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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 2 years ago

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(2) TENDER LIKE A BRUISE ─── ethan landry 𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “No other word makes my mouth as tender as your name.” — ‘Soft Human’, Emery Allen

pairing. spiderman!ethan landry x reader

warnings. swearing, mention of blood + death, mildly suggestive

summary. after that first night, ethan and you have acquired an unspoken bond. your friends sense this bond, but, unfortunately, think it’s something else entirely. (1) (2) (3) (4)

a/n. more spiderman!ethan. im really loving this au, but i also have no idea what im doing. expect some more fics, though not entirely in chronological order.

ii.

The rest of that night went like this: you ordered pizza, but by the time it got to your apartment, Ethan fell asleep on your couch.

So you forced him to wake up, all but shoved three slices of pepperoni pizza down his throat, then locked him in your room and made the boy rest.

(Waking him up was far harder than you thought it would be. He slept like the fucking dead, and looked like it too, hands perfectly by his sides, staring straight up at the ceiling.)

You were cleaning up the boxes in the living room when you heard a commotion in your bedroom, alongside Ethan’s familiar, profuse apologizing.

“Ethan?” You called out, walking down the hall. “What’s going—“

Suddenly, the door to your room opened, and out came Ethan, hair messy from sleep, being pinned against the hallway wall by Mindy.

“What the fuck were you doing in—“ Mindy said furiously, her hand balling up the fabric of your (Ethan’s) shirt.

“Hey- Hey! Mindy, put him down! I’m right here,” You said, wide eyed. You could see the pain blooming in Ethans side as Mindy man-handled him, his brows twisted taut, eyes squeezing shut.

At the sound of your voice, Mindy let go of Ethan immediately. From your room behind her walked out Annika and Tara, who were cautiously stepping away from the two of them.

Ethan’s hands held his bandaged side subtly, leaning against the wall like he had when you first let him into your room.

The guilt churned in your chest — how could you not think about your friends entering the apartment with him in there? Of course Mindy would be hostile, for Ethan had never come over if Chad wasn’t there first.

Without thinking, your hands graced both of Ethan’s arms. “Are you okay?” You whispered in his ear, and waited for his curt nod before turning to Mindy, Annika and Tara’s prying eyes.

“I’m— we—he came over to study, and he fell asleep so I…” You racked your head for a plausible excuse, so you didn’t have to tell everyone he was fucking Spiderman and that he almost bled out in your shared bathroom just three hours ago.

“Study?” Tara cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Weren’t you at the party?” She gave Ethan a pointed look.

Ethan opened and closed his mouth, looking between you and the rest of your friends. “I left, like, an hour in. I have Econ tomorrow, so I needed to - to study.”

Mindy took a deep breath in, then flared her nostrils, letting the air out. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” She backed away, hands in the air like she was getting arrested, “just wanted to know why this dude you don’t even talk to was sleeping in your room.”

Then, she walked off, down the hall into the living room, hands still in the air. Annika and Tara slipped away similarly, but Annika gave the both of you a particularly long and suspicious look.

You looked at Ethan. Ethan looked at you.

“How’s my stitch work?” You said lightly, trying to break the silence while gesturing to his side.

A small smile broke on Ethans face. “I think my head needs the concern more,” he said, rubbing the part of his head that hit the wall.

“Well, I’ll get you an ice pack if it's that bad. Now sleep. I’ll wake you up when you need to leave - if Sam catches you in here, it’ll be a repeat of last time.”

Ethan grimaced, touching his nose nostalgically. “Noted.”

After Ethan entered your room, stretching and letting out the yawn he had been holding in, you closed the door, and made your way to sleeping in the living room. Any looks you got from your friends, you ignored.

This knock-on-your-window-patch-Ethan-up-let him sleep-over-situation repeated several times.

It wasn’t one you particularly liked, however. Over time, you and Ethan grew closer. It's a little hard not to get to know each other when one is saving you from near-death, and knows your biggest secret.

You found out how sweet Ethan was, his consideration far more than mere politeness. He was a good person, one who often put his life on the line for people he didn’t even know. So, seeing the boy in pain every time he snuck in tugged at your heart-strings.

You didn’t exactly… know why Ethan was so good. Any time he talked about becoming Spiderman, he seemed so tense, so guilt-ridden. His voice had an intonation of loss, of pure grief that he wouldn’t let anyone touch.

(If anything, that grief was hurting him more than the injuries you were patching him up for.)

Besides that, even now, you two had never hung out in normal circumstances, and most times you saw Ethan, he was clad in that red-and-blue latex suit.

It had you wondering what exactly you two were. A walking first aid kit and the hero? Or friends?

It's not like you didn’t understand - becoming so close so quickly would make everyone suspicious, so keeping this relationship on the low was absolute key.

(But that didn’t mean it didn't hurt a little.)

Ethan coming over in secret like this had now been happening at least weekly for five months straight. During that, the nature of your relationship evolved: sometimes, Ethan’s injuries were bearable enough that he swung back out your window (to your adamant behest), or, he was awake enough to watch a movie with you in the living room, or even just knocked on your window during his patrols to say Hi.

One night, you forgot someone was home. You’d done up a nick on Ethan’s neck - a place he couldn’t reach by himself - and you’d forced him not to swing back to Brooklyn, even if his police walkie was rattling off several alarming police codes.

“Ethan,” You said, holding the walkie up. “This is going to get you killed.”

“I’m fighting crime! Of course I’m going to get hurt.”

“And I would much rather you didn’t get hurt.”

“Am I cutting into your study time?”

“No, dumbass, I just don’t want you to swing injured. I care, you know? About you.”

Ethan paused at that, looking at you carefully. “I — um,” his face was pink, “okay, fine. I’ll… stay. But just for tonight - next time, I’m going no matter what you say.”

“Just promise me to stay safe, alright?”

Ethan nodded, slightly hesitant. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” You pressed the walkie talkie into his chest, “So, Chinese or Thai tonight?”

“I’m thinking Indian, actually,” Ethan said, trailing behind you into the living room. “Do you remember that place from last time? They made the best—“

Then, catching the both of you completely off guard, Quinn’s door swung open wide.

Out came another one of her regular hookups - the prison suit guy, whose forehead stitches were now a light scar - who looked shocked at the sight of you guys and quickly scurried out. Then, out came Quinn herself, who waved the guy goodbye.

Quinn almost ducked back into her room without saying a thing to you guys, obviously ridden with fatigue, but quickly spun back.

Quinn blinked, rubbed her eyes, then blinked again.

“Are you two —“ She pointed to you two, jaw dropped, obviously wrong thoughts in her mind, and you were both quick to correct her.

“No! No — we,” Ethan started and stumbled, looking at you for help.

“Econ! He came over for econ help.” You finished for him, placing your hands on your hips.

Ethan nodded vehemently, “I’m hopeless at the statistics.”

“Didn’t you ace stats in highschool, E?” Quinn said pointedly, quickly sobering.

“Well, these— these ones are harder, okay!”

“It’s really hard,” you tried to convince her. “Everyone is almost failing this unit. I’m barely getting by with the extra textbooks I had on the subject.”

A beat passed.

And then Quinn seemed to consider this, leaning her head against her doorframe. “Well, whatever. Now go bang or study stats, I don’t care, just be quiet. I’ve got swim practice tomorrow.”

You and Ethan both gave her a perfect, agreeing smile, and she disappeared into her bedroom.

“Oh my god,” You whispered to Ethan first, “She thought we were—“

“She thought we were…” He repeated, eyes wide, finger tugging at one of his curls.

“That is the funniest thing I’ve heard this week, my god.” You shook your head, flopped on the couch, and that was that.

(Inwardly, your reaction stung Ethan a little.

Was it really… really so implausible that you two would be, well, together?)

And about the misconception of being together? Your whole friend group believed what Quinn did, too.

One similar night, after Ethan changed into a pair of his clothes (after the first few instances of patching him up, he began keeping clothes in your room) and you were about to put a movie on, you two had walked into the living room, and found your entire friend group waiting for you there.

Sure, dressing Ethan’s wounds happened often enough that they were home and asleep while you did so, but you didn’t think you two were that loud. At least, loud enough to wake the entire house.

It was early morning, 2-am or something, and Ethan had been texting back his dad, pretending he was just coming home from a party. Ethan had to regularly assure his father that he was indeed safe and sound, something you weren’t exactly privy to the origin of.

(There was a cloud of mystery concerning Ethan becoming Spiderman, his family’s undue concern for him, and his and Quinn’s deceased brother, Richie. You couldn’t put a finger on it, but you just knew it was all connected.)

Ethan was just behind you when you stopped at the sight of your friends in the living room, your jaw dropped. Ethan bumped into your back, stumbling and apologizing, until he saw what exactly had made you stop.

“What the — what are you guys doing here?” You said first, at their piercing gazes.

“We’re staging an intervention,” Quinn said, trying to be serious, before breaking and letting out an ungodly laugh. “Oh my god, you guys need to stop fucking in the bathroom!”

“What?” both of you said in shock. Your face burned red, as did Ethans, who looked at you.

“E, I am so proud of you man, but you guys gotta be normal about this shit,” Chad said, scrubbing his face.

“Why the bathroom, exactly?” Tara leaned back, eyes red with sleep, like she had been waiting for hours and was slowly succumbing to the fatigue.

“Just! Hol— hold on, a sec. We aren’t fucking in the - in the bathroom, okay?” You said, arms gesturing wildly. Your face was practically on fire now, the whole room feeling a touch too warm.

“We aren’t even together!” Ethan added on quickly, though shying further behind you.

Annika snorted, then leaned her head on Mindy’s shoulder. “You guys don’t have to hide it. You do know we can hear you in there, right?”

What? You weren’t making any undue noise in the bathroom, you had made sure of it. Any possible noise they could hear would just be the dry bandage and Ethan’s overdramatic whining, which—

Ethan’s whining.

“Oh my god,” you whispered under your breath, brows becoming permanently furrowed. You jabbed Ethan lightly in the side, “This is your fault, you know?”

Ethan spluttered, “How is it—“

“You’re always so loud in there, and I keep telling you to—“

“And that!” Mindy cut in, pointing at you two. “We cannot forget to mention that.”

“‘That’ what?” Your head swiveled to Mindy’s pointed finger, letting go of Ethan’s sleeve that you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“”’That’ what”’?” Mindy mocked in an (incredibly inaccurate) impression of your tone. “Jesus, I mean all the arguing and the teasing and the touching!”

Everyone nodded simultaneously, as if your (not real!) predicament was extremely easy to notice.

You blinked rapidly, looking at your friends then back at Ethan. “This is - so ridiculous,” you said, under your breath.

“Is it, though?” Ethan shrugged, head tilted and considering the facts against you two. “I mean,” he explained himself, “all of a sudden I’m always over “studying” and you’re sneaking me around the house instead of letting everyone know I’m here. We spend a little too long in the bathroom together, you keep your window a smidge open for me, and you keep my clothes in your closet.”

Well. With all that splayed out on the table, it did sound like you were hooking up. It was a great cover, if you were being honest, if only it didn’t make things so damn awkward.

Suddenly, as if Ethan knew what you were thinking, his arm snaked around your waist and pulled you close to him.

“Okay, fine,” Ethan started, looking at your group of friends. “You caught us. We’re, well, dating. Surprise?”

Through Chad’s cheers and everyone else’s relieved sighs (that of which they didn’t have to painfully watch you and Ethan sneak around the apartment together anymore) Ethan whispered to you, disguised as a kiss to the crown of your head.

“This fake dating cover is gold. The perfect excuse. You’ll help your friendly neighborhood Spiderman, right?”

In response, you nodded your head slightly, then looked up at him with a plastic smile, talking between it. “Thanks, babe. I’ve become your personal nurse.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of my sidekick.”

