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joannasteez · 3 months ago

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tanks of blood (7) - eighteen is dangerous

pairing: biker!roman reigns x black reader warning: lots of teenage angst. descriptions of body insecurity. descriptions of alcohol consumption and reckless behavior (getting in a pool while drunk is very reckless, don't do that please!!) consensual underage intimacy (just a kiss!) reader is going through it unfortunately, sorry authors note: this is a flashback. reader is eighteen and roman is nineteen. word count: 7300 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

eighteen is a dangerous age to be alive. all of your almost adult thoughts and ideas and intentions strewn together by wild, colorful imagination, but, at times, for the sake of another. in front of your mirror, picking at your hair and pinching the elastic of a maybe too tight swim suit. the back cut out to reveal skin and your legs thicker now than they were last summer. frustration brimming harsh in your blood so well it's knotting in your throat. tears pricking your eyes. doom in your bones. because, fucking boys and their oh so amazing pool parties. water every place you step and the torment of maybe getting thrown in for shitty amusement. beer bottles floating everywhere and just-finished-with-high-school-teenagers too lightweight to hold their stomachs. not that you're any better. but at least you know that much about yourself. the pool, party and house courtesy of seth and the kegs of beer to come courtesy of dean no doubt. a friend of a friend of his who wants clout with the club so badly that he swiped his card on kegs for underaged leather bound boys. fucking men.

and seth's guest bedroom is hot. sweltering so much that it nearly leaves you damp with sweat. your fingers undone with a trembling ache as you pull a pair of shorts over your thighs. overthinking on over drive. because he and his cousins and the rest of the "vip's" have yet to make an appearance. the common people waiting with bated breath for their loud, grimy noise filled entrance. a rumbling, chaotic spectacle filled with air's and aura's of a specific importance and nature that you'll always find too high maintenance to keep up with. but that's why eighteen is such a terrible time, despite maybe your exaggerations about the angst of it. this weird refurbishing of the soul. his mighty self importance aside, romans thoughts and opinions mattering now much more than they used to. your eyes yours still, brown and "shaped so prettily", as your mother likes to say, but not really. going about a constant examination for someone else. shaped against your face perfectly but living outside to look inward too.

because would he like what you've done with your hair? the earrings you've decided on for the night? the way the swimsuit cuts out at the back? toes painted a different color from your fingernails but oddly cute all the same, because you couldn't be bothered with changing the shade. your tummy not as flat as last year and that scar still embedded in the center of your palm. eyes working for you but at the service of another. him. yes. eighteen is goddamn dangerous.

that sweet silver necklace he gave you sometime ago. eyes all nervous and his fingers shaky as it clasped the lock of it before you kissed him. a warmth to his skin you never knew existed till that moment. the cool of the metal resting on your skin. dipping low a bit more than usual. the swimsuit made with built in cups. accentuating indeed. because swiping for it at the register of the sports store was easy. naomi at your side smiling bright and excited with a matching style in a different color. the try on process quick and sure with a good natured finality because her eyes were different. lacking that air of intense appraisal. a girls girl for you in the truest sense. her eighteen and your eighteen so similar sometimes. her dealings with jimmy like yours with roman.

a knock against the bedroom, like a warning, before naomi bursts through. red solo cups in hand and a frustration running lines into her face. long, waist length braids, ponytailed up and away from her face. the bright neon of her swimsuit wet, and her legs dripping some on the carpet.

you shift quick from the mirror. a creeping heat in your cheeks rising till it settles about your forehead. heart hammering before it plummets to your empty belly. the idea of somebody, anybody, finding you amidst such a vulnerable moment of self brought on scrutiny, absolutely troubling. embarrassing even. a damn scary state of affairs that nearly makes all the doubts and uncertainties breathe harder, heavier. with a better purpose.

"you went to the pool?"

plopping to lay against the made bed. the fluff of the sheets comfortable despite the heat. maybe even comfortable enough to stay laid up against. a decision that feels more and more appetizing by the second.

she stands just near the mirror where you'd been, setting down the cups to readjust her hair. a strong presence living along with her reflection. unflinching and sure and at ease. "i took a dip. enough not to get my hair wet", she starts. still corralling the long waist length hair. "i was tryin to wait around for you but somebody decided to abandon me last minute to come up here", giving a pointed look through the mirror. slivers of guilt slipping under your skin. but her fuss of it doesn't last very long, eyes rolling as she dips into an annoyance. "they all down there standin around all brainless n'shit, like they need to be told when to get in the pool. half of them is only here just to say they came anyways...". her steps shuffling over the carpet, cups in hand again. "...followers irk my nerves", she groans. eyes dropping quick over your body. "why are your shorts on?"

you sit up. a quick, abrupt movement. driven by that suffocating air of hesitation you've fought with since slipping on the swimsuit.

"should i take them off?"

and maybe naomi doesn't understand the painstaking work of such hesitation, or even if she does, it isn't shown. eyes living with all of the opposite actually. "where is this coming from? it was fine when we bought it, it's fine now", her body plopping beside yours. eyes shining with a scrutiny towards you for the first time tonight, and maybe the first time ever. but oddly enough, it doesn't burn the skin, and neither does it make your esteem shrivel. a sigh leaving her. hardened eyes, protective and familiar in their way, like you could have maybe felt them once before in another lifetime. something similar to how a sister looks to her less stronger one. "if you're worried about what he thinks, then forget his ass. he should be lucky you even lettin him breathe your air".

and your nerves don't fall away all that quickly, but the air is less thick now. breathable. your eyes interested now in the cups she's bought. both filled with something pink, but the smell of it like that faithful burn of tequila.

"you're right".

she smiles."have i ever been wrong?"

your eyes rolling playfully. "no"

"exactly". shoving a cup in your hand before bursting up excited. "so sip on this and lets go mingle".

and maybe you're like your mom about these things but "mingling" is for the fucking birds. an unexcitable process of small talk that does your head in. because no one actually cares about anything real, or different, or new, they just want to make good on first time impressions. all the real things, these scary little bits of air and unspoken moments between the words. something something, if we make the daughter of the vice president of the most infamous, illustrious, biker club in all of florida laugh and smile and twiddle her fucking thumbs, then we've made it to the inner inner ring, of the inner circle. which is a lie and a half. sweaty shoulders rubbing up at yours and the dampness nearly folding over your stomach with disgust as you follow naomi through to a less busy area of the backyard. the heat steeping in and weighing over everywhere. the crowd as idle as she said it was. hesitation in their bones as they wait for some fearless leader to make the first move of jumping in, so they of course then, can follow.

you sip at your cup, and then nearly guzzle it the rest of the way. a cold, fruity bite to your tongue that helps ease the angst.

your eyes peering over to the sliding door that connects the backyard and the inside of the house. like a mere gazing over would summon the not so true bane of your existence. a nineteen year old boy with a penchant for unscrewing your nerves loose. your words tongue tied when they aren't soothed into an easy quiet submission by the sweetness of his mouth. groaning little kisses that leave you frenzied and a little dazed and scared. because he has that way about him unfortunately. a lax sort of domineer. flirtatious eyes and quick little phrases that make your skin crawl something horrendous but excellent just the same. you literally despise him. mouth seeking your cup again. already at the end of your drink and feeling the hard rush in of it in your blood. warmth in your belly and a dizzying effect that loosens your anxieties. the type of buzz that asks for more.

a small little table exists near a group of shrubs. a cloth bag nestled in a particularly thick way of leaves. your hand sticking down and into the bag to pull out a bottle of tequila. because seth said "only my buddies get the good shit", everyone else suffering with cheap beer they bought, waiting for dean and his kegs to arrive.

and with a harsh splash of water—some rando a little less than recklessly diving into the pool—does the party finally actualize. bodies corralling quickly in that cold wash of blue and the music a little louder. this concoction of whatever on your tongue and your urges less accounted for.

surely this is what naomi means when she says "mingle". forgetting about yourself a little and just being. a hard task made easier when tequila doesn't give two shits about what it means to be perceived. eighteen not as dangerous when you've got liquid courage to slot a small battery in your back.

