break my toy so I don’t have to share it” mentality. You get what I’m saying?

Again, this is by no means a comprehensive thing. This purely just me spitballing things.

Thoughts are absolutely welcome.

#one piece #elbaf spoilers #one piece 1138 #theory

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bodybeyondstories · 5 days ago

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The majority of cases are mild - 1

A mysterious virus is spreading through the city, leaving men with, among other symptoms, disproportionate bubble butts. Mayor Tan speaks in a press briefing while his team debates how long they can keep the situation--and their boss's posterior--under control; Devon, before he ever makes it to the clinic, comes to realize the treatment may not be working with his severe case; and Neil, an ardent journalist, goes to the lab determined to get some information about the crisis.

0 (initial prompt)

[ ass expansion // bubble butt ]

3102 words

I decided to keep playing around with the ass expansion virus idea (see: previous rambles). I thought a 'triptych' approach might be kind of fun, with three vignettes that are part of an interconnected moment. Which leaves room for a different combination of perspectives told with each part (assuming I ever get around to continuing this). A close second for the title was (thanks to @embarrassedanon !) "Flattening the Curve."

- - - - -

“My team has been monitoring the situation, and they assure me, there is nothing to worry about at this time. The majority of cases are–”

“Mayor Tan!” came an insistent voice at the back of the press briefing. “Mr. Mayor, have you seen the latest data about infection rates? What’s your response to the uptick we’re seeing in…”

“Ugh, this guy again,” Ana muttered to the lanky man hovering next to her, both of them posted up just off stage.

Her attention could only last so long for this particular reporter who’d been incessantly crying wolf about this mysterious virus for months. She kept her focus on Mayor Tan, her lips moving along with his response, carefully scripted by her.

“Our rapid response team is world class and will move accordingly when specific thresholds are passed, came the mayor’s voice, as if through Ana’s soundless lips. “Until then, we encourage folks to be careful, but currently there is no need to panic.”

“That’s the guy from The Herald, right?” asked Jay, visibly unused to being even proximate to the spotlight. “He’s been maintaining this super useful data viz dashboard keeping track of the outbreak–”

“Not outbreak,” Ana corrected in a harsh whisper. “It is technically not an outbreak. We’re monitoring the situation until we can determine the appropriate designation for the spread of this…medical anomaly. We don’t need some journalist sowing panic before then.”

Jay, a full head taller than his superior, still managed to collapse in on himself under the heat of her side-eye. “I just think,” he stammered under his breath. “I mean, as the Public Health Advisor to the mayor’s office, I have some…concerns…”

“And as the Chief of Staff of the Office of the Mayor, I will let you know if, how, and when your concerns become the mayor’s concerns.” Ana graced him with a half turn of her face and a practiced, professional smile before turning back to the briefing.

“...like I’ve said repeatedly, we will let you know everything we know as we know it,” said Mayor Tan, hands held out in reassurance. “It’s still early days with this situation, and I know we’ve got plenty other things to cover in this briefing. How about one more before we move on to more pressing matters?”

“Mayor Tan,” began a reporter, “your team was still intimating that this was a hoax just last week. Why have you shifted that stance?”

He rested his palms on the podium and chuckled to himself. “I don’t think that’s the word we used, but our team believes in science, not pseudoscience, and we act on concrete data, not social media theories.” He shifted his posture, his fitted suit jacket bunching up over an eye catching posterior on the thirty-five year old politician. “As reliable data becomes available and new…developments occur, we shift our messaging and our strategies.”

Ana whispered along verbatim. She’d been guiding the mayor through his entire political career, knew him better than anyone else at this point. Working class beginnings, son of immigrants, got into a prestigious college, came back to the city to become a community organizer, got a Masters in Public Policy, won a City Council seat through a brilliant grassroots campaign–organized by her–and now sat in the Office of the Mayor. He was starting to get national attention, not just for his policies, but also his engaging demeanor, whip smart discursive abilities, and the toned, 6’0” frame on display during games of pickup soccer at his local community center. He was an eligible bachelor racking up social media views and a humble public servant who still took the bus to City Hall every morning. He was the kind of young, progressive leader that people needed to believe in right now, and both their sights were already set higher.

