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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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olet-lucernam · 8 months ago

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A Hollow Promise [25] chapter vi, part ii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : rebel soul, katharine appleton, maja norming

tag list: @femmealec, @mischief2sarawr

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

Astrid had told the truth, as always. Ophelia was not her only appointment.

Neither was she the first, however.

Hours earlier, wrapped in a fine, black woollen pea coat and comfortable trainers, Astrid had been walking through the fog and frigid, sea-soaked air of the Cornish coastal town of Looe.

The historical fishing village was sheltered within a deep valley, prefaced inland by thick, verdant forests and winding country roads. Ivory villas and weathered stone cottages were built into the slopes of the cliffs, bordered by a riot of meadow-flora and hardy coastal shrubs, the settlement split in half by the river that decanted into the small marina, and the open, pewter waters of the North Atlantic.

The place held a kind of quaint, antique seaside charm that was ubiquitous to Britain, in Astrid’s experience- a nostalgia that was just slightly foreign to her, evoking the same feeling as the second-hand copies of those interbellum novels by Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie that she used to read on rainy days at home.

She could feel Loki watching through her eyes, dozing gently, shamelessly indolent as he clung to sleep.

Exhaling a smile, Astrid consciously drank in as much as she could. She drew the mouldering, salt-stained tang of seaweed and ocean shallows deep into her lungs, face raised to the damp air, clear-eyed and refreshed.

It was one of the many reasons to be relieved to be out of SHIELD’s custody: wherever she went, and whatever she saw, Loki could experience it through their link. And she was one of the rare, fortunate few who could go anywhere, at any time, with little enough effort.

A flush of affection bloomed in her, like a kiss at the nape of her neck, Loki reading her intentions like braille.

Astrid giggled, the ache of want in her chest ebbing slightly, and glanced out across the harbour.

It was the off-season; the tourism trade withered into hibernation with the last days of August, and first weeks of September. Even so, the picturesque village obviously received a fair number of visitors in the summer months. Across the town, there was an abundance of cafés, bakeries, fishmongers, local crafts shops, ice cream parlours, wetsuit and board rental stores. A sprawling car park had been cut at the base of the hill, and a number of small commercial pleasure boats were moored against the harbour walls, anchored between algae-stained tangerine buoys, advertising sea safaris and recreational fishing trips on printed boards affixed to the weather-rusted harbour railing. A few places were shuttered, but other businesses remained open even into November, catering to the permanent residents of the town.

As she chased the slope upwards, approaching from the narrow, eastern flank of the harbour, towards the ageing arcade and stone bridge across the river, a thought occurred to her.

“Loki. Do you like seafood?”

She felt Loki stir. Astrid could almost imagine his head lifting from his cupped hand- or rolling across a pillow to look at her, black curls spilling, eyebrows steepled in mild askance.

I tend to eat more game, I suppose, he answered cautiously. Hunts are too popular on Asgard for it to be otherwise. But I do like shellfish. Although it is seen as peasant food on Asgard. Cheap fare, common as mud, to be eaten at the harbour by tradesfolk.

“It used to be the same here, for centuries,” Astrid replied, the corner of her mouth twisting up sardonically. “Oysters were still delicious when they were only good for the poor.”

Loki laughed softly. It is ridiculous, is it not? The arbitrary standards of high taste.

He hesitated for a long moment.

I do like oysters, he admitted, almost nervous.

A lilt kicked into Astrid’s step, her mood lifting.

“Oysters, then.” Widening her stride into a loping gait, forming rolling bounce on the balls of her feet, she lifted her face to the headwinds, letting it blow her hair back. “Maybe mussels or scallops, if I can’t find any? Oh- and cream tea.”

Cream tea?

“It’s, ah- like a dessert version of afternoon tea, I suppose? It’s sometimes called Cornish tea.” Astrid crossed the bridge at a brisk clip, shoulder bag tapping at her hip. “You’ll love it. Black tea, served with split scones, clotted cream, and jam. Strawberry is traditional, but I prefer raspberry.”

At the mention of something sweet, she felt Loki’s interest instantly perk.

Astrid’s victory dimmed as Loki swiftly crushed down on his eagerness, cooling into reflexive indifference.

Then you should have raspberry, my heart, he replied mildly, like fingers skimming her cheekbone.

“Mm.”

Astrid strummed her fingers against the cross-strap of her bag, tension furling.

She wondered if she could just scream I want to give you this, let me give you this, I want to give you everything, be selfish with me, just ask me and it’s yours, yours, yours, just say the word, put me to the test, let me prove it across the connection, or if that would be too blunt.

She opted for a subtler option. For now. “Seeing as we’re breaking tradition, we could change the tea out as well.”

Peppermint?

“I thought you might prefer rosehip. Or something floral.”

It’s your tongue, darling.

Astrid nipped her lower lip.

“I like sharing my tongue with you.”

She felt his train of thought stutter, before heating.

You’re playing a dangerous game, Astra, Loki warned, dark and edging into primal, shifting into a voice behind her left ear that seemed spoken through gritted teeth.

Astrid startled, almost tripping, as she felt the sensation of the pads of his fingers swiping at her inner thigh.