"samir right?", his name calling sweetly on your tongue. the leaving of it gentle as you make to get closer to him. a tall-ish boy—but certainly not taller than roman—with a rich dark caramel complexion. charming hooded eyes and the cutest nose. his beer clutched for dear life in his hand like he'd maybe pay to be anywhere else.

"uh, yeah". a cautious sort of surprise. like the possibility of speaking to him was slim to none. "how'd you know-"

"i seen you with yah dad before...", memory working amidst the alcohol. your words a little loose. stepping closer to him to get over the loud play of the music. his cologne nice in your nose. the type of scent made for double takes and "where'd you get it from?" questions. a silent wingman working as a possible conversation opener for anxious girls who maybe don't know that being this close makes for a heavier suggestion of familiarity. an intimate proximity like you know him more than just from seeing him around. "...he brings his car around my pops shop for tune ups n stuff. you look like him", and maybe the smile after that comment with the way you stand next to him implies something more than it should or more than you want it to but you don't notice. the fuzz of your brain winning the 'i dont give a fuck about being perceived' war.

but samir is smiling and his shoulders are maybe not as slacked and bored. squared now with a new sense of purpose and open and facing you, like he's giving you the space to be as close as you'd like. like for some odd reason, if you fell into him, he'd catch you better, not that there'd be any reason for that but yeah...whatever, and the buzz is so obviously shaping your blood to run with a renewed sense of unawareness of present situations. thoughts roaming off to weird deep ends before they slip back close to where they belong. sipping at your cup again before you peer up to find him staring. a quick wandering of his earthy brown eyes, maybe at the silver of your necklace or the cup at your lips or maybe even a little below where your necklace dips in.

samir's eyes bug. an embarrassment clinging to the shape. like he's just snatched himself out of the daze of staring at you. a throat clear that exposes the uncomfortableness in his own body at being made. "what're you drinkin?"

"it's just juice and tequila, fruit punch i think...", taking a sip. "...beers not my thing".

"s'not mine either", he gives. looking at his beer bottle unsatisfied. "kinda just grabbed it, cuz it's the only thing here".

and maybe he'd have more fun if he were where you are? loose and slightly adrift. carefree amidst a sea of people who care too much. "if i say where the stash is, you won't tell right?"

"not a soul".

your head juts, a motion for him to follow. his steps in rhythm with yours and that cologne staining his skin still flirting with your nose. like a light goading. this silent attempt to lure you into something unfamiliar. because all you know is the cool silver of this necklace, strong teasing fingers and that dark rumbling engine. the nineteen year old boy—who you don't think to name at the moment, not even in the secrecy of your thoughts—this not so true bane of your existence, is still, to you, a great big world of an almost man. tall and surrounding and new and the whole of what you feel for him still uncovered. so maybe it isn't exactly smart—even if such a rebellion lives in the name of a not so odd, half baked, tequila born, self esteem boost—to live so deeply in this state of coyness. a realization, or rather a confession, that threatens the carelessness binding your bones.

eighteen a little dangerous still, playing loose and a little faster in your blood. because the liquid courage gives you this two-fold, uncanny, brazen sort of awareness. convictions flowing strong, parentally charged in a way that makes your ego break against it in bursting acts of rebellion. the midnight summer air sticky against the skin and baiting. the warmth like a second rushing in, a muggy air of defiance living beside the heat in your belly and the sweet flavor on your tongue.

you push through that grouping of shrubs, revealing the hefty bottle.

"shot?", a question but not really. more like a soft demand, styled with a smile and inviting eyes.

the pour of it playing over samir's voice. a near drown out. "sure", he gives. the cup in his hand already before his decision can come into any finality. "cheers", the words slipping off to linger in the air like he's trying out the phrasing. like he's trying to please your excitement enough to keep it there on your lips.

you take the stain of it on your tongue quickly. a clear burn that conquers easily on its way down. your throat humming to give it some ease but poor samir is reducing more by the seconds into a fit of coughs. the dry dirtiness of the tequila new for him. not yet to be overcome by the looseness it'll give his bones.

you laugh. a fit of giggles living a little less than controllable. mixing a more digestible drink into his cup. something more similar to yours. "you don't drink too much huh?"

"nah", his face scrunching. expression embarrassed. "not really".

"here", passing the cup back to him again. "try this".

he sips at your concoction. face less screwed as the sweetness of it tempers the bitterness in his mouth. "s'pretty good", natural dark eyes a little brighter. a spark struck across them even. surely not made from janky pool lights that work no better than the old neighborhood street lamps. a courage to him that seems to settle in after he sips again. a courage that leaps with fresh legs. "you have, really, really beautiful eyes", tumbling out. unable to be stopped. the thought perhaps always there but now given the freedom to breathe. to walk and run.

"oh". dumbstruck. a load of giggling that bursts abrupt. not malicious, no. just the sort of drunken amusement caught from the suddenness of a thing. untamable almost if not for the fall of his face. making you feel awful, like shit. "i-..."

samir blinks. like he's just been un-dazed from a dream. "that was corny, i'm sorry".

"no, no, no, it's fine, i just-", your fingers trembling slightly. reaching across the little table to touch him. hands in his, to give him surety "i just-i didn't expect you to say that. thank you".

"i'm interruptin something?"

the question teasing as it leaves. flip flops shuffling before they flap down, smacking against the wet cement surrounding the pool. an obnoxious, creeping, entrance. it makes your blood more solid. hearing that mocking tone he gives. roman and the forever glimmer of mischief, spread about his eyes and his lips. like he's hinting the possibility of a storm. gaze drifting over your hands, the way they leave samir's, the proximity of your bodies and the ease of it. a knot in your belly, corralling in with a load of dirty little feelings. roman tall and broad. suffocatingly so. annoyingly so. like a tower. like a mountain that blocks the sun to cast a shadow. that burst of brazenness spreading fun under your skin, now tugging itself along to shuffle back into the dark nothing of a corner. but why should you have to cringe and recoil in and from your innocent fun? why couldn't you delight yourself in a little attention? was that so horrible? your arms crossing over. disruption, childlike and eager, running alongside the bold streak.

"no". your smile tight lipped. voice bright. "just poppin samir's tequila cherry".

samir chokes. coughs dangerously hard. roman's eyes slitting to narrow. his jaw giving a small clench before he returns your expression. a mirthless grin. "how nice. i hope he enjoyed it".

"i think he did".

roman's brows lift. your audaciousness funny. "lets ask". attention directing itself toward samir, who seems to be the most uncomfortable.

