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perlelune · 9 months ago

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Dollhouse | Rafe Cameron | ii.

The moment your mother marries Ward Cameron should have been the moment your life changes for the better. A fresh start out of the Cut for the both of you. And for the first seven years of living with the Camerons, everything truly is perfect.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Pogue!Reader, Stepcest, Secret Relationship, Manipulation, Jealousy, Drugs, Drinking,

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

You let your fingers wander over the edge of the car window, a big smile spread across your face. The gentle breeze flutters across your skin and birdsong fills your ears. You bask in the warmth of the sun and the comfortable feeling sitting inside your chest. The morning was spent visiting the university you’ll be joining in the coming fall. You were given a tour of campus and all the historical buildings you’ll get to wander through soon. It filled you with anticipation, getting that brief glimpse into college life. You’ve been in Outer Banks your whole life and while it’s pretty much a paradise, you’re looking forward to experiencing something new and exciting.

Dad insisted on driving you since you don’t have your license yet. The two of you constantly got wrapped in animated chatter on the way to and from campus. While it’s hard for Ward to watch one of his baby birds leave the nest, you appreciate how supportive he’s been overall. After long hours coaxing him with Mom of course. Dad was skeptical at first. He even suggested you take a gap year to mull it over, like Sarah did. But you and Sarah are like the sun and moon. She’d be the sun of course. While your big sister is content running off with the Pogues on wild adventures and setting aside college for now, you can’t picture yourself doing that. You’re a Cameron, but you’re not Sarah Cameron. With her sweet disposition and golden mane, your sister could probably get away with murder by batting her lashes and flashing her signature sunny grin. Things are different for you. Very different. You haven’t forgotten where you come from, much as everyone in the family pretends you’re just as quintessentially Kook as the rest of them.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, you pivot to Ward.

“Thanks for driving me, dad.”

He beams, his blue gaze drifting away from the road as it lands on you.

“No problem, sweetheart. It’s an amazing school. Great program. Campus looks good too. I know you’ll fit right in.”

A wave of warmth blows through you. “Thanks.”

Sighing, you turn to the epitome of gloom and petulance in the backseat. His arms are folded over his broad chest, his irate blue eyes glued to the window. Your brother’s been cranky all morning. Any trivial inquiry or mundane remark set him off. He barely uttered a word to Dad and graced you with nothing but stubborn silence. It’s blatant he isn’t handling the prospect of your imminent absence well. The silence concerns you a little though. Rafe isn’t one to chew his words or swallow them. So whatever resentment he harbors about your decision to go away for college must run deep. It casts a veil of despondency upon an otherwise wonderful day.

Of all people, you’d expect your big brother to support you the most.

His sour-faced demeanor never relents, even when Ward stops the car in front of Tannyhill. Dad sighs as he parks the truck. He’s already lectured Rafe twice on the way back. You note the disappointment etched on his face, the way he squares his shoulders and readies him to march towards his son and lash out at him again. You put your hand on his shoulder and shake your head. The last thing you need is your brother and father at each other’s throat again. It’d be nice to linger in the exhilaration the campus left you with a little longer.

“It’s fine, dad. Let me talk to him,” your say.

Dad’s shoulders sag. He yields, heading inside the house and leaving you with Rafe. You lean next to him on the truck, head tilted in concern.

“Hey…You haven’t said a word since we came back. What did you think?”

When he fails to reply, his face taut, your frustration swells. “You’re the one who insisted on coming.”

It’s when he snaps, the vein in his forehead pulsing. He swivels to you.

“I just don’t understand why you have to go to a school so far from us, y’know? A five hour drive, really?”

Your brows crumple to a frown.

“Rafe…”

He cuts you off with a mirthless laugh, annoyance flashing in his blue eyes. “And the way you kept gushing about college parties and college boys…” His jaw ticks. “I just don’t like it.”

Rafe pauses, licking his lips and humming as if lost in the depths of reflection. “I think…”

When he trails off, you urge him to go on, impatience clear in your tone, “What do you think?”

He shrugs before casually stating, “I think you’re gonna land yourself into trouble like the airhead that you are and come crawling back home.”

Your face comes ablaze at his words. You punch his shoulders as tears rush to your eyes.

“You can be such a jerk sometimes.”

You stomp away from him, ire radiating from you in waves. He catches up to you with ease. An apology creeps on his face, his fingers clasping around your arm.

“Wait, princess.”

He impedes your path, forcing you to halt in your tracks. He puts a hand on his chest, his expression earnest.

“Look I’m just trying to look out for my little sister here, okay?” A hint of sadness seeps through his tone. “I thought you at least appreciated that.”

Your shoulders slump.

“I do, Rafe, but…I’ll be gone soon. I need you to accept it.”

“I just think it’s too soon.”

“Rafe, I’ll visit. So often that you guys will get sick of me,” you say, your tone reassuring.

The suggestion does little to assuage him, his eyes rolling in annoyance.

“You could take a gap year like Dad said. It wouldn’t be a big deal. You’re a Cameron.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You’re keenly aware Rafe will abhor the words bubbling in your throat before they even leave your mouth.

“Well, not exactly...”

He snickers. “It’s those Pogues…they got in your head, didn’t they?”

Your brows furrow. In your brother’s eyes, everything’s always a Pogues’ fault. He’s never been too fond of the fact that you still hang out on that side of the island sometimes. The phrase ‘You’re a Kook now princess, act like it.’ has left his mouth a numberless amount of times in the past seven years whenever he found you drifting a little too far from the family.

“What? It’s got nothing to do with my friends, Rafe,” you retaliate.

Your gazes clash, a silent war of unwavering wills as your brother looms over you. He works his jaw and unleashes a long exhale.

“So you’re just gonna leave us? It’s final?”

Reluctance drips from your clipped tone. “Yeah, it’s final.”

“I see.”

He gives a sluggish nod of acknowledgement before rushing inside the house.

You trail behind him, panic fluttering through your chest.

“Rafe…”

His back remains turned. Your stomach sinks, his staunch ignorance driving a blade through your heart. The last thing you want is to be away from Rafe, away from your family. But college matters to you. Why can’t he see that?

Mom stands by the counter, dumbfounded by Rafe’s furious stride up the stairs.

“What’s gotten into him?”

A deep sigh ripples through your lips as you meet Mom’s concerned stare. “You know Rafe…”

You turn to her.

“You wanted to talk to me, mom?”

She beams at you. You straighten your spine.

Mom texted you on the way back. She mentioned Sarah would be here too, causing your suspicions to hit a peak.

Nearly every talk with Mom devolved into a firm reminder to behave in a manner befitting a Cameron, befitting Ward Cameron’s daughter. Your mother’s foot never eased off your neck in the last few years.

Nothing besides perfection is allowed.

Perfect grades. Perfect smile. Perfect behavior. Not a single blight or misstep shall ruin the blended nuclear family image Mom and Ward strive to project. Dad might be more subtle about it, but you know his expectations of you align with Mom’s.

Whenever Sarah slackens, the burden passes on to you. You’re supposed to set an example for Willa and Wheezie to follow.

Mom glances between you and Sarah, the latter already sitting on a stool by the counter. It’s clear your sister would rather be anywhere but here. Likely hanging out with John B or some other fun thing. “To both of you, actually.”

You and Sarah exchange a look, one you have countless times before. The quiet acceptance that you’re both about to be lectured by Alice Cameron.

Resigned, you plop down in the stool next to Sarah’s.

Excitement oozes off Mom’s voice as she starts speaking.

“You remember when I told you about the Calliopean Society Debutante Ball?”

Sarah’s lips twitch as she tamps down a grin. “You mean the one you’ve been massively subtle about?”

It’s true. For months, Mom has dropped heavy hints regarding her desire to see both you and Sarah become debs. Even amongst Kooks, being picked to represent the institution is seen as the highest honor. Only a handful of young women from prestigious families in North Carolina are picked, ones whose families have made significant contributions to the county.

A series of events antecedes the ball, including but not limited to Midsummers, a variety of tea parties and galas. The whole thing is archaic at best and cringeworthy at worst.

You’ve tried to get Mom to relinquish the idea of you joining it. But she’s been relentless. The symbol of status it epitomizes isn’t something she’ll let go off so easily.

Not when she’s tried to make everyone on Figure Eight forget where she comes from. Mom would do anything to bury any hint of her past as a Pogue.

You bump Sarah’s elbow, berating her with a frown, “Sarah.”

She chuckles and stands a bit straighter.

Mom sighs at her antics, her forehead creasing.

“Girls. I need you to focus.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Sorry, Alice,” Sarah echoes.

Mom marks a dramatic pause, causing dread to tickle your insides. If she’s this excited, it’s almost a given that you won’t be.

Indeed, her next words confirm your inkling.

“Well, I managed to slip in both of your names in the short list while attending the Midsummer’s committee,” she says.

You wince. “Mom…why would you do that?”

Her elation doesn’t waver. “They’ve never had a young woman like you in their ranks and they’re trying to be more open-minded this year.”

“Mom, this is old-fashioned and gross. The girls are presented like broodmares to be sold.”

Her brows knit. “That is not what this is. Being chosen is an honor.”

Sarah rolls her eyes and you purse your lips. Mom squints at you, folding her arms.

“I want you two to participate in all the events leading up to it.”

Sarah blinks in disbelief. “Come again?”

“Isn’t Midsummer enough?” you refute.

It’s bad enough you’re not given much of a choice in attending the stuffy event. The fact that Mom wants you and Sarah to take it one step further is wild.

“Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your place, sweetie?” she laments, looking straight at you. “It’ll be an opportunity to bond with young ladies your age.”

This doesn’t stir you. You doubt you have much in common with the kind of girls picked out as debutantes. This was probably the same crowd you’ve exerted great effort in avoiding at the Kook school.

“Kie will be there too, but only if you go,” you specify.

This catches your interest, mostly because of how absurd that statement is. You’re pretty sure Kie would likely chop off an arm before agreeing to be a debutante, even if you did it too.

Sarah’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

“Kie? No way, you’re making this up.”

A mischievous smile unfurls on Mom’s lips.

“Well, it wasn’t easy to get her to agree but her father threatened to stop paying for her unlimited data plan.”

Oh so it’s like that? Kie’s parents resorted to blackmail. Makes sense. You just can’t picture your rebellious friend agreeing to this without an incentive. You surmise threatening to cut off her only means of constant communication with the Pogues might sway her mind a bit.

“Yeah that…tracks.”

“Can you do it, please?”

Your shoulders sag. “Mom, I really wished you stopped trying to impress those women. You do realize they’ll always look at us the same way, no matter what we do.”

Mom’s face dims at your words. An instant wave of guilt fills you. You should have kept your mouth shut. She tosses her hands in the air.

“Fine. I never ask you girls for anything, but okay.” She starts frantically cleaning the kitchen, loud clangs echoing as she grabs random pots and pans from the oven and cabinets. “When I was your age…” You suppress an eye roll. Here we go. You and Sarah trade a knowing glance. Anytime she starts a sentence that way, you know you’re doomed. “I’d have killed to get an opportunity like this...”

Mom continues rambling about how privileged and spoiled you and Sarah are, how she was never given those kinds of chances. She mentions her rough upbringing and hammers in the sacrifices she made to raise you. She reminds Sarah all the times she showed up for her and that she loves her the same way a mother would. You spot the exact moment your sister breaks. By the end, the guilt both Sarah and you feel is palpable, its weight clogging the air.

“Ugh…Fine, we’ll do it,” Sarah relents.

Mom’s sour face immediately shifts to a triumphant expression.

As the evening rolls around, the sky shifting to duskier hues, an unexpected presence slips through your bedroom door.

You sit up, your pink headphones tumbling down to your neck.

“Rafe!” you exclaim, eyes widening in astonishment.

A lopsided smirk unfolds on his face at your reaction. He slowly closes the door and strolls to your bed. The mattress bounces when Rafe tosses himself on it. He drags his fingers along your sheets for a while, the golden family ring on his finger glimmering dully. You wait anxiously with your legs crossed.

After what seems an eternity, blue eyes swing upward as he sighs.

“I’m sorry I was a jerk earlier,” he blurts out. He licks his lips and holds your gaze, his fingers wandering to your knee. Rafe’s deep voice lowers, oozing sadness. “I just know everyone in this house will drive me crazy if you’re not there.”

“There’s always Sarah.”

That draws a burst of laughter from him. He shakes his head.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

Your face breaks out in a grin. Throughout the years, it’s always staggered you how different the dynamic between you and Rafe is different from his relationship with Sarah. Everything’s a competition for Rafe when it comes to Sarah, starting with the ceaseless quest for Dad’s approval. Meanwhile, since that day at the wedding, Rafe has never failed to be there for you. He’s been the best big brother, attentive and kind. While on the exterior he could be a jackass to everyone, including your Pogue friends, he’s never been that way with you. You could talk to him about your problems, however trivial they may be. He’s the one who made you feel most welcome at Tannyhill, impugning every presumption you harbored about what having Rafe Cameron as your brother would be like. And now you can’t picture your life without Rafe in it.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll text. I’ll call you every week.”

“Won’t be the same.”

You take a deep breath.

“For the record, I’ll miss you too. A lot.”

“You better.”

You chuckle.

“Hey, I never gave you your birthday gift…” Rafe says, fishing for something in his back pocket. A sly smirk tugs his lips. “I wanted to do something a little different this year.” You’re filled with shock when he produces a little bag full of white powder.

You blink rapidly as he holds it up. You’ve seen him take some at parties, sell it to his guests. Once or twice, you got curious and asked to try. He vehemently turned you down, insisting he’s not about to let his little sister get fucked up…despite spending the whole night getting fucked up himself.

“Really?”

Rafe’s smirk broadens. “Really.”

Excitement flushes through you. You can’t deny you’ve always wanted to know what it feels like.

“You like…never let me try before.”

He laughs, shifting closer to you.

“Because I was trying to keep my sweet little sister pure. Can you blame me, princess?” he says, fingertips tracing your knee.

You swallow thickly, your face heating when he places the little pouch in your hand.