Her brain short-circuited for a moment.

Hm. Are you curious, darling?

She bit her lip, restraining the impulse to goad him further.

Following Loki revealing how he could twist his magic into her through their link, Astrid had begun asking about the possibilities. The conversation had been mostly practical- but the thought had occurred to her, even if she had quickly become distracted when it struck her exactly how ingenious the method was, how brilliant Loki was, how blithely oblivious he seemed to that fact.

But now- despite herself, folding her lip between her teeth in an effort to pin her unravelling thoughts in place- Astrid lingered over exactly how far and how intensely he could project sensation into her, how much sensory feedback he received back through their link, and whether-

No. Nope. Nope, nope, no. Work first, North. We’ll explore that another time.

Despite the curl of delighted, thoroughly distracted mischief from Loki, he let the matter drop.

Astrid exhaled quietly, grateful.

Today, she was visiting an old friend. It would be unwise to arrive disarmed of her wits.

Astrid swung off the bridge and into West Looe, swerving in a hairpin turn back down the hill, sinking into the warren of the town. There were only a few figures out in the midmorning light, walking dogs or tending to their boats, the quiet seeming to echo against the rush of the sea. The narrow streets were barely broad enough to accommodate a single car, the cobbles uneven and worn smooth underfoot, none of the structures more than two or three stories tall; most of them were at least a century or two old, patchworked with modern features, dating to the days of smugglers and portside inns and the great age of sail, their timbers ancient and their walls full of ghosts and memories.

She came to a halt outside a particular storefront.

The entire street was built into the incline of the hill, its rowhouses sitting a foot or so below the edge of the pavement, squatting low. The windows of the ground floor were almost level with Astrid’s crown, the sills above within reach if she cared to make the short jump, walls a washed white between dark Tudor beams.

Astrid tipped her head up a millimetre, the aperture of her senses opening to sweep the interior, as she read the sign affixed above the door.

Witches’ Brew, it read, white font upon a rich violet backing. On the left side of the sign was the outline of a cat, paws upon the rim of a bubbling cauldron to peer at the contents.

Bookshop, was added underneath, in smaller, blunter font. Tarot. Occult. Café.

You know, Loki commented, there is an infusion made from íviðia blossoms called witches’ brew.

Astrid tipped her head. “Really?” She asked softly.

Mother sent some blossoms to my cell recently- if you care to share my tongue later?

She winced into a grin, knowing that he wasn’t going to let that go any time soon. “Mm, in exchange for cream tea?” She teased.

Astrid felt a pair of arms slip and loop around her midriff, a mouth skimming her crown.

She felt the gentle billow of his sigh, the phantom of his chest against her back.

You drive quite a bargain.

With a faint smile, Astrid stepped down to the shop’s door, and turned the handle.

A classic shopkeeper’s bell chimed overhead, jostled into motion, before the door clicked shut behind her.

She was met with the fragrance of incense- a thicker, heavier curtain of agarwood, compared to the delicately floral smoke that lingered in the training halls where she grew up, and which her father preferred- blended with the earthiness of burned white sage, and coffee grounds.

The shop was quiet. Her steps were muffled by a dark patterned carpet, the space airy and inviting, despite the low ceilings and semi-subterranean position. At the right, the space folded into a geometric puzzle of tall bookshelves, walls paved with spines, the stacks labelled by genre with signs in blackboard and chalk, a few tables laid out with bricks of bestsellers and new arrivals. To her left was the register- unoccupied, with a bell to ring for service- and several tables and shelves, displaying various occult-themed wares. There were box-trays of tumbled, semi-precious gemstones, kitsch plastic goblets with dragons curled around their stems, dowsing crystals and decorative glass figurines, starter guides to palmistry and divining the stars.

Her eyes skipped past all of them, and up.

A large sign was placed at the bottom of a flight of narrow stairs. It advertised the café on the second floor, and tea leaf readings.

Astrid didn’t move to ring the bell on the counter, but the one at the door must have been enough.

“I’ll be right with you, dear!”

A woman’s voice called down from the upper floor. It was American-accented, almost neutral, but underscored with something in the region of Massachusetts.

Astrid smiled, folding her arms and turning away.

“That’s alright!” She replied, voice raised to carry as clear as struck crystal, twisting at the waist to speak over her shoulder. “Take your time! I’m here to see a friend.”

Movement upstairs stilled.

A beat passed, before Astrid felt the familiar crackle of magical wards being activated.

Loki reacted, his mana surging into her nerves with a precision that knocked the breath from her chest, pressing up to the surface of her skin, preparing to force his own counter-wards into her flesh.

Catching her breath, fingers fluttering at the foreign magic in her blood, Astrid sent him a gentle nudge of reassurance.

“Did you not hear the word friend, Agatha?” She yelled up, tone dry and hip cocking. “Your wards didn’t react when I walked in. Now would you please quit it?”

Before Loki tries to rip apart your spellwork and fracture your magical core in the backlash, she added internally.

Don’t tempt me, darling, Loki warned, poised like an adder to strike. Who is she?

The wards lingered, bristling like spines- before settling back.

A moment later, Astrid heard footsteps, and the creak of the ageing banister under new weight.