"i uh", his hand setting the cup down. nervous, antsy and it irks you whole. "yeah, it was. it-it was fine".

roman hums. shuffles up more till he's nearly flushed against your back. the fabric of his tank top blowing with the heat of the slim midnight breeze, hitting whats exposed of your skin. a reminder. your fists clenching. fucking asshole. the necklace at your chest still cool. in agreement with him. his presence this annoying, territorial claim. possessive and unwavering. your belly empty, your head swimming and frustration clinging to your nerves so well that it's stupid. because this is stupid. because annoyance shouldn't live like this, shouldn't find even ground with enjoyment so well. blood hot, something dizzy working behind your eyes. a complicated, rush of a feeling that has yet to be totally deciphered.

"you're one of seth's buddies right?"

"yeah something like that". samir appearing less tall. shrunken in and a half step from paper frail. less willing to indulge his eyes. the interest in them gone and refusing to meet your face. and it sours whatever unnamed sweetness held for him. your curiosities gone. because allowing roman to destabilize him so easily. unbalanced and too shy for proper confidence. where was the fun, competitive edge, in that? a bold streak of something uneasy and conflicting and tricky. not simply rolling over and letting him win. thats what this was supposed to be. a riot for some damn reclamation. "i'm just gonna go", samir says. your eyes rolling as he gathers himself to leave the small safety of the table.

you peer up at roman. the source of all this bullshit angst housed in your person. his face soft but angular somehow. tender lips existing as the object of your lingering desires. his shoulders wide and his body thick thanks to home cooked meals and too much football. your fists balling till they ache. tequila dulling the pain of your nails but doing nothing for the baseless frustration. this boy... this man... this whatever he is, so pretty and exacting and sure all the damn time. always testing and making attempts and looking. your skin less like skin and more like metal. like the tinny cold make of one of his many football trophies. and now you feel no better, no greater than samir. shrinking in and your throat tight again. dizzy and trembly. a leaf in the breeze. like you're back upstairs in seth's guest room, peering into the mirror. eyes yours, but more useful for him now.

hate isn't too strong a word is it? your father says it sometimes. like the word is venom born, made to poison. says it and then kisses your mother anyways. kisses and hugs her and churns her indifference into pretty, wispy noise. rich and thick. honey inspired. so if that works. venom and honey. both thick and useful. then maybe they're the same.

"you're such a dick", you cut at him. eyes rolling hard. making to step around him. but he's so tall and everywhere. a world and a half.

and he laughs. like everything is so funny. like you're funny. a joke. sweetened tequila on the tongue. bathing your stomach. fuzzily in the brain. he thinks you're a joke.

"how would you know, you've never seen one".

you gasp. your shoulder trying it's hardest to check him. a barely registered move that gets you past him and closer to the pool. "ass", you yell. loud enough for people to hear.

skin sticky. trembling still. exasperated. your feet a harsh descending as you stalk to the opposite edge of the pool. the beginning steps of the shallow end. dean there with a cup of beer in hand. hair long and already damp.

"trouble in paradise?"

your eyes cut. a sharp look to warn him. a deep breath as you breach the water with your foot. trying the cool of it. "your friend is a fuckin asshole", you give.

he chuckles. like maybe he knows that to be a little true. "what'd he do?" and when you don't answer, occupied with settling into the chill of the pool, he turns his attention over to his friend. chuckling still. "what the hell did you do?"

roman flips his hand. a 'whatever' motion, like he couldn't be bothered to even care.

your blood boils. loose and on fire. "what doesn't he do?!" loud and irritated enough for dean to hear. loud enough for roman. for seth and the twins and everyone else in between. but it doesn't stop the party. just adds to the air. to the drone of the festivities. to splashes of water, and the splatting smack of beach balls. to good feeling breezy wind and the thumping bass of music. to guys trying to flirt with girls and girls trying to quell their boyish half baked charms with coyness and shooing splashes of water. the party in full effect and alive. pulsing and balanced. and maybe you shouldn't be in the pool, all loose-brained and dizzy feeling. but the water feels good and the distance from roman is a welcomed addition. gets his cologne out of your nose and rids you of the sensation of his body along your back.

but his mischief isn't done. stretches with a fresh awakened need to stress your nerves. the pull up and discard of his tank top a sensational performance. like he's mocking and poking and punishing you with the gasp and squeals of girls who pry at him with sharp hopeful eyes. his body dipping into the pool on the deep end before breaching up with his hair slicked back and dusting his shoulders. curling up as it meets the air all finger provoking like.

you hate him.

feet splashing behind you. dean stepping to sink further and further into the icy blue of the pool. a quick, resolute voice of mediation. "aaalright...", he draws out. "...none of this shitty, sulky, energy". his back to you, arms stretched out and waiting, like a human pool noodle. "hop on".

but the water is safe here at the shallow end. close to the stairs and faraway from eyes and his prying little stare that grows more amused by the minute as you fight and fail to ignore it. "dean, i don't think thats a good—", your body up ended. water splashing as you panic. a fast jostling maneuver that forces you to grapple him as he lifts you onto his back. "dean!!!", thrilled and pissed and dazed behind the eyes still. arms and legs wrapping tight about him as he treads into the deep end.

and he's all smiley, the little shit. "you don't got much of a choice unfortunately".

"i can't swim".

"i know", patting the clinging wrap around of your arm. reassurance that barely makes a full registration about the body. "i ain't gonna let you drown sweets".

"sweets?"

"new nickname for you", he hums. satisfied with the ring of it.

and you snort. set your head atop of his as he treads the water. because dean—and though it's unusual for him to fail at many things—is unfailing at pleasing his penchant for nicknaming people. you in particular. a little list of moniker's reflecting the growth of your relationship. from 'sis', at sixteen, to 'sissy' at seventeen, and then a very offhanded 'babe' for sometime. a jokey little term of affection you accepted, because the humor of it proved stupid and weird and annoying for roman. always silently bristling about it. these wordless little shifts in his expression. a disapproval he felt was maybe too childish to name properly. but dean didn't linger on it too long. a little razz of a name before moving on back to just calling you by your government. but 'sweets' is new. promotes something, maybe, a bit more delicate than the others. more endearing.

"cute", you approve. "where are we going?"

"where the party is".

your arms grow tighter. cinched threateningly at his neck. his little laughs and the edge of his weight against yours not doing much to make your irritations any true problem. but you try anyways. "i swear to God, and Jesus freakin Christ ambrose...", your voice biting. words slipping through your teeth. "...if you take me over to him on some kum ba yah bullshit, i will drown you. i will use all of my weight and pin you to the floor of this pool...", his sputters, chuckles flaming your blood. "...i will end you. i don't wanna talk to him".

"you two go at it like a fuckin married couple, just—"

your name shrieks across the pool. a drawl of a mezzo soprano voice. pretty and clear like freshly cut diamonds. sing song like and attention grabbing. enough for dean to halt his treading and pivot. curiosities a shitty merging with some low level form of dread. tequila swimming in your stomach, this large, prong attached battery. a careless, suspicious, jolt of energy about your blood as you get closer to chauncey hayes and her mini crowd of personality destitute friends. and no, the dread doesn't spring off from some shriveling form of a fear absolute, but rather the regular anxieties of interacting with a girl too boy obsessed to think straight. because chauncey still roams free and ditsy-like in the halls of tenth grade socialization. a shark of a particular caliber. too small to be truly frightening but existing large enough to annoy already poorly wired nerves. tonight is not the night for this. tonight is not the night for chauncey hayes.

"just the girl i wanted to chat it up with", she smiles. a little looser than tight lipped. like the work of ingratiating herself to you is a goal but not a top priority. sincerity casting bright for some seconds as she drops her eyes. "hi dean".