“Just don’t ‘Death in the Family’ me, Landry.”

taglist: @iloveneilperry @backtotheshitshow @hazehepburn @powowowy @ifilwtmfc @oscarisdaddy69 @al1v3cvp1d2@bloodyeverything @l5byrinth @gojosbucket @diamondci1ty

#ethan landry x reader #jack champion x reader #ethan landry #jack champion #scream 6 #scream vi #scream 6 imagine #ethan landry imagine #spiderman #spiderman!ethan landry

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cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut · 1 year ago

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Using my GMT time zone privileges to post a little earlier than usual. Here are the boys in a little diner. We are getting so close to the scene I’ve built this ENTIRE story around 👀👀💛

“Baby?” he asks. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Carlos says, a heat rising in his cheeks at how easily TK has seen him. “This is just, uh…probably the most amount of total strangers I’ve ever kissed someone in front of.” TK grins.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Wanna do it some more? Anyone says anything, I’ll punch them in the mouth for you. I’m a boxer, you know.” Mischief settles deep in TK’s expression, makes him look younger, accentuates the wildness in him, the boldness. He leans back from Carlos slightly, reaches across himself to pinch his own bicep. He makes a face of exaggerated approval at what he finds, pursing his lips, giving a nod. He looks like a douchebag, and he knows it. There’s a spark in his eyes that could rival the sun. Carlos laughs, and tumbles deeper into love.

“You’re a complete dork,” Carlos laughs. He reaches out, emboldened by TK’s confidence, by his lack of shame, and gathers a fistful of TK’s hoodie in his hand, right at the collar. He pulls TK closer, relishing the way TK laughs softly as he goes. Carlos only closes his eyes when TK’s lips are against his once more, and they sink into one another as the din of chatter around them fades further into the background, mingling with the acoustic music and the push and pull slide of the front door opening for new customers. TK tastes like the peach iced tea sitting half finished at his elbow, and Carlos doesn’t think he’s ever felt this free before. His heart soars with it, so full it practically aches.

It’s Carlos who breaks the kiss this time, biting his lip against the notion suddenly stirring within him – that a blowjob in the bathroom might not put too much of a dampener on their performance in their respective fights tonight. And TK is watching him, smiling warm and small and expectant, brow arched as if he can read Carlos’s mind, as if their hearts and their bodies pulse in tandem now, like some unseen barrier between them has simply been felled.

But then TK’s eyes slide from Carlos’s face, snag on something over his left shoulder, and TK’s whole expression slips.

Carlos opens his mouth, stomach lurching downwards. The worry barely has time to hit. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but doesn’t have time to say TK’s name.

“Well,” comes a voice over his shoulder. “Hey there, stranger.”

No pressure tags below the cut 💛

@orchidscript @birdclowns @carlos-in-glasses @irispurpurea @heartstringsduet @lutavero @largepeachicedtea @lightningboltreader @louis-ii-reyes-strand @lemonlyman-dotcom @goodways @bonheur-cafe @catanisspicy @chicgeekgirl89 @fitzherbertssmolder @freneticfloetry @ambiguouspenny @three-drink-amy @redshirt2 @tarlosmalec @herefortarlos @noxsoulmate @never-blooms @meditating-honey-badger @thisbuildinghasfeelings @mikibwrites @sanjuwrites @inkweedandlizards @paperstorm @jesuisici33 @three-drink-amy @theghostofashton @thebumblecee @basilsunrise @wandering-night19 @wtfuckevenknows @sugdenlovesdingle @rachelsversion1 @taralaurel @rosedavid @reyesstrand @rmd-writes @detective-giggles @hoko-onchi-writes @welcometololaland and YOU if you see this and aren’t tagged (I love you all I just have a small brain)

#tarlos #tk strand #carlos reyes #911 lone star #tarlos fic #wip wednesday #boxing fic

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kvetchlandia · 2 years ago

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Moisei Nappelbaum Anna Akhmatova, Moscow 1929

No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot, survivor of that time, that place.

Instead of a Preface

In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there): "Can you describe this?" And I said: "I can." Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.

Dedication

Such grief might make the mountains stoop, reverse the waters where they flow, but cannot burst these ponderous bolts that block us from the prison cells crowded with mortal woe. . . . For some the wind can freshly blow, for some the sunlight fade at ease, but we, made partners in our dread, hear but the grating of the keys, and heavy-booted soldiers' tread. As if for early mass, we rose and each day walked the wilderness, trudging through silent street and square, to congregate, less live than dead. The sun declined, the Neva blurred, and hope sang always from afar. Whose sentence is decreed? . . . That moan, that sudden spurt of woman's tears, shows one distinguished from the rest, as if they'd knocked her to the ground and wrenched the heart out of her breast, then let her go, reeling, alone. Where are they now, my nameless friends from those two years I spent in hell? What specters mock them now, amid the fury of Siberian snows, or in the blighted circle of the moon? To them I cry, Hail and Farewell!

Prologue

That was a time when only the dead could smile, delivered from their wars, and the sign, the soul, of Leningrad dangled outside its prison-house; and the regiments of the condemned, herded in the railroad-yards, shrank from the engine's whistle-song whose burden went, "Away, pariahs!" The stars of death stood over us. And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias.

At dawn they came and took you away. You were my dead: I walked behind. In the dark room children cried, the holy candle gasped for air. Your lips were chill from the ikon's kiss, sweat bloomed on your brow–those deathly flowers! Like the wives of Peter's troopers in Red Square I'll stand and howl under the Kremlin towers.

Quietly flows the quiet Don; into my house slips the yellow moon.

It leaps the sill, with its cap askew, and balks at a shadow, that yellow moon.

This woman is sick to her marrow-bone, this woman is utterly alone,

with husband dead, with son away in jail. Pray for me. Pray.

III

Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound. I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground. Whisk the lamps away . . . Night.

They should have shown you–mocker, delight of your friends, hearts' thief, naughtiest girl of Pushkin's town– this picture of your fated years, as under the glowering wall you stand, shabby, three hundredth in the line, clutching a parcel in your hand, and the New Year's ice scorched by your tears. See there the prison poplar bending! No sound. No sound. Yet how many innocent lives are ending . . .

For seventeen months I have cried aloud, calling you back to your lair. I hurled myself at the hangman's foot. You are my son, changed into nightmare. Confusion occupies the world, and I am powerless to tell somebody brute from something human, or on what day the word spells, "Kill!" Nothing is left but dusty flowers, the tinkling thurible, and tracks that lead to nowhere. Night of stone, whose bright enormous star stares me straight in the eyes, promising death, ah soon!

The weeks fly out of mind, I doubt that it occurred: how into your prison, child, the white nights, blazing, stared; and still, as I draw breath, they fix their buzzard eyes on what the high cross shows, this body of your death.

VII

The Sentence

The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.

So much to do today: kill memory, kill pain, turn heart into a stone, and yet prepare to live again.

Not quite. Hot summer's feast brings rumors of carouse. How long have I foreseen this brilliant day, this empty house?

VIII

To Death

You will come in any case–so why not now? How long I wait and wait. The bad times fall. I have put out the light and opened the door for you, because you are simple and magical. Assume, then, any form that suits your wish, take aim, and blast at me with poisoned shot, or strangle me like an efficient mugger, or else infect me–typhus be my lot– or spring out of the fairytale you wrote, the one we're sick of hearing, day and night, where the blue hatband marches up the stairs, led by the janitor, pale with fright. It's all the same to me. The Yenisei swirls the North Star shines, as it will shine forever; and the blue lustre of my loved one's eyes is clouded over by the final horror.

Already madness lifts its wing to cover half my soul. That taste of opiate wine! Lure of the dark valley!

Now everything is clear. I admit my defeat. The tongue of my ravings in my ear is the tongue of a stranger.

No use to fall down on my knees and beg for mercy's sake. Nothing I counted mine, out of my life, is mine to take:

not my son's terrible eyes, not the elaborate stone flower of grief, not the day of the storm, not the trial of the visiting hour,

not the dear coolness of his hands, not the lime trees' agitated shade, not the thin cricket-sound of consolation's parting word.

Crucifixion

"Do not weep for me, Mother, when I am in my grave."

A choir of angels glorified the hour, the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire. "Father, why hast Thou forsaken me? Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me. . . ."

Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. No one dared.

Epilogue

I have learned how faces fall to bone, how under the eyelids terror lurks how suffering inscribes on cheeks the hard lines of its cuneiform texts, how glossy black or ash-fair locks turn overnight to tarnished silver, how smiles fade on submissive lips, and fear quavers in a dry titter. And I pray not for myself alone . . . for all who stood outside the jail, in bitter cold or summer's blaze, with me under that blind red wall.

Remembrance hour returns with the turning year. I see, I hear, I touch you drawing near:

the one we tried to help to the sentry's booth, and who no longer walks this precious earth,

and that one who would toss her pretty mane and say, "It's just like coming home again."

I want to name the names of all that host, but they snatched up the list, and now it's lost.

I've woven them a garment that's prepared out of poor words, those that I overheard,

and will hold fast to every word and glance all of my days, even in new mischance,

and if a gag should blind my tortured mouth, through which a hundred million people shout,

then let them pray for me, as I do pray for them, this eve of my remembrance day.

And if my country ever should assent to casting in my name a monument,

I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed

not near the seas on which my eyes first opened– my last link with the sea has long been broken–

nor in the Tsar's garden near the sacred stump, where a grieved shadow hunts my body's warmth,

but here, here I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.

Because even in blissful death I fear to lose the clangor of the Black Marias,

to lose the banging of that odious gate and the old crone howling like a wounded beast.

And from my motionless bronze-lidded sockets may the melting snow, like teardrops, slowly trickle,

and a prison dove coo somewhere, over and over, as the ships sail softly down the flowing Neva.

-- Anna Akhmatova, “Requiem” written over a long period of time between 1935 and 1961

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nobodyssoldier · 2 months ago

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i. a web weaving

And you […] are you keeping warm in a winter you made for yourself?

Your body gentle and taut with love, assuming I can do nothing about it but accept, accept, accept. I’m not the sea, I’m not pure blue, I don’t have to take anything you throw into me.

i went back to the ocean and asked her / how many bones have i dug up with my graveyard mouth / and all she could say was: "you’re a cemetery just like me."

ii. digging deeper

name: mary macdonald

age: 25

former house: gryffindor

blood status: muggleborn

face claim: adeline rudolph (ask for alternatives)

allegiance: the erinyes

gender & pronouns: utp

another split lip, another battle scar earned in a fight you couldn't walk away from. there's a faint bitterness on your tongue that tastes almost like iron & rust & salt. the taste lingers each morning, seeping into the cracks of your smile until sweetness becomes a distant memory. you've learned to swallow violence like bitter medicine, haven't you? oh, stubborn girl, the way you'll bite yourself to bleeding before surrendering — and haven't you already? haven't you torn yourself apart just to prove no one else can break you? there's something wild about you now, you raging tempest of a girl, something that begs to be unleashed — you love like a punch to the stomach, just that hard, just that sharp. how are you meant to stay tender with all this winter-cold fury within you? you cannot decide if you crave touch or despise it. oh, you are a winter sunset of a girl — a violent, frozen tundra at night — you burn like freezing, and you rustle in the cold, wild wind of your heart. ice does not know forgiveness, only the bitter, brittle ache of it all, and girl, you are ice incarnate: godless but somehow still holy in your hollowness, sacred in your survival, divine in your defiance. the mirror catches your reflection, and you barely recognize what stares back: something dangerous now, something lethal. your fingers trace the latest bruise blooming across your jaw, purple-dark and tender. your transformation wasn't sudden — it came in fragments, tiny deaths and rebirths, every loss claiming another piece of you until only steel remained. your former self appears sometimes in sepia-toned memories, that laughing girl with sunlight caught in her hair, so distant now she might as well be a stranger's ghost. you're sick of peering into the mirror and seeing a distortion rippling back at you, a stranger wearing your face. aren't you tired of being all bird bones and caged heart? your cage is built from loyalty & duty & survival — being the last one standing. you never asked to be the final girl, to bury all your friends. so break the mirror, let each shard tell how war unmade you into this: a tempestuous thing with lightning under your skin and hunger in your gut. no, don't break the mirror — break free. become the hurricane you were meant to be, all sharp edges and bruising force.

iii. connections

one. LILA EVREN, DORCAS MEADOWES & MARLENE MCKINNON , best friends — this is the end, isn’t it? and you are here with me again, listening with me: the sea no longer torments me; the self i wished to be is the self i am.

two. JAN SIRAC POLAT , a temporary escape — his heart was beating in my head. his heart was beating in my stomach. his heart was beating in my legs. his heart was beating in my arms, my hands, my fingers. his heart was beating in my tongue, my lips. no wonder i was trembling. trembling, trembling, trembling.

three. REMUS LUPIN , ex — i forget the reason, but i loved you once, remember? maybe in this season, drunk and sentimental, i'm willing to admit a part of me, crazed and kamikaze, ripe for anarchy, loves still.