As I said. She’s a friend… of a sort.

Of a sort?

The subject of discussion halted, a few steps above ground floor.

Astrid remained with her back turned for several seconds, shoulder blades open and unguarded.

After deeming that her message had sufficient time to sink in- if it was going to at all- Astrid turned.

It had been about a century and a quarter, chronologically, since they had last seen each other- during the last of her father’s missions that Astrid had accompanied him on, before she had gone looking for answers.

The inciting incident that drove her to look for answers, in fact.

True to form, however, Agatha Harkness had adapted, and today was the very image of a modern, new-age witch.

Stocky, square-jawed, and casually confident, she possessed the mien and bone structure that would command the description of a handsome woman. Dressed in plimsoles, thick black leggings, and a cable-knit sweater the exact velvety depth of wolfsbane, she looked deceptively, cosily middle-class, her dark chestnut hair styled in a cloud of tight waves to her shoulders, framing her fair, round face and dark cobalt eyes.

“Well.” She draped an elbow across the rail, sleeves rolled back, sizing Astrid up with a wide, crooked smile and a gaze as hard as flint. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Astrid was simultaneously reminded of a salacious, bored housewife with a mind like a steel trap, and a large crocodile sunbathing by the water’s edge.

“It’s good to see you, Agatha,” Astrid said sincerely, light as air. “You look well. I’m glad.”

She tried to sacrifice my soul to Mephistopheles once, Astrid admitted to Loki, deciding that it would be better to get it out of the way now.

She did what? Loki snarled, alarmed.

Long story. Daddy stepped in. She came to regret it.

She could feel Loki glaring into her. Because you made her regret it, or because she decided to regret it? Because that’s quite a distinction, darling.

Astrid almost laughed. His mind was always so quick.

Alright, fine. A little of both.

Jaw and mouth pursed tightly, Agatha’s eyes flitted sharply across and behind Astrid’s form, darting as dragonflies.

Astrid softened her stance, loosening her limbs and opening her posture.

“It’s just us,” she said reassuringly.

Conveniently, Astrid did not mention that us included the sorcerer-prince whose mind was currently linked to her nervous system.

Astra.

His tone was grim, steeled, but quietly restrained.

Astrid sensed the unspoken undercurrent underneath- that he wanted her out of that shop, now.

Astrid reached for him, slotting herself into his edges, feeling him shift to accommodate her.

Please trust me, Loki. I have this.

She felt him hesitate, her calm focus an emollient.

Besides, she added. You might find that you like her.

I highly doubt that, dove, Loki replied haughtily, even as he relented.

She kept silent. Something told her that Loki would refuse to see the similarities, even if she informed him of exactly how her long story with Agatha had ended.

Agatha’s expression had stiffened slightly, eyes narrowing to a squint.

“Just so that we’re clear,” she drawled, gesturing vaguely across her with a jabbing index finger, “you’re not here to check in on me, or- drag me away to some kind of tribunal, are you?”

Astrid tipped her head consideringly. “Have you done anything to warrant it?”

Once again, Astrid opted not mention that she already had a fair idea of the answer. She had made it her responsibility to know; confidence in her decision didn’t negate the gamble, and Astrid wouldn’t ignore her culpability if things went sour.

As far as she could tell, however, Agatha had been smart. She had spent the years since they had last seen each other travelling and researching and collecting, restraining herself to a few petty grudges, mild curses, and mostly harmless, mostly necessary fraud. All in all, nothing that Astrid had found worth getting into a snit over.

Besides. That thing with the carnivorous rabbit had been pretty funny.

Astrid could feel Loki trying to pretend that he wasn’t intrigued.

Agatha snorted. “Not in my book, but we both know that doesn’t mean much. Even my best behaviour means being a little badsometimes.”

“Mm. Well, so long as they deserved it, I’m happy to remain ignorant.”

Brows raised, corners of her mouth tugging into a shrug, Agatha looked pleasantly surprised.

“Huh. Well, in that case- it’s good to see you too, Little Miss Dante,” she said wryly, dragging out the old nickname as though she were dusting off a spellbook, descending the last few steps. “Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way, how have you been for the past- oh, hundred and thirty years or so?”

“Not quite so long on my side, Madame Virgil,” Astrid admitted, satin-smooth as sugar ribbons, “but I’ve- been busy.”

The Divine Comedy? Loki noticed.

Mm, good catch.

He paused, quietly assessing- before relaxing slightly in realisation.

Aha. I see.

Astrid held down her smile, but sent its warmth in his direction.

“And what about your dish of a father?” Agatha asked.

“Not interested, Agatha.”

And still hung up on whoever gave him that watch.

“Huh. Pity.” Agatha paused, appraising Astrid with long, slow sweeps. One forearm folded against her lower ribs, the opposite hand raised, fingertips rubbing together. “Any luck, then, dear, with that little- soul-searching identity quest of yours?”

Lifting one shoulder, Astrid let herself smile abstrusely.

“Some. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, you know. I like to know who and what I’ve made a deal with,” she said, head lowered into an unblinking stare, as though wondering how Astrid’s liver might taste, “as a rule.”

“It’s a good rule.” She said mildly.