"ladies", he gives, to her and all her friends. polite and smirky like. their reactions amusing.

"what's up?", you ask. ready to get it over with. your arms and legs clinging to dean still. less vexed. seeking comfort.

"so um...", a faux bout of rumination. her eyes a light bright warm brown, glowing to contrast the cool blue of the pool. a summery colored bathing suit fitting her skin and her hair loose and curly. "...you're cool with the twins right?", her eyes flicking to jimmy and jey. reverential, bordering needy and crazed even. naomi atop jimmy in a similar fashion to how you cling to dean. but her body proves less anxious, more affectionate. the boys cornered and laughing gut deep with roman and seth. "like...deep family connects and all that good stuff?"

"how federal of you", dean mumbles.

and yes, blame it on the alcohol. spirits saturating your veins. curiosities fortified and blindly misguiding. so much so that your clues as to where this might lead are a bit blurred. a nameless teenaged ruin. oh yes, just blame everything on that fruity, semi-acrid taste steeped into your tongue. "i guess you could say that, yeah".

"so whats the status on them then? ... like, i know jimmy and naomi are connected at the hip but roman specifically...", a rushing in where words intend to flow. heat and blood. the inner parts of your ears muddied with an ill feeling. a disruptive sensation. fingers alive with these little twitches. belly swimming. nausea maybe. a well, wet with liquor and a deep vexing. because what the actual hell? "...like what's his deal? is he taken?"

dean laughs. from the base of his gut. abrupt and ill-controlled. amusement full in his cheeks. "oh young and the restless, eat shit, this is magic", he barks.

"dean. shut. the fuck. up", you cut. tongue sharp like obsidian. shifting along his back. re-hooking your legs and focusing your eyes from that loose daze. for what? better posture maybe? a maneuvering perhaps that gives one of your arms more reach, more freedom. a reason unknown really. but your human pool noodle takes it as a sign to tread a step backwards. like he knows something you don't. "why do you ask?", your eyes slitting. no less curious, but the anxieties are fallen away to leave a spark of something vicious feeling in it's wake. an unchallenged sensation housed in your chest. a beating, a pulse. the pump of it venturing out to the center of your forehead and the tips of your toes. a thorough spreading about till you're filled with the brutality of it. a dangerous feeling. whole and sweet and grimy.

"i mean...what do you mean why?", chauncey flicking her shitty little eyes over to roman. a dazzling appreciation in them that aches your teeth. "have you seen him?"

you grin. mirthlessly. "what makes you think i'd know what he likes?"

"you're always hanging around...", a patronizing go of words. her eyes rolling, the thought of it sticking to her odd and unwanted. like your proximity to him is more of a nuisance than a fulfillment of his own wants. of each others wants. "...i figured you had a little insider information".

and the way your arms wrap around dean for stability, fingers clutching nails into his pale skin. anger attempting to be tempered but proving formidable and real bitchy. his throat grunting as he feels the violence of it. "ouch...", he pats your arm for reprieve. to draw you back off the ledge. that resolute voice of mediation coming back in full stride. awkward and stuttered. "...ok uh, so i think maybe...maybe in the spirit of pool parties and um...buoyancy? ...yeah that sounds right... that we should do a breathing exercise...y'know just something to chill us out—"

you cut off his rambling. "is this you trying to be funny?", his hands digging into your thighs to keep you up as you press forward. "your town cryin ass is always ten steps ahead on gossip but you don't know him and i are together?...", voice louder than before. erupting till its bouncing off pool waves to ripple out to the deep end. "...have been together?"

she scoffs. fighting not to shrink. "he doesn't even talk you up, i—"

"ok, ok, wait!", dean calls out. bewildered at chauncey's nonchalance. treading back.

"girl are you fucking dense?", you yell.

"ah shit", dean mumbles. backing away slowing. bones heavy amidst the water.

but you keep going. laughing with teeth. a mild mannered hysteria. "do you not like your life?"

"are you threatening me?", chauncey shrieks. trembling but warring against it.

"you know who i am", you give. amused and loose blooded.

"ok, i think thats enough magic for tonight", dean mumbles. his thumb rubbing into your knee as he holds and carries you to the stairs resting at the center edge of the pool.

the metal curve of the stepping rods cold to the touch. your bones tired and heavy. skin wet. an empty, drained, sensation coddling terribly well everywhere. that short bout of hysteria dead. the party goers unsure of when or how to resume. awkwardly existing under the torture of your fire. the buzz once sizzling your blood, growing neutral and ill-suited for this new lane of emotion. a merging onto something quiet and dejected. the thump of the music never returning to it's former glory, even as your feet press forward into the house. tracking in wet, an untouched collection of dry towels hanging near the entrance. your hand snatching one up, making a b-line for the other side of seth's house. his kitchen scarce of teenage bullshit—apart, of course, from your own—and the loud song of too trivial chatter. the large towel wrapping your body, a tender lean against the counter, trembling softly, waiting for the chill to stop.

a gut wrenching sort of enervation plays dutifully under the skin. on cue and terribly in the pocket. a grimace worthy rhythm. it makes a disgusting, beautiful, cruel tune out of your nerves. bursting and wild, like the roar of an old iron made engine. a rumbling orchestra, dirty in its symphony, those residuals of anger oh so noisy in the body. feeling mighty and familiar. a fire and grime inherited surely. because who are you that it'd pass you by without troubling skin and bones and the thoughts made ready to leave your mouth? and sure, maybe in her mischief, chauncey deserved to be dug into the ground, her knowing bright eyes filled with wanting to tear you apart for the fun of it, but not with the easy mean speak of your father. she didn't deserve the grime and blast of that tough leathery part of his nature. at least not from you. being a vessel, holding this much in the same way, it hurts too badly to keep in. hurts more letting it go.

and roman is light footed as he steps into the kitchen. silent but full in presence. shaping the room to his body. but then again, everything looks quite too large for understanding when you've gone under such a quick, awful diminishing.

"sober yet?"

"almost".

he huffs through his mouth. a deep, amusing breath. "it's always the lightweights causing all the trouble", leaning up against the island that runs parallel to the counter. his eyes stitching to your skin. sewing in and binding themselves. "you gave the normals a show though, they'll have something to talk about for the rest of the summer".

your eyes roll, turning away from him. opening the kitchen fridge to grab a bottle of water. opening it to take a sip, before the sarcasm drips. "m'so happy i could give your fans free entertainment, apparently the little strip tease wasn't enough for them".

"takin my shirt off at a pool party is regular shit. i can't help it if girls like the way i look. i can't control how people react...", his face running hot with irritation. his cheeks dusting a faint red. loose curls joining up in his hands as he ties them into a small knot. " ...at least i wasn't baitin nobody. you get a little buzz and forget i exist apparently".

but samir was an empty rebellion. not forgetfulness. a coup against the self to rid of the overpower of his influence. an attempt at reclamation—of eyes and thoughts and opinions—at not caring and just being. was it misguided? sure, but not malicious.

"i can't help it if boys like the way i look".

"you was eatin it up...", he flares. not loud but deep. accusatory and pissed. "...all giggly n'shit, like you never heard a compliment before". his body shuffling closer to gain advantage in your line of sight. "i give you compliments all the time and you act all meek like you can't take it".

the plastic of the bottle gives a crinkling groan from the grip in your hand. your tired eyes meeting his. those last bits of looseness giving you the wherewithal to speak. "you wanted me to be a dick about it?"