“I actually have no idea how to…”

“I’ll show you, of course. It’s my job as your big brother to teach you everything.” His voice dips to a velvety bass as your eyes lock. “So let me pop your cherry, princess.”

When you stare at him, slack-jawed, Rafe snorts.

“It’s just a phrase, relax.”

Amusement dances in his blue eyes at your clueless expression. He grabs a paper from his pocket and begins rolling it.

“Here, I’ll show you how it’s done.” He gently swipes the pouch and takes your hand, opening your palm to pour just a tiny amount of the white powder in the middle. “Let’s just keep this a secret between us, okay?” His eyes twinkle. “I don’t want Alice to think I’m… corrupting you or something.”

#rafe cameron #dark!rafe cameron x reader #dark!rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x pogue!reader #outer banks fanfiction #obx fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #dark rafe cameron #pogue!reader

646 notes · View notes

hacvek · 2 years ago

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🌑 nightmeows 🔁 dogfandomfandom Follow

clan-showdown-official-deactivated-80-0

Welcome to the Official Clan Showdown, an official tournament to decide the best clan of all! I'll be letting this run for a quarter-moon so hopefully cats from all corners of the forest can vote!

So let's settle this once and for all, through democracy rather than violence

which clan is the best?

ThunderClan ❚❚ 6.3%

WindClan ❚❚❚❚ 11.2%

RiverClan ❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚ 33.6%

ShadowClan ❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚ 20.3%

I'm a kittypet that just wants to press a button ❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚❚ 28.6%

3384 votes · Poll ends in 1 day 890 birdsongs

🦇🔁 lichenlikehim Follow

windclan bros....

🍄🔁 shrewd-and-wondervole

Something's not adding up. Even discounting the kittypet option, there are way more voters than there are Clan cats.

⚡🔁 thunderclan-official Follow

there are numbers above 5?

🦁🔁 the-lionesse Follow

y'all i figured out why the vote counts are so high. sparrowsong from riverclan just went out and gave birth to fifty kits and signed them all up for clanblr accounts jkldfjslkfd

🪱🔁 wormdefender Follow

op is having a breakdown about thunderclan not winning btw

🐺🔁 dogfandom Follow

OP: here's a silly poll!

cats: get a little silly with it

OP: YOU HAVE COMMITTED VIOLENCE AGAINST ME AND MY MOTHER

#oh so this is what's going on #but where is the breakdown post #edit: i found it 2,349 notes ➡️🗨️🔁��️

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🐸 dreamsofgreenleaf

here's how thunderclan can still win

#is this anything #mine 1 note ➡️🗨️🔁❤️

Oopsie! An error was encountered when reblogging. Try again? You've exceeded your daily post limit.

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🍄 shrewd-and-wondervole 🔁 the-lionesse Follow

Anonymous mewed: wait how did sparrowspong give birth to fifty kits at once

🦁 the-lionesse Follow

she slept with multiple toms. hope that helps.

#interesting #i didn't know that was possible! #bio tag 230 notes ➡️🗨️🔁🤍

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🪳 starclansfavoriteplaything 🔁 dirteater

Anonymous mewed: i found someone's mirrorleaf still logged into their clanblr at the gathering and voted for shadowclan. i'm not even a clan cat i just got lost while playing outside

🙀 clan-confessions

🪶🔁 pheasantcatcher Follow

anon is braver than any thunderclan warrior

🌿🔁 herbmother Follow

This is what StarClan wants for us. To do the right thing even when we won't get credit for it.

🪳🔁 starclansfavoriteplaything

RARE KITTYPET W

#YOU ARE THE REASON WE CANT HAVE PEACE #lmto [Editor's note: 'laughing my tail off'] 3,401 notes ➡️🗨️🔁❤️

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🕸️ foxtails 🔁 greencoughtiger Follow

🐭 mouse ✔️✔️

the winner is not shadowclan or riverclan or anyone else. the winner is voter fraud

#prev wtf you can't join clanblr until you're at least twelve moons of age 3,925 notes ➡️🗨️🔁🤍

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🪳 starclansfavoriteplaything 🔁 dirteater

🐈 freshkillz Follow

feeling lonely need me a she-cat with a mottled pelt and thick tail rn

🦋🔁 moon--moth Follow

not now the entirety of thunderclan was just murdered

#READ THE CAMP 129 notes ➡️🗨️🔁🤍

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🐸 dreamsofgreenleaf 🔁 mewsogyny Follow

purrzerk-deactivated-80-01m-04d mewed: You can't get pregnant with multiple litters at once. Talk to your medicine cat before spouting misinformation on clanblr

🦁 the-lionesse Follow

i'm literally a medicine cat apprentice but go off

🐷🔁 tomsplaining-archive Follow

Example #163

#get his tail 778 notes ➡️🗨️🔁🤍

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◼️ dirteater 🔁 cats-posting-their-ls Follow

clan-showdown-official-deactivated-80-0

To everycat that reblogged and voted in my poll in good faith, I thank you.

Clearly something fishy is afoot, whether that's from kits birthed for the purpose of this poll, or popular blogs like @mouse and @swanstar-official badgering their kittypet followers to vote for their Clan. And clearly the subversion does not come from all sides in this debate. I have half a mind to declare ThunderClan the winner, just out of spite.

If RiverClan or ShadowClan 'wins' by cheating, fraud, intimidation, and manipulation, does that 'prove' that it is the best? Hardly. It only proves that such Clans are willing to gain any advantage by any means—including dishonorable ones. Can you trust that such cats won't resort to dirty tactics in snout-to-snout interactions? At the Gathering? In war? Cats like you are the reason we will never have peace.

I won't lie, I'm a bit distraught right now. But I probably should not have expected anything else from this StarClan-forsaken webbedsight. I will never be doing anything like this for you mangy cats ever again. Goodbye.

#this kitty really thought he was going to win the nuzzle peace prize with this poll #my brother in starclan this is not a forest of honor 2,064 notes ➡️🗨️🔁❤️

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🌑 nightmeows 🔁 malecalico

🤵 actualtwoleg

i didn't even knowed that there wass so many cats in this beuatifal world. woag

🌞🔁 malecalico

only valid ally

#can someone explain what is going on 64 notes ➡️🗨️🔁❤️

#personal #warriors #warrior cats #long post

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caucasus-wildflower · 2 months ago

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six is for lucifer

(how i gained and lost identities throughout the years)

i — sweet cicely, the garden myrrh

Sweet cicely, the garden myrrh,

A righteous birth, cloaked in the

Allusions of God and purity.

Into the ears of the child snow murmurs

A winter cry, a cold blessing

Tapestry descending onto the earth.

Its momma cradles it, a gentle stir

Suckling, its head a pupil, its eyes

Blind to the black oppression lurking.

A murder of crows sugar the panes

With soot, the mother shuts her blinds.

Lamb of God, it feeds on the watery

Grass on the hills, the moors,

The dank marshes. The soil provides,

It takes with glee. The stench of rot

Roots ribcages skeletons skulls

Flesh flower claw carcass —

Moors, marshes, mountain ranges —

It offends the air. But an unweaned

Lamb takes nonetheless. The ewe cast

Its lamb to the far ends, to the tall sweeping

Highlands. Away, away, the crows

Circling, caw against caw —

Ariel, God's Lioness, it prowls the

Caucasus in search of the Lamb.

Banished lambs must perish.

None can live under Ariel's amber

Gaze, not when it is one

Who protests against his God.

Coated with dust, the Lamb is in exile,

A righteous birth, a Son gone astray. None

Welcomed it again with open arms,

But fed it the purest flowers instead

To purge its soot-filled soul.

ii — lyrics that sing

Eight years from now she is still tattooed on your flesh,

Branded, as if a nasty scar left from when you made

Stupid decisions as a child. Too brash to tread tumultuous

Waters with care. She is the reason why you learnt to

Build walls, learned to sing like a caged bird, because

Birds in metal have the most alluring songs, birds

With no feathers have the most longing voice, birds

In glass have the most lonely lyrics. Though you still

Pause to listen to birdsong, you no longer leave

A small bunch of myrrhs at the door of its cage,

Almost as if rewarding them, rewarding a slave for

Doing as told.

There is nothing to reward here, you only mourn.

Remember when you thought she could fly? Remember

When she was surrendered by betrayal, put under?

No more of that now, only relief when you resurrect her

With a crooked circle drawn with chalk, candles

Embellishing the border, the circle mounted with

Myrrhs that sprout from concrete cracks. This

Is a barren land, long dead, long gone, land is barren,

Concrete spilled over once green mountain ranges.

The grouse cries, and she hikes up the hill, carrying

Jesus’s cross, with a briar crown — sin is never forgiven,

Not on the concrete land.

When no winter could mask the trail of blood

That leeches from her soles, no one consoled her,

When no summer could breed a field of myrrhs

To mourn her, no one remembered her — she

Let herself be hammered into the concrete like

A blunt nail needing to be forced in. She was

Unsure of what she had to secure, maybe

The cracked concrete paths, maybe nothing,

Nothing at all, only wanting to bury her

Into concrete, so nothing gives way when she

Twists and turns and flexes her wings and

Screeches and bangs at the earth. So she could

Not be risen the way an angel, or God, would be.

iii — lost star

A lot to ask for especially when you have nothing to give.

When a vulnerable child meets wax, it cocoons, spins

Thin tendrils to hide. Trust, it knows if you never wanted it

Or preferred someone else, or wished it dead, because

You were the one who spun the wax as if it were silk

Threads. In the heavens it hangs on a lonely branch,

Longing for warmth, but your palace had always

Been a little too cold even when it was just inches

From the sun. Aquarius, you have a broken power

To freeze the myrrhs, and you never thought to give

Anything.

Gantchne, dya kyur pfoshen, kyur kisva

Dya fleksha, kisvalle, fek lyvdek, nyveu kjan

Bjan helvsk

(Mother, I am your family, your child,

I am ill, naive, in pain, but you do not hear me)

Libra took pity on me. Even Gemini, who wished

Their son gone, even Cancer, who kept her powers

From her child. Even the moon and the sky

And the rain took pity on me. I have only your blood

And nothing else of you, maybe your eyes, your

Dreaded silver eyes that froze me when they lay

On my bones; I scrub my face, and I see your rib

jutting from my chest.

I could not think that it was for good,

They say blood is thicker than water but yours

Is steam. Your blood is transparent, and only

Air runs through your blue veins.

Not even the myrrhs in your garden could survive

The frost. Not even the weeds, nor the flowers,

Nor the stems or the leaves. Only ice could

Live in a castle of frost.

Lyetta dzchekpa fek dyur vivarræ dyan khanmes, kja fek dyan

Bhridre, Gantchne, dya kjan treshe pfjekeu svottendz —

Dya bjan gantchne dzurfvi, hnirom lohm dyan bejar vivarræ

Nyveu dya kjan bjamjena voshrima, lyvdesina, kurkendza, kfi

Dya dijensk kvohn bakkar vlarehn, nigrjesha dyur gæinne kvaseter —

(There is fear in my soul, my home, you filled it in me, Mother, I for this thing hate you - I don't have a mother, only a person who gave me life

But I cannot torture, cage you, and

I want to yell loud, punish me with death)

Are you not my mother? Are you not the only

One I had? When I lie in bed with my eyes open,

Caressing the ceiling with my gaze, do you not feel

Guilty? When I lean at the wall with my knees bent,

Painting the plaster red, do you not feel guilty?

Have you got no guilt?

Have you nothing to give?

iv — autumn seeps into your bones

No use to mourn the broken seasons now

When she let out her last breath the cold

Settled in the earth, tear apart the seams

Where the rain settles. Deep in the void

No air to fill her fibrous lungs now

They will not balloon, only strain, until

The Norwegian autumn takes you by storm

How could you not remember? Your light,

You sew a white lace pall for her mahogany

Casket, the earth’s underlying pulse sweep

Red leaves to you. Red, her favourite colour,

Red,

Red, the sunset she last painted before

Her lungs collapse, the color of her wood

Palette, red like the apples she slices to brew

Cider,

Da jeg var elleve år gammel, satt jeg ved mammas

Forfengelighet. Hun drar kammen nedover håret mitt,

Og jeg ser på speilbildet mitt. Hun er - var - vakker,

Holdt sig selv med en yndefuld fremtoning. Jeg

Pleide å være et bråkete barn, søsteren min var den milde.

Men hun så ut som faren min da hun elsket moren min

Mer, hun hadde min fars trekk. Jeg tror hun avskyr meg fordi

Hun ikke har fått noe fra mamma, ingen øyne eller hår som

Minner om henne. Rød som blod, leker høsten og leker gjennom

Vinduene. Det er for mye for meg, og hun gjenopplever det hvert år.

(When I was eleven years old, I sat by my mother's

Vanity. She pulls the comb down my hair,

And I look at my reflection. She is - was - beautiful,

Held herself with a graceful appearance. I

Used to be a wild child, my sister was the gentle one.

But she looked like my father when she loved my mother

More so, she had my father's features.

I think she hates me because

She has not received anything from her mother, no eyes or hair that

Memories of her. Red as blood, seeping through autumn and seeping through

Windows. It's too much for me, and she relives it every year.)

They blanch your hair into red, knitting

Threads of stars into your hair, you forget about

Her. You give up her shadow. Horse-hair

Paintbrushes weep in solitude — You have never

Picked up a paintbrush again, not after

Learning how to preserve myrrhs, not after

Weaving new adornments for slated stone

Every autumn. You never come in autumn,

The brown leaves a broken curse that seals

The door with wax.

Min mor har mistet pusten på grunn av høsten.

Der hun ligger, er et sted jeg ikke betrer lenger,

En skog jeg ikke kan besøke uten at skyggen hennes

Henger igjen, hjemsøker, forfølger meg, ikke når

Bladene er røde, ikke når trærne er gylne som honning.

Den norske luften var for kald for henne, kanskje,

Hun var ikke slik i Versailles, varmen hadde skjemt henne bort.