“I just,” Jay snapped her out of her reverie. “I just think we could be a little more proactive about this.” He showed her his phone, which displayed the latest statistics visualized by The Herald. Her eyes traced a line that had been lazily rolling up over the past several weeks, but was beginning to crook upward at a worrying angle.

“Look,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’re taking this seriously, we’re all taking this seriously. But the last thing this city needs is panic over some…BBL virus.”

“That’s not–the official terminology is–”

“Male Gluteal Hyper–yeah yeah yeah, I know,” she said with a subtle, sharp wave of her hand. “I also got that memo. But there’s a lot at play here and a lot at stake. We’re about to get our signature public transport expansion through the council, we’re finalizing contract negotiations with the municipal workers’ union, we’ve almost got the affordable housing plan through the budgetary process. We haven’t even announced the gubernatorial campaign yet and the polls are already showing a tight race. I know you care deeply about this and you’re brilliant at what you do, but so am I. You have to trust me to play this carefully and play it right. Imagine what we could accomplish from the governor’s mansion, let’s not let this…absurd situation derail everything.”

“Yes…yes, ma’am,” said Jay. He refocused on the briefing, the mayor having taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves as he settled into his usual rapport with the press, shifting his hips back as he leaned over the podium. “But do we have a plan in place for…that?” He gestured slightly with his chin to the prodigious bubble butt straining the young mayor’s fitted slacks.

“For what,” replied Ana with a quirk of her lips. “The Mayor’s last physical was, as you know, just last month, and, as you know, he’s in excellent condition.”

“Yes,” said Jay carefully, “but that physical was several…pant sizes ago.” The mayor was famous for staying physically active and notably in great shape, but his glutes and hamstrings looked disproportionate compared to just a few weeks ago, crammed into a pair of slacks that had already been adjusted multiple times but still looked liable to burst at any second. “Has he been diagnosed yet?”

“Mm mm mm,” Ana playfully scolded, her attention still locked in to the mayor’s practiced responses. “We don’t use that word until we need to. Fluctuations that may or may not happen with the mayor’s weight are not public concern, his personal tailor signed a solid NDA, and besides…” she once again synced up with the mayor as he gave his parting thoughts and began to walk off stage, carefully controlling his gait to de-emphasize the overdeveloped cheeks switching back and forth behind him.

“The majority of cases are–”

- - - - -

“--mild! Mild. I know, I get it, you’ve said that plenty of times.” Devon held his phone at arm’s length out of frustration as the disembodied customer service voice continued to reassure him that there was little to worry about. “Look, I’ve been taking the over the counter meds for three days, and I’m not…” his voice lowered, “I’m not seeing any improvement.”

“We suggest you take those for a week at the onset of symptoms. You started noticing the gluteal swelling three days ago?”

“Closer to three…um…weeks…ago,” he muttered, resting his face in his palm. “I just didn’t know…didn’t think that…didn’t want to…”

“Ask about the clinic!” came his roommate’s voice from the next room.

“Right, the clinic! There’s a clinic, right? Do I need to get a referral?”

“Unfortunately,” responded the voice. “That’s for our more severe cases, and capacity is very limited.”

“Well this case feels pretty severe,” Devon hissed, exasperation entering his voice as he gripped his morning coffee. “I only have so many work from home days and I…” he breathed deep, “I’m ripping through all my office slacks. If I can even get them over my…my–”

“Yes, well that’s to be expected. There are some great online forums popping up for men with your condition. DIY sewing on the fly, retrofitting your car, fashion inspo, the best supportive accessories, office furniture tips…”

“I don’t think I need to–I just don’t think the…symptoms are weakening. Maybe there’s a stronger treatment?”

A drawn out pause on the other end, until finally a pensive breath out. “Okay. Let me see what I can do. Keep taking the medication and we’ll get back to you.”

Click.