"have the same energy or somethin", he grits. "you damn near threatened chauncey".

"she was makin it seem like i barely existed next to you!"

"because...you maybe don't", he breaks. urgent. his shoulders falling, unweighted now. like the thought has lived and shaped well in his mind for sometime. his face closer and troubled. a confusion born from frustration. "you don't want me next to you, you barely want me to touch you, and you hate when i look at you for too long, but you want everybody and they damn mama knownin we together".

that nausea. dizziness behind the eyes. "thats not true—"

"are we together?" he asks.

the air feeling harder to breathe. that bottle no longer clutched in your hand but too cold still and your ears flooding to the tips with heat. pressure welling up in your throat too much it starts to ache. fingers gathering to ball, nothing between them but the bite of your nails into the palms. the phantom of a thing they hold against for dear life. eyes prickling with a stabbing pain. the beginning of salty warmth that burns the skin.

you chuckle. mirthless and panicked. "thats not a real question. you can't be for real right now".

"you got somethin real to say to me then?"

and it's all resting palpable at the tip of your tongue. but it lacks the proper brilliance. makes no quarrel with itself of possibly being undigestible. it lives wholly uncomfortable, eagerly so, with a streak of menace. and this, he wants you to spit out? to let fall and burn and weight over the air. displeasure true in the heart of your chest, melted and flamed and dangerous like the inner core of the earth.

"why you so pressed to hear about what i got to say all the time? always lookin and diggin for stuff that don't matter".

"if its you, it matters", he stresses. confusion wearing well in his eyes but his words sure. "if it's not, then whatever. i don't care".

and this must be what drowning feels like. the flail of feet and arms and a hopeless horror. water sucked into the lungs, salty and raging against the palate. sinking the words with an evil diligence. but the body has a way about it. an uncanny, needy, pestering desire to survive. to live. so the drowning is not quick. and you are not overcome quickly. coughing and screaming, skin hot and cold and pale and wrinkling. blurry eyes and a gasp too large to contain for long enough. fingers pushing water to rush it behind, a play at propelling the weight of your bones beyond the surface. to say something, to be asked to speak truth to a wordless dread, is the painstaking performance of drowning. "...you have things... you have the club... all of your friends are my friends... it's easy, you get up one day and decide i'm not what you want, you can just leave".

"no". an instant thing, thick fingers cradling your face. his eyes frightened and brown and displeased. "no". resolute. always so damn sure of himself. his hands pulling, a soft embrace and gesture, your eyes unable to leave him. frightful of being seen but too weak to leave the meeting of his. "that's not true. and you boxin me in like that, it's not fair". your fingers tired, clutched and nailing into his arms. his face, a world of a thing. freckled and soft and tanned. cutting sharper at the jaw but gentle still around the eyes. mouth and tongue delicate despite the cool edge of him, his nature. "when i said, way back before ,that i gotchu, it wasn't me gassin yah head up. i was being real".

but he doesn't stop. doesn't drown under the roll in of a tumultuous wave.

his thumb sweeping your cheek. to soothe the skin. to persuade it of his care. "i'm never lookin at you to find somethin wrong or to find a reason not to look", his eyes a slow wandering pace. brushing smooth over your features. your lips and cheeks blooming with a sensation only admiration can give. "it's hard not lookin at you". chuckling and his eyes rolling. "and yeah the way he said it was corny as hell, but samir ain't wrong. you never not look good to me".

you can feel his breaths here. the draw of his mouth as his appreciation leads him closer. a bright sweetness on his tongue that quickens your blood. his nose a short dainty nudge into yours. anticipation filling the well of your body.

"i like being next to you". tall body slipping up calm. closer. surrounding you against the kitchen counter. "i like touching you". thumb skimming along your lips. "ain't nothin awful about all that huh?"

you shiver. the curl up of it riding along your spine. "no".

"exactly". convincing brown eyes and an exacting little grin. "and nothin bad is gonna happen either. i gotchu. you're mine".

his words a sweet working spell. lips a teasing slot along yours, but never making the full embrace of a kiss. your desperation for it pure. dampens the odd, dirty, hard to digest ideas.

he smiles. amused. "i snacked on a mint before i came in here so... you kinda gotta kiss me now".

you snort. slipping your fingers over his arms. holding tighter. the fresh scent on his tongue a gentle persuasion.

"it's mandatory huh?"

"yeah cause you been fallin off a lot actually. missin weekly quotas. thats real bad for business".

"something's gotta be done i guess".

he hums. planting tender and simple. tiny little pecks that lure you further into the give of his lips. a hand sweeping low, his arm curling about your waist, palms splayed. his fingers there bending and running dull to feel the supple fabric of your swimsuit beneath the towel. touching and testing his limits. seemingly waiting for you to pry yourself away. you breathe into his mouth, the air funneling out of your lungs. teeth a teasing bite into his lip. smiling and falling into him. his other hand meeting the exploration of the first. an unhurried pace over your body, along the line of your back. pressing in as it trails. a gasp melting on his tongue as it sweeps in, holding the tremble of you. "so pretty", he gives. littering your jaw with the affections of his mouth. your everything, feather feeling, weightless, arrested and held up in the strength of him. his smile curving into where he purses into your neck. the rhythm of your pulse playing into his kiss.

#joannasteez #tanks of blood #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x black reader #biker au #biker!roman reigns #original male character #original female character #seth rollins featured #dean ambrose featured #naomi featured #mentions of jimmy and jey uso #teenage angst #black reader insert #something something i have bad history with pools so make it the setting of angst

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valfeathers · 2 years ago

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girl boss + her serial killer

#naomi misora #beyond birthday #birthdaymassacre #'birthday massacre the people not the band.png'#was what i named this file moths ago #finally finished it hehe #i told the mututal abt this one then never mentioned it again #i had to do this one yk #i wanted to do smth simple & wholesome with these 2 man #i used to do so much ship art back in the day with this exact format #anyways my sillys #theyre so special to me there isnt enough bdaymassacre #death note #death note fanart #death note another note #b death note #labb #more bdaymassacre fics WHEN /hj #v’s gallery

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merriclo · 1 month ago

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A Quick Analysis of the Tanizaki Siblings

With the release of chapter 118, it’s been officially confirmed that Naomi and Jun’ichirō are not blood-related, seemingly shifting their entire dynamic. this has, of course, resulted in many different opinions and stances within the fandom, and i wanted to share my own thoughts on it.

this post will briefly go over each of their characters and their relationship with each other. later on, i will be making a video essay going even deeper into it, because,, i genuinely can’t stop thinking about this.

content warning for discussions of incest and sexual assault, harassment, and abuse. please please please don’t read if these topics are too heavy for you. take care of yourself. this is also a repost, as the original post didn’t show up in any tags. you can read the original post, alongside a great addition, here!

in order to fully understand them together, we need to establish who they are apart. so, part one of this will be an analysis on Jun’ichirō’s character, part two of Naomi’s, and part three of their relationship.

Part One — Jun’ichirō Tanizaki

(i’ve already discussed a bit of Jun’ichirō’s character in one of my earlier posts, but i wanted to take the time to further elaborate on a few points i made. i wasn’t able to fit some other points in, though, due simply to them not being very relevant, so if you’re curious, go check that one out too!!)