Jeg kunne ikke klandre henne, men søsteren min ble

Aldri den samme igjen, hun så meg aldri i øynene,

Snudde seg aldri om og snakket til meg som en søster

Igjen. Faren min sier at jeg har min mors øyne og hennes

Gylne hår, og måten hun danser på henger igjen i årene mine.

(My mother has lost her breath because of autumn.

Where she lies is a place I no longer visit,

A forest I can't visit without her shadow

Lingering, haunting, haunting me, not when

The leaves are red, not when the trees are golden like honey.

The Norwegian air was too cold for her, perhaps,

She was not like that in Versailles, the heat had spoiled her.

I couldn't blame her, but my sister stayed

Never the same again, she never looked me in the eyes,

Never turned around and spoke to me like a sister

Again. My father says that I have my mother's eyes and her

Golden hair, and the way she dances lingers in my veins.)

You are good, yet nothing can be enough.

When you visit her grave again, the cemetery

Howls, and in front of the cross you never

Had faith in, you crochet white garden myrrh

Petals with green stems. At least, yarn

Does not die, not even in autumn.

v — synthesis, symbiosis, systems

Dyur ræsherlom (my lover) she coded a game similar to Animal Crossing

Where players could wish beneath a supernova. Together

You and her would log on the game (it was a LAN server)

And wait until twinkling bursts of light fall in their

Imaginary trajectories, so you two may make wishes.

While waiting you took out pencils — one mechanical,

One wooden — you two shared a torn piece of rubber —

Wasted hours, days, solving trigonometric identities

And vector multiplications. You ask yourself, now,

If you had missed any comets, and if the metaphorical

Breaking, crashing, destruction of the asteroid

Symbolized something of a similar end to kjur ræshera (our love).

Inadequacy, pain, lydvek as she would say it. You stare into

Her eyes. Is this the best you could do, allude to our love

Our suffering with a language you are not fluent in?

Like fragments you shore against your ruins. What a

Wasteland you left behind

Lower the flag

Write words, incoherence threading through.

She poured a glass of liquid yellow.

You hiss as the harsh ethanol hits,

Trail of fire, freedom, f-fricatives, fright.

For someone who stampedes the intelligent realm

With rage, you are too quiet now —

Where is your fire? Where is your light?

Brilliance fallen, no more sheen

To your eyes. She never spoke the tongue

From your lips, attempting with a thick slather.

Drivkkane she kneels onto the creaking mahogany

Floors, eyelids throbbing, Dya mjena bjan ræshera kjan

Dya bjan bærshek, dya lydvek. You looked away.

Dya lyva dya mjena tehndye kraleu zhrekynk dzchune dvippe

Bjan, bjan, lyva dya bjamjena. Dya kisvalle, dya bjalyvlassk

Ræsherlohm! Kjane lyetta? Dyur ræshera, dya kja drehgasna

Nyveu kja bjadzcharkeu. Wa, weiaweiaweiaweia

(We thought we could climb through a shattered world in the past,

No, no, we cannot. I was too naive, I was not free

My lover! Are you there? My love, I need you but you aren't here. Wa, weiaweiaweiaweia)

Ræshera bejarra — dya bejar, kja tcha plakredja. Leufer,

Sikva, pfehme dya tcha lasjanek pfjekeu. Dya veur tchane

Ræshera, tchane dyan pjek, kfi pjokke, dya bjanejsha.

Dya kjan ræshera, dya kjan svottendz.

(Love is a gift - I gift it, you refuse it. Waste,

yes, now I perceive this. I am with her love, she destroyed me, I do not live.

I love you, you hate me.)

Ganna! Ganne — Gantchne, dya kja ræshera

Kja? Kja? Kja dya mjena ræshera? Bjan

Kja dyan fek kurkendza sfinna, fek gænn.

(Mama! Mom - Mother, I love you

You? You? Can you love me? Not

You put me in hell, in the soil.)

Creak. Thud. Click. Shovel the gænn over the

Boxes, wood rot, thick white bellies writhe

Against the coffin. No one would mourn

Except for the gjurse kfi gænn, where

Garden myrrhs sprout from the seams.

vi — rise from the ash

Lucifer set fire to the Caucasus ranges, his unforgiving snarl

Breathing fire down the sunny slopes. Like rain

Droplets of flame scatter, a christening, a fire sermon —

He is not a Buddha, but he might as well be one.

Purge us of desire

Lava pours from the sky, leaving a thick seam of black

Obsidian, Hell reforges the world. Red rock rains

Upon tiny bugs that scuttle 'round, and the Lamb

Has nowhere to take shelter. Its pelt has turned black

But its soul white — Purge us of desire

Fire is ensnared in the chambers of desolation, no solace

But the heat that reforges. Molten hard rock drips

Down the angry forehead of God as He lights a match

To punish Lucifer, his wings become black

From the soot and sorrow, the dark and damned.

Purge us of desire

The flames extend into the sunset, a frothing

Mixture of lava and blood, sheep bleat as soot stains

Their lungs: crows' shadows loom overhead like

Blackened moss sprawled on concrete arteries.

The world into two, misery fills the canyons:

Tchane ontja tchurne dzevne nyeuparra,

Tchane ontja lyva dyur lynyet nyeushen —

Dya kraleu kæsha envelle, dya ontja virik fleulle.

O’ Lucifer, summon your Demons of Death

To punish the fallen world, oversee purgatory;

No shelleulle should exist again. No river, no

Creek, no stream, only a huge Styxian Lake

At the very centre, its waters corrupted with

Ink-like tendrils. Soot is layered thick onto

The surface. No reflection, only night:

The fire shall never go out, purge us

Reforge us, in the molten rock even diamonds

Shall melt, no life shall live. Smoke clouds

Visions, no eyes can see; no ears can hear,

No tongue may speak. Silence echoes

In the valleys and basins, and it blares

Through the air like sirens of catastrophe,

All myrrhs disintegrate into ash and dust.

All myrrhs, not one less. All cicelies die.

Like a wind spreading seeds of dandelions

Smoke spreads like dust. Land becomes sea,

Sea becomes land. Roots tear as God

forces rock and stone apart, destroying His

Creation — veins bleed into the gaping wound.

No one exists anymore, no one but the lost

Souls. The Caucasus is no more: all cicelies die.

A layer of thick ash smothers the rock,

Born anew, a land of punishment. God created

This realm to punish us. Carcasses of Lambs

Sprawled across the fields of ashes, leaving

None but bones. Their pelts have become wicks

For their fat to burn. All cicelies die

God is unforgiving. Lucifer does not care —

I am a forgotten generation in a lost world;

No ruler to oversee, only me.

#writing #poetry #poems on tumblr #original poem #long form content #writers on tumblr #myrrhs #creative writing #writerscommunity #writers and poets #poets on tumblr

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avesomnia-inhoramortis · 6 months ago

Text

[ooc]

In no particular order, behold a breakdown of my current St. Trina playlist.

1. Stolen Child- Loreena McKennit

This one is based on a poem by William Butler Yeats about fairies luring a boy away from home, and I associate it with both Miquella and Trina. Particularly because of the way the luring is presented- they want to give the child a better life, free of mortal cares, but at the same time you get the sense that the child is still losing something and it's tragic. They're offering him beauty and peace and wonder and taking him away from everything he already has.

2. Sleepsong- Secret Garden

This is Saint Trina, and her blessing to dreamers. Just listen to it. I'm imagining her stroking someone's hair with their head in her lap.

3. Tarnished Silver- Heather Dale

This is from an album about the King Arthur mythos, and this specific song is Morgan le Fay accompanying King Arthur's body to its final destination. There are MULTIPLE reasons I associate this with Saint Trina, and multiple reasons I associate it with Elden Ring in general. Either way, it is both a lullaby and mourning song, and it's really really good.

4. Labyrinth of Dreams- Nox Arcana

An instrumental that I've been in love with for years. I don't know a lot about music, but I think the little sparkly sound is bells? Or a music box? Either way, it FEELS like fairies and dreams and a strange eerie mystery that isn't necessarily malevolent. It feels like a magical forest where you're being watched.

5. A Nostalgic Dream- Peter Gundry

Yet another intrumental. A bit of a thoughtful one? It feels a bit like sifting through an attic looking through old things, trying with some tragic desperation to fix things. I can't explain it well but the violins in particular here really sell it for me.

6. Fairy Nightsongs- Gary Stadler

This is just pure Trina, and to some extent her faithful. She's here for a fun little frolick in the woods of your mind, and her followers are only awake long enough to sing for her.

7. Come Little Children- Erutan

Speaking of luring people into situations that may not be good for them, this song. Come away with her from a world of murder and beauty alike, play in her shadowed garden forever. Saint Trina doesn't really (consciously) lure people, but if she ever lost that humanity and became the divine concept of Sleep? Yeah. This is the sort of thing that would happen.

8. Hanging Tree- Blackmore's Night

It is undeniable that despite her kindness and mercy, Trina's mercy is euthanasia. While in this song the Hanging Tree doesn't choose to kill anyone... I don't think Trina does either, but she willingly enables and offers the option to those weary of life. I go back and forth on whether or not she likes or regrets it, mostly depending on her mental state in the given situation. This is a very thoughtful song and the vibes are right. "Now children play at her feet, and in her arms she cradles birds... still somewhere in the back of her mind is the time she was known as the old hanging tree."

9. Era Oscuro- Ana Alcaide

A very interesting little song with gorgeous instrumentals. The lyrics themselves are a very small little story- a conversation under the moon, in the quiet of night, scolding someone for coming to remind the singer of unpleasant things. Saint Trina's slumber is certainly oblivion- I imagine there are many things people don't want to talk about, when then succumb to her slumber.

10. Winter Moon- Erutan

While Trina certainly isn't a yuki-onna, the vibe is definitely compatible here. She is somewhat doomed to eventually kill anyone who loves her too deeply. She can bring comfort, she can bring oblivion, but she cannot bring life, and therein lies the tragedy.

11. The Lily- Faun

Partially for the title, partially for the vibes. The hurdy gurdy with the lovely female vocals and the birdsong in the background really sets the mood.

12. In A Faraway Dream- Eurielle

Trina truly deeply misses Miquella. Even she has to wonder if he cares for her, sometimes. She wants to go back to the Haligtree, to have a family, to be a girl and not a saint. But she can never go back, and certainly not to a home that might never have existed at all. She's still willing to reach for Miquella, but he never reaches back.

13. Once Upon A Dream- Sleeping Beauty OST

You know Exactly why this is here. Of course I added the Disney princess song about falling in love in a dream. Both Miquella and Trina (and even Malenia) are princesses followed around by cute animals who are full of love and kindness.

14. Once You Had Gold- Enya

Lovely ethereal song featuring GORGEOUS female vocals in a soothing lullaby about how all good things pass, but so do the seasons, and that's okay. Because so too will the darkness. Very much a Saint Trina song as she soothes her dreamers. "Time gave both darkness and dreams to you."

15. Dreamland Fairies- Brandon Fiechter

This instrumental feels like wandering around in a strange forest with fireflies in it, finding cute little streams and magical groves. And perhaps, maybe, the forest is looking back with curious interest. This is 100% the vibe for Trina just wandering around in dreams, singing to herself.

16. Gossamer Wings- Derek Fiechter

This one is a bit more of a march than the other instrumentals. Still full of silvery bells and magical noises but there's an expectation to it. Not much more to say, but very fun to write to. Saint Trina can have a little backbone as a treat.

17. Girl into Devil- SJ Tucker

Both Miquella and Trina. Literally every line has something I can point to for one or both of them, morally grey no matter how much they insist they're doing this for the right reasons. You should listen to the whole thing on principle, but I just wanted to drop a quote here for the people mourning Miquella the Kind: "Trust the devil never to let go, mixing hell and romance just like any other fool. Wisely, you must heed a sister's words: love comes down to nothing more than who is to rule."

18. 1157 (Til It's Over)- SJ Tucker

This song is about the end of the world. Or, rather, the tense minutes when you don't know if the world is going to end, so you hold on to your loved ones. Originally written, if I recall right, to convey the vibe of being afraid of nuclear war. Despite the fear, there's very much a driving message that something must be done. "If nothing changes, nothing grows. No rotted towers overthrown."

19. Princess Aurora- Luca Turilli

Admittedly, this song is just here because I love it and my brain insists the song is purple. I could certainly concoct reasons for why it fits Trina as a guide to the pilgrims of the Haligtree, but it is mostly here because I just really love Luca Turilli's music.

20. Grieve No More- Patty Gurdy

Yet another absolute win of a lullaby for St. Trina of the Cradlesong. Technically applicable to Miquella too, since he's offering a home to the lost and the persecuted, but I imagine this as something Trina sings to the albinaurics. The hurdy gurdy is also everything to me. The song does go bombastic and huge there in the middle but she deserves to be big and loud and divine. Also the wing noises at the very end bring me joy.

21. The Valley- Auri

This is the vibe anytime someone meets Trina in a dream, or in the rare times she blooms in the waking world. Soothing, happy to be here, and very much inviting anyone who passes to stay and rest awhile to enjoy the day. There's BIRDSONG in it.

22. I Hope Your World Is Kind- Auri

I mean the title says it all. This song gives me feelings but nothing I can say summarizes why I picked it better than the title.

23. Sleeping Sun- Nightwish

This is Trina's grief, her longing, her lullaby and her loneliness. She misses Miquella, badly, and loves him more than she can say. This song might even be her temptation, that too-often moment when she considers abandoning her own humanity to become a numb elemental god.

24. The Truth Beneath The Rose- Within Temptation

Just take this. Take this, look at it. The DLC is strong with this one. "Give me strength to face the truth, the doubt within my soul. No longer I can justify the bloodshed in his name. Is it a sin to seek the truth, the truth beneath the rose? Pray with me so I will find the gate to Heaven's door. I believed it would justify the means, it had a hold over me. Blinded to see the cruelty of the beast. It is the darker side of me. The veil of my dreams deceived all I have seen. Forgive me for what I have been. Forgive me my sins."