Agatha looked at her for a long moment, one corner of her mouth and eye tensing- then straightened, clapping her palms together and spinning on her heel.

“Well, since you came all this way- fancy some tea? I could read your leaves for you! I must say, I’ve gotten pretty good- or, well, as good as you can get, with fortune-telling. It’s always a bit of a crapshoot, you know. Less mess than the animal guts, though.”

Astrid adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder as Agatha began to head up towards the café, not even waiting for her reply.

“Why not? We do have a lot to catch up on.” She began to follow her up the stairs, drawing a shallow breath as she went in for the kill. “And I think I have a way to get Karmar-Taj off your back so that you can come out of hiding, so I’m sure you’ll want to-”

Agatha turned back to her sharply. “What?”

Her eyes were slightly wild, incredulous, and treacherously hopeful.

Reflecting briefly, Astrid supposed that she should feel a little bad.

That was, if not for the memory of choking sulphur, of her face and throat scorching with brimstone-heat, and the sound of dimensions ripping apart like adipose from muscle tissue and Agatha laughing broad and wild- just before Mephistopheles betrayed her, just before Astrid regained the strength to yank the witch away from the consequences of her own actions.

Just because she had forgiven did not mean she was inclined to be nice.

Besides. Agatha would respect her less if she was.

Loki watched her work, ruthlessly, using honesty as a weapon and the truth like she she owned it, cautious and amused and a little proud.

Astrid arched her brows, both at him and the witch standing before her.

“You didn’t think I’d come without a gift, did you?”

Some time later, a platter of a dozen shucked oysters in front of her, seated with a sea view and décor of scrubbed wood and clean white walls, Astrid made the first entry on her shopping list.

Tea leaves.

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kvetchlandia · 2 years ago

Photo

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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lauvra · 6 months ago

Text

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 · 1 year 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

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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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tryingtimi · 2 years ago

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Ash and Rot PART I.

PART I. | PART II. | PART III.

Here's a scene or an almost half a chapter from Book III that I was meaning to write for a while now. It started as a prompt scene, but ended up like this. Blood Upon The Snow by Hozier was a great inspiration to get started with it and then finish it up as well. Incoming In-World legend also.

Context: Cronyl loses control during a fight, where Syonehlia tries to stop him. It ends up as a disaster, because Cronyl tries to kill her, so In order to finally, actually stop him, Eldnar trashes his leg. He then completely separates himself from the others during his recovery while they travel to draar land for help. So Bra'aka tries to offer thim something that might help him get over himself and what for they eventually started the journey to his homeland.

BOOK III EXPLORATION | MENTION OF DEATH | BLOOD | SELF-LOATHING | WC: 2,759

Screams. Silence. A lion cub lost in the forest. Snowflakes falling. Cronyl was surrounded by a thousand starbugs, all of them circling around him.

Blood.

Mother’s smile appearing as she watched the glowing creatures crowding him. She was always amazed by how much starbug loved Cronyl. She said he must be one of them.

Red and black snow.

Cronyl was hiding behind a trunk with Father by his side. Watching the wandering cub carefully. It dragged its leg, an open wound gaping at it. The injury reminded him of a biting mark, its pain surging through his leg as well.

“It was its mother,” Father whispered as he leaned closer, red blooming on his nose from the cold. Cronyl grasped the trunk stronger upon hearing this, not daring to lift his gaze off of the young animal. Father continued. “They do this sometimes. If the little one can’t bond with the mother or acts strangely, they might try to eat them. Either because they stayed a stranger to them or as a protection so they won’t suffer social exclusion. No matter if they’re the same kind.”

Snow, red on white. Silence.

Starbugs approached the cub, curious. It wandered so far with that leg and still, it wouldn’t stop. Cronyl’s chest tightened hearing and seeing nature’s doings.

“It’s mercy.”

The nearest starbug disappeared in the mouth of the cub with a crunch as it bit down on them suddenly.

Cronyl snapped his head at the side, where Commander Caldan’s frigid stare pierced him through. His indifferent tone making Cronyl tremble as ice would.

The Commander never revealed his spikes and yet, now they were visible. Thick blood dripped from his wrist, staining the snow.

The blood of Cronyl’s leg injury. The blood of his parents.

Silence.

Screaming.

Cronyl slammed his wrist spike into the arm which startled him up.

His breath as wisps of air puffed out of his lungs, the same way the surprised Bra’aka’s. The warrior’s clawed hand held Cronyl’s arm firm, but his incredibly sharpened spike still touched fur and skin, sinking in slightly. If it hurt the man, he didn’t show it.

Cold sweat like pearls prickled down on Cronyl’s forehead, his eye trembling as he stared at the warrior. His leg throbbed with spiking pain. And yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away. In the corner of his eye, he still saw Commander Caldan’s motionless figure, covered in blood and snowflakes; and so he just wasn’t capable of letting himself turn away, giving in to the tiniest chance he could be truly there.

Bra’aka slowly pulled his spike out of his arm.

“You’re safe,” he said as he placed two plates at the desk beside the table finally. One was packed with fresh, colorful fruits and roasted meat slices. The other had a strange plant lying in it; thick, fleshy leaves or blooms embraced each other, dark red specks covering the dirty white base. Like...