Jun’ichirō is an incredibly fascinating character for multiple reasons. he thinks of himself as incredibly average. I’d like to call attention to this quote in particular. a fact exemplified by this quote:

“…Tanizaki felt he was mediocre at his job, held mediocre principles, and had a mediocre sense of justice, which made him a mediocre human being. He didn’t have the courage to talk back to or stand up to Dazai. Put simply, he was incredibly passive.”

this is found in A Day at the Detective Agency on page 42, a short story detailing how the Armed Detective Agency decided what Atsushi’s entrance exam would be, told through the third person perspective of Jun’ichirō.

these words, these claims of mediocrity, are his own. he truly believes himself to be an average, unassuming member of the agency. in other parts of the story, he calls himself timid (pg 37) and an ordinary guy (pg 54), and says that his smile always lacks self-confidence (pg26.) his genuine opinion of himself is that he’s nothing special.

despite this, we see time and time again that he is a trusted and valued member of the Agency. in the Cannibalism arc, he was left to face the entirety of the Black Lizard all by himself, and prevailed. Even Hirotsu, a veteran of the Port Mafia and leader of the Black Lizard—a man who spends his days surrounded by the most skilled assassins Yokohama has to offer—said that Jun’ichirō was terrifying, and perfectly suited for assassination. this is only exemplified by the fact that he almost succeeded in killing Mori, thwarted only by Kōyō at the last second.

in A Day at the Detective Agency, it’s said that Kunikida needed the help of the best of the best, meaning Him and Naomi (pg 42.) but Jun’ichirō brushes this off, saying that Kunikida only wanted Naomi’s help, but the siblings had become a kind of package deal, and that’s why he was also recruited to help him.

this boy’s esteem is horrifically low, and he refuses to see his own worth, making every excuse there is just to call himself normal. (this is the reason why i honestly view him in A Day at the Detective Agency as a a bit of an unreliable narrator: his own self-perception leads to many false statements, all primarily centered around himself.)

however, we as the audience know that Jun’ichirō is not at all normal. the moment someone he cares for is put in harms way, a switch flips in his mind and he becomes an incredibly dangerous person who will stop at nothing to try and save them. we see this first in chapter four when Higuchi shoots Naomi.

this is also the mindset that he was in when he battled the Black Lizard and attempted to assassinate Mori in the Cannibalism arc, as well as when he faced off against John Steinbeck and H.P. Lovecraft. most recently, this is shown in chapter 117 when Jun’ichirō threatens to rip an actual God (Ame-no-gozen) limb from limb. (i’d add photos of the panels but i have a very limited amount of pictures that i can add!! sorry (′︿‵｡) )

this willingness to abandon any and all morals should his loved ones be put in harms way is a cornerstone of his entire character. So long as it preserves the lives of the members of the Agency, he will do anything. and that isn’t limited to just killing someone, either. without hesitation, he volunteered himself to be the one traded off to the Port Mafia the moment the possibility of Yosano going there was mentioned.

furthermore, in a Bungo Stray Dogs exhibition, Asagiri claimed that Jun’ichirō is the closest to “evil” out of everybody in the ADA (exhibition translation found here!!) (also, it’s so interesting that the translator put sister in quotations. there really has been hints all along!!) this excerpt discusses the scene where Jun’ichirō faced off against John Steinbeck and H.P. Lovecraft, and tricked an innocent trucker into hitting his enemy using his ability Light Snow, causing a crash that the trucker would not be able to escape from unharmed. he did all of this just to ensure the safety of Naomi.

in summary: Jun’ichirō views himself as an incredibly mediocre, insignificant person, and he will do absolutely anything if it means saving his loved ones.

Part Two — Naomi Tanizaki

(warning this analysis is not the kindest to Naomi. if you don’t wanna read that, stop now!!)

Naomi is based off of the main female lead of the irl Tanizaki’s work Naomi—a story where a man tries to turn 15 year old Naomi into a Westernized woman, but ends up getting manipulated by her instead when she changes the power dynamic between them. (there’s.. many aspects of Naomi that i believe impact BSD, but ahajjdkdka that’s for another post.)

Naomi is introduced as Jun’ichirō’s obsessed sister. she is shown to be all over him, touching him inappropriately in public and singing his praises. she’s clingy, and doesn’t leave his side once.

but, there’s a lot more to her if you look closely.

firstly, she is incredibly intelligent. In A Day at the Detective Agency, she conspired with Dazai to cheat her way into being the hostage and Jun’ichirō being the bomber during Atsushi’s entrance exam.

“Startled, [Jun’ichirō] looked over at Naomi, who gazed back at him teary-eyed.

“I just…”

[Jun’ichirō] could see the hearts pulsating in his sister’s eyes. She covered her slightly crimson cheeks with her long, delicate fingers, then said, “I just wanted…to be your hostage so you could tie me up and threaten me, my dear, sweet brother…”” (pg 51.)

then, in the main series, she nearly caught on to the significance of Haruno’s cat, Mii-chan.

keep in mind, she is not one of the detectives. she doesn’t have an ability, and she hasn’t been trailed by Natsume for years like Fukuzawa and Dazai have. despite all of this, she picked up on this weird correlation before even Haruno, his owner, did. and let’s not forget how surprised both Fukuzawa and Mori were at the reveal of Natsume being Mii-chan.

furthermore, in chapter 23, in which Steinbeck and Lovecraft hunt Haruno and Naomi down, it’s shown that she remembered exactly what Dazai told her in regards to how she should act in an emergency situation.

not only did she execute this advice near-perfectly, but she planned ahead in order to do so. in fact, if it weren’t for Steinbeck’s ability, they would have easily gotten away.

Haruno says that she would bet on Naomi outclassing Jun’ichirō as a detective, and i have to agree with her. in A Day at the Detective Agency, Naomi’s little plan that i mentioned earlier went off without a hitch. granted, it was likely Dazai who laid out all the steps, but she executed it without error and fooled both her brother and Kunikida.

Naomi is also a highly trusted employee, despite only working part-time (A Day at the Detective Agency, pg 25.) she’s very close with Fukuzawa, and i’d go so far as to say that she acts as a kind of personal assistant for him sometimes. in chapter 15, she is the only Agency employee present alongside Fukuzawa for the between the ADA and The Guild, a very high-stakes and confidential meeting. she is also the only person to think of getting Fukuzawa in chapter 10 when the rest of the employees are bickering about whether or not they can save Atsushi.

(manga panels provided by the amazing @shin--soukoku !! i wasn’t able to access the English translations of this chapter, and they came to my rescue. thank you!!! <3 go follow them they’re so cool and smart and correct about everything.)

in summary: Naomi is freakishly intelligent, and she’s not afraid to use her wits to manipulate a situation to her advantage. she’s well-respected in the Agency, and has the connections to influence others.