25. About three different covers of the merchants' song and I'm not listing them all

Based on cut content, this is the song Saint Trina gave to the merchants to drive off Frenzy. I absolutely had to include it and I couldn't decide on a cover.

26. Walking In The Air- Nightwish

There are many covers of this, but this is my favorite. Buckle in lads we're going on a magical operatic journey through the wintery night skies. You WILL experience childlike wonder and you WILL hear someone musically convey the concept of snowflakes. It's epic in the way only the most incredible dreams are.

27. Ghost of a Rose- Blackmore's Night

I'm imagining Thiollier listening to this song and just bursting into tears. Lovely song about a mysterious woman who may or may not be a flower, that is never seen again? Yeah. This song is why Thiollier and Fevor and Rico and every other poor romantic fool is chasing her to the ends of the earth.

28. Lilium- two versions, one by Grissini Project and one by Chrisdiospria

If you want the lyrics and translation you can find them here. It's basically a Latin prayer titled "Lily" and EXTREMELY Miquella coded to me, but also appropriate for Trina. Saint Trina requires some Catholic vibes for necessary flavoring.

29. Elsa's Song- The Amazing Devil

Ooooh this song. The repeated emphasis on forget-me-nots, you say you love me but I can't believe you, rotten battlefields. This is about Miquella the Kind, who might make the gestures of mourning that which he has wrought, but he doesn't really. Not honestly. This is Saint Trina's grief, being left behind by the person who should have loved you, but you've been in denial for a very long time. Bonus points for the inclusion of lilies in the last verse.

30. Roses in the Rocks- SJ Tucker

This was, if I remember right, written specifically for Pride and the concept of queer rebellion in general. It's got flowers, it's hopeful, encourages community, and has a little bit of "eat the government". Considering who and what Trina is, this feels appropriate.

31. The Unquiet Grave- Karliene

I very much associate Trina with spirit-tuning and the duties of a psychopomp. She does guide people to death through sleep. On top of that, this song is about a dead woman asking the guy at her grave why he won't let her rest, because kissing her would be his death anyway, which is exceedingly appropriate for the DLC.

32. La Dame Blanche- Cécile Corbel

Soft and light and just a little eerie, complete with a magical harp. Exactly what I want when I'm writing Trina. Bonus points for this entire section of the lyrics (put through a translation website): "When the night comes, and I despair that I can no longer see a hint of light, I search in my heart, a flame in the dark, so that memory and hope never die. I hear the white lady singing from the top of the chestnut branches."

33. Beauty- Layto

Honestly this one is a wild genre shift and I'm considering moving it to a different playlist, but for now I really like having something that reminds me of Trina's addictive poison on here. You just know people have ruined their lives drowning in lily wine.

34. Luring- Patty Gurdy

This song is one of the reasons I settled on Trina-as-a-god being a bog elemental, very similar to the Rot but with a distinctly Celtic flavor. Well. That and the goddamn nuckelavee in the DLC. This song 100% makes me think of a kelpie or huldra trying to drown someone. That said, it's got elements of both Trina and Miquella to me, particularly the lines about being a mirror.

35. The Call- Regina Spektor

To be frank this song makes me cry no matter what, because it's a Narnia song, but the reason it's on this playlist is specifically because I have hope about Trina's death and the fact that, like Malenia, she will someday bloom again. Elden Ring is a story of the ending of an age and the beginning of the next, no matter what that next age may be. This song is both for the Tarnished, and for the hope of the future in general, rooted in a little bit of sad nostalgia.

#[ooc]#what is this blog for if not infodumping about my blorbo #st. trina

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dungeonaspects · 3 years ago

Text

Warforged Druid

"If you do not take the time to hear the birdsong, smell the pines, or feel the ground, what on earth is the point of living?"

The old world watches on at the inexorable march of time, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the structures built and the reclamation of the wilds. While not above interference, often it proves more hassle than it's worth since even a forest burnt to cinders will, of course, regrow vibrant and beautiful.

Yet something has stirred in the deepest recesses of nature, the unknowable force that guides all life has noticed something on the next horizon, the red star rises. For the first time in eons the powers that be reached out into the ether and found a soul that will retain the balance of life, the threat far greater than even the gods realise.

The soul was taken, softly, gently. The being it was had been washed away, the pure, innocent soul taken into the force of nature and given new purpose. The child was born of heartwood, the new bark as soft as fresh yew.

It stepped onto the fertile soil of the deepest forest, feeling the life beneath its feet, the birdsong reaching its ears, the scents of the trees on the breeze. It stumbled along the forest floor, watching the world in wonder, the sunbeams glistening through the canopy, the deer watching it curiously, snorting slightly as the child brushed over the fur completely unafraid.

The child doesn't know how long it wandered the forest, only that after the aimless walk and many cycles of light and dark it had grown taller, its bark now hard. It had met with dryads and satyr, learning some basic language and more ways of the forest.

It learned the ways of nature, to hunt, to live, to feel the will of the world in its purest form. It would live as each animal it saw until it learned everything it could, the wolves welcoming the strange biped as a member of their pack, the deer herd wary of the stranger until the child could walk among them without hesitation.

Once the child's understanding was great enough they could take on the form of each creature, something the child revelled in. Often it would exert itself to exhaustion trying to maintain the form of whatever animal it found itself captivated by at that time.

After so many cycles the child found itself on the outskirts of the forest, the familiar canopy vanishing above to show clear skies and gentle rolling hills. As it stared off into the wide open land a form stepped up beside it.

"There is so much to see out there little one, and I hope you see it all." Came a soft voice.

An ancient satyr stood stooped beside the child, a spear gripped firmly in their hand, they offered the spear to the child.

"A gift from myself, sung from the most ancient elder tree I know of." The satyr said, a slight quaver in their voice.

The child took the spear, it was light, the wooden edge of the blade keen, but the warmth of the haft comforted the child. Without looking back the child walked into the world, unaware of the satyr vanishing behind them, a single prismatic tear rolling down their cheek.

Some Ideas

With this character I felt that they should be innocent and wonderful, naïve about the world yet hardened by lessons few get to experience. I love druids but they become hard to channel their class when you need to investigate why a royal was assassinated when there's little link to nature etc.

With this character they are in tune with nature in a fundamental way but comes with an innate curiosity that can make them want to experience everything. They'll become a bounty hunter for the thrill of the hunt, slay a cult to be hailed a hero, solve a murder mystery because the mystery is so exciting.

Plus you can play them however you want, circle of stars as they observe the heavens, circle of the land (change the origin landscape to suit your chosen circle), circle of spores as the fungi sit within your wooden heart. I love circle of the moon myself but that's just my preference, I like the idea that the transformation also changes the form and nothing else, as in you have a living wood wolf or bird, feathers of leaves and claws of thorns.

In terms of wildshape I've always made sure my character and players spend time with the animal their trying to emulate, studying them, living with them. I dislike the idea, they saw a turtle once now they can be a turtle, get them to follow the creatures, learn their habits, their place in nature. It means you don't just sit on a stump in a forest and meditate, you hunt among the wolves, forage with the bears, stay wary next to your rabbit brethren.

I just like a curious little creature looking to experience the world.

As for deeper backstory bits the calamity that comes is of course up to the DM, talk to them about what would upset the balance of nature so much that nature itself would interfere. Also I do like the idea that your soul used to be something else, an ancient druid passing on who dedicated their past life to nature? Or maybe a soul destined for hell, given another chance to better the world?

The questions about your previous life can begin to conflict with your current self, having to explore this conflict with your DM and fellow players as you grapple with who you are. Perhaps some flashbacks are in order, dinner with a family you don't recognise, a flag you can draw but no one knows about. (You don't have to be from the current time, nature don't care, you could be from millennia ago).

As for the spear speak to your DM, I like to have an item from the past that you can link your character to, great for PC to PC conversations and maybe getting a weapon that can grow with you and have hidden abilities may let your DM go hog wild with development. Plus if your weapon breaks or gets stolen you aren't just happy to grab a new one.

As always all this is changeable, play this character how you want, a super efficient killing machine or a pacifistic innocent looking to better the world, or anything in between. I love when someone takes an idea as a springboard and takes it that bit further, and if you do please let me know, I love hearing about it :)

Art by: Jason NguyenPRO Absolutely stunning piece, the detail on the face and armour, how the leaves form the cloak. And oh god the spear is beautiful, elegant and dangerous. This is so fantastic, thank you

https://www.artstation.com/contests/ancient-civilizations/challenges/14/submissions/13640#submission-update-49355

#d&d character #d&d #Dungeons and dragons #character concept #character design #tabletop #RPG #warforged #druid #fae #nature #circle of the moon #circle of the stars #circle of spores #circle of the land

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tropes-and-tales-archives · 3 years ago

Text

Silver Linings, Chapter Two

Word Count: 1815

TW: Pining.

AN: Part of a series. The series masterlist here.

February was much the same as January, but with one key difference: Rafael now had something to look forward to, a daily, slender chance that he’d get to see you. You sometimes came into the office the same time as him, and you frequented the same coffee shop. He found himself, more often than not, practically loitering with his coffee around the elevator bank.

It was a tactic that paid off about twenty percent of the time, by his calculations.

And those times it paid off…Rafael would never admit it out loud, but he knew that he was a romantic deep down. He believed in all that schmaltzy, syrupy-sweet stuff – soulmates, love-at-first-sight. He didn’t believe that it existed for him, necessarily. He was jaded and cynical, but when he loitered around the elevators and you rounded the corner, it was like an aria, or a riot of spring birdsong. The sight of you always made his throat tight, and when you smiled at him….he was a goner. You could ask him to murder with that smile and he’d probably do it happily.

As far as stupid little crushes went, Rafael hadn’t had one that was so crushing since he was a dumb schoolboy mooning over Yelina.

Luckily, being struck dumb by you made him seem infinitely cooler than he felt. And you never seemed to notice his taciturn state – you just exchanged pleasantries and asked about his evening prior and wished him a good day. Sometimes, if he had a big case that everyone knew about, you’d nudge him with your hand and wish him good luck. And then you’d leave him a floor below his own with a faint whiff of your orange blossom perfume and a bit of sunshine to arm himself with against the coming day.

-----

Almost two weeks into February, and Valentine’s Day loomed like the anniversary of some tragedy. To Rafael, anyway, that’s how it felt. No one in his life knew this about him, but when he caught Yelina cheating on him, it had happened a few days before Valentine’s Day.

Rafael, fresh out of law school and expecting his life to finally start with his first love, caught her in bed with his best friend. He spent that Valentine’s Day alone, caught between disbelief at how things had turned out and the wrenching pain at the betrayal. He had gorged himself on the expensive chocolates and champagne he’d gotten for Yelina, fallen asleep to troubling dreams, and woken up the next morning to a new, painful reality of being alone.

That memory, paired with his current cloistered life, made him dread Valentine’s Day. The crush with you made it a million times worse, because at every turn, he pictured what it would be like to be with you. When he saw an ad for a Valentine’s Day dinner, he imagined sitting across from you at some candlelit table. He imagined getting you an obscenely big bouquet of roses delivered to your desk, enough flowers to obscure your line of sight to the door, enough to make the other assistants jealous.

He imagined sharing a box of chocolates with you, curled up together on his couch, you nibbling at each piece and making him eat the ones you though gross (in his mind, you hated coconut and marzipan). He imagined splitting a bottle of some expensive champagne with you, enough to make you giggly and enough to take the anxious edge off for him.

He imagined other things too. Specifically, he imagined stripping you out of your clothes slowly, like he was unwrapping a precious gift and wanted to savor it.

Then he’d surface from these imaginings and shove them aside violently. He knew next to nothing about you. He knew your name, and he knew (from observing out of the corner of his eye) that your left ring finger was bare, but he also knew that meant nothing. He couldn’t imagine that you were single – you were gorgeous and friendly, and Rafael had seen plenty of heads turn in your direction as you walked past, men and women alike.

Valentine’s Day was on a Thursday, and for once, Rafael didn’t loiter around the elevator bank. He went in early, kept his head down, and left late. For once, he didn’t want to cross paths with you – see you in whatever nice dress you were wearing that day, see you and know what you looked like when you would inevitably meet whoever was lucky enough to date you for a romantic Valentine’s evening.

He slept poorly that night. It was difficult enough when he didn’t have an object of infatuation, but facing Valentine’s Day alone while nursing a painful crush? It was a hundred times worse.

The next day, Friday, Rafael didn’t see you all day. He didn’t see you at the coffee shop or at the courthouse or in the elevator.

He saw you in the evening, though.

After work, he stopped at a little gourmet grocery store near his apartment on the Upper West Side, meandering through the aisles for anything tempting, when he saw a familiar robin’s egg blue coat. You were in the candy aisle, your face serious in thought as you read the back of first one box of chocolates, and then another. Rafael almost turned around, but his traitorous feet pulled him forward until you caught the movement out of the corner of your eye and turned to look up.

And when you saw it was him, you gifted him with your usual smile, though this time it looked a little less sunny than usual. The way you ducked your head and cringed just a bit, you seemed almost sheepish.

“Good evening,” he said. He glanced down at the basket in your hands and noted the candy already there. “Stocking up?”

At this, you went through a remarkable series of emotions: you really cringed, then gave an embarrassed shrug, then laughed weakly. You started to place the box in your hand back on the shelf, then seemed to rethink it and shrugged again.

“I’m going to invoke the self-incrimination clause,” you told him with a smile.

Rafael chuckled. “Invoking the Fifth Amendment can be used against a person in trial though, depending how you use it.”

You tilted your head at him. “Sure, Salinas versus Texas,” you replied. Rafael perked up at that, wondered how you knew about a relatively obscure case about Miranda rights, but you looked down at the chocolates in your hand. “Good thing emptying the candy shelf after Valentine’s Day is just lame and not illegal,” you continued.

“It’s not illegal or lame,” he said. “Just practical.”

You laughed lightly at that and placed the box back on the shelf, then turned to face him with a smile. “Agreed. Let the couples have their overpriced dinners and roses. The singles can get the clearance candy. Cut flowers are overrated anyway.”