Devon punched the air. He’d accomplished basically nothing but at least he had the illusion of some solution to the hefty buns ballooning behind him. He felt acutely the jiggle of his cheeks as he strolled into the living room, where his roommate, Leo, was reading emails while the local news played in the background.

“...we encourage folks to be careful, but currently there is no need to panic…”

“Since when are they livestreaming the mayor’s press briefings?” asked Devon.

“Since that.” Leo pointed toward the corner of the screen, which featured The Herald’s graph of new cases, ending with that worrying upward curve.

Devon sighed, rested his hands on his oversized glutes. He gave them a squeeze, sending a shiver of pleasure up his spine. “Then I guess it’s fitting I’m working from home again.” He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah dude, I assumed based on what’s not fitting,” said Leo, holding up the tattered remains of Devon’s pants, strewn angrily to the floor. “Did you get into the clinic?”

“Ugh, no. Maybe? I don’t know. Probably not.” Devon, clad only in striped bikini briefs and a button down, flopped onto the couch harder than expected. “They mostly gave me tips about…retrofitting my car?”

“Oh, I have a cousin that could help with that. He caught it last month right at the beginning of some trip with his friends, then everybody caught it, and they couldn’t find the meds at a pharmacy anywhere until they got back. They almost got in trouble for public indecency on the flight back because none of their pants…you know…anyway, he like, got a more spacious setup installed in his car. It looks pretty sweet.”

Devon groaned.

“But you won’t have to do that!” Leo rubbed his roommate’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “I mean, he looked like he was smuggling beach balls last I saw him. You’ll be fine, you’re nowhere near that stage.”

“Not yet,” Devon sighed. Three weeks, he scolded himself. After his pancake butt suddenly started putting on mass after years of working out, those first several days were great. He was riding the high of attention and compliments as his perky bubble butt steadily inflated into a donk. After a week, Leo was the first to suggest that maybe it wasn’t just the new leg day routine causing him to fill out his pants so well. Devon demurred, enjoying his fat ass so much that he didn’t notice the attention begin to shift, the stares taking on a different tone, comments becoming mixed with concern, mockery, lust. By the time he was staring down at a positive test, the melons stretching his briefs to the limit were evidence enough. The hemispheres of his backside were now comical, quickly approaching colossal, and nothing seemed to be slowing them down. If that wasn’t severe enough, what was?

Extricating himself from the couch was becoming an ordeal because of the constant shift of his center of gravity. His cheeks bounced wildly as he shuffled to his room, peeling off the bikini briefs with relief so he could slip into a more comfortable pair of extra spacious harem pants. Before he could open the drawer, his eyes locked on to the ten inch teal tower of floppy silicone cock on top of the dresser.

His back arched in anticipation, hole twitching with need as he fell onto the bed, the globes of his ass jiggling out of control and sending waves of pleasure. Of all his symptoms, the increased sensitivity had hit almost as hard as his skyrocketing libido, leading to a newfound enthusiasm for all manner of large and unique toys. Silver linings, I guess, he said to himself with a wry smile, reaching for the lube.

As he lost himself in a pool of morning pleasure, which, he had to admit, was becoming a more than daily thing, his phone sat abandoned on the kitchen counter. Occluded by his muffled moans face down in his pillow, he couldn’t hear it ring.

- - - - -

III

“Hello Devon, this is Randi–with an i–at Phantasy Labs. I’m following up from your call. We may have an option for cases like yours. One of our satellite clinics opening up is specializing in severe infections that aren’t responding to the over the counter meds. Give me a call when you get a chance!”

Randi tapped her left earbud, ending the call, and–with her most adept customer service face–turned her attention to the man anxiously tapping his fingers along the edge of the reception desk.

“Our favorite reporter, back again,” she beamed. “How can we help The Herald, today?”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “The mayor had an impromptu press briefing this morning, I had to run across town. I was supposed to meet with someone from Epidemiology about the latest numbers?”

“As you can imagine, the Epi labs are swamped, but I’ll see if I can get you in.”

“Seems to always be the case,” he sighed. “Would it be possible to talk to someone about your data transparency? Research into the virus is publicly funded, if I’m not mistaken.”