At his arm, tiny redness stained his white fur, like blood upon the snow.

Enough!

Cronyl restrained the urge of shaking his head to drag himself out of the twisted lands of memories and nightmares. Clearing off any remnants of sleep from his clouded gaze and mind.

He tasted iron on his tongue, his sharpened teeth making it difficult to keep his lips closed. He set his jaw, still.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” The draar leaned back on the chair he seated himself, right beside Cronyl’s bed. He wore his light armor as always. “That scratch? All good, lad. I didn’t feel a thing.”

He cocked an eyebrow anyway.

“Bad dream,” Cronyl stated, not looking at the warrior while trying hard not to grimace from all the numbing, underlying throbbing in his leg.

“You have nothing, but bad dreams. I’m more interested in how are you doing.”

Tightness nested in his muscles as he forcefully pushed himself up to a sitting position by his elbows. He grunted, letting his blanket fall back at his hips, his injured leg still free from it. However cold it was outside, the hut had enough heat so Cronyl didn’t need to force the leather to touch his bandaged wound.

“Good.”

A bestial growl ran out through his clenched teeth when Bra’aka touched the cloth wrapped around his leg.

“You can keep saying that, I won’t stop asking.” Despite his enormous hand, the warrior was incredibly careful with it, perhaps even more like Avelyn would have been. However, it didn’t ease Cronyl’s building pain and tension. It towered upward, reaching his chest to gather there.

“What do you want from me?” he snarled, clenching the sheets as the cloth slowly disappeared from over his wound.

Bra’aka calmly stole a glance from him, before he continued to roll off the bandage. Although, his touch softened further.

“Not much. Just talk. You mad lad won’t let anyone inside when you’re awake and it’s been three weeks since Syon. She’s doing well, by the way. Nareethi could heal her wounds impressively fast. You can imagine how quickly little gold bullied her into teaching her; she needs the distraction since she can’t talk to you. Eldnar, also, is giving us way less headache than he used to. He disappears for hours during the day, and when he’s around he only talks to Darmon. It’s a whole load of gemclouds out there. Drehana’s the only one who still laughs with Ne’ekra while grooming the animals.”

Cronyl looked away, a loud huff bubbling in his throat when the last bit of cloth separated from his skin. He couldn’t risk glancing at Bra’aka’s injury while he inspected his wound. He couldn‘t risk falling back into the dream. Or worse.

Because the pain, he was used to. The excruciating agony the procedure came with, he was used to.

The fresh, heavy guilt blanketing all of it, however, he couldn’t deal with.

“They just need time,” to process I’m a monster. To get used to my absence. To finally realize they’re better off without me. Because I am alone and I’ll stay like that.

Bra’aka hummed to the unspoken words. Some minutes passed silently.

“Have you heard about Hoxxar and Unir, The Twins?” The wound had been fully revealed, Cronyl, however, couldn’t look at it. He kept his stare at the window beside his bed, watching the slowly falling snow after the storm through frozen glass. He remained silent.

Bra’aka continued, his tone changing, deepening. A quiet, humming rhythm accompanied the words.

“They lived in the ages long-long before us, even before Darmon. In the Age of The Beginning, they were born to be the children of a chiefess and her husband. They were strong and vigilant from the moment they were brought under the waving sky. As twins, they had many similarities, some tales say their father has often mistaken one for the other. However, it wasn’t something Hoxxar and Unir found bothersome. They loved each other as only a brother could one another. And as many things have they shared, they differed in an equal lot, if not more.” Bra’aka’s tone turned tender, melodic even. He slowly started to clean the wound out with a wet cloth. “Hoxxar liked to fight. He enjoyed the thrill of dealing with the problems of the world this way and the dance around Death itself. He judged, he killed, he took. Hoxxar, The Great was the finest, legendary warrior of old Ataria.”

What must have been minutes only, it felt like an eternity to Cronyl, when Bra’aka finally finished patting the cloth over his leg. He forced his eyes to stay open and watch the dancing lights on the night sky, his nails buried in the torn sheets way too deep.

“Unir, on the other hand,” Bra’aka continued. “Well, he was more drawn to nature and Life. In appearance and life path as a child, he was just like his brother. But never in heart. He helped others wherever he could, he healed, he farmed and planted, he built, he gave. Thus, their parents eventually offered him the title of the chief.” He reached for the white-red plant at the table. A pierce of his thumb claw was enough to slice the thick skin up fully. Its inside seemed to be something like a densely opaque liquid, but it didn’t flow anywhere as Bra’aka scooped some out with one finger. With that, the warrior’s tone turned erratic, aggressive, almost barbaric. “It happened to be the first time in their life when Hoxxar became furious at his own blood. Blinded by his wrath, he attacked their home that night and took the life of both of their parents. When he was done, he went right after Unir. A merciless snowstorm raged outside as he searched for his brother, the harsh wind cutting into his skin, wearing him down step by step. Still, nothing could falter, nor stop him.”

A breathless hiss left Cronyl’s lips as the strange gel met his wound. He could barely feel Bra’aka’s touch as he gently smeared it along his leg.