#thank u to my friend courtney for the fc suggestion!! xx #ns: taken #hp rp #harry potter rp #semi appless rp #oc rp #new rp #mumu rp #skeleton rp #literate rp #fantasy rp #fandom rp #magic rp #tumblr rp #mature rp #marauders rp #golden trio rp #next gen rp #ns: skeleton

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lauvra · 8 months ago

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The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode by Thomas Gray

I.1.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I.2.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

I.3.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports and blue-ey'd Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

II.1.

Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

II.2.

In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II.3.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In ling'ring Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.1.

Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

III.2.

Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

III.3.

Hark, his hands thy lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

#poetry #text #poem #thomas gray #quote

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frogwithhatto · 2 years ago

Note

Movie night with II made me think of aquarium date with Vessel 🥺 Would you want to write about that!!

Pairings: Vesselxgn!reader

TW: none, just fluff (just a heads up reader is called pretty once)

Notes: I hope it’s okay I made this more a few shorter scenarios/ hcs so I could fit a few different ones!!

You were walking hand in hand, it wasn’t crowded, quite the opposite the aquarium was basically empty, except for a group of students. You had chosen this day intentionally, a random Wednesday morning. Knowing it would be more enjoyable to walk around and be able to actually look at the different animals without getting overwhelmed by the mass of people.

Vessel had taken the lead and was excitedly dragging you towards the exterior area. You couldn’t help but smile at his excitement, you hadn’t even stopped to look at the animals yet.

He had a certain spring in his step as he leaded you towards the otters. The biggest grin was plastered on his face as he watched them play in the water.

„Look it’s holding an ice cube!“ you squealed excitedly pointing at one of the otters. Both of you watched as it rolled around in an ice bath letting out little gasps and ‚awww‘ s whenever it looked in your direction.

„You think they would mind if we took it with us??“ you asked.

„Well, you’ve got a big bag and I don’t think they would even notice it missing. Let’s pick it up before we leave!“ Vessel answered irony lacing his voice as he grins at you.

You giggled at the thought of you two trying to smuggle an otter home with you.

„But it needs a friend so it won’t be alone!“ you explained, pouting at him.

„Love, please one otter is realistic but two that’s crazy!“ he exclaimed rolling his eyes in the process.

——

You were hypnotised by the colourful light and swirling water in front of you. Your face painted in blue and purple hues as you were staring at the jellyfish going in a circle. The way the light illuminated them, almost making them glow, fascinated you.

Where you were mesmerised by the sea creatures Vessel was enchanted by you. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, the way you smiled your eyes widened in awe. The way the light highlighted your features and reflected in your eyes. Oh he was hopelessly in love with you. Vessel felt a familiar warmth bloom in his chest, happiness. He couldn’t the smile spreading on his face as he thought about how lucky he was.

„Ves? Hey Ves?“ you waved your hand in front of his face, in an attempt to get his attention. He shook his head snapping out of his thoughts and gave you a questioning look.

„You were staring.“ you smile at him, a light blush tinting your cheeks pink.

„You look pretty, can you blame me?“ he whispered.

He moved closer carefully taking your hands in his. Vessel proceeded to raise them to his face, softly placing kisses on them, one each on the back of your hands.

Now you were the one staring, you felt as if time had slowed down, as if everything was moving slower just for you to enjoy the moment a bit longer. The gesture was so soft, so intimate. It made your heart flutter, your cheeks turning a crimson red. You felt incredibly warm as if you had been laying in the sun for too long, you were about to melt right then and there.

——

The biggest tank of the aquarium where you had ended up, there were various beanbags scattered in front of it. Most were empty only one on the opposite end of where you were sitting being occupied. As you relaxed into the soft material you focused your gaze on the various little fishes and rays passing by, occasionally you could make out some smaller sharks as well. The atmosphere was peaceful, there were sounds of waves playing over speakers somewhere in the room.

Vessel had placed his head on your shoulder as you both watched the sea creatures simply enjoying each others presence. You could spend hours there with him, just coexisting both of you lost in your own thoughts. Your hands intertwined as he gently brushed his thumb over the back of yours. Absent touches he probably didn’t even register doing. Wherever your bodies touched you felt warmth spread through you, coursing through your veins, making your stomach flutter bubbling with happiness.

Suddenly Vessel lifted his head, you had to use all of your strength to keep yourself from protesting. You couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the loss of the intimate moment you two were having.

But it instantly vanished as he turned to face you, cupping your cheek with his free hand, his other one still holding yours. You beamed at him placing one of your arms on his shoulder the other around his neck, nuzzling your cheek closer to his palm. Vessel leaned in, his masked forehead resting against yours. He let out a low chuckle and you swear your heart skipped a beat at the sound of it.

„What'cha laughing at?“ you whispered your eyes darting back and forth between his lips and where his eyes lay under the mask.

„Nothing, you’re just great. I love you.“ he admitted, smiling at you and lightly pushing his forehead against yours to emphasise his statement.

„I love you too.“ you laughed, you were sure that any stranger would basically gag at your cheesy display but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that both you were grinning at each other like idiots, idiots in love one must note.

#sleep token #frog requests #vessel sleep token #frog writes #sleep token band

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every-character-ever-poll · 2 years ago

Text

WEEK TWO LINEUP

Thank you all for a wonderful first week of this poll! As of posting this, I have received 457 submissions (which is a lot more than I was anticipating). Because of that, I've decided to make every week have 100 polls instead of the minimum 80 I had planned at the beginning.

Without further ado, here is our week two lineup!

Travis Matagot - Campaign Skyjacks

April Ryan - The Longest Journey

Sam Puckett - iCarly, Sam and Cat

Jade West - Victorious

Nicholas D. Wolfwood - Trigun

Vash The Stampede - Trigun

Meito Anizawa - Anime Tenchou

CATS - Zero Wing

Shin Amon - Yakuza, Judgment

Xue Yang - The Untamed

Lyman - Garfield

Marius Pontmercy - Les Misérables

Pierre Bezukhov - War and Peace

Netzach - Lobotomy Corporation, Library of Ruina

Ash Fox - Fantastic Mr. Fox

Sneeze - Fool's Gold

Max - Sam and Max

Alina Gray - Magia Record

Lloyd Irving - Tales of Symphonia

Agent John Bishop - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2003)

TableTurf Card: Inkbrush - Splatoon 3

TableTurf Card: Aerospray MG - Splatoon 3

Marigold/Beth Parish - The Fairy Chronicles

TableTurf Card: Annaki Splatershot Nova - Splatoon 3

Thistle - The Fairy Chronicles

Warren Stone - Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Hypno-Potamus - Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Himena Aika - Magia Record

Tidy - The Little Trashmaid

Bon - Five NIghts at Freddy's High School

Tamaki - Mahou ga Tsukaenakutemo

Error!Sans - loverofpiggies.tumblr.com

Idia Shroud - Twisted Wonderland

Beetlejuice - Beetlejuice the Musical

Kotetsu T. Kaburagi (Wild Tiger) - Tiger and Bunny

Nikol - Xenoblade 3: Future Redeemed

Noel Gruber - Ride the Cyclone

Jack Fairy - Velvet Goldmine

Nightmare Knight - Cucumber Quest

Agent Olive - Odd Squad

Derrick Berg - Lord of the Mysteries

Yukine - Noragami

Father - Noragami

Hu Geng - The Tale of Food

Li Ling - Dislyte

Wylan Van Eck - Six of Crows

Naoto Shirogane - Persona 4

P03 - Inscryption

Gabriel - Ultrakill

Airi Momoi - Project Sekai

Myles Toyne - A Song of Ice and Fire

Jon Connington - A Song of Ice and Fire

Daemon II Blackfyre - Tales of Dunk and Egg

Buckshot (Bimbo) - Simba the King Lion

Maze Myers - Ebon Ward

Marcy Wu - Amphibia

Merry Nightmare - Yumekui Merry

Heiji Hattori - Detective Conan

Hapu - Pokémon

Cure Bloom - Futari wa Precure Splash Star

Mollymauk Tealeaf - Critical Role

Willow Rosenberg - Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Inigo Montoya - The Princess Bride

Cloud Strife - Final Fantasy VII

Aerith Gainsborough - Final Fantasy VII

Paruko/Harmony - Splatoon

dedf1sh - Splatoon

Arlan - Honkai: Star Rail

Ángel Valdivia - Detective Beebo

Nahyuta Sahdmadhi - Ace Attorney

Edmond - Nu:Carnival

Jupiter - We Know the Devil

Scarlet Witch - Marvel

Tobias Schneien - Ghost Eyes

Cure March - Smile Precure

Cure Diamond - Doki Doki Precure

Valerie - Pokémon

Alice Carroll - ARIA

Marika Kato - Mouretsu Pirates

Obi - Akagami no Shirayuki-hime

Nano Shinonome - Nichijou

Cure Butterfly - Hirogaru Sky Precure

Ran Mouri - Detective Conan

Houtarou Oreki - Hyouka

Yui Yumekawa - Idol Time Pripara

Kozue Kaoru - Revolutionary Girl Utena

Mew Ichigo - Tokyo Mew Mew

Last Order - A Certain Magical Index

Hau - Pokémon

Cure Melody - Suite Precure

Hannibal Lecter - Hannibal

Horibe Itona - Assassination Classroom

Puppycat - Bee and Puppycat

Momiji Binboda - Binbougami Ga!

Jim Lake Jr - Trollhunters

Romelle - Voltron Legendary Defender

Mai - Avatar: The Last Airbender

Vermouth - Detective Conan

Silver - Pokémon

#the week ahead #a lot of this weeks submissions did not have images or propaganda #in fact every submission after Cure March this week had neither #As a result i will try to add images I find myself. just to make the polls look nicer #not a poll

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spiritdreamt · 1 year ago

Text

seasonal aesthetics. bold: always applies. italic: sometimes applies.

i. winter. a chill right down to the bones. tobogganing. teeth chattering. sleeping all day. sitting by the fireplace. spending time with family. layered clothing. seeing another’s breath. loving the cold. a state of inactivity. cold hands. blistering winds shaking the closed windows. a bookcase full of brand new books & all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks. a bitter remark. a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. hating the cold. full length windows to peer out of. pale skin. deep conversations. watching the snow fall. sharp edges. hot cocoa. smelling every candle in the store. a wild snow storm. melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub. snow globes. expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets. liking, but not loving something or someone.

ii. spring. the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope.the relief of finding something you lost. paris in the spring. birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym, training at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.

iii. summer. lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again & again. melting ice cream. the warmth of sun rays upon skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end. beach days. the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze & nothing else. music blasting at 3AM, loud & proud. palms trees on sunset boulevard. longer days & shorter nights. wanderlust. nights spent staring at the stars. sand castles. road trips. blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom. sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment. barefoot in the sand. the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in a seashell. freshly squeezed lemonade. loose clothing. a cannonball into the pool. sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk. relaxation.

iv. fall. the leaves changing colors. a heavy backpack. the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed. deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness ( the loudness in silence ). abandoned houses. ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet. feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window. having endless amount of work. charcoal drawings. screaming into a pillow as loud as you can. pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change. museums. small talk. being ignored. procrastinating. a door slamming shut. going to bed early. baking pies. the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely & terribly lost. a twig snapping. crisp, cool days. belly laughter after crying. converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.