“And we are just so grateful to have the support, trust, and financial partnership of the municipal government to tackle the spread. How about I redirect you to our IP specialists in Legal–”

“No, no, that’s fine!” he exclaimed. “Not again.” For months he’d been a fixture at that reception desk, with limited success in getting through to anyone actually working on epidemiological research or vaccine development. But the legal team was a rabbit hole he didn’t want to go back down.

Randi perked up as the earbud in her left ear pulsed with a lavender and green glow.

“It’s the Office of the Mayor,” she said, holding a finger lightly to the device nestled in her ear. “Official business, you understand.”

“Right. Well, if I could just–”

“I’m really sorry,” she cut him off with the gentlest wave of her hand. “Just give me a few moments. Go ahead and have a seat in the lounge. They just restocked.” She turned away and redirected her attention to the screen built into her side of the desk, tapping lightly as she whispered into the air.

Neil was familiar with every option of coffee, tea, and snacks that Phantasy Labs had to offer, having spent many mornings relegated to the waiting area, acutely aware that he would not be making it past the front desk. They're always changing this place around, he thought, wandering through the curvilinear architecture of the main lobby space. The undulating walls and bulbous pillars always looked strangely organic, as if the space was shifting its shape and growing new structures according to its own logic. It had never looked the same from one week to the next, but he had always managed to find the low seamless coffee table surrounded by oddly plush cushions made of a material he still could not figure out.

This morning, however, it was nowhere to be found. In the spot where he felt it should be, he saw only a sheet of paper, placed flat on the floor, with an arrow drawn in permanent marker. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He had never seen any sort of analog technology used in this place, let alone pen and paper. Nor had he ever had any encounter here that felt outside the realm of a fully coherent, seamless, organic efficiency. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere.

He looked up to find that the arrow pointed to a smooth, blank wall. As he walked up to investigate, a barely perceptible seam appeared at the height of an average door frame, and the wall unfurled further and further with his proximity. He stepped through, finding himself in the middle of a hallway, the door silently shutting behind him.

“Well, shit,” he muttered, unable to reopen the portal he just stepped through, or even detect the seam itself. Instead of the glowing dots he was used to leading him along, he saw the same nondescript pieces of paper with carefully drawn arrows, leading him deeper into the maze of the massive facility. “Okay Neil. You’re a journalist, this is what journalists do,” he told himself. He followed the trail of breadcrumbs to–to his relief–an actual door with a real handle, with the word “UTILITY” printed at the top.

He entered to find row after row of closely packed floor to ceiling shelving, full of what looked like all manner of lab equipment, supplies, and meticulously labeled containers. He wandered in, looking for another arrow, eventually beginning to worry as he came to the conclusion that he had gone on this quest for nothing and simply meandered into a supply closet in the middle of a labyrinthine research complex that he may never escape from.

“Hi.” The quiet voice behind him caused Neil to jump, bumping into a drawer of measuring tape.

Between him and the door was a mousy man holding several sheets of paper, featuring the arrows that had led him here.

“Oh, sorry!” His face a contortion of apology. “Communication is really tight here, I had to find a way to get your attention. I’m Sai,” he added with a helpful smile. He looked like he generally spent most of his waking time in a lab, but the disheveled hair, unkempt stubble, and dark circles under his eyes told Neil he hadn’t gotten much sleep recently, let alone made it home.

From the waist up, he looked petite enough to shove out of the way in a pinch, but Neil’s gaze immediately fell to the pair of globes hovering behind him, stretching his plaid leggings to the limit, rotund enough to see from the front. His svelte waist ballooned into a pair of gargantuan ass cheeks and thick thighs, so comically hefty they effectively blocked any hope of escape. “You don’t know me. I’m just one of the R&D interns. But some of us have been following your work with the, uh, virus, and…could we, um, talk?”

“Yeah,” said Neil, unable to take his eyes off of Sai’s wildly disproportionate posterior. “Yeah, definitely.” He pulled out his voice recorder from his messenger bag. “I have so many questions.”

#the people have been yearning for more local politics in their smut writing #male tf #ass expansion #MOCAM

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