“He found Unir eventually, sitting in the snow on the white-coated meadow they used to play at as children. The storm didn’t soften as Hoxxar approached his brother. I have come to claim my title, he said to him, I am not afraid to take what’s mine. Unir remained silent, watching the far horizon. He seemed at peace.” Bra’aka’s voice muted, its rhythm slowing. “I know, he offered his words, when Hoxxar lifted his bloodied, frozen axe over him. I know brother, as I know you’ve taken everything from us. You’ve worked for this and would have died for this. They should have given it to you, so you shouldn’t take it yourself. But they didn’t. So here I am, giving it to you.”

Slowly, with even easing, the nearly unbearable pain softened into a familiar little ache in Cronyl’s leg. This gel cooled the flaming sensation, taking away the edge of the agony. Its smell reminded Cronyl of something very familiar.

Bra’aka’s humming voice turned even more benign, almost reminding Cronyl of a gentle breeze.

“Hoxxar froze upon hearing this. The first rays of dawn glinted on the tear on his face and the storm turned into steadily falling snowflakes as he fell to his knees beside his brother. He was ragged and wary, the storm took his strength, his will, his conviction. He’d been blind. He, Hoxxar, The Great was ready to take what could have been given. Why? How can you give after everything? he pleaded. Unir didn’t answer immediately. Because of you, brother. I could have never give, if you wouldn’t taken. And so they realized, they couldn’t have been who they were without each other. They couldn’t change, however. Which led them to make a decision, together. For the people never make a mistake like theirs, Hoxxar decided to take the place of the storm, while Unir had been given to be the light after him. Hoxxar judged and challenged the wanderers, pushing them the farthest, where they might never want to go. Only so Unir could have given them hope and relief, when they survived the storm, lighting up the path they’ve taken and showing them how far they came.”

Silence conquered the hut.

The fire quietly crackled once in the fireplace, when Bra’aka leaned back in his chair, finishing up his work. He locked eyes with Cronyl, and the driadlin realized only then, he was looking at him for a while now. He couldn’t say, when his nails stopped digging into the sheets, and when his teeth stopped poking his tongue. Some kind of peace as the evenly waving aurora outside surged in his chest. He could lean back on his pillow as well, finally.

“Thank you,” Cronyl said to the big man. He wasn’t sure what to make of the tale, but he was grateful. Beyond words.

Bra’aka smiled, then reached inside the pouch on his belt. He pulled out a glowing crystal that seemed to be almost as wide and long as Cronyl’s wound.

“You’ve asked me what I want from you. Well, I want you to make a decision. This is a piece of our atarqian crystal, the one we used for me too,” he stated proudly, lifting his crystal hand which in he held the remnants of the plant. The crystals seemed to merge into his skin where his wound should have been. Making it look like as if he was born with this arm. “We have a special ritual for it. One, only our most honorable warriors get offered to. It is not without pain. But it can give you back the ability to walk on two feet again. If you’re willing to take the chance.”

His eyes were flaming vortexes of colors from a blazing fire, while his enormous figure still seemed gentle in the dim light of the aurora that seeped inside the room through the window. Cronyl’s always-nesting fatigue and exhaustion disappeared from his veins as if nature could finally give him rest from all the strength he took from it.

His head also felt somehow clearer, yet he frowned and closed his eyes for a second.

“What’s the risk?” There was always a risk. And he knew Bra’aka didn’t tell him yet.

The warrior didn’t look away when they locked eyes again.

“Normally, the ritual requires three things. A crystal, a sip of the na’koro juice, and a drop of driadlin blood. Our ancestors discovered this during the Silent War when many of the opposite side died and some bled on them accidentally. During peaceful times, however, Caelis offered her aid in it, when she settled here. We never kill for it, especially not on purpose. In any case, since only one drop is enough to take you to another land while the ritual ends; what it would do to someone who possesses a fine amount of the blood, I cannot say. That is the risk.”

Cronyl didn’t know what to say. Strangely, his peace stayed with him, however disturbing all these sound. He had no doubt, Caelis wasn’t a simple settler, considering how she decided to build a home in draar land despite her driadlin heritage. But this was something Cronyl didn’t expect. And yet, the first question that popped up in his mind had nothing to do with her or the ritual itself.

“Is it the same na’koro juice that…”

“…that Xorrum was drinking with Eldnar to get drunk the last time, yes. It’s coming from this sacred plant called nakor,” Bra’aka explained, lifting the plant in his hand. “We use its juice for celebration because, without any of your blood, it is just like any of your simple alcohol as well. Probably more delicious, I might add.”

Cronyl took a deep breath.

“You’ve put it over my wound.”

“Yes I did,” agreed the warrior. “It keeps it clean.”

Reddish light danced on Bra’aka’s face as he calmly waited for him, perhaps to ask more questions. To pour out all and everything that was going on his mind right now. The fire’s and the auroras’ red and orange light blended, but its touch on the warrior’s white fur didn’t make Cronyl tense anymore. He knew he could say no without explanation.

“Is there anything I need to do to start the process?”