Rafael felt an excruciating twist as you fed his crush a little bit of hope, but he played it cool. He shifted to lawyer-mode, asked a different question than the one he wanted to ask, hoped he got the answer he wanted.

“No overpriced dinner for you yesterday then?” he said, and he knew he sounded casual. You turned and started walking towards the checkout area slowly, falling into step beside him.

You shook your head. “No. It was bodega sushi.” You glanced over at him. “You?”

He nodded his head. “Steak, overpriced. But I ate alone.”

“I watched some episodes of ‘the Twilight Zone’ and then watched some ‘Black Mirror,’” you continued. “I find that exploring the macabre side of human nature takes the sting out of being alone. It’s like, yes, I didn’t get a teddy bear holding a stuffed heart, but on the other hand, I’m not a sentient mannequin in a department store. On the balance, I’m doing okay.”

Rafael laughed at this. He didn’t know you at all, but he never would have pegged you as a fan of ‘the Twilight Zone.’ Or that you had a sarcastic side that you somehow managed to make sound sweet.

You reached the checkout and unloaded your pile of candy onto the counter, paid, and took your bag of merchandise. You waited for him to check out, and then you both walked out together and paused on the sidewalk.

There was an icy wind whipping up Columbus Avenue, but Rafael could barely feel it. You did though – you tightened your scarf and pulled a ridiculous knit hat out of your pocket and jammed it onto your head.

“Do you need a taxi?” he asked lamely, but you shook your head and jerked a thumb down Columbus.

“I live a few blocks away,” you replied, and you must have caught his look of surprise. He was an ADA and could barely afford to live in the Upper West Side, and he knew how much less you made as an assistant. You laughed at him, reading his thoughts.

“It’s very tiny,” you told him. “Very. You ever see those shows about tiny homes? My place makes those homes look like a McMansion.”

“Well,” he said. He cleared his throat, tried to process this new information. “I live a few blocks that way too.” He nodded in the same direction you had pointed.

You shivered against a gust of wind that lashed your coat and skirt against your legs, then told him “let’s go then” as you started marching down the street. Rafael was too embarrassed to admit that he’d normally just order a car for the short walk, but you were striding against the cold already, so he fell into line beside you.

After all the times he had watched you from a distance, stood beside you in the elevator mute – now you were walking beside him and chatting as if you were old friends, bumping into him when one of you dodged the irregular piles of snow shoveled on the sidewalks.

At the intersection with West 82nd street, you paused and told him it was your street. He was two more streets up, and he offered to walk you to your door, but you waved him off with a laugh and said you could manage. You stood at the light and waited for it to change so that you could cross, and when it finally did, you turned and gave him a wave.

“Have a good weekend, Mr. Barba,” you called out. He returned the sentiment and then watched your retreating form. It wasn’t until you were out of sight that he continued on to his place.

Have a good weekend? You were single after all, and you literally lived two streets away from him. He felt a reckless bit of hope, felt his crush strengthened and reinforced. Maybe he would have a good weekend after all.

#rafael barba #rafael barba imagine #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba x you #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction #tropes-and-tales

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starlessea · 3 years ago

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Wildest Dreams

[Pre-Apocalypse, Daryl and Reader]

A/N Based on an anon request to write something for Taylor Swift’s song, ‘Wildest Dreams.’ I was really inspired by the lyrics of this one. I hope you all like it!

Summary: Daryl can’t help but toss and turn under the stars one night, remembering someone from his past who he should have long since forgotten.

Masterlist

Buy Me A Coffee

Daryl rolled out his sleeping back onto the grass.

The quarry was quiet — no louder than the occasional birdsong or cricket — but tonight, Daryl was more sensitive than usual.

He needed to evade Merle’s snoring and the low thrum of the RV, the crackling of the fire and the chatter of the stragglers still left warming their hands over it.

So, Daryl Dixon stuffed his things into his backpack and walked a little ways from camp — settling down in a secluded spot, under the stars.

But as soon as he lay his head back onto his hands, staring up into the night sky with its blinking lunar lights, Daryl was reminded of a familiar scene.

He could remember a night from his youth that looked just like this one.

It had the same vast horizon, no light pollution from the city, and even the moon felt like an old face — staring back at Daryl like it could almost recognise him.

But something was missing.

He couldn’t picture it, but he knew for certain that there was an absence. After all, it was so blatantly obvious that the scene might as well have been a jigsaw puzzle missing its final piece.

Though, Daryl still couldn’t remember what the piece was.

So he closed his eyes and tried to let sleep wash over him, but instead could only toss and turn under those peerings sets of stars.

Daryl cranked open the car door for you from the driver’s seat — always the gentleman.

Except, you didn’t look pleased. Not in the slightest.

“Have you finally lost it?” you asked, staring at the boy like he was the dumbest thing to roll out of Georgia in the last decade.

And his smile dropped.

“What the hell are you doing driving your daddy’s truck?” you demanded, crossing your arms over your chest. “He’s actually going to murder you!”

Daryl had tried not to think about that.

He’d just wrangled the keys from his old man’s jacket when he passed out on liquor, and stuffed them in the ignition quicker than he could process the thought.

But now, the consequence of his actions was staring him right in the face — with a stern expression that didn’t match her pretty dress.

And Daryl smirked once again, because what a picture they made-

The goody two shoes church girl scolding the dropout redneck boy.

“C’mon,” he drawled, leaning his elbow back over the seat to glance behind him. “Let’s get outta this town,” he coaxed, “jus’ for the night.”

He could already see your stance begin to falter.

It’s all you ever talked about after all — running away from this place. Daryl knew it would only take the promise of a decent sunset view to make you cave.

But you were still held up by your stubborn, Sunday school pride, and didn’t take his hand to climb into the truck just yet.

“Heaven help me, Dixon,” you sighed, shaking your head, “there’s bad ideas, and then there’s this.”

Daryl let his head roll back against the seat, killing the engine out of frustration.

He’d parked up by the side of the road, in your fancy, suburban neighbourhood that never failed to make his skin crawl. He thought you’d hop straight into the truck without a second thought — but now he was beginning to second guess himself, instead.

“Yer leavin’ for college soon,” he reasoned, tapping the steering wheel. “Ya gotta live a lil’ before ya go.”

He’d tried not to think about that, either.

But it seemed to do the job, because your eyes softened ever so slightly as you glanced back at your house one final time.

You sighed in defeat. “Exactly,” you muttered, eyeing the shoddy pick-up truck, “I want to live.”

And Daryl wondered what you were insinuating about his driving, but decided not to ask.

“Quit bitchin’ an’ jus’ get in, would ya?” he grumbled, turning the keys in the ignition and making the truck thrum to life.

Finally, you clambered into the passenger seat, readjusting your pretty white dress at your knees — and Daryl quickly looked away, after he caught himself staring.

“Can you even drive stick?” you teased, crossing your legs slowly.

And Daryl thought you were far more devilish than you pretended to be.

Daryl rolled out his blanket onto the bed of the truck.

The place was quiet — no louder than the occasional birdsong or cricket — but tonight, Daryl was more sensitive than usual.

Your breaths rang out into the open air beside him, legs dangling near the wheel arch as you stared out to where the dipping sun had once been.

Daryl was so utterly focused on you — so enraptured — that he couldn’t even hear the leaves rustling in the breeze, or the tinny cassettes playing in the truck.

In this moment, Daryl Dixon’s entire life consisted of this truck bed, those stars, and that girl in her pretty white dress — who seemed even brighter than them.

“I always thought I wanted to leave this place,” you whispered, lying back on that tattered blanket and splaying your hair out beneath you. “You know, drive out to the big city one day.”

Daryl hummed in response. That was the whole reason he was fixing up his bike.

You smiled — eyes closed and peaceful. “But now that the time’s come,” you said absentmindedly, as though you’d forgotten Daryl was even there, “I find myself not wanting to go.”

The boy frowned, only because he knew you couldn’t see it.

Then stay, he almost said — but he didn’t because he was scared you actually might.

Daryl couldn’t bear to hold you back any longer.

As amusing as it had been — that picture of the dumb redneck and beautiful chuch girl — like every good story, it had to come to an end. You had a future, one that he couldn’t even imagine in his wildest dreams.

Your eyes flickered open, and Daryl looked away once again — caught for the second time.

But now, you didn’t tease him. You hopped off from the bed of the truck and walked towards the view, settling under the night sky filled with stars.

It had been brighter when he’d gotten here, a little while back, but a few hours had passed since then. He could still recall how you looked basked in the light of the sunset, like pure amber stone sparkling as you smiled.

Daryl stayed seated, watching your silhouette move against the skyline until you finally turned back to look at him.

“Will you remember me?” you asked — barely above a whisper.

And Daryl’s breath faltered.

“I’ll remember ya,” he fumbled back.

But that wasn’t really what he wanted to say.

He’d wanted to tell you how he already couldn’t go one night without thinking of your red lips and rosy cheeks, your smile and your tone of voice. And soon it’d get even worse — because he would always have the picture of you ingrained in his mind, wearing your nice dress and staring at the sunset.

There was no way he’d ever forget this moment, Daryl thought. Not even if the world ended.

Water beaded at the corner of Daryl Dixon’s eyes as he awoke to the sound of birdsong and the feeling of a bright, warm sunrise settling on his cheek.

The grass was dewy under his palms, where he had rolled a little bit away from his sleeping bag, and his neck felt stiff from forgetting to bring his pillow.

But somehow, none of that mattered.

Daryl could finally remember the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle — and it left him feeling ashamed at ever having forgotten it.

It only took him one dream to see that picture in his mind once again, clear as day — and as beautiful as the night he’d first set eyes on it.

It had only taken him one dream to remember you, and you were always better than his wildest dreams.

End.

Feedback is always welcomed; I love hearing what you all think - so feel free to comment, send in an ask, or just message me if you want to chat!

Also, if you enjoy my writing, you might want to buy me a coffee or commission me - tips are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!

A/N Hi.....

How are you all?

I wanted to write something a little longer, but I’ve been ill recently and stressed from work - so here we are! I hope you all still enjoyed this one. I certainly did.

Could you pick out the lyrics in my writing? ;)

As always, I’d love to hear what you think!

P.S. A massive thank you for all of your support, kind words, and ‘get well soon’ messages - I really appreciate you <3 <3 <3

Let me know if you want to be added/removed from the tags!

Tag List:

@xxboesefrauxx @youhavemyfantasticbeasts @teel-dinosaur @speakinglikeconstellations @bunnymother93 @alularae3 @death-becomes-her @royaleclown @alex-sulli @julesmalek @fuseburner @riverscyberwife @browneyes528 @julesclues @diaryofkali @solinarimoon @ssonia13 @phoenixblack89 @srhxpci @jocyc1997 @bvbwestfall @graniairish @bitchynicole @whitexwingedxdoves @potatochic2003 @suranne-doesstuff @witch-of-letters @sweatywildpanda @daryldixonstorm @btsiguess-kpop @reichelhache @thatmemechick @lokiswhqre @marylimlp @jodiereedus22 @shittyoudidntneedtoknow @deadthewalking @pandorahurtsx @mileysnavely @wceasley @caelys @chiliiscereal @2257-blr @i-knowyou @daryloverdixon @sunnyjellybean @potplantbedspread @huffledor-able541 @byakugan-breathing @likeglitterandgold-blog @cole22ann @ismokedyourweed @mina0842 @kidneythief @bluebonnetsummer @alkeino @trash-dino-5000 @odys @m3l4t7n1n @jamieleigh22 @winniezuru @carlgrimes96 @whateveryouwantbabyface @grandpascurtains @strawvberrymilktae @calamitycowboi @lovinnholland @dead-leviathan @abbyz28 @abzidabzy

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scattered-irises · 4 years ago

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Yu-Gi-Oh Zexal Gothic

You still aren't exactly sure what the meaning or correct translation of “Kattobingu” is. A portmanteau word, yes, but, do the two halves combine to create a whole new meaning or does it only amplify its separate parts? Perhaps you will never know. And, perhaps it is better that way.

“I build the Overlay Network! XYZ SUMMON!” is so fully hammered into the depths of your neurons now that whenever you see two or more monsters of the same level, you instinctively cry out for an XYZ monster, even if there are none in the vicinity.

You've grown desensitized to bright colors and horribly dressed people. They are like the flowers on the wallpaper in the bathroom that no one uses. You never look at them twice.

Numbers now hold special meaning to you. Number 96 in particular.

In your dreams, Kotori’s battlecry of “Yuma!” fills your slumber. You wander down an endless and dark corridor, Kotori’s cries for Yuma as diverse as tropical birdsong. You can't remember if she said anything else important. It began with Yuma and it ended with you. Yuma is all.

Blinding light now reminds you of Astral’s censored crotch. Perhaps when you are in a darkened place, you could invoke the power of the Holy Crotch.

The mysteries of the Moon have been revealed to you. With a heavy heart, you know exactly who the Man in the Moon is.

The Arclights’ dog stares into your soul. You wonder what happened to it. Knowing Tron’s sadistic habits, you think that perhaps not knowing is a gift.

The Kamishiro Twins are actually deceased. Instead, two alien souls are inhabiting them and using them like personal flesh puppets. You try not to think about that too often. You try never to think about it.

Thomas’s Gimmick Puppet deck crawls around on all fours in your waking and sleeping hours. Whenever you are alone, you feel watched. The rafters creak in reply. You take in a deep breath and proceed to dust off your antiques. Someday. But not today.

The parallels between Heaven, Hell, the Holy and Unholy Trinity dance about in your mind. If the Numeron Dragon is the Great Creator, Eliphas and Astral as God and Jesus, Don Thousand and Black Mist as Satan and the Antichrist, then who is the Great Destroyer?

Late at night, you swear you can hear Kaito whistling off in the distance. No matter how tightly you shut your windows and lock your doors, the whistling persists.

Vector’s visage has burned itself into the back of your eyelids. You see him, in all of his chaotic glory eternally.