#about.#dash games

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loetise · 1 year ago

Text

seasonal aesthetics. ˎˊ˗ bold: always applies. italic: sometimes applies.

i. winter, a chill right down to the bones. tobogganing. teeth chattering. sleeping all day. sitting by the fireplace. spending time with family. layered clothing. seeing another’s breath. loving the cold. a state of inactivity. cold hands. blistering winds shaking the closed windows. a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks. a bitter remark. a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. hating the cold. full length windows to peer out of. pale skin. deep conversations. watching the snow fall. sharp edges. hot cocoa. smelling every candle in the store. a wild snow storm. melancholy. lighting candles around the bathtub. snow globes. expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets. liking, but not loving something or someone.

ii. spring, the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost. paris in the spring. birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym, training at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.

iii. summer, lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again. melting ice cream. the warmth of sun rays upon skin. fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end. beach days. the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else. music blasting at 3AM, loud and proud. palms trees on sunset boulevard. longer days and shorter nights. wanderlust. nights spent staring at the stars. sand castles. road trips. blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom. sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment. barefoot in the sand. the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in a seashell. freshly squeezed lemonade. loose clothing. a cannonball into the pool. sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk. relaxation.

iv. fall, the leaves changing colors. a heavy backpack. the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed. deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness ( the loudness in silence ). abandoned houses. ripped jeans. crunching leaves beneath feet. feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window. having endless amount of work. charcoal drawings. screaming into a pillow as loud as you can. pumpkin patches. creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change. museums. small talk. being ignored. procrastinating. a door slamming shut. going to bed early. baking pies. the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost. a twig snapping. crisp, cool days. belly laughter after crying. converse. foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.

stolen from; @khozmoh ♡♡ tagging; you, steal this and say i tagged you!

#this is 9 months old #𖥸 ₊ * “ imagery ” … a nameless girl in freshest summer greens‚ a saint‚ an angel.

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inevitablemoment · 1 year ago

Text

A sample from my adaptation of the Collectors Arc for the Cathleen Lives AU, to hint at the seeds sown that bloom into the break-up of Peter and Dana before Ghostbusters II.

Also includes an allusion to another arc that I'm creating specifically for the Cathleen Lives AU.

Read at your own risk if you don't want to be spoiled, since I haven't written them yet.

Notes -- The apartment that Dana owned in Ghostbusters II was shared with Peter. After she married Andre, she moved in with him and sold the apartment. But after she and Andre separated, she found that her previous apartment was vacant again and took the opportunity to move back in there again.

Martha is an OC who will be part of the series for a short time, but she will have an important role. She is partially based on Jenny Moran from the comics, but her arc is created by me.

The hospital had cleared them to leave after two nights. It turned out that the cut above Peter's eyebrow wouldn't need stitches, but they still wanted to monitor him for a possible concussion. Satisfied that they could find no signs of one, they sent him on his somewhat-merry way back home with Dana.

She walked back into the bedroom with a bag of ice, covered with a washcloth. She sat down at the foot of the bed and pressed it against the goose egg-sized bump on his head.

"How's your head?" she asked.

Peter moved his hand over hers so that he could take the bag from her and keep it over the bump. "Still hurts-- still feels my brain and heart switched places when Egon detonated Ray's pack."

"I have a feeling that would happen to anyone trying to escape limbo," Dana said.

Peter found it in himself to laugh, and then instantly regretted it, the pounding in his head growing worse.

"Sorry," Dana apologized. "I shouldn't have--"

"No, no, it's okay," he tried to reassure her. "Not your fault-- just need to try not to laugh at anything for the next week. Hey, why don't you change the channel and see if a Kinison special's on."

Dana laughed, but in her brief moment of mirth, felt as if she were expelling the three months worth of tension and fear that she had carried. "I can go check the TV Guide."

But she didn't get up, staying in her seat on the bed. She smiled at him, the back of her eyes beginning to burn as tears formed.

Though she had cried numerous times in the past three months, she had found herself unable to burst into tears of joy when he had come back to her-- mostly because that they were otherwise engaged with trying to trap the Collectors. She hadn't cried at the hospital, either.

And now, she couldn't help herself.

She gripped Peter's free hand, and saw him smile back at her.

But...

No, she wasn't being fair.

His smile looked no more different than the one that he would wear when he came home from the firehouse. If anyone looked at him, they probably would have thought that it was all it was.

Just her needing to tend his wounds after a call gone wrong.

"Hey... come here," he wrapped his arm around her, laying the two of them back down on the bed.

The soap that he had used at the hospital had done nothing to wash away the scent of burnt metal on his skin, another consequence of his escape from limbo, but Dana could still smell his natural musk underneath it. It was subtler than normal, but it was there.

She nestled her face into the crook of his neck, feeling his hand reach up to run his fingers through her curls. She smiled brightly.

She had missed this so much. Moments like this, where the two of them could just lie in bed together, nothing to worry about.

Dana felt Peter press his lips to the top of her head.

"It's like I never left," she heard him say.

He couldn't see it, but her smile was slowly fading as she repeated what his words in her head.

Like I never left.

Dana knew that it had only been a week for him, but she had lived without him for three months and twenty-one days.

They had only been together again for eleven days before they had been ripped apart again.

She had to step in his place to protect New York City, and to a larger extent, the world from ghosts or another Gozer situation while searching for him and the others.

She thought back to the day that Ray's asshole brother had shown up at the firehouse and pretty much demanded that they all just declare the boys dead. She had remained silent, but the others-- basically Cathleen and Janine-- had torn him a new one over it.

Despite the part of her that screamed that he was alive somewhere, she would grieve him as if he had been killed that night at least once a week, then splash water in her face, go on with her life, and the cycle would continue.

How could Peter have believed that it could be just like it was before?

For starters, one day, she had gotten so lost in her mind that she had decided to repaint their room. She had rarely picked up her cello unless she was rehearsing with the orchestra, which was rare in of itself with how many calls that she had to deal with

And people had changed, too.

Cathleen had been a mess. And who could blame her? She herself only had eleven days with her husband before he had been snatched from their own home as she had watched, leaving her to take care of a five-year-old and step in as de-facto leader of the Ghostbusters. She had thrown herself into work and raising Callie-- if she wasn't at the firehouse, she was close to tearing the world apart to try to find Egon. Dana was sure that if she and the other girls hadn't stepped in, Cathleen would have suffered a nervous breakdown.

Martha had been inconsolable at the beginning; she would retreat to the sleeping quarters upstairs and lie down in Ray's bed to cry. But, around the fourth week, when it became apparent that he wouldn't be back anytime soon, she had pulled herself together and stepped into her new role with ease. If anything, it unnerved Dana to see how calm Martha was at some times-- almost like a soldier.

Janine was more or less the same, personality wise, but the exhaustion that she always had on her face only grew more apparent as the months had gone on. She had gone from a receptionist to a receptionist/Ghostbuster/Cathleen's caretaker when Cathleen was overworking herself/Callie's part-time nanny.

Tiyah grew quiet... too quiet, as Egon and Ray liked to say whenever they wanted to tempt fate. She would often be found walking around the firehouse with a thoughtful and sad look on her face, or looking at the pictures of Winston longingly. And after Martha, she had been next to almost lose hope that the boys would ever return or be found.

And poor little Callie... her mother had missed a quarter of her last year before she began kindergarten, and her father had missed everything from her first day of school to Halloween to Thanksgiving. About three times, Cathleen had to pick her up from school because the teacher had called. Callie had broken down in hysterical tears, crying for her daddy.

But they did come back, all on their own-- not that Dana had ever doubted that they could have figured it out by themselves. And she had seen Egon and Cathleen's reunion.

How Cathleen had rushed to him and kissed him as if it had been three decades rather than three months. The look in his eyes as Egon had realized that they had been missing for three months. The way that the two of them melted into each other's arms as they talked about how much they had missed each other.

How was it that Egon, someone that everyone mocked for not understanding social cues and that some blinkered people believed to be unfeeling, was able to recognize how much had changed, and yet Peter didn't?

"Dana?"

Dana looked back up at Peter, seeing at he had set the ice aside, even though she had told him to keep it on his head for fifteen minutes.

But she didn't scold him about that.

"Yeah, it's.. you're right," she said instead, a very artificial smile on her face. "Just like it was before."

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publicabsent · 1 year ago

Text

seasonal aesthetics. bold: always applies. italic: sometimes applies.

ii. spring. the smell after it rains. being in control of yourself. a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes. cherry blossoms. bright mornings. the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost. paris in the spring. birds chirping. the art of growing. a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder. a tornado in the valley. smiling at a stranger. planning. saccharine pinks. making promises. trying something new. hugs when you need them most. a bee sting. sitting on the steps of the met. coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm. picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun. that feeling you get when you put on a good dress. a long hike. rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym, training at ungodly hours. excitement for what’s coming. becoming yourself. rain boots.

#✽ ➝ visuals. ❜

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ruiniel · 2 years ago

Text

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Characters: Glorfindel, Aegnor, Finrod, Argon, Turgon, Idril, Original Elf Character(s), more to be added

Relationship(s): Glorfindel/Original Female Character

Rating: M

Chapter count: 4.6k

Additional tags: Drama, The Helcaraxë, Middle-earth, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, The Silmarillion References, Beleriand, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Depictions of death, Glorfindel POV, POV alternating, Horror, Blood, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Pining, more to be added

Summary: An older story I’ve been rewriting, centered around a young Glorfindel and primarily written from his POV. Set on the background of the events of the First Age, it begins with the Flight of the Ñoldor from Aman to Middle-earth and focuses on the host crossing the Ice along their eventual destinations.

II. The Ice - Underworld

A weak flame laps at his face as Laurefindil stares into the kindled fire. Around him are others gathered, including friends and known faces from Tirion and close kin of Ñolofinwë.

Watching the one whose father had been cruelly slain and would be remembered, among others, as the first murder to stain the land of Valinor, Laurefindil cannot help but feel deep sympathy for the son of the late High King, a reminder of his own personal loss.

The ice cracked and shifted.The waters were moving darkness. He’d tried to reach his father but was too slow from the chill, weakened by the frost. They all were; Aistion had been lost in moments.

"Not the merriest gathering, are we," the voice of Aikanáro reaches him as the Elf takes a place close to Laurefindil. It is a necessity the followers of Ñolofinwë have discovered in these lands—huddling for warmth, to preserve body heat.

"Get used to it," Laurefindil murmurs, watching the drawn faces around them. Even speaking means wasting precious energy, and they are all weary. He keeps his silence, listening to the whispers rising like ghosts in the fog. "Right about now, Telperion would be in bloom," he says after some time, kindling the memory of mingling lights.

Aikanáro says nothing.