Part Three — Their Relationship

(in this part, i will be discussing topics like incest and sexual assault, harassment, and abuse. if that is at all too heavy or triggering for you, please stop reading immediately. take care of yourself, and stay safe <3)

alright, first things first, let’s establish something: these two are siblings. i’ve seen many people that they are not, but i have to disagree.

not only do they commonly refer to each other as brother and sister, but it’s also up in the air as to whether or not Naomi is even aware of their lack of blood-relation. furthermore, two siblings not sharing any DNA doesn’t make them not siblings. fostered, adopted, and step-siblings are still siblings, and as such i will continue to view the Tanizaki’s as siblings. they see each other as brother and sister, and so that is what they are. their relationship is incestuous.

it is also not consensual.

it is stately clearly several times that Jun’ichirō does not enjoy what Naomi does to him, especially when they are in public. here are just a few examples, taken from the A Day at the Detective Agency short story:

“To make matters worse, [Naomi] always tried to have some sort of physical contact with her brother, regardless of location or who was around…. [Jun’ichirō] would start acting self-conscious every time, and his eyes would wander, but Naomi even seemed to enjoy her brother’s reactions.” (pg 26)

“Naomi softly traced [Jun’ichirō]’s collarbone with her fingernail…. [Jun’ichirō] turned red and blinked uncomfortably.” (pg 26)

“[Naomi had] also taken that as an opportunity to try to force herself on [Jun’ichirō], but he managed to escape.” pg. 33

to clarify, the first two quotes take place in front of several of the other detectives, and the third when the two are alone. when it’s said that Jun’ichirō’s eyes were wandering, it was later specified that he was looking at anything but her (pg 27.)

throughout the manga, Jun’ichirō also expresses that he’s uncomfortable with her advances in public. however, whenever he tries to stop her, she threatens or embarrasses him. this is an example of that as seen in chapter 4.

Jun’ichirō, for lack of a better term, resigns himself to this. despite the severe discomfort of himself and everyone who bares witness to them, he makes very few moves to stop her.

the reason for this is stated clearly on page 54 of, you guessed it, A Day at the Detective Agency.

“The only thing [Jun’ichirō] really even wished for was his little sister’s happiness.”

he will do anything if it means making her happy.

Naomi and Jun’ichirō relationship is very realistic in the sense that one person leverages the other’s love against them, as is the case in many instances of incestuous sexual abuse. it’s an incredibly common manipulation tactic, and it results in the abuse lasting for extremely long periods of time.

Jun’ichirō’s willingness to do whatever it takes to make Naomi happy is the very thing she uses against him, weaponizing the love they have for each other so that she can do whatever she would like to him.

and i do think that the love they have for each other is real, to a degree. in my opinion, Jun’ichirō does not see her in either a romantic or sexual light, but he does love her. meanwhile, Naomi absolutely views Jun’ichirō in a sexual way.

in addition to this, i think there’s also a kind of limerence going on between both of them. limerence is when someone has an obsessive, unrequited attachment towards somebody, often surfacing as a romantic or sexual fixation on them, or as pedestalizing them.

Jun’ichirō’s seems to surface as the latter, as seen here in chapter 24.

he’s surpassed just placing her on a pedestal, he’s placed her on the same level as the divine, hence his continued willingness to let her assault and harass him time and time again, despite his own displeasure.

(i would like to further emphasize that the fact that Jun’ichirō loves and idolizes her does not make what she does to him okay. what we see within the manga and light novels can be defined as sexual harassment/assault. furthermore, it’s implied several times that they’ve had intercourse. due to Jun’ichirō’s own blatant discomfort, and the reoccurrences of her manipulating and using threats against him, and how it’s said that Naomi forces herself on him and forces him into doing things, i’m not afraid to call it rape. i just wanted to make it extra clear that despite exploring their characters, i am not excusing anything she does. Naomi is an abuser, and Jun’ichirō is her victim.)

the Tanizaki siblings’ relationship can be summed up as this: Jun’ichirō will let Naomi do anything, so long as it makes her happy, and Naomi takes continuous advantage of this facts.

a very common theme in Bungo Stray Dogs is that the cycle of abuse is not without love, and that you can harm someone you love without intending to, and that you can love someone who has harmed you. Dazai cared for Akutagawa, the Headmaster cared for Atsushi, both Kōyō and Akutagawa cared for Kyōka, and Verlaine cared for Chūya. each of these relationships explore different kinds of abuse—mentor-mentee, mother-daughter, father-son, brother-brother—and the love that is often trapped inside of them. it’s one of my favorite things about this entire series.

this is a topic i will dissect much deeper in my video essay (of which’s release date i am still unsure of at the moment,) but i wanted to mention it here at the end here because i think the Tanizaki siblings are a very good representation of this.

that’s all i have to stay about the siblings at the moment. i’m sorry if some points seem under-supported, i had to leave out a lot to bend around tumblr’s image-limit and to keep this shorter than i originally intended. also my bad for any and all spelling or grammar mistakes, i tried to fix everything but i usually miss some stuff!

thank you so so much for reading all of my rambling thoughts about the Tanizaki’s, and i highly encourage you to add on your own thoughts (agreeing or disagreeing, i’m open to all conversations!!) in either the reblogs, the notes, or my askbox!! i only ask that you be respectful about it, as this is just an analysis i did for fun in my own spare time（⌒▽⌒ゞ thank you all so much again for reading, i know this was a bit of a long one <3

#take a shot every time i mention A Day at the Detective Agency ahajjdkdka #i’m so normal about jun’ichirō #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd #bsd tanizaki #bsd junichiro #bsd junichiro tanizaki #bsd naomi #bsd naomi tanizaki #bungo stray dogs analysis #bsd analysis

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haywirehorse · 3 months ago

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this shot of naomi

#goodbye volcano high #naomi gvh #gvh #goodbyevolcanohigh #haywirehorse ramblings #did i mention i really like naomi

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fandom-geek · 5 months ago

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vaguely fascinated by osana sov's naming choices. she chose for her daughter a name that can mean "bitter (strength)" or "lady" in two ancient languages (hebrew and aramaic) and for her son a name that means "old friend" in another ancient language (old english)

like every other golden age character has a name that's pretty normal by our standards, which tbh includes mara, then osana just names her other kid uldwyn. then again, even osana's name is either a variant of the hebrew hosanna or after an obscure and possibly fictitious old english princess-saint whose name means something along the lines of "godly solitude", so i suppose mara might be considered the odd one out

#destiny 2 #osana sov #ngl i lean towards the old english meaning for osana bc it's very fitting given she lives in the wilderness w uldren in the distributary #also want to acknowledge osana's name could be japanese (“childhood friend”) but given her kids have names from hebrew and old english #it seems pretty likely that her name has one or both of the same origins #either way osana was def a history nerd btwn this and her mentioning weregilds unprompted in the marasenna #though it's very interesting to me that most of what we *see* of osana in her in the context of her motherhood #even though she's also an extremely renowned negotiator and mara mentions osana also had premonitions (presumably of the collapse)#...there's a vague irony that osana and mara (and crow) had truthful visions but uldren's were purely a deceit by riven #also i have feelings abt the fact that mara and osana were the only ones to remain w their names unchanged amongst the original awoken #(to our knowledge at least) since mara whose namesake comes from the book of ruth where naomi changed her name to that out of grief #and mara changed basically every other person aboard that ship consciously or otherwise #but did she change her mother/let the transformation change her? idk it's been a lingering thought in my brain since forsaken #anyway this is inspired by me trying to figure out what the revenants' watchtower is guarding #i don't think it's the pre-existing one to the dreaming city bc the scorn are already there #notably all the lore calls it *the* watchtower but the livestream mentioned *a* watchtower so i think it must be a different one #my spinfoil hope is that it's guarding the entrance to the distributary but also interamnia (awoken capital) would be cool #edit: should prob mention i'm assuming uld- equals ald- (old) but like. fairly simple assumption given everything

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axel-tiredstudent · 5 months ago

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OC MASTERPOST WOOHOO ⭐

Although there's still a lot to plan and do before this story is anywhere near done and I don't even have a first draft yet, I really wanted to talk about it and share who my OCs are (since i keep talking about them in here).