The weeks before the end of Zexal will live in infamy. You can still hear the weekly crying fests of the fans. You can still hear Challenge the Game playing on loop as the unlucky character(s) of the week’s life is flashed through the screen. Distantly, you think you can hear the writers’ besotted jeers and laughter. Perhaps it is just Vector. Since then you carry a pack of tissues and a mourning outfit just in case the occasion arises. Death is imminent. Death is eternal. Death is inevitable. Death frolics through Zexal like young children do in a schoolyard.

Sharks now hold a special place in your heart alongside the name Reginald.

Gilag devouring Ponta haunts your every waking moment, from the tanuki’s final screams to Gilag’s sated swallowing at the end. You never want to swallow anything whole again, not even yogurt. You methodically chew your yogurt and ignore the disapproving stares of passerby. They don't understand the horror of having to bear witness to an Epicurean murder.

The sounds of orchestral arrangements, especially with heavy brass presence, will always make your blood pressure rise. Are you about to lose a duel and your lifelong spiritual partner? Is your friend about to betray you to fight in an intergalactic war? Is a shrunken man child about to kidnap your brother and torture him? You are never sure, but the brass band has turned into a harbinger of doom.

You aren't sure what Zexal means. However, you can always feel its presence, lurking around your living quarters like a shadow. It began with Zexal and it will end with Zexal. You will be buried with Zexal.

#zexal #yuma tsukumo #kaito tenjo #ryoga kamishiro #yugioh zexal #Vector Zexal #Gilag zexal #kotori Mizuki #black mist #Thomas Arclight #Astral Zexal #writing from iris

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sweetwhumpandhellacomf · 4 years ago

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Linde’s Adventure - Part 2

Part 1

CW: mentions of abuse and murder

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Linde’s hands do not shake as she cleans the blood off her sword. The house is silent but for the slosh of the water as she re-wets the towel after wringing it out, the workroom lit by a single lantern. She can’t afford to think too much about what she’s done. Any spiraling thoughts will only delay her.

Once her blade is clean and back in its sheath, she begins to pack. Two changes of clothes, all her master’s money, and as much travel-ready food as she can cram into one pack. She tucks her silvery hair into a knit hat, fearing it shining in the moonlight and getting her caught. After a moment looking at a map, she decides that north will be safe enough; her master hated the cold and had few contacts there. And so, after digging a winter cloak out of the back of her closet and tucking it around her waist, Linde flees into the night.

She doesn’t sleep til the moon is low in the sky, finding a hollowed out tree trunk and tucking herself into its darkness until the sun and birdsong wake her some few hours later. She crawls out into the misty morning, blinking up at the leafy canopy above.

It wasn’t murder; not if it was to protect someone, to save them from becoming like her. But the locals won’t understand that, and even the thought of showing her arms by way of explanation, demonstration of what Sarina did and could do, makes her skin crawl. Another show of weakness and failure.

No, she can’t stay. She has to go where nobody will know her. Linde pulls a bag of dried fruit out of her bag and eats a scant few pieces before standing, stretching, and starting her journey northwards.

#my writing #whump #ladywhump #linde's adventure

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t-underneaththeradardancing · 4 months ago

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its not about the ice cream ffs

is that 2 strident for so early and its we gonna have some fukken coffee kind of morning

dont forget the moon we wouldnt sea otter

wise -try to find reasons every daze to look for joy some new

music or half remembered mary oliver

anywhat lets get the ball rolling - starting w a good and always kitty - still unhappy she cant play in toxic dust of construction - she not a lap cat - ever - once in a while is nice but yah up and down too much like a boxed jack unbound - a musical to go to later - we mention - the moon awready - too early 4 murder - gray sky as is normal and usual witch reminds me of rayleigh -witch unpoet wuz axing about and i couldnt find the words to mansplain - now armed w the internet ...birdsong in the evening mainly - sometimes they feed b4 or apres corvids -delighted if they get more than crumbs - in 1's and a rare 2

yah the fuckery despite it being gospel sunday - and yah theres some problematic like hollywood but then therz mavis staples

the usual mixture of not quite poetry - oh weight the dreams are all trynna get somewhere or home and getting nowhere man in a not quite accurate version of so called reality but not so much surrealist pillow if you pleez - o fux we looked at the news today oh boy and we r terror fried tho no worse than most daze

we actually edited by the way

an infinity of laundry

hallelujah

#poetry i guess #gospel sunday #rayleigh effect #editing after posting

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jshoulson · 3 years ago

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Today’s Poem

Complaint of El Río Grande --Richard Blanco

I was meant for all things to meet: to make the clouds pause in the mirror of my waters, to be home to fallen rain that finds its way to me, to turn eons of loveless rock into lovesick pebbles and carry them as humble gifts back to the sea which brings life back to me.

I felt the sun flare, praised each star flocked about the moon long before you did. I’ve breathed air you’ll never breathe, listened to songbirds before you could speak their names, before you dug your oars in me, before you created the gods that created you.

Then countries—your invention—maps jigsawing the world into colored shapes caged in bold lines to say: you’re here, not there, you’re this, not that, to say: yellow isn’t red, red isn’t black, black is not white, to say: mine, not ours, to say war, and believe life’s worth is relative.

You named me big river, drew me—blue, thick to divide, to say: spic and Yankee, to say: wetback and gringo. You split me in two—half of me us, the rest them. But I wasn’t meant to drown children, hear mothers’ cries, never meant to be your geography: a line, a border, a murderer.

I was meant for all things to meet: the mirrored clouds and sun’s tingle, birdsongs and the quiet moon, the wind and its dust, the rush of mountain rain— and us. Blood that runs in you is water flowing in me, both life, the truth we know we know: be one in one another.

#Today's Poem #Richard Blanco #Corona of Poetry

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littlemisslol-fic · 4 years ago

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44 (Puppy love) and 20 (Breaking the rules) for Varian and Hugo? I just want dumb boys doing dumb things together,,,, UggHhHH

Hey anon!! Thanks for the ask! I merged both of these into one story, but it’s basically a full fledged oneshot by now so oops. Have some modern-day-au-varigo!!

44 (Puppy love) and 20 (Breaking the rules)

“We’re going to get into so much trouble…”

Hugo looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“What’s wrong, goggles?” The blond laughs, “Scared?”

Varian bristles at the taunt, scowling. He shifts awkwardly- his shoes scuff the dirt in a way that only accents how stressed out he feels. The forest around them sings with birdsong, the rustle of trees in the wind, and the gentle snip-snip of Hugo’s wire cutters. The moon shines down on them, full and bright, a hole punched in the middle of the sky surrounded with starry shrapnel.

Varian’s hoodie- Hugo’s hoodie that he’d stolen, actually, not that he’d admit it- is soft and warm around him, the green fabric surrounding him like a hug. Hugo grins like an animal, and turns back to the fence in front of them. Varian watches with apprehension as Hugo snips away at it, chopping an ugly, but functional entrance.

“I’m not scared.” Varian finally mutters, shifting his weight again. The late August air is still warm, but starting to cool the closer they get to midnight. “I’m just… concerned.”

“Sure, Var,” Hugo laughs, sticking out his tongue as he snips at the last of the fence. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Varian scowls again, flushing. The woods around them are dark, but Varian isn’t concerned about that- he grew up here in the small town of Old Corona, after all, he knew these woods like the back of his hand- no, what scares him is the idea of getting caught.

“Seriously, Hugo, if we get caught my dad’s gunna-”

“Flip out?” Hugo blows a lock of blond hair out of his face as he snips at the last of the wire. “Yeah, I know. That’s why we’re not going to get caught.”

Varian grits his teeth. Hugo, content with snipping the final chunk of fence, stands back up and shoves the wire cutters in his backpack. With a rough kick- Varian cringes at the noise, blue eyes scanning the treeline frantically- Hugo’s perfectly cut square goes flying away from the fence, leaving a doorway chopped out of the wire.

“See, easy.” Hugo grins. Varian scoffs, but when the blond offers him a hand he takes it. Hugo leads him through the hole in the fence and Varian follows with a grumble; as much as he’s bitching he’s curious about what exactly his boyfriend is up to. Hugo was nothing if not spontaneous, showing up at Varian’s house at nearly eleven at night and dragging him through the woods towards one of the only dangerous places in Old Corona.

The old fairgrounds, while only recently abandoned, had been locked tight for two years. Varian can’t help but look around in awe, seeing the way that the rusting metal and cracked concrete are slowly being overtaken by nature once again. It’s dark, the kind of inky black you can’t see inside the city, the kind that makes the milky way above so vibrant and bright in comparison- like a river of stars snaking across the night sky.

Varian can’t help but stop, just looking up and into the sky. Hugo pauses, grinning and letting him stare. Varian doesn’t get out much- not with his usual obligations as the mayor’s son- and these are the kinds of things he missed while growing up… the kind of things that Hugo is nothing but glad to show him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Varian hears Hugo ask him. He nods, dumbstruck, but when he looks at his boyfriend- Hugo isn’t looking at the sky. He’s staring Varian dead in the eye. He feels his face grow hot- he must be a shocking colour of red by now- but Hugo doesn’t make mention of it. Instead he holds out an arm, an offering that Varian gladly takes. He worms his way into Hugo’s side, delighting as a strong arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him close.

The old fairgrounds are the kind of quiet that sinks deep in your chest. Not that they’re silent- Varian can hear the chirping of crickets and the creaky whine of metal swings as they pass a swing ride- a large tower with a round disk at the top, nearly a hundred swings hanging from rusty chains. When the wind blows they swing along in soft, meandering arcs. Out here, nearly in the country, the quiet is something that seems sacred. The kind of silence reserved for graveyards and churches, shrines and memorials. It feels immoral to break it, so they don’t.

Hugo leads Varian up to a large roller coaster, the wooden frame still nearly perfect. Varian looks at it with apprehension, digging the heels of his hightops into the cracked concrete as Hugo begins to tug him forward.

“We’re not going up there.” Varian declares, “I don’t have a deathwish, and neither did you last time I checked.”

“Relax goggles.” Hugo grins, “I was up there earlier this afternoon, checked it myself. It’s sturdy. We gotta hurry though, or we’re going to miss it!”

Hugo spins on his heel and hops the metal turnstile, not looking back. Varian scowls, following despite himself. Hugo knows him too well- knows that Varian would follow him to the ends of the earth if Hugo asked it of him. They draw close to the base of the coaster, shuffling up on top of a series of boxes left behind by previous explorers- or maybe Hugo himself that afternoon, apparently. Varian can’t help but scowl… what did his boyfriend even get up to while Varian wasn’t keeping track of him? Risking life and limb to climb unstable ruins, apparently.

Hugo begins to scale the main hill of the coaster, the path easy as on the left side is a set of metal stairs for maintenance. Varian follows, his hand firmly planted on the railing as they climb higher.

“Are you just leading me up there to murder me?” Varian calls, shuddering as the wind picks up a little as they reach about halfway up. The hill’s nearly five stories high, easily the tallest attraction in the abandoned park. Varian can almost see the tops of the trees from here.

“Why would I take you all the way up here?” Hugo asks, turning around and smirking at him. “If I wanted you dead I would have killed you on ground level.”

“I… that’s not assuring!” Varian gripes, “If anything that makes this worse!”

Hugo, the bastard, laughs.

“You don’t like bullshit.” Hugo says, and Varian can’t help but melt. Hugo turns around and keeps climbing, his boots making little thunk-thunks on the aging metal. Varian scrambles up after him, breathing in the wind as they finally reach the top. Hugo had been telling the truth, it seems, as there’s already a small setup at the very peak of the arch.

Two small camp chairs, a blue cooler in between, all precariously balanced on a small flat space at the very top. Varian assumes it was once for maintenance, like the stairs; a cluster of blankets hanging from two long flagpoles attached to the safety rails make a little roof, and when Hugo hits a little battery back a series of string lights flick on in a rainbow glow. Hugo crawls down into the little fort, looking back and smiling. Not his usual smirk, but an honest-to-god smile.

Varian can’t help but fall a little more in love.

He crawls in after Hugo, laughing as they get tangled up for a second. For a second they become a flailing cluster of arms and legs, giggling like children as they trip over each other. Varian gets an elbow to the gut and grunts- Hugo’s arms are suddenly wrapping around his waist.

“Sorry, sorry,” The blond snickers, “Didn’t account for your stupid legs-”

“What, you just want me to leave them behind next time?” Varian groans, resting up against Hugo’s side with a sigh. Hugo’s warm and solid as Varian leans into him- settles under Hugo’s arm like he belongs there, sinks into the heat of the other’s body, curls into the embrace like he was made for it.

Hugo’s chin settles on his head, and Varian smiles softly to himself.

With Hugo’s back propped up against the pole, they both face out over the forest. In the distance, Old Corona glows with street lamps and houses and cars. Above them, the stars shine just as brightly, if not moreso. Varian smells pine and something distinctly Hugo- breathes it in and lets it settle deep in his chest like a balm.

Hugo’s arms tighten around his waist, the two of them looking out towards the distant light of home. Varian feels at peace, the gentle waves of tranquil silence and soft lights from their little makeshift tent soothing the ails of day.

And then, just as Varian’s getting used to the relaxation-

Pop-pop, pop pop pop-pop-pop-

Fireworks scatter across the sky in a rainbow of light and colour, vivid oranges and blues and purples glowing across the inky sky like a scattering of magic. Varian’s eyes go wide, watching with a childlike glee as they fizzle and spark. Hugo’s hold on him gets a little closer as Varian shifts, as if the blond’s scared he’s going to pull away-

“Did you know about this?” Varian asks him, turning in his arms. He can see the reflection of colour in the lenses of Hugo’s glasses- and in the warm look in those green eyes.

“Sure I did.” Hugo says, “I know a guy who knew a guy.”

Varian snorts, refusing to look away. Hugo’s trying to play this off- of course he is- but Varian knows that he’d probably been planning this for a while. He feels his heart start to thump at the thought, that Hugo had set all this up, had thought of doing all of this for Varian-

He grabs Hugo by the strings of his hoodie and pulls him into a kiss. Hugo smiles into it, leaning into it and pulling Varian close. They kiss for what feels like hours and seconds, Varian can’t tell, before they break. They both breathe a little heavily, gasping for air a mere few inches from another kiss.