Like most others, he misses the Trees, the silver-gold stream of lights bathing Aman in warm power—its primeval, hallowed strength. This remote darkness is thick, choking, bearing heavier down upon them like a monolith of confusion and dread.

Laurefindil gazes across the fire, where presently golden-haired Findaráto is deep in conversation with one son of Ñolofinwë: the prince Turukáno, dark of hair and bright-eyed like his father.

Another flash of gold, a giggle; a child, bundled in thick garments bursts amongst the grim gathering, heading straight to the dark-haired Elf prince, her tiny arms wide open, seeking an embrace. A tall Elf woman follows, her rich long braid shining in the ragged light: Elenwë of the Vanyar, spouse of Turukáno—the only one of her kin to brave their exile.

Laurefindil smiles as the child is brought in, and Turukáno takes her upon his knee as she begins chirping about having seen a patch of clear sky, but then she blinked and it was gone, all too soon, and it was still so cold here, and would they be much longer in reaching the Eastern lands great uncle Fëanáro spoke of?

Turukáno hugs the girl tighter; Findaráto looks away.

"Dearest Itarillë," Aikanáro speaks, regarding the daughter of his cousin fondly, "I ask myself the same every moment."

Laurefindil shakes his head. The child's innocence and the forced smile on the son of Ñolofinwë stir his dread for their loss, and as many nights before, he wearies, and solitude becomes an appealing prospect.

"Send your brothers my regards," he bids Aikanáro a farewell, after seeing the golden-haired Vanya take her place close to prince Turukáno, drawing little Itarillë in her lap.

Their family reminds him of his own early youth when they were content and the shadow of unrest had not yet descended upon them. There was no darkness, no death, no thirst for revenge, and no exile.

Laurefindil mulls over the last word as he cuts across the gusty chill, his figure a tall specter wading in the evernight.

He stalks towards his own tent, passing other temporary dwellings raised—ones aimed to be used in mild weathered Endor, which now prove little aid against the sharp chill of this barren place. The tips of his fingers stiff in his gloves, the Elf dreads the grey cold that again seeps into his bones, vicious and swift, as if seeking to crack them from within. Like a tireless hunter it hounds them all, to trap and consume.

The fog has risen around him, so thick he can barely see his own hand in front of his face. But it is not long before the mists in his path clear, chased by a strong wind shivering over the starless gloom. Laurefindil shivers along with it, its gusty tendrils reaching beneath his cloak.

As he walks, his mind unaware and wandering, he discerns a known intonation; words forming, reaching him.

"But the ladies Artanis and Írissë accompany you, I have seen the lady Írissë fletching her arrows."

The voice. Laurefindil nearly stops walking. He remembers; hazel eyes, and lips blue from the cold.

"Need I repeat they are your elders, versed both in the hunt and with a blade." Another voice; deep, warm. But this time it is cutting, tired.

"How can you think me so weak—Mother, tell him!"

Another joins as Laurefindil draws closer, and the words grow more distinct.

"Your father speaks true. We know nothing of this place or its perils. Scouting missions are best left to those fit to lead them."

"But I am of age," the vexed one insists. "And have I ever failed my training? Have we not hunted together countless times before?"

"Be reasonable. You see how slow we advance, how many have been lost already—"

"Yes," come the seething words, "And I cannot forget. But I also see, Father, how this comes as a useful cover for your own selfish fears."

Laurefindil in the meantime has come to be steps away from the tent as other words are exchanged, and a flurry of wild hair swirls outside before him, hastily covered by a hood. Her long frame stiffens when met with the frost; she glances briefly over her shoulder.

Their eyes meet; she flinches at the foreign presence and swiftly turns, pacing away, her cloak wrapped tightly around her body.

He lengthens his stride. Laurefindil follows the figure taking the same path that leads to his own tent, wondering briefly at what he heard. Hot-headed is the first notion coming to mind. He remembers her. He remembers, too, her brisk manner when they first spoke, her impatience. An upward curl of his lips accompanies the thought, surprising him with warmth.

He is walking and walking, and then he frowns, noticing she is treading—no, stalking—farther and farther away from the path, and the encampment. The Elf has already walked past his own tent, going faster as she strides onward.

Surely this one does not mean to wander off into the unknown, alone and, from what he can see, weaponless? Yet at a reasonable distance from her, Laurefindil calls for her; which reminds him she never gave her name, thus he settles for, "My lady!"

No answer, and she only seems to march faster. Laurefindil swears in his mind, and before even considering any attempted, well-informed reasons why, he follows. He soon reaches her with his long steps, walking to her right. "Doubtless our host had already come this way, there is nothing more to explore."

Her head swivels towards him, eyes narrowed, mouth restless. "Who even are you—no, I don't care. See to your own!" She turns away, gloved hands balled into fists.

Stunned for a moment by such unfriendliness, Laurefindil speaks. "You cannot endanger yourself like this. It's irresponsible, and all the more reason for your father to not allow you your wish." The words are blurted from the fragments of dialogue he’s heard, and he immediately regrets them. Stars of Varda, who is she to him? No one.

She ceases walking, staring at him wide-eyed, her mouth agog. Then her frown deepens, and he is served with a glare. "My lord, or whatever you are, first, eavesdropping on people is a dishonorable practice, and second, I demand you turn around and leave me be." She rushes onward again.

Laurefindil looks on with concern at the slippery ground. How could anyone be so accursedly stubborn? "Wait, the terrain might be—"

What he sees robs him of speech as her figure fastly disappears beneath the earth with a gasp.

Laurefindil rushes to the very spot, his heart hammering in much the same way it had for his father. He sees a narrow crevice and gaping darkness.

"Are you all right?" he calls, peering down.

"What kind of question is that?" come the words, laced with pain.

Laurefindil sighs and counts two breaths. He wills his own unease to recede. "Do you sense anything broken?" Through the darkness, his keen eyes find her.

Her voice is strained when she speaks, a sign she tried movement. "I cannot rise. My leg... I must have—ah!"

Laurefindil looks behind them. They are... quite the distance away from the encampment.

"My lady," he calls back to her.

At first, there is silence.

"None of that my lady nonsense."

"I bet you your father would disagree," Laurefindil mutters to himself with a powerful surge of odd relief, keeping her talking as he looks for a way to reach her without injuring himself.

She glares upward, as though he’d caused all her woes and more. "I care little for what my father thinks but that, again, is not your concern!"

Spoken louder than he thought, then. Something shifts deep within him, and despite the situation, a smile brims. The mouth on this one. "Keep your voice low, will you? Who knows what lurks down there."

The abrupt silence tells him his words worked far better than he had foreseen. After checking the ragged walls, the Elf hooks his feet on one side for a descent. "I will come down to you."

Her panicked voice reaches him, indignant and unsettled. "What?! No! You must go fetch the others! My fam—"

"And leave you down there, alone, and unable to rise?" he cuts to her. "You're faster than you think. We're far from the camp." Aided by her slight hesitation, he follows. "I’m coming down."

He anchors himself and struggles down, through the opening, gripping and finding purchase on ragged rock and ice, and finally drops into the shadows, landing on his feet. He finds her and notices the signs of discomfort writ on her face.

Laurefindil descends to one knee, and reaches for her ankle; she hisses. "It could be only a sprain," he says, feeling the disquiet of her fëa surrounding her like a shield. He gazes ahead: darkness, but for a faded bluish light that lines the walls of a wider cavernous space. He tears a long strip of cloth from his cloak and looks her in the eye. "May I?"

She watches him with unrest and wariness but nods.

"Does anything else hurt?" Laurefindil lowers his gaze to her leg.

She winces, shifting a little. "Yes, but not broken, I don't think."

Gently Laurefindil removes her boot and wraps her ankle with the cloth. When done, he helps her don the boot back on, thinking that should be good enough for the time being. Her ankle might swell soon. Laurefindil inspects their surroundings again, and this time notices a natural corridor coated in sharp, crystal-clear ice, leading to an unknown path. He glanced upward with worry and unease. There was no way he could haul himself back up there with her on his back. "We must attempt a way out, through the tunnel," he says. He expects protests from the little he knows of her, but there come none. Only a question.

"And what if there is no way out?" Her fear winds around him again, pulsing frantic and powerless.

"We must try," Laurefindil states, in a voice he hopes is steady enough. Then, perhaps the nature of their predicament making him bolder, he catches her gaze in the darkness. The tiniest flecks of green dance in her eyes. "Unless you wish to crawl along, you will need to be carried." Her choice.

He might have heard her grit her teeth, might have heard her muttering a low, "Eru help me, of all the beings to be trapped in an ice cave with..."

But in the end, they carry on, she fastened upon his back with her legs anchored around his hips, her arms coiled around his neck.

It is… quite uncomfortable, though her weight poses little hindrance, and an unwelcome heat irks whenever Laurefindil must haul her up and she presses more into his back, whenever her thighs tighten around him. Far more distracting than he’d thought, and with all his might Laurefindil sets his senses on the path ahead as he paces evenly through the cavern. Its walls are diapered with patches of ice as clear as gems, and long shards fall like fangs to the floor from the uneven high ceilings. A glow, faint at first, becomes brighter as they advance, rising around them like blue starlight.

"How... is this possible?" his unlikely companion wonders, mirroring his own awe. Light at such depths is a wonder to behold. "Others could benefit from this," she says. "No lashing winds, and do you feel it is warmer here?" Possibly from excitement, her grip around his neck tightens so Laurefindil gasps a strangled breath. She hastily loosens her hold. "Forgive me," comes a swift mumble, "I did not mean it."

"No harm done," Laurefindil says on a cough. "I would expect no better courtesy," he adds a few moments later. "After all, you have not even given me your name." The light casts a glow to their features in a reminder of azure skies.

"Neither did you," comes the retort.

He’s smiling again, and his sharp awareness of her at his back strikes oddly. It’s not at all unpleasant now, but...

Unsettling might be a better way to describe it. Her tense limbs and heaving chest give him pause, as does the fact that he can barely ignore the sensations this closeness awakens. Everywhere their bodies touch feels warmer than Laurefindil had been in a long while.

Valar…

No, the Valar surely have better things to worry about, which leaves him the sole owner of this novel predicament.

"I am called Laurefindil." The words come bland to his ears.

Her heartbeat burns at his back; he hears nothing but the echoing rush of a stream gushing elsewhere in the distance.

Soft strands tickle his cheek. "And I, Aranye," she says, oblivious to his momentary waver.

The ice beneath his feet gives way to rock and earth, and a wide gallery opens before them.

"Then, lady Aranye—"

"Please will you dispense with the titles," she demands again, sounding tired.

"Very well." The beast. "Aranye," he repeats her name to the darkness, and a strange sense akin to peace floods him. Laurefindil shakes it off like fine ice. "Let's see how we get ourselves out of here."

They stride along the cavern for a long while in silence, until at last, they reach another wide chamber, boasting a ceiling that is so high up they can barely see it. The same faint lights gleam weakly off the uneven walls, and ice spears the ground in places with stones like broken teeth.

Laurefindil no longer feels chill, a welcome change from being ever cold. His companion does not complain about being jolted as he walks, and he’s not yet tired. Still, he wonders at her present state. "Shall we stop for a respite?" he asks.

A sigh. "Of course; if you need the rest," she mumbles against his shoulder.

Deciding against saying this is for her benefit, actually, Laurefindil seeks a place where rock layers the ground rather than ice, and there he descends with his burden to the cave floor. Aranye relinquishes her grip on him as she turns aside, ensuring her injured ankle does not get in the way.

They watch the meager glow dusting the smoothened walls, in this strange underworld as it lies drowned in an eerie stillness. The silence is deep, cut only by the echoes and wailing of the ice as it shifts and grinds itself into the upper layers above them. Laurefindil dares not consider, at this time, how much longer they must traipse through this place to reach the surface; or whether they will find a way to the outside. He glances at Aranye, as though she could read his thoughts.