This story (called Ewordis) is one of necromancy, otherness and isolation, but it's also about love, saving and connection!

The main character is Absalom García Medina (much to his own dismay). He is 22 years old and studies fine art in university. He's also a drummer in a band with his two closest friends. Absalom comes from a long line of necromancers! He doesn't really understand or control his powers, but he's set on his goal of finding his mother's spirit, which he has never been able to do!

Almudena is Absalom's grandmother, who raised him when Alma (her daughter), passed away. They are both also necromancers. Almudena taught Absalom how to use his powers until she died when Absalom was 12. She's still with him as a spirit.

Alma died in labor. Not only was she a necromancer, but she also had prophetic visions, something not common in their family. Neither Absalom nor Almudena have ever found her soul.

Angel is Absalom's best friend since they were in higschool. They take care and support each other through everything. Angel has a beautiful voice and she can play many instruments. She's the singer, songwriter and guitarist of their band.

Naomi met Angel and Absalom when they were looking for a bassist for their band. They became close soon and shortly after he started dating Angel!

Percy is Absalom's ex boyfriend. Their relationship was rocky and difficult, which really affected Absalom. They still see each other sometimes, but Percy doesn't seem to be willing to change for the better as a person, which is why Angel dislikes him and wants him to stay away from her best friend.

Ozzie is a non human creature that Absalom meets in the realm between life and death. Ozzie doesn't remember anything of his life before appearing there and he can't go to the living realm, so he and Absalom decide to find out what he is.

Victor also comes from a line of necromancers. He meets Absalom in a graveyard, after many spirits warn Absalom of a creature eating their corpses there. That would be Victor! Victor was brought back to life by his necromancer abusive father and now he's forced to feed on human flesh to not become a mindless "monster".

The Knight of Death is one of the Horrors. No one really knows of their existence, but necromancy powers are related to the Horror of Death. How is it related to the Medina Family? What will Absalom do when faced to this Knight?

LONGER EXPLANATION BELOW THE CUT

As I said before, Absalom comes from a long line of necromancers, this gift/curse always passes down to one person in the family. He got it from his mother, Alma, and she got it from hers, Almudena. Alma died in labor so Absalom was raised in a small close-minded village by his grandmother. Since it was little, Absalom has been able to see and communicate with the dead. Almudena taught him how to use his powers and insisted that this is a gift that makes them special. Nevertheless, she also taught him to hide it to avoid rejection from people outside their family. Even with their powers, there was something neither Absalom nor his grandmother were ever able to do: find Alma's soul.

When Absalom is 12, Almudena dies and Absalom, unable to find her either and suspecting her dead is related to the necromancy, blames their power for it. And so he starts seeing this power as a curse instead of a gift. Something that he doesn't truly control nor understand, something that scares him and isolates him. Absalom goes to live in a bigger city with his uncle. It spends a few rough years feeling alone and othered until, at 15, he meets Angel! They bond over their mutual love for music, being rejects in their school and their queerness. During their teenage years they both join a few bands and, finally, at 19-20, they decide to create their own music band, with Angel as the songer-guitarist and Absalom as the drummer. They are on the look out for a bassits when they meet Naomi. They quickly click and Naomi becomes the third member of TTT (Tres Tristes Trigres). A few months later, Naomi and Angel start dating! Playing with them is one of Absalom's favorite things in the world, and he trusts them more than anyone else. Nevertheless, he never tells them about his necromancy but they do notice weird, worrying things about him.

At 19-20, Absalom meets Percy after bumping into him a few times in campus and in local concerts. They hit it off immediately and start dating shortly after that. They're both interested in music and art. At first, their relationship seems perfect. Absalom (who's in the aro spectrum) falls in love for the first time and he feels really happy and loved, something he has truly struggled with for all his life. As time goes by, their relationship starts to get rocky, they fight and argue a lot, but they always go back to each other. Their relationship ends up beng really toxic on both sides. Percy is manipulative and cheats on him and Absalom is jealous and desperate for this idyllic love and comfort they had at first. But, thanks to Angel and Naomi's support, Absalom breaks up with him after dating for a year and half. During the time they were dating, Percy started noticing a few odd things that surround Absalom, like weird aggresive energies around them after they fought. No matter how many times Angel warns Absalom against it, sometimes, when it feels lonely, it goes back to Percy, looking for momentary comfort.

Regarding the necromancy gift/curse. Its origins are uncertain to the family but what does it exactlty allow them to do? The Medina family (or at least those that inherit it) can see spirits in their daily life and communicate with them (spirits may appear everywhere and they mostly can tell when someone is able to see them so they may follow necromancers around, there's more spirits in places like graveyards tho; they don't really have that much consciousness, except for the spirits of necromancers, like Almudena, who Absalom will be able to find at some point). Thanks to this power they can also search for (and most of the time) find the spirit of a specific person (but still, Absalom is never able to find Alma, which tortures him). Another thing that they can do is enter Ewordis.

Ewordis is the realm between life and death (but closer to death, as no living creatures can enter it, except for some necromancers). Ewordis is a inmense white space full of mostly nothingness and some spirits where time doesn't really exist. Absalom hides there when he gets too overwhelmed by real life, thinking that avoiding reality helps him. When he enters Ewordis, his real body is frozen in time, so he can stay there for days or weeks without truly noticing. But time itself doesn't stop. This has lead to his friends worrying after not hearing of him for days in more than one occasion. Isolating himself in Ewordis like this is something that Absalom does to cope when he is really really bad and he tells no one about it. He doesn't really understand what this realm truly is, nor where does it lead. What are the secrets that hide beyond this seemingly vast white empty unreal territory?

One day, after Absalom's mental health worsens and he goes back to hiding in Ewordis, he meets, for the first time, a demon-looking huge guy! Absalom is shocked, because he did not know of the existence of creatures like him. This "demon" tells him he remembers nothing of before being in Ewordis and that he himself doesn't know what he is. They keep bumping into each other when Absalom enter Ewordis, and it notices that this demon must be lonely. They talk a lot and become friends, and Absalom tells him about his life in the living realm. He ends up naming the demon Ozzie, after one of his favorite movies: "The Wizard of Oz". They decide to try and find out what Ozzie is.

After many spirits start following Absalom around and telling him about a monster eating their corpses in a graveyard, Absalom decides to investigate and get rid of all of them. Not really because he wants to help them, but because he wants to be left alone. He goes to the graveyard at night and he founds a thin young man crying next to an open grave. When he sees Absalom, he runs away. This young man is Victor. Victor also comes from one of the few necromancers families left. Their powers are different to those of the Medina family tho, since they are more related to the pyshical body and flesh than to the spirit. He was alive many years ago and he lived with his two siblings and his abusive father. Victor killed himself to escape his father but he brought him back, mixing his body and soul with those of other corpses. Now Victor is forced to feed on human corpses to keep their conscience. Victor loathes his father, who keeps him locked in their old mansion and forces him to keep himself alive. Thanks to his powers, his father has kept himself and his children alive for many many years.

Necromancy powers are directly related to the Horror of Death. There are many Horrors related to different aspects of existence. The Horrors are cosmic entities beyond human comprehension. More ancient that everything. They are neutral entities, not bad nor good. They just exist and keep balance. They have no human morality or feelings. Or at least, that's how it should be. So why can't Absalom die? Who protects him and why? Where is Alma's soul? Who are the other Horrors and how do their existence affect the characters lives?

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