“I love you, goggles.” Hugo whispers, like a prayer.

“I love you too,” Varian murmurs, lost to the moment.

When they meet again, Varian can’t help but smile.

#varigo #varian #tts #asks #fic #these are fun!!!#sorry it took a bit anon #love you!! hope you see this!!

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cryoculus · 5 years ago

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Lunaris [7/11]

!! HEADS UP !! Trigger warnings for graphic depictions of violence and blood imagery in this chapter are put up as well, albeit minimal.

Navigation

Chapter Title: Eclipse Pairing: Yokai!Akaashi Keiji/Reader Word Count: 3,263

***

Going on an hour's worth of a jog is a staple for quiet Sunday mornings like these. You stuck by routine religiously, despite that ground-breaking revelation the previous night because...well, you didn't have a reason to remain idle. So what if you're the perpetrator for stealing a yokai's heart? The moment you opened your eyes at the first breath of dawn, you were unknowingly filled with a newfound resolve.

You weren't going down without a fight.

"Oba-san, I'll head off now!"

Your grandmother was in the middle of her morning prayers, so the lack of a response was understandable. But even when you were already descending the steps from the foyer, you could still feel her gaze following your retreating form. For a moment, you had half the mind to go back and tell her that you were okay. That everything's fine. That you definitely won't let some half-dead creature get the best of you because you didn't have the blood of the Amatsukis running in your veins for nothing.

Each breath came out deep and smooth. After years of running across fields and ovals, it's only normal that you've got your breathing under reins. The temperature wasn't too sweltering for your taste either, and the comfortable feel of the wind breezing past your shoulders only egged you on to pick up the pace.

Descending the hill in these runs granted you a view of the sun climbing up the sky once you passed the roadside overlooking the city. The waking dawn was slightly obscured by a thicket of trees and overgrown vegetation, but the daylight managed to pierce through the leaves either way—bathing your skin in warmth of the sun.

The only thought that managed to surface in your mind was, "It would suck if I died and didn't get to see this anymore, huh."

"(Surname)?"

You stopped in your tracks the moment you spotted a familiar face climbing up the hill. Bokuto, who also seemed to be going on a run from the clothes he's wearing, gaped at you, surprised.

"Bokuto-san?" you breathed, trotting over to the ace. "What are you doing here?"

He grinned back at you, and it's hard to miss the way the morning light made the gold of his eyes glimmer even brighter. "I was just headed up the shrine to offer some prayers," he said, but his initial cheeriness faltered for a moment—regressing into quaint embarrassment. "And, uh, I kind of wanted to check on you. After what happened last night, and all."

"Oh," was all that you could manage, remembering last minute that you ditched him without any sort of explanation. You coughed out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of your neck as you averted your gaze. "Ah, yeah. I'm really sorry for just leaving you like that. Did Sumi and Kazuto walk back home with you?"

Bokuto shook his head. "Nah, they were still watching the lunar dance. I had to go home by then, anyway, so it wasn't a big deal."

So he didn't know about your little delirious episode at the shrine. You felt the unease that you didn't know had been crawling beneath your skin dissipate, even a little. The last thing you'd want is to explain something so outlandish to Bokuto, of all people. From his reply, it seemed that Itsumi and Kazuto could have witnessed that, but were thankfully yet to corner you about it.

"Anyways, since you're here, do you want to grab some breakfast downhill?" he offered, a kind smile playing at his lips.

You thought that, had you spent the previous evening like any normal high school girl dreamed—watching the fireworks side-by-side with the boy she likes—maybe you would have agreed. Maybe, if it was your own heart, and not a yokai's, that was keeping you alive right now, you could have indulged yourself in Bokuto's not-so-subtle advances. But that wasn't the case at all. These were the circumstances you had to live with.

And you were going to see them through until the end.

"I'm sorry, Bokuto-san," you sighed, training your eyes back on the sunrise. "I'd...rather be alone right now."

Before he could even utter out any response, you were already running into a sprint, taking one of the off-road pathways where he couldn't follow you. Having spent your childhood aimlessly wandering the hill—committing each of the paths that ran like veins across the rich forests around you—you knew perfectly well how to hide in a way where no one could find you.

Leaves crinkled under the weight of your running shoes as you slowed your strides, eyes fluttering shut as you let the glorious birdsong ring in your ears. But your moment of tranquility was interrupted by the steady beeps coming from your watch. With a sigh, you cast it an uninterested glance, seeing that your first twenty minutes were up and you haven't even burned half your required calories.

You let yourself lean on one of the tall trees in the area, chuckling breathlessly.

"Tonight for sure."

Undoubtedly, Akaashi had been right when he said the moon shines brightest in the cemetery uphill.

With each step you took as you ascended your usual path, it was as if Tsukuyomi favored only this patch of land across the country and nowhere else. But even though the moonlight spilled across the hill like it typically did, it was like its residents were in hiding. You didn't hear any small animals scuttling about. The cicadas seemed to have hibernated early for the night. And even your grandmother retired to her bedroom before the clock even struck at 8 P.M.

"Don't go outside," she had warned with a reproachful kind of sternness. "Remember what I told you."

But you wouldn't be able to move forth with your plans if you merely cooped yourself up in your bedroom. So, when you were sure she was already fast asleep, you grabbed one of her old oil lamps from the storage room, lighting the wick with a single match before you began your trek uphill.

The gate to the cemetery was gaping wide when you reached the summit, and you let out a stuttering breath to somehow ease yourself. The small bottle containing the blessed water from the shrine's well felt heavy in the pocket of your sweats as you darted your gaze around for any sign of him. When you were met with nothing but the whisper of the stale wind, you gazed up at the sky—the moon overhead slowly, slowly being swallowed by the shadow of the sun.

Your fingers coiled tighter around the lamp, forcing yourself into hyper-awareness. If Akaashi's identity as the lunar goddess' offspring was anything to go by, you were almost too certain that the occurrence of an eclipse will affect him somehow. Whether it will strengthen him or weaken him, you didn't know. But what you did know was that, if you were going to face him, it had to be tonight.

"Your penchant for making questionable decisions was entertaining at first, but this is just suicide, don't you think?"

Then and there, the charm that's kept you safe all these years glowed with its usual, telltale white. You grit your teeth when a whirlwind blew past, and you suddenly felt his hot breath fanning the nape of your neck.

"Who said I had any plans to die?" you murmured, a challenge underlining your words as you faced him.

Akaashi looked as infuriatingly normal as ever with his loose shirt, gym shorts, and volleyball shoes. The only thing that gave away his demonic heritage were his ruby red eyes and the sneer that gave you a flash of fanged teeth.

"The fact that you came to me already seals your fate," he chuckled, animosity oozing from his words. "I am going to kill you."

But even if he could very much put a hand through your chest like he did in your dreams, you had an inkling that Akaashi wouldn't do it. Despite the menacing aura that enveloped him, your instincts were telling you that it was all for show. Was it his heart in your chest whispering all these little clues to you? Was that why, even though you definitely should have alerted the shrine of his presence, you couldn't bring yourself to do so?

"Are you sure about that?" you tested him, meeting his vermillion gaze head-on. "If you really wanted to kill me and take your heart back, wouldn't you have done it already?"

"Who are you to question a yokai's timing, human?" he hissed, eyes shining with an anger you knew was staged. The words were curled around a growl, yet...you felt no fear. Just a wave of calm washing over you like how the moonlight swathed your form in its bright splendor.

Shucking common sense out of the window, you stepped forward until you were directly in front of the yokai. His mask of hostility faltered for a split second, and that alone confirmed your suspicions. He didn't want to do this. Not at all.

And it's for that reason alone that you gathered the courage to take his still-human hand, placing his palm flat against your chest like an open invitation to murder you. Akaashi's gaze hardened. You could feel him straining against your grip, but you kept his hand in place, even if your charm glowed even harsher with the close contact.

"Can you feel that?" you murmured, casting a sidelong glance at your parents' gravestones just a distance away. "That's the heart that saved me when I was little. The heart that could've saved my mother's life, but instead she chose to give to me. Your heart." The tone of your voice nearly broke with the words, but you steeled yourself. You couldn't afford to lose face—not now. "You can take it back if you really want to. You have all the right to do so...but that's not what you wish, isn't it?"

For a moment, his form flitted between human and yokai, like he was keeping his control from slipping. Akaashi bared his fangs at you with a fearsome snarl, and at the same time, you noticed that the moon overhead had already been enveloped by the sun—painting its surface a bright red, much like the yokai's eyes.

"Do not speak to me as if you know my pain!" he roared in a garbled voice before he lunged at you with breakneck speed, pinning you to the ground before you could even react.

Pitch black darkness enveloped the cemetery, and the only source of light came from the oil lamp that was haphazardly knocked out of your grasp and the warding charm on your wrist. The fear that you should have felt the moment you practically offered yourself up to him was beginning to catch up. His hands, with talons now protruding from them, wrung around your throat, cutting off circulation with a single squeeze. You desperately gasped for air, blunt fingernails clawing at his hands, but to no avail.

"I did not kill you on-sight because I was biding my time for when I'm most powerful," Akaashi spat, tightening his grip that you nearly lost your vision for a moment. "But a human like you doesn't need any further explanations. You're nothing but—argh!"

In the midst of his little monologue, you managed to fish out the blessed water in your pocket. It was a miracle, really, that you had the foresight not to seal the cap too tightly. The minimal drops that got on his skin sizzled in your ears, and when you felt his grip falter, you kicked him with as much lower leg strength you could muster.

Akaashi rolled onto the grass, writhing from the pain of having been struck with blessed water. The sight sent an arrow of remorse flying straight through your chest. He could've ripped your—his—heart out when he had the upper hand, but he didn't.

"Why are you holding back?" you asked, backing away cautiously as you picked up the oil lamp. "You told me the moment you found who it was that had your heart, you would take it back. Were you lying?"

Asking a yokai if he was lying was a little laughable, really. They were creatures of darkness, so lying was right up their alley. But Akaashi...Akaashi had always been different from the rest.

As you walked closer, you held the lamp in front of you—the bright orange glow of the flame illuminating the sight of Akaashi's bloodstained face. Crimson tears lined his long lashes where they pooled at the edges of his eyes and cascaded down his pale cheeks. The burn marks from the blessed water had already healed, but it seemed that the agony was yet to ease.

"I just want it to end," he croaked, voice sounding all kinds of broken. "I am neither alive nor dead. Without my heart I can never know peace."

Your gaze softened, heart rippling with pity at the sight of him. "What do you mean?"

Akaashi heaved a long, exhausted breath, hauling himself up to his feet before doing his habit of looking up at the sky—at the moon. And for a moment, you liked to think that the expression that shadowed his face was but a glimpse of the age-long suffering you couldn't even begin to comprehend.

"I was the first of my mother's children," he began, his words coming out much more even than earlier. "Keiji, she called me. The name I was given was meant for a leader that would keep all the children of the moon in check. I was supposed to be up in the heavens, ruling alongside her. But that wasn't what happened at all."

"The first time I descended onto the Earth, it was to bless the first worshippers of the lunar deities with prosperity. But..." Akaashi faltered for a moment, intently affixing you with his red-eyed gaze. "It was a trick. Their entire offertory was a ploy to get me to reveal myself so they could subject me into their godless experiments."

His tale had you frowning for a moment. You weren't very certain, but it was like you've already heard this before...

"Every thing and every creature should always have a counterpart. That was the philosophy they lived with," the yokai reiterated as he flexed his talons before his eyes. "It was the same for the gods they so-religiously worshipped. In order to maintain the balance in the world—"

"There should be a force that opposed even the gods themselves," you continued for him, lips quivering with horror when you finally realized what was so glaringly familiar about his narrative. "That's...that's from the origin story of the first yokai. He was created by delusional worshippers..." There was a pause in your response, like you couldn't quite form the right words, before you forced yourself to look back at him.

"You're the first yokai?"

For the first time in a while, you saw Akaashi's mouth quirk into a tired smile. "I'm glad you're not making me regret sparing you."

You ran a hand through your hair in utter disbelief, your mind spouting out questions you weren't even sure you want to know the answers to. Not only was he Tsukuyomi's eldest son, he was also the first yokai cursed to wander the earth for all eternity. If you cross-referenced your grandmother's story with Akaashi's, it would add up why he would want the shrine's help in reaching out to his mother.

He just wanted to go back to his home in the skies.

"My grandmother told me about the yokai who infiltrated the shrine years ago, whose heart they sealed away," you spoke again, half-wondering if you were even in the position to demand even more answers. "Why do you need your heart to ascend to the heavens? It's the crux of those worshippers' utter blasphemy. Surely, you don't—"

"Gods do not have hearts, yes," Akaashi interrupted, pressing his mouth into a thin line. "But the object that keeps my existence anchored to reality is hidden within it—the essence of the moon. When I said I would take back my heart, that was what I meant, and obtaining it does not require me to kill you."

Not even your grandmother's strict lessons covered that little tidbit of information. You found yourself ghosting a hand over your chest, feeling the steady thrum of your pulse beating underneath your fingertips. Akaashi's eyes roved over your much shorter frame, and the relief in his eyes looked much more genuine than the wrath he had bluffed with earlier.

"This world is cruel, (Name)," he sighed, and you realized that it was the first time he addressed you as such. "I cannot converse with my mother in this form, nor can she personally interfere with the affairs of the earthly realm. If I were to return, it would be of my own effort alone."

"It took me centuries to find her sacred land right here, and just before I could finally go back, my heart, my essence, was taken away—and I was made to suffer once again by the same people who swore to worship us." The somber ring in Akaashi's voice made your heart sink with regret. Regret for ever questioning him. Regret for the shrine's cruel actions against him.

At the same time, the cemetery was beginning to brighten all around the two of you. Sparing a quick glance at the sky, you saw that the sun's shadow was already receding, letting the moonlight rain down where it shone brightest once more.

"If you're going to go back," you told him, seizing his hand and, mimicking your previous actions, flattened his palm over your heart, "it's not going to be tonight."