She’s inspecting her injury with a deepening frown. "It's swelling further," she grimaces in pain.

It is, indeed; one can tell the difference when looking at her other leg.

She meets his gaze, which Laurefindil holds with ease he never suspected of himself.

"Do you think the others will deem us lost?" she asks, her voice soft, close to meek compared to the furious rebuke before her fall.

A sensible question; some were never heard from again: blizzards and other perils claimed their numbers before. Some folk were separated from the main host and vanished, either drowned or crushed by the ever-moving ice platforms that crack and moan beneath them.

Laurefindil raises his head up to the high ceiling. "Do not fret. If nothing else, you have ones who will worry and seek for you, I am certain of it."

Feeling her eyes on him, he looks her way, recalling her demeanor and harsh words stemming from frustration. "I was in passing when I overheard your... argument," he motions indifferently with a flick of his wrist.

Aranye crosses her arms, the remnant of a smile brimming on her tired face. She is not the fairest of the Eldar, not by far; her upturned nose crinkles. "I did not mean all I said to you before."

"Not all of it?" Laurefindil snorts in derision. "Now that is an apology worthy of a High King."

"Well," she hastens to add, "at that time you seemed to meddle in matters not concerning you, Lord Laurefindil."

He offers a faded smile of his own. "One mistake I rue, believe me. And what was it you said about titles?"

Her eyes narrow. Aranye shakes her head, looking away, just as he absently tucks a golden strand behind his ear, savoring a minor victory.

Laurefindil gazes back into the gloom, seeking any possible way to climb without much difficulty toward the outside world; finds nothing. He rises to stand and begins walking in circles not too far from Aranye, inspecting the ceiling and the walls.

"You are of the Vanyar."

Laurefindil turns to see her stare drifting away from his exposed ear. Aside from the obvious traits such as his rich fair hair, the tips of his ears are longer and sharper than those of the Noldorin kin.

"My mother is of the Vanyar," Laurefindil concedes, his eyes back on the ceiling and the ice-clad walls. "She returned with the host of Arafinwë."

"Oh," Aranye hangs her head. "But surely you have someone here?..."

Pressure like a granite slate weighs on his chest. Laurefindil meets her eyes again. "I journeyed on with my father, but we lost him to the ice."

Her gaze mellows, and with it, so does some of his dread. "I did not mean to pry."

Laurefindil waves a hand as if to say it does not matter, but she says nothing else for a long while.

"I miss Tirion."

His gaze snaps back to her. Aranye slumped forward, head lowered, staring at her feet.

Laurefindil turns away and walks to the other side. His voice is hollow to his ears, carried by the silence. It’s pointless to speak of such things, now. And yet. "What do you miss most about it?" he asks, staring at the cone-shaped icicles hanging from the ceiling.

She tilts her head to the side. "The lights, the stars; so close they seemed, from our high, hidden refuges where we spent our time: my friends and I; the rolling hills beyond the city in their shades of green and amber. How I sat draped over the balconies of our tall towers, with Oiolossë hailing in the distance; the flap of the eagles' wings above us. Each time I saw them, I wondered what tidings they had for lord Manwë. I miss... grass."

"Grass?" Laurefindil turns, a bemused light in his translucent eyes.

"Yes, grass," she smiles. "Lush and soft, as we lazed in the gardens, splayed on the ground, feeding the squirrels. I miss the warm water of our fountains in summer... I miss peace."

Memories come alive as he listens, weaving with his own. "All of this, the yearning and the joy... they were felt in your song," he says at last.

Aranye lifts her head, framed by messy hair, her eyes lit in surprise. Her face becomes sullen again. "Never would have guessed you were partial to my singing."

Laurefindil recalls his reaction the last time they spoke. He strides over to her and sits back down by her side; his legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on his knees. The truth of the matter is, he would now give much to hear her sing again, but this is not the time. "Why did you pursue this, then?"

"Why did you?" she flings the question back at him.

Laurefindil curls and uncurls his fingers. "I could not abandon my father to uncertainty. I was… am, his only offspring. And having heard the grand entreaties of Fëanáro, I'd be lying to say they did not stir me, at first."

"It was so for most of us, I wager. He has the gift of swaying hearts to his purpose, of making that purpose our own. I see that now." She straightens her back, stretching her arms above her head. "It makes his treachery even more shocking. My father is a follower of prince Turukáno, who would not turn back after Swanhaven. We took his path." She sighs.

None speak again as the deeds at Alqualondë, where kin slew kin, rise fresh like blood between them.

"We ought to move," Laurefindil rubs his hands together.

Aranye agrees with a nod and he turns, allowing her to wrap her arms and legs around him again.

"Aranye."

"Yes?"

"You might have your misgivings about me, but please leave my hair out of it."

With a secret smile he does not see, she uncurls her fumbling fingers from his unfortunate strands.

Her small hands grasp him, clutching at his shoulders and chest like the claws of some small woodland creature. Laurefindil does his utmost to disregard the warmth, the way her body feels against his back, the way her breath shivers close to his neck.

They traverse the darkness in silence until late, the moaning of the ice grows louder, and they hear incessant cracking coming from all sides.

It is not long before their path narrows again so that Laurefindil has to bend at the waist to pass through. "Watch your head," he urges.

"The clamor is louder," Aranye says, her voice bright with hope.

After slipping through the corridor for a long while, barely keeping from falling down twice, they stop short.

Her heartbeat bursts against his back. "A dead end."

Before them, a wall of ice. They had climbed for a long time, then descended lower through the underground space and know not whether they are close to the surface at all.

"Valar, we will never escape this place," her forehead falls against him.

Laurefindil lays her down on the ground. Her limbs fall slack, her head bowed into her chest. He kneels before her, watching her features crease in worry and dread. The sight of it twists knots inside of him and on impulse, he reaches to tip her chin up. "Do not despair. There's always a way."

Aranye jerks her chin away from his light touch. "My father... my... my mother..." her lip quivers. "They will worry, they will suffer. And for what? My foolishness," she hides her head in her hands.

"And how does this serve them?" he gestures at her disheveled features. "Aranye," he calls, his voice grave. "Look at me."

With one last sigh, she does. Her eyes are red-rimmed, forlorn. Her gaze drifts over his face, to the dimples forming in his cheeks as he smiles.

"I will find a way."

She scoffs in disbelief, looking at her hands, running them over her thighs.

Laurefindil stands, grimacing at the stiffness in his legs. He goes to the wall of ice, his eyes and hands searching.

Aranye starts at his sudden gasp. "What... what is it?"

"A crevice. There’s a fissure here." He closes one eye as he peers through a place in the wall she cannot see. "There are... I see the mists; beyond this wall is the night!" Laurefindil looks her way again, and she gapes at his brightened features. He turns back to the ice. "We must break through," he says in earnest, looking left and right. "It would take some time, but it is our only chance. I need a tool," he says. "Stay here. I will return."

"Be on your guard!" Aranye calls as he speeds away.

He returns holding a rock, sharp and jagged at the edges, and begins using it as a pick, striking at the hard matter around the fissure with all the strength he can muster.

"How can I help?" Aranye asks, following his movements from where she yet sits on the ground.

Laurefindil brings his messy tresses over one shoulder. "Not freezing to death will be enough," he smiles at her, turning back to his task.

It’s slow work, and none can tell how much time has passed, but soon the fissure widens with his toils and beyond it, he glimpses the vast emptiness and the land of their trials. Gusts of freezing air wail beyond their confinement. He pauses, wiping his forehead with his arm. Not far away, he hears her teeth chattering from the cold and looking beyond his shoulder sees her trembling, running her hands up and down her body to keep warm.

Laurefindil drops the makeshift tool and unfastens his cloak, crossing the space between them. He kneels close to her again, placing the garment around her shoulders. "Actually, there is something you can do."

"Oh?" Her eyes are tired, her lips bluish from the chill.

His gaze dips down between them, then back at her. "Would you sing?"

She blinks slowly, her mouth agog. "Sing... what, you mean now?"

"It is tedious work," Laurefindil shrugs with a wry grin, pointing to the thick layer of ice trapping them. "I would not mind a distraction. Sing of Tirion, of the sea, of whatever you wish."

Aranye offers a pale smile. "It won't be very good. My leg is quite the hindrance to any pleasant mood or inspiration."

"Then sing of strife," he says. "Let your voice run. It matters not."

Aranye sighs, pursing her lips. "Very well. But I will hear no complaints."

Despite himself, he chuckles, a hand to his chest. "None."

And as Laurefindil turns away to his task, her voice rises in song, cutting through their desolation. He fails to recognize the words this time. The song is about friendship, amid hardship and loss; it must be a new one.

He works with renewed vigor, his arm steady, his thought drifting to wild forests and mild seas under starlit skies, and the strength of brighter days.

Her voice bears not the beauty of the previous nights, but it serves.

A sudden hiss breaks through her song. "What is wrong?"

Laurefindil briefly looks over his shoulder at her. "Nothing of import. I cut myself on the ice."

"Is it bad?"

He looks at the gash in his palm, widening towards his wrist. He tried dislodging a wide shard from its place, and his hand slipped. It cut through his glove, deep into the flesh. Warm blood now drenches his sleeve, seeping rapidly from the wound. He grits his teeth, takes a deep breath, and resumes his work.

"Why will you not speak?" her words are urgent as Aranye crawls along the floor towards him.

"I'm nearly done."

"You're bleeding!"

"Nothing to do about it now. Stay back."

Laurefindil strikes the frost one last time, then takes a step back, and lands a powerful kick to the wall. A block of ice cracks and falls, broken into large chunks on the other side.

A strong, chilly gust lashes at their faces, and they both stare.

"You did it! You did it!" Aranye cries, her glee drowned by the winds.

Relief floods him as Laurefindil finds her gaze, the rock dropping from his hand. "Yes, we did."

Aranye regards his wounded hand. "We’ll tend to that. My mother has a salve." She fumbles to strip a piece of cloth from her own garment, tears it with her teeth. "As soon as we reach camp," she adds, motioning for him to come closer.

They both glance beyond the broken wall, over the treacherous terrain they must cross. The skies are dark; the fog has grown denser, a milky white against black.

"If you insist," Laurefindil says, just as a sting of pain shoots through his hand. "But first, we must find it."

Part III

#ruiniel:fanfiction

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suckerpunch-wrestlinggirls · 2 years ago

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SUCKER PUCNCH -Pretty Devils [Wrestling Girls Vol. II]

Avid Queer Reader rated it ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

After loving the first volume I requested an ARC of this second installment coming out in March to the author and she was so kind to send me one in exchange for an honest review.

I read this entire book in one night. No shit. I got the email with the ARC last night at 10 PM, started reading right away... and next thing I new it was 5 AM. And my heart was singing.

I thought I loved the first book because of how true and genuine the love in it is, in all its forms... I wasn't emotionally ready to be completely blown away by Pretty Devils. The real superpower of this author is the heart she can put in each and every of her characters, even the ones who aren't really prominent in the story. That's what truly brings everything to life, what makes you smile and tear up as you read about this bunch of "queer disaster idiots" and their life at the Beatcave.

I wasn't particularly impressed at first by the main character because, after the lovely POC romance we got in the first book, we're now presented with... a lot of whiteness. BUT! It only takes a couple of chapters to grow fond of Liv and her struggles with life and the world. It's never stated anywhere that she's neurodivergent (autistic, I assume?) because, as many neurodivergent people in real life, she never got a disognosis: her mother just calls her stupid and Liv herself believes it's simply a learning disability. So bonus points for the white MFC. Liv is also poor and struggling to make ends meet every month because of her mother's drinking and gambling problems, but she never whines like a martyr and I really appreciated her tough fragility.