Bra’aka smiled softly, putting the crystal on his bed so he could squeeze the liquid out of the plant into the bowl. Cronyl’s leg faintly throbbed with a tiny crumb of pain, he almost didn’t feel it anymore. He was wondering if The Twins ever felt this way.

He turned to the window, clenching his teeth as Bra’aka carefully placed the crystal into his open wound and handed him the bowl.

Clouds seemed to gather in the sky, slowly reaching the light.

As if another storm was on its way.

#Project Metalsea #Metalsea snippets #Metalsea snippet #Cronyl Eldenwer #Bra'aka #Metalsea: Nohrinal's Legacy #so much stuff i haven't introduced yet omg #Xorrum and Ne'ekra are Bra'aka's children #Commander Caldan is the Guard who killed Cronyl's parents #and Caelis is a new character who is a driadlin and who settles down on draar land cuz she despises the royal's way #oh and Ataria is Atarq’s ancient name #Atarq is the nation of the draar #hhh #okay i just leave this here

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inevitablemoment · 1 year ago

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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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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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carissimipaixao · 2 years ago

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─ ii. FAMILIAR

published on: february 10, 2023 pairing: okabe rintarou & reader summary: as luck may have it, you are able to return the mistaken manual to its rightful owner. word count: 1.8k+ entries: i. | ii. | iii. note: this is be a multiple-chapters fanfic, and each entry will be numbered accordingly on the top of the story. if you are reading this from a reblog, don’t forget to check the original at my blog, due to broken or missing links! second note: slight changes, including a pov change from 3rd person to 2nd person!

You have never been one to mingle with the big crowds. They often feel caging, as if you have been locked up with no possible exit in sight or at least an exit that wouldn’t invoke a hundred and then some gazes upon your fleeing figure. Moreover, you always feel claustrophobic when you are surrounded by people, after all. However, if there is free food involved, it is a worthy sacrifice.

It has been based on that reasoning that you decide to attend a seminar at Akihabara Techno Forum, accompanied by a new friend you made at the beginning of the week at University. Perhaps, the reason you two clicked so easily — and so quickly — is because of Naoko’s warm personality, despite her playful nature. Then again, unlike many, Naoko has never once glanced at you as if you were some sort of freak.

However, something had come up at the last minute, and Naoko had been requested by her aunt to come over and watch over her little cousins while she was away for a business meeting. Although the news have slightly upsetted you, you think against going home; after all, you have made your best to draw out time. Spending most of the afternoon in the library, writing down notes and finishing up some homework, you have also wasted some of your time on public transport, not to mention the time you sat outside the building, waiting for Naoko. Life’s too short, you have reasoned with yourself. As well as my wallet.

And that leads to where you now stand — by an exit door as you watch in mild boredom, the ice in your glass twirling along the movements of your wrist as you twitch it to an imaginary tempo. It was an interesting seminar, you wouldn’t deny that, but, because the subject is not really part of your own expertise and you were often lost in context, you had guiltily found yourself drifting into sleep multiple times. Well, if anything, you can just blame it on your unhealthy sleeping schedule and the stress.

With a sigh, you open your purse to pull out your phone, unlocking the screen to find an unread message by Naoko. Unable to fight off the smile that has bloomed on your face, you swipe up.

Naoko * please, save me orz * they’re too hyperactive for an old woman like me

You * come on, don’t tell me you’ll give up that easily. plus, aren’t i the older one here?

Naoko * my apologies, obaa-chan * how was the seminar?

You * it was interesting, it was about some sort of AI that they are developing. it seems to behave the same as the original person, while also having their memories.

Naoko * oh, that seems cool! * wonder if they take volunteers?

You * isn’t one naoko enough?

Naoko * harsh * i actually regret not attending, but it seems to have lasted long enough for me to have napped at least through the entire thing

You * don’t remind me * i almost fell asleep, but hey, let’s talk about this more later. i’m sure the newspaper and the media will be talking about this amadeus project soon enough.

In the corner of your eye, amongst the sea of bright colors, there is a sudden spot of black. The bold color immediately draws your attention, and you raise your head to stare. The person has their back turned to you, their shoulders dropped in what appears to be a mix of exhaustion and disappointment. Yet, the more you stare, a confusing sense of familiarity slowly begins to settle in, finally culminating into realization the moment the person turns their head ever so slightly. Your brain immediately replays the events of the previous day — your very first day at Tokyo Denki — but the scenario that you have caused by bumping into another student and stranger makes your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

Suddenly, the weight of your bag seems to increase, as you recall the existence of a red book.

You put your phone away, observing the young man for another quiet moment, and take a deep breath as you clenches a hand around the strap of your shoulder bag. Each step you take, as you near the man who remains oblivious to your approach, makes your heart thump a little bit quicker, and the sound reverbs in your ears. Your lungs fill up with air, one more time, before the anxiety can overtake you.

The man is just within your reach, and you notice how his eyes are ever so slightly narrowed. Before you can distract yourself any further — because you cannot avoid the inevitable —, you reach for him, moving to tap his arm. However, you quickly decide against it and, instead, clear your throat. The man jumps, being abruptly brought back to reality, and he turns around.

His reaction is immediate, and, just as before, his eyes widen and his body goes stiff.