He gave you a tired look, like he couldn't believe you were still being stubborn after everything he's told you. "And why is that?"

You breathed in deep, suddenly made aware of how cold his fingers were and how your charm no longer glowed alarmingly. But you couldn't give them another thought when you stared at Akaashi dead in his now-gunmetal blue eyes.

"I'm going to prove to you that the world isn't always so cruel," you told him, conviction lacing your tone. "And I'm also going to show you that the life your heart has given me won't ever be put to waste."

Akaashi could only stare at you with his lips slightly parted in muted surprise. "You know you don't have to do this, right?"

"But I will," you insisted. "And you're going to let me do so anyway."

There was another lengthy pause in your conversation when you saw the desolation on his face morph into something lighter, more at ease. For a fleeting moment, you thought that he looked more human in those few moments than he had in the entire time he pretended to be so.

"Perhaps, I do have a weak spot for someone as persistent as you," he relented, pinching the bridge of his nose with exasperation. "But I have only one request before you go through with this madness of yours."

You cocked your head to the side as he withdrew his hand from your grasp. "What is it?"

Akaashi pulled his lips into a lopsided smile, his cold, porcelain fingers reaching up to tuck a loose tuft of hair behind your ear.

"Don't make me lose faith in the human race a third time, (Name)."

#haikyuu!!#lunaris #akaashi keiji #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #violence #tw violence #tw blood #blood

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friendlyneighborhooddolan · 5 years ago

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Mind the moon: part two

warnings: This story is very descriptive. Other trigger warnings are: sexual and graphic scenes, death, religion talk, descriptions of murder, alcoholism, and binge food eating.

pairing: Grayson Dolan x reader

summary: in the first two years after his girlfriend died, Grayson became a wreck, and maybe he will get himself fixed up, and maybe he won’t. Two years later, he meets Y/N.

Masterlist

THE GAME

I have a heart so heavy I think it might be malfunctioning But the warranty is probably voided.

By all the things I have done to cause my own ruin The nights I spent with people who only care for the high And not why and the friends I made in people who were bad ideas and Never text to see if I’m okay.

Do you think there’s a place I could Trade in this body or just maybe Rewire my brain Because I’m still in so much pain?

Her phone rung, waking her up from deep slumber. It was three in the morning, and Y/N groaned softly, pawing at her eyes before answering.

Grayson. She should have known.

“Hello?” she said groggily, her voice harsh.

“Y/N? Hi love,” he slurred, “I jus’ wanted t’ talk.”

She sat up, yawning and turning on the bedside lamp. Her eyes fluttered closed, not used to harsh light this late at night. “Grayson, have you been drinking?”

A giggle on the other side of the phone, an obvious answer: “Perhaps.”

“Where are you?”

“Dunno. Don’t matter. Jus’ wanted t’ talk, Y/N, hon, please.”

“Don’t call me hon. I’m calling Ethan,” she muttered out. Her brain wasn’t functioning this late at night (or early in the morning, depends), and all she could think about was her bed. She didn’t have it in herself to talk to drunk and heartbroken Grayson Dolan.

“Don’t call E, please,” he begged, “We got in a fight because of my habits, damn.”

“Look, Gray. It’s the third time you’re calling me this late at night. I have work tomorrow. I can’t help you if you don’t want help.”

Those words instantly sobered him, his breathing picking up. He was suddenly becoming aware of his surroundings, of his friends and his brother who was probably worried sick after Grayson ran out when Ethan started confronting him.

“Oh God. Y/N. I miss Sage so terribly, and the feeling is making me bleed, but not in a visible way. Y/N. I need help.”

“I know,” she sighed out. To hell, she knew, and she knew he was using his pretty eyes and soft face to manipulate and guilt trip her a bit, but she agreed to help him. “Where are you?”

“Gonna text you the address.”

Y/N ended the call, sighing. Still in her pajamas, she put on a pair of sneakers and ran out.

There are those people who you aren’t able not to love when you meet them. That’s who Grayson was to Y/N. To her, Grayson was beautiful. But the terror, the terror raging behind his pretty eyes was beautiful, not the man she looked at. To her, beauty was rarely soft or comforting. Genuine beauty was always alarming.

I guess they were both angels in each other’s stories, and demons in their own context.

“Next time, instead of going out drinking, I’m going to watch the stars with you,” Grayson promised when Y/N killed the engine of her car, calling Ethan to help her get Grayson out.

Their mouths were so full of smoke and starry skies that their jaws cracked and bent with the effort to contain it. They exhaled gold and fragments of magnolia, pink and richness coming out of his mouth. His eyes were so bright, the nebulae seemed to swim in the excess of all the exuberance: dark and volatile and clumsy, tripping over their shadows in time with his heartbeat.

“We both know you aren’t going to,” she answered.

Grayson realized he messed up. His eyes held heartbreak. Even Y/N didn’t believe in him, and over the past few weeks he realized she believes in everyone. She believes everyone can be repaired, no matter how broken and scattered and rotten someone is.

“Y/N. I want to go to therapy, please. Or those places where they make you recover.”

She scoffed, and Ethan opened his door to help him get out and into the house.

“Damn it, Gray. Why are you doing this to yourself?” Ethan shook his head, disappointment taking over his pretty features.

Grayson Dolan started sobbing, then and there. He realized he fucked up, spewing his guts out on Dolan frontyard and the green grass. And with his guts, out came all the apologies.

Tomorrow, they took him to the clinic.

To think there’s blood all over his hands. To think that in a handful of months he will be conjuring memories and hummingbirds and roses and homes with those hands like an ink-stained magician as everyone listens and wonders and wonders.

But, in the meanwhile, there’s a path laid out in front of him, the heavy looks of the traps. Beneath the soft marble, a heart beating.

He will know every bone of his, and how to turn every pain into a birdsong, and a spirit alive in those bones.

Yet this man with his yearning heart, burning for a sliver of armor, blazing for a shard of love. They will act as if he’s Apollo bathed in gold, boys his age will carry copies of his soul.

Clever, tender hands that stitched up his need, as if he was a wound and they stitch him whole again.

Y/N visited him every day. Ethan did so whenever he could.

(“Doesn’t it bother you?” She asked him one day as they were reading the headlines filled with his pictures, “They refuse to see the good in you and only choose to focus on your faults and mistakes.”

He turned his head to the forest and looked for the horizon in the peach colored sky. “Why should it? We’re all bad in someone’s story.”)

He has terrible nightmares at times. A few nights ago he dreamed he was shot and there were no wounds. He kept having to convince people there were bullets in his spine. His subconsciousness is a lazy poet.

He has no right to be this tragic, to have a brain like a broken record, repeating her death. The worst has already happened to him and he had tried so hard to be whole again.

He was, quite frankly, terrified of what was inside of him those nights. His organs were such ugly things, twisting and rupturing and failing. He wasn’t sure of his progress.

But in the mornings, he got up and, despite demons calling his name, he started all over again.

Taking out his phone, he texted Y/N. She wasn’t coming in today, something about her working overtime.

“We will watch the stars when I come home.”

A reply: “You didn’t forget”

“I never do.”

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officialleehadan · 6 years ago

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Born and Grown

If you go into the forest, be respectful of the trees. That was something that no villager of Waystation ever forgot or took for granted, because the forest never, ever stopped watching, and trees have a long memory.

If you cut a tree for wood, plant two at the edge of the forest and do not take more than you need. Fallen wood is free to take, unless it houses a new-sprouted tree. Herbs, fruit, and mushrooms too, as long as there are enough left for the birds and beasts. Fallen fruit is to be left unless it came from an orchard tree.

In return, no wild beast ever tears up the fields. Bears leave the waste bins alone, and the giant tree cats stay high in the trees and never bother anyone who was minding the unspoken laws. Animals who escape are found back in their pen come morning, and no one has been killed by a wild boar since long before the elders can remember. Children who become lost turn up just before sundown, guided by tiny glowing flowers that bloom at their toes to lead them home again.

Women walk freely into the forest, certain that it would protect them, and it does. Like all towns, bandits came for Waystation now and again, but they never, ever went into the forest, and when they did, they never came out again. Children go berrying, or looking for herbs without fear, because the forest loves them, and nothing would dare to harm them in that bird-filled green.

Every now and then, a young man goes into the heart of the forest, and returns with a wife. Those wives share their forest-ken with everyone, and nobody asks where they came from, because asking questions of the faeries always goes poorly. Still, those few who lived among the town were well-loved and welcomed, and their children often become heroes of the tales when they grow up.

It wasn't until a man- the son of the Lord to the village and who didn't know the rules- kills a willow-maid by mistake. He loved her so that he cut her tree and took her from the forest, only for her to die in his arms as soon as she steps foot out of the forest. Her grave-flower blooms every full moon, and sometimes villagers hear faerie-song when it does.

The village kills the lordling on the edge of the forest for the crime, and leave his body just inside where the trees can deal with him in their own time.

It disappears without a trace and no one looks for it.

After that, the trees creaks whenever a man comes in, and the few of the faerie folk who stayed are wild and unpredictable. Willows throw up suckers when they fall- everyone knows that- and the old legends tell terrible stories about what happens when a human kills the heart of a tree- the part of it that can love.

Children are still welcome. Berries ripen where they are easy to pick, and flowers lead them home at night, but their elders watch the branches above now. If they stay after dark, growls from the bushes hasten them home and the trees moan like a storm is quaking them, but there is no breeze to make the leaves tremble like they do.

The willows are woken, and no one knows how to put them to peace again.

A Lord tries to burn it- the father of the man who loved a dryad and killed her- some miles farther down the road. It grows back overnight, surrounding his army. Only a few warriors stumble out, with tales of the trees- of willows- their branches like lashes and a too ready noose wandering through the forsaken camp with a heavy fruit of dead or dying men in their branches. The Lord is found dead, untouched except for his expression of utmost terror. The healers say his heart burst.

No one goes near the forest again.

Except for Waystation. There, they still enter, nervous at first. They follow the laws, and let fruit stay where it falls and are careful to always plant two trees when they cut one. The children gather herbs, and the ladies linger in the trees where it is cool, and spin and laugh there. They pick flowers for their hair and their men smile as they dance in the green sunshine.

And the forest stays quiet around them.

The ladies of the town- for it becomes a town slowly, as villages on a traveled road tend to do- have always been welcome in the forest, and that does not change. It takes longer for the men to be welcome again- the forest moans around them in warning, but gentles in time. Trees remember for a long time, and these men have always lived here. Many feel that the forest is quiet, not in angry readiness, but in deepest mourning. A few mention that the trees move around them, and one granddaughter of a faerie wife sees something more.

A man, dressed as a hunter with a ready bow and falcon-eyes lingers among the trees. He knows her tongue, for he raises a hand when she calls a greeting, but he never comes nearer and he melts away when she tries to go to him. The trees talk more when he is close, and he seems to always have one ear to them. The maiden knows that he is no hunter of her people, for he leaves no track, and the wood-birds know him so well they land on his shoulders and preen his hair.

She thinks he is handsome, and blushes when her mother asks about him.

Her father is unnerved when he hears, as spring turns into summer- that the hunter leaves gifts. A fallen feather, sometimes, or a carven flower of golden wood so lifelike it looks like it will flutter in the breeze. The maiden does not mention that there have been other moments, when the hunter crowds her against the smooth bark of a tree and leaves her with kiss-reddened lips and mussed hair.

Her mother knows, and keeps her silence.

Waystation buzzes with amused gossip and plenty of the folk who live there tell stories of the elf-wives who used to be more common. Some of those ladies still live, and they only laugh when the maid's mother comes to them and her own mother to see that her darling girl is safe.

Time passes, but the trees are not the only ones who remember. It comes as no surprise that fury is met with fury, and soon the son of the Lord comes to see the little town, filled with anger and questions.

The forest remembers him, and the townsfolk do too. They send their children to hide among the trees that first night, trusting the willows to protect them as they always have. The children meet the hunter when he hears of them, and he takes them deep into the forest through thick briars and nests of huge, rumbling bees. There, they find safety and a small pond, fed by a river, and ripe berries to feast on.

Nymphs linger there still, and they are delighted to meet the children, and promise the maiden- through her hunter- that the forest could burn around them and the children would still be safe in that grove.

At the news, the townsfolk- the ones who have always lived in Waystation and trust the forest more than this angry human- disappear overnight, and the Lord takes notice. They vanish into the trees as they always have and he finds that when morning comes, thick briars have formed a thorny wall blocking the paths into the wood. There will be no following them.

The town empty- for those who knew the forest took those who didn't with them- he raves to his men, and orders the forest burned and the traitors brought back to be made an example.

They try. The trees don't burn. They do drop branches, and spook horses. Tree-cats pounce on the unwary, and bears rumble out of the forest. Boars bigger than anyone has ever seen charge over men and horses alike with hides so tough that arrows bounce off their dark-haired backs. Every step under the trees brings a new cloud of furious, tiny wasps that can chew through cloth and swarm under armor.

Arrows hiss out of the treetops- accurate enough to find a man's visor even as he runs. They are willow-wood, and their heads are bone in the shape of leaves. Willow trees quiver to life, and the forest again bears a fruit of heavy-armored bodies.

Men die. Others run. The Lord rails against them, but nothing he can say or do will ever entice his warriors to challenge the forest again.

The dawn breaks, and the Lord meets the hunter himself, who's aim is keener than any human, and who reveals that his mother was the willow-maid murdered so many years ago, and that the willows who form his honor guard are his brothers- children of her tree-corpse who hate humans more than anything could hate, that live for centuries and cannot love.

The Lord challenges him to combat, but this is no knight, and his sense of honor is not a human's. The hunter puts a willow-arrow through his heart, and vanishes as the Lord chokes on his own blood and dies.

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Treebrothers:

A lordling tried to take a dryad for a bride, not knowing she would die when she set foot outside her forest. Her barely-human son took her willow-children for his brothers, and unknowingly created a dynasty.

Wild Roses and Birdsong

Bare-Handed

Snow Elf

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