On the other side of the spectrum, quite literally, we have Raisa, who is gorgeous and strong and has never had to struggle for anything, coming from a loving, wealthy family. Raisa is presented, at first, as your sterotypical goth: brooding, quiet, maybe even slightly curt (I was swooning the very moment she was introduced), an Ice Queen clad in leather who likes to mind her own business and keep to herself.

No spoilers as to how they meet and how their relastionship begins and develops, but let me say this: we see both these characters bloom page after page right before out eyes. Liv, from the small, frightened kitten she was in the beginning, slowly starts learning to trust people and let her real self come out in the safe and friendly environment of the Beatcave. The dark ice coating Raisa's character starts melting away as she sends more and more time with Liv and I promise you you'll love every bit of their evolution as individuals and as a couple. Liv and Raisa and both far from perfect and they do a lot of things wrong (mostly because Liv has a hard time dealing with emotions and distressing events), but the patience and understanding and deep affection binding them together are stronger than anything else.

Now, subplots I ADORED:

- Roxie and Fiona. These two are show stealers: lesbian couple goals and the most beautiful Gay Moms energy you'll ever find. Watching them together really warms your heart.

- Blu. Blair fucking Lucas, ladies and gentlemen, is a GEM. When she first appeared I groaned to myself: "Oh, here's the gratuitously mean girl whose only prupose is to make the protagonist's life a nightmare." I was wrong. Oooh, boy, so wrong! There's so much to her to discover in between the lines. ILUSM, Blu.

- Mum and her girlfriend + Dad and his boyfriend (I know it sounds funny, but... just read these books, it'll make sense). I sense BIG poly vibes with them and I LOVE it. The poly representation in fiction is so rare, especially non problematic, healthy polyamory, and I think it's so refreshing to see it such a positive, loving portrayal, even if barely hinted at. Maybe it's all just in my brain, but... a win is a win. *wink*

To summarise this endless, delighted rambling of a review, here's what you'll find in this book:

- REALISTIC NEURODIVERGENCY REPRESENTATION - SLOW BURN *CHEF'S KISS* (you can literally see L&R fall in love and will call them idiots A LOT) - PLENTY OF (devastatingly beautiful) FOUND FAMILY FEELS - STRONG WOMEN AND SOFT MEN - POSITIVE STRAIGHT CHARACTERS (who also are idiots in love but won't say it) - POOR GIRL DATING RICH GIRL BUT WANTING TO BE THE ONE WHO DOES THE SPOILING (seriously, though, this alone should earn this book an extra star.) - SO. MUCH. LOVE. (I want to be a part of this bunch of dorks. Where do I apply?)

Go read these books RIGHT NOW. Your queer heart will thank you.

#sapphic romance #sapphic books #wlw romance #queer romance #lgbt romance #sports romance #queer books #wlw books #lgbt books #liv 4 brutality #liv for brutality #l4b #liv4brutality #livforbrutality

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melodyanqel · 8 months ago

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𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ── ✧ sh. (ii. puppy love)

congratulations! you have been invited to the romance reality show 'We Got Married' where you will live with your co-star like a married couple. but what will you do when you find out you are marrying your favorite idol?

✿ pairing: idol!seonghwa x fem!idol!oc

✿ genre/tags: fluff, developing relationship, idol au, fake marriage, reality show

✿ word count: 1.4k words

✿ note: this one will melt your heart hehe! and introducing bella

✿ melodyanqel taglist: @hwa-stars @forever-atiny @moonvol6 @10nantscompanion

Present Time

After saying, “Hello.” the shy and beautiful woman is welcomed by a duo. They have bow ties around their necks and letters attached. It’s a Maltese and a Golden Retriever, giving her a mission.

She bends down to their level to gently pat their heads. “You two got something for me?” Asking the cute pair. Her hand takes the letters from their bows to read her next task.

For the first letter, it reads,

You have reached the cafe. Now, you can sit back and relax and wait for your husband.

In the second letter,

Hint: he may or may not have arrived.

“What? May or may not.” She is puzzled and looks around the place. She only sees a few customers. The female idol doesn’t recognize any of them, nor do they look like from the entertainment industry. But she brings back to the Maltese and Golden Retriever. “Thank you for the help.” She pets their fuzzy fur, and they smile in contentment.

The woman stands up with the letters still in her hands to go up to the register. A male employee takes her order: an iced Oolong milk tea and two strawberry croissants. He gave her the total, and she paid for them.

Shortly, the woman thanked the man, but her husband was right in front of her all this time. Then, she sits at an open table to wait for her drink and sweet treats.

When entering the kitchen, Seonghwa pulls down his mask and looks at the camera stunned. “It’s STAYC’s Bella!” He exclaims. The man puts a hand over his hand, which is pounding rapidly. “Now, I have to make her order. I’ll try to have it perfect.” Seonghwa raises a thumbs that he’ll guarantee to satisfy his future wife. He gets right to it while the actual baristas guide him.

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

-Interview-

The cute and pretty dancer waves at the camera. “Hello, I’m Bella of STAYC.” She smiles brightly like the sun.

Q. What are your thoughts on getting selected as the new bride?

Bella hums. “Hmm, I truthfully was scared.” She lets out a wavering laugh. “I’ve never dated or been in a relationship in my life. It could be my concentration on becoming an idol, my shy nature, and I wasn’t interested during my teens.” She gives a brief explanation about her not-so-spontaneous love life.

But she continues to tell more. “Despite not being experienced, I hope for the best for myself and my future husband. We might encounter some circumstances but we’ll learn from them together.”

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

While waiting for her order and husband, Bella reads the letters again. She could be overthinking it, but the first letter might’ve exposed the answer. She talks to herself in a soft voice. “Sit back and relax. It reminds me of ATEEZ’s Bouncy. Will it be someone from ATEEZ?” Bella is flooded with curiosity, but she shakes her head.

“No, It can’t be.” The dancer denies it with a timid smile. She feels her fair cheeks blooming red. The thought of it makes her extra shy.

Returning to the kitchen, Seonghwa is preparing the delicious strawberry croissants.

He inherited his mother’s cooking skills which come in handy when he cooks food for himself and his group. Once placing the last strawberry, his face beams. “It’s so pretty!” Seonghwa is proud of his croissants. He happily picks them up under the wax paper and shows them to the cameraman. “Bella. Your hubby has a gift for you.” His usual deep voice is high-pitched and all cute.

Seonghwa puts his mask on to conceal his face once again. He takes the iced Oolong milk tea and the desserts to Bella’s table. Before he leaves the kitchen, he has a few things to say to the viewers. “It’s finally time to show myself. I hope she likes what I made.” He exhales and starts approaching her.

Bella is on her phone texting her members in a group chat. They’re all impatient to know who their brother-in-law is. After sending the messages, she noticed the same barista who took her order. “Thank you, sir.” Bella appreciated him. He placed the drink and croissants on the table.

“You’re welcome. Is there anything else you need?” Seonghwa continues with the act.

Shaking her head, “No, thank you. That’ll be all.” Bella grins prettily.

Seonghwa was almost flustered as he spoke. “O-Okay. Well, you do.” He tells her.

Bella’s grin becomes downward. “Really? What is it?” She questions.

The woman watches him carefully as he removes his mask to reveal his ethereal face.

Bella instantly covers her gaping mouth with both her hands and eyes widening. Seonghwa laughs joyfully at her adorable and funny reaction. “Hello! I’m your husband!” He responds through his laughing.

The woman quickly stands off of her chair to bow. “Hello, sunbaenim! Wow, this is unreal!” She could feel the adrenaline rush. Seonghwa recomposes himself and clears his throat. He bows in return. “It’s nice to meet you.” His charming face spreads a cordial smile.

Bella shyly says, “I-It’s nice to meet you too.” Her voice stuttered. She tries to comprehend that the ATEEZ Seonghwa is her husband.

He then gestures to her to have a seat. Seonghwa is across from Bella and it got into an awkward silence. She couldn’t form words because she was still in shock. Seonghwa reads her like an open book. To make the girl comfortable, he tries relaxing her mind. “Hey, are you okay? Maybe a sweet treat or drink can help you. I even made them for you.” He gestures at her order that’s almost forgotten.

“Oh, yes, I am.” Bella nodded to assure Seonghwa. She picks one of the croissants and takes a bite. Her doe eyes lit up like the stars at night. "Mmm! This is lovely!" Bella is delighted. Seonghwa's concerned expression became solace. “It’s okay to feel nervous because I was too. I didn’t want to break character.” He lets out a deep chuckle that struck Bella’s heart.

There are two reasons why she was shaken up. One, she is an ATINY, and two, Seonghwa is her favorite member.

So, is she living the dream or is it only for a show?

“Well, you did great. You should be a movie star.” Bella commented on his A-plus acting. Seonghwa bashfully smiles and looks at his hands. Her voice is mellifluous-sounding and touches his soul with comfort and sincerity.

Afterward, the new couple in town decided to introduce themselves. They started the basic information about their lives: birthdays, birthplaces, family, groups, hobbies, and interests.

He learned that she was younger than him and a shy girl. The way she communicates is a little nervous and she avoids eye contact. Other than her timid nature, he can tell she is friendly and nice to be around. Interestingly enough, Bella is passionate about dancing. She was chosen as the Main Dancer of STAYC for her fluidity, attitude, and one-of-a-kind style.

In Bella’s perspective of Seonghwa, he is a man who has the embodiment of a warm hug. When he tried to make her feel less tense, she was softened by his gentleness.

“I’m also an ATINY.” Bella built the courage to put it out there. Seonghwa grows elated. “Amazing! Do you have a favorite song?” He asked her. A smile draws on her coral lips. “Fireworks is my favorite song.” Bella loves the song so much that her members will see her doing the dance whenever it plays in the dorm. In general, she knows many of ATEEZ's dances.

“Great song choice.” Seonghwa agreed with Bella, causing her to laugh lightly.

Another question is a must-ask question. “Do you have a favorite member?” He sounded mellow and not desperate.

It felt like her world stopped. Bella stops sipping on her Oolong tea. She is already making it more awkward with the dramatic silence. But, Seonghwa, on the other hand, is patient and has her take her time.

“You. You’re my favorite member.” The shy girl blushes profusely.

Seonghwa’s ears began to turn red like rose petals. He couldn’t stop smiling because Bella was too cute and precious. Her charms are irresistible.

“Why, thank you. I am glad it’s me.” Seonghwa acknowledges the best, if not most incredible fact about Bella. He has a cheerleader wife.

"You can have this one." Bella kindly offers Seonghwa the last strawberry croissant. He thanked her and devoured it like a hungry bunny.

Then, the couple hear tapping noises coming in their direction. It’s the Maltese and Golden Retriever from earlier that they both met. Seonghwa pets the big and playful Golden Retriever, and Bella has the cuddly Maltese in her arms.

It occurred to Seonghwa’s thoughts when looking at the two canines. “They remind me of my members. Yunho and Yeosang.” He wonders if it’s intentional by the PD crew.

Bella gingerly rubs her nose with the Maltese. “This one reminds me of Sieun unnie.” Her delicate hand pets its tiny head.

series masterlist

#ateez #ateez fluff #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa ateez #park seonghwa #seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #seonghwa x y/n #seonghwa x oc

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goldstrvck · 8 months ago

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step by step

an original written work featuring sapphics, gardening and pechay (chinese cabbage), in honor of pride month. read the ao3 version here!

There had been a place in your garden where a flower could have bloomed once. The realization comes like you’ve been doused with ice-cold water: once upon a time, there had been a place for three of them.