‘Good evening,’ you begin, your heart racing as you fight the urge to look away from that intense and disconcerting gaze. Whatever it holds, it beckons a weird sense of fight or flight within you. You blame it on your anxiety, which is certainly increasing the more the silence grows.

The stranger — or, Okabe, as the name that was written on the manual suggests — opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

You continue, ‘I wanted to apologize. For bumping into you yesterday, that is.’ You internally debate whether or not you should bow deeply, whilst taking into consideration that he seems to be around the same age as you. Either way, you do a quick bow, ‘Please, forgive me.’

He closes his mouth, his jaw nearly clicking, and clears his throat. ‘No, it’s alright. I should’ve been more careful.’ He chuckles quietly, ‘I admit I wasn’t paying that much attention to where I was going.’

Yet, despite the attempt to brush the incident under the rug, you can still see how he remains tense.

Maybe, he’s just shy and awkward, just as you are.

But, upon seeing how his face appears a bit whiter than it should be?

‘Are you alright?’ you ask, frowning. ‘You don’t look so good.’ You glance around the room and lean slightly forward, lowering your voice. ‘Do you want me to get someone?’

‘Huh?’ He blinks. Then, he waves a hand, whilst giving you a reassuring smile. ‘No, no, I’m alright.’ When you don’t look convinced, he adds, ‘I’m just tired. It’s just been a long day.’ His eyes wander to the side, for a moment, as he takes a deep breath. It almost looks like he is purposefully avoiding your gaze, just as you had tried not to do moments ago. But, you don’t press. Instead, you watch as he exhales slowly. It reminds you of what you often do when you are burdened by your inner storms.

And, just like that, the conversation seems to come to a halt.

Well, you bite your lip, this is awkward.

You begin to reach inside your bag, which draws the student’s attention back to you. ‘Before I forget,’ you say as you pull out the engineering manual. ‘I know this isn’t exactly the best spot to return something, but better now than ever.’ You hand it out to him. ‘It seems like, while I rushed to the classroom, I accidentally took your book, instead of mine.’

He stares at the manual for a moment, before exclaiming in recognition. He carefully grabs the book from your hand — and you try to ignore the sensation left behind by the tips of his fingers against your skin — and opens the cover, nodding upon seeing his name on the very first page. He meets your eyes with another chuckle, although, this time, it doesn’t appear as forced or nervous. ‘So, this is where it was. And here I was, thinking I had lost it.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m too clumsy,’ you give him an embarrassing smile. But, he shakes his head.

‘That’s alright,’ he soothes her. ‘You were in a hurry, from what I can remember. Plus, mistakes happen.’ His eyes widen for a split second, as if he has realized something, and his lips quirk timidly. ‘Then, I’m guessing that the book I took is yours.’

You nod, ‘Most likely. But, no worries. You can just give it back to me tomorrow or whenever it’s possible. It’s okay.’ you suddenly extend her arm, feeling slightly more comfortable as time passes, ‘Oh, where are my manners?’ You give him your name, smiling warmly.

After putting the book under the wing of his arm, the black-haired man gently grabs your hand, a soft smile on his face, ‘Okabe Rintarou. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘The pleasure is all mine.’

Okabe tilts his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. ‘Are you a new student at Tokyo Denki University?’

‘I guess you could say so. I’m doing an internship.’ You look to the side, staring out the distant window as you watch the city lights flicker. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Japan, anyway. So, two birds with one stone.’

Something shifts in his eyes, but you can’t decipher it fast enough.

‘So, you’ve never been to Japan before,’ he muses, although it puzzles you how it sounds much more like a statement, rather than a question. ‘Which major are you in?’

‘Same as you, engineering.’

‘We may be sharing some classes in the future, then,’ Okabe nods, his smile growing as a joyful glint appears in his eye. ‘If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’

You beam up at him. Somehow, you feel at ease when talking to Okabe, despite the fact that you two have just met — well, officially, anyway. Even though you also clicked just as quickly with Naoko, there is something different about this student that makes you feel so comfortable. ‘Thank you! That’s actually very kind of you.’ You will certainly need all the help you can get.

Suddenly, something comes to mind.

‘Wait, hold up,’ you raise her hand, frowning. Okabe blinks. ‘Weren’t you the one, just now, who argued with the audience?’ His back straightens. ‘Something about how skepticism would “stop the progress”?’

The young man grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. You swear you see a touch of pink beginning to bloom across his cheeks, and you smirk. The amused expression causes him to look away. ‘Don’t laugh,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

You cover your mouth, attempting to muffle your giggle. Not that it stops Okabe from hearing it.

As impossible as it would be to believe, his face gets redder by the second. ‘I just—’

‘It’s alright, Okabe,’ you say. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself, especially to me of all people.’ You straighten your back, giving him an approving nod. ‘I actually think you did well to speak your mind. It was brave, and I personally didn’t enjoy the man’s tone, either.’ Okabe pauses, staring at your faraway expression before it quickly morphs into another teasing smirk. ‘For someone who looks so shy, you actually have a lot of guts, huh?’

‘Give me a break,’ his shoulders drop with an exasperated sigh, and his reaction only makes you giggle, once again. Yet, his lips curl into a smile.

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