It’s almost funny. You don’t even like planting plants. You’re the opposite of a green thumb: green leaves turn to yellow under your care, the brittle brown edges curling towards themselves. Stems either wilting or withering, the water always either too much or too little.

But when it flowers, it’s rewarding – the bloom of a flower, angled to meet the sun. Leaves a deep, verdant green, with the healthy sheen of something thriving – thriving despite everything — it's worth it. It's like a fleeting, silent acknowledgment of being told that you matter. Like being told that you are loved.

ii.

The first bloom had gone like this: a girl had gifted you a seed packet. The sun had been so high in the mid-June sky then, blurring the lines between morning and noon. You remember it being hot enough that the memory is hazy, like it had been enclosed on the other side of some Coke bottle bottom. Like it had been a dream.

The girl — Rose — says, a mischievous twinkle in her eye: can you keep a secret?

You don’t remember what you said. But it had to be some sort of affirmative, because the next thing she says is I have a gift for you, ruby lips curved into a saccharine grin, like the flower she’d been named for. Her smile had been too brilliant, too white - it might have been a sweltering summer day then, but in the end, it’s the smile that undoes you.

She nudges at your loosely clasped hands until you have your clammy palms up, like leaves seeking the sun. Then: a seed packet in your hands. You turn it around, and the thin reedy font of a popular planting brand’s name greets you. Below it is the picture of a singular vibrant rose, the kind you’d see in those fairytales - picture-perfect and unblemished.

Take care of it, Rose had said, before stepping away. Sunlight catches on her hair, wild and untamed. You can’t look away, even though you know the sight will blind you even more so than the oppressive heat of the sun bearing down on you.

You pot the seeds with the finest potting mix you can get your hands on. You look up guides on planting, and the tab to raising a rose is always perpetually open on your phone. You inspect its leaves as it grows for any sign of sickness, and water them daily. You follow all instructions to a T.

Two months later — the rose wilts.

You’re not supposed to tend to it in the shade. Not that it matters that it had been summer monsoon season and you’d rather not let your rose drown under a week’s worth of persistent rain, so you had moved it inside your home. It doesn’t matter that you got it some source of artificial light. It doesn’t matter at all.

The point is: it dies, and when it does, Rose does not look back.

The utter disappointment in her eyes had almost hurt more than the rejection – the denial that there had been something between the two of you once – but it hadn't. It was the image of a wilting, browning rose slumping over a clay pot that stung - stung worse than the image of her leaving.

iii.

There had been others after too.

A seed packet of sunflowers falls decisively on your palm somewhere around a cloudy November afternoon, and you go through the motions: seeding, transplanting seedlings, watering every early morning and late afternoon, inspecting for sickness, and adding fertilizer. This time, the sunflowers go through a ruthless bout of harsh heat and brutal rain.

The next three weeks pass by in a blur, too occupied by work to dedicate hours to taking care of it.

You can’t do anything about this one: it’s bound to fail.

Soon enough, it dies, four weeks before it’s due to bloom. Unlike the rose, the affair with him is silent, but you understand. There’s no sun for your sunflower to turn to here. All you can do is stare at the mocking shadow of his back and wish him well.

The last one had been a seed packet of white azaleas, given on a late January afternoon. It had been perfect - azaleas thrived in tropical climates as long as it had acidic and well-drained soil. Rather than full sun, azaleas loved partial shade, where they wouldn’t drown under an unfortunate torrent of heaven’s proverbial floodgate opening or burn under the punishing heat of the sun whenever you didn’t have the time to take care of them. And so the cycle repeats: the starting soil with mulch on top, two seeds per dug hole, then careful inspection until you see seedlings. A strict schedule of watering, adding fertilizer, and readjusting its location whenever necessary.

They say azalea takes three years to fully grow, with the seeds sprouting somewhere around the four-month mark. Two months if you’re lucky, but you never are. The calendar pages turn, and the garden grows cold. The seeds show no sign of growth – the covered seedling tray is empty and the potting medium is still uniformly packed, like you haven’t relentlessly monitored and worked on it for the past three months.

Throughout it all, Lea hasn’t shown herself outside the time she gave you that seed packet. You remember she was beautiful, the kind of beautiful you'd find behind bulletproof glass casings in museums. A porcelain ghost.

By the time the fourth month passes, the seeds never germinate. The azaleas never grow at all.

You’re starting to think this is all a fluke.

iv.

It had been raining then - the mid-June of another year. You had been stuck in school for some reason you can't quite recall, and by the time you'd made it out, it had been well past six in the evening. You had an umbrella with you as you wait for a tricycle to pass by the empty street corner you stood on — this detail is important.

It's important because beside you stood a girl who clearly didn’t possess your foresight since she was being relentlessly pelted by the rain. She makes a valiant effort to keep her gaze straight, refusing to look at you or your umbrella, fingers drumming against the slick leather flap of her bag.

You bite the inside of your cheek, silencing a rare laugh. You’re not that cruel, so you step closer, holding out your umbrella. “Here.”

She lets out a relieved exhale, like she had been waiting for you to say it. “Thank fucking God,” she gratefully murmurs, though not unkindly as she took partially took shelter underneath your umbrella. Under the light of the solitary overhead streetlight, her features had looked a lot more dramatic, obscured by sharp oranges and dark shadows. “More importantly, thank you for saving me a sick day.”

You grimace when she bumps against you accidentally, the wet cloth of her shirt coming in contact with your bare skin, looking her up and down with a critical eye. “Not until you’re out of this rain, you’re not," you tell her, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder, allowing her to take more space.

She huffs: why are you looking at me like that?

It's the way her hair plasters to her forehead, paired with the scowl on her lips. She looks like a drenched cat. After a beat, you say as much.

It's a startling sound - that sudden laugh you wring out of her that evening, a clear loud sound ringing through the air, and suddenly the world is sharper, more in focus. The orange hue of the overhead streetlight limns the line of her shaking shoulders. You can’t tell if it’s because of laughter or because of the cold, but she clutches at her forearms, laughing at the most mediocre icebreaker ever uttered before she bestows you her name: Chai.

“Pechay? ” You can feel your eyebrow climbing. “Like… the vegetable?”

“Exactly like the vegetable,” Chai says as you both walk into the gardening aisle. Chai never asks you to plant, but you do so anyway. You’re not really doing it for her — you’re just doing this for you. After all, it's been a while since you really tried to plant and it all ended in disaster, so whose opinion would be as invaluable as a self-proclaimed green thumb? “It’s practical, easy to grow and - most importantly - it's edible! You can’t do that with most ornamental flowers, can you?”

“Every flower is edible,” you say. “If you’re not a coward.”

"Stop trying to avoid the topic," Chai rolls her eyes. “Besides, you have never eaten a single flower raw in your life.”

So you buy the packet. It’s different from the flowers you’ve tried to raise before, but like Chai told you once: where’s the harm in trying something new?

It’s always something new with Chai, you’ve discovered. Chai’s loud, but not unkind. Bright, in a way that would never blind you. As beautiful as art, and always present. Your fingernails bite crescents into your palm at the implication like it’ll ward off that sentiment you can’t name; the packet burning a hole in your pocket.

You plant. The intention: filling up a seedling tray. You go through the motions of adding the potting medium mixed with organic compost. The pechay seeds, two per cell to avoid overcrowding, germinate under the sunniest spot you had in your garden, before being moved to a place with shade to avoid overwatering from June rains, but it’s fine. It’s fine so long as you place it at an angle that ensures it receives at least four hours of direct sunlight.

She tells you to work with plastic bottles instead of the pots you used after transplanting, and advises you to hang the modified bottles on a wall. The same way my mom taught me and the way her sister before her taught her, Chai says, deft hands handling a cutter with ease as she cuts through some plastic Coke bottle you had lying around. Tita's an environmentalist. She says the less waste, the better and I'm inclined to agree with her.

Under your care — yours and Chai's, actually. Since when did Chai become privy to your garden? — the pechay seeds sprout. Each and every one of the seedlings in the seed tray shows promising growth – Chai cuts out four more plastic bottles for you. With the modified bottles, you only have to replace and refill the water when necessary - like this! Two warm hands brushing against yours. Eyes crinkling at the corners, soft and pleased, smile even softer when you catch her looking.

In time, the two leaves will grow into four, and the stem grows into separate stalks. In time – after seven weeks, the herbs will be ready to harvest. It’s a thought you find yourself uncomfortable with after all your previous losses. It almost feels like a hollow victory - what happens then, when the pechay stalks are all harvested?

But when Chai seeks out your fingers, palm slotting against yours in the light of day and in the dark of the night, it's almost like your worries had never been there at all. When she laughs against you, pressing her face to your shoulder, her breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, you feel something unbidden stick to your throat and you think desperately, like a man possessed: you’d do anything to make her laugh like this again.

vi.

When the time comes for harvest, you survey them with a critical eye in the middle of a rainy July evening. Behind you, Chai waves her phone around with one hand, its flashlight illuminating the wall of pechay stalks in plastic bottles in front of you. With her other hand, Chai holds out an umbrella to shield you from the rain.

“Why are you harvesting them this late in the night?” Chai asks, cozy in a jacket you know she stole from you. Overhead, the rain gently falls on the umbrella in a comforting rhythm. “Couldn’t you have done it earlier?”

“You weren’t here earlier.” Without warning, you uproot the best pechay stalks you have, leaving the rest to continue growing. You've read this somewhere - uprooting pechay stalks gives you the best produce, in comparison to plucking leaves from existing stalks. “Besides - it feels more right to pick them with you.”

Chai snorts as you stand up, satisfied with your haul. She bumps her shoulders against yours, and you find yourself chasing that warmth as she moves away. You’ve never been more aware of the pitter-patter of the rain, echoing the pulse of your racing heart. “You’re so cheesy,” she teases. “Damn right - you should wait for me before you harvest the fruits of our labor. Still cheesy, though.”

It takes a long time to cook bulalo. Most recipes say it takes four hours minimum to allow the broth to simmer, and the meat to reach optimal tenderness. But in the grand scheme of things, it does not matter as much; in comparison to four hours, how long have you waited to harvest something you’ve taken care of?

Those four hours go by in a blur. Before long, you check in on your broth - the meat, the onion, and the peppercorn you chucked in - before adding in the rest of the ingredients.

Somewhere behind you, Chai laughs. She says you handle a knife just as you’ve always handled a trowel. You raise an eyebrow: like a boss? She laughs - the sound echoing in your empty house and settling in the dusty corners of your home - and waves you off. Add the veggies, Liv.

Three corn pieces fall into the pot, followed by sliced cabbage, green onion, and — and the pechay.

Chai watches you carefully then, as you add several teaspoons of patis, measured by eye like the proper STEM student you are. You know she wants to study culinary arts, like her grandfather before her, and honor the family business. She does not interfere, even when she looks severely tempted between snatching the measuring cups away from you or making fun of you for your eyeball measurements.

Chai remains silent, but the atmosphere doesn't change. It's quiet but fulfilling: the sound of the stove cooking and the rain gently falling on your roof, echoing the very same warmth you felt when you met her on that street corner three months ago.

You make the mistake of meeting her eyes. When she smiles, so do you. The heat of the stove near you is nothing compared to the warmth of her lovely smile, bestowed upon you like an act of love. When she reaches across the counter, catches the strand of stray hair from your usually impeccable ponytail with two fingers, and tucks it behind your ear, your heart stammers in place. This is everything you've coveted and so much more.

You're worth it, unspoken. You flush with it, warmth blooming across your cheeks. And in equal amounts: I love you.

"Come on," Chai says, palm already pressing against yours, careful and tender and right, like a benediction that has found its way home. She gestures at the pot that's been simmering for ten minutes longer than it should've been. "Let's eat."

#original character #original writing #original story #original fiction #pride month #wlw post #sapphic #gardening #pechay!!

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