#vampire Blackjack

[fearsomejibblet]

Jimmy loves his Ruby. Ruby loves her Jimmy. It's that simple.

[edenspoem]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

perm taglist: @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @littlegingerperson5 @seraphicsentences series taglist: @tearouthearts @planetloverr @elliesexual @isitadinosaur @eveshyper @3lli3l0v3r @yourmothersfavgirl @emst4rr @theloserqueen @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @whenlostinthedarkness @diddiqueen @deliriousrn

[deerdoegone]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝄞 some geeky. some from the mid 2000s. some i'm obsessed with. town names are abbreviated.

my waiting room : not much to say about her aside from the two facts that she's where i'd like to permashift to and stay the rest of that aaliyah's life. has been refurnished—heavily inspired by the pink palace apartments from coraline with subtleties of 2000s mcbling meets himegal interview and harajuku (2018). dolly decor and things you'd find in the bedroom of 2008 socialite who was a victim of the bling ring. shared with my loser boyfriend, tomas vrbada who doubled as a childhood static screen crush when i was concerning(ly) young playing mortal kombat nine.

wstpt, new hampshire : east coast vampires in a fictional college town, inspired by twilight, life is strange one, the vampire diaries, and more. embodies late 2000s to early 2010s with emo and indie-twee influences. this reality is of my own, but was HEAVILY inspired by a non-shifting user, so all credit to her and her original work. meet aaliyah doe. my trip to "regular" westport, basically if it was non-horror.

mrcv, california : 2008 ranchos palos verdes inspired coastal city known for it’s mermaid motifs and middle - upper class residents with tons of tourists for the summer and fall months, all trying to catch a real mermaid every year. cliffside homes and country clubs with new york socialites a long way from home. meet aaliyah pearle.

fame, director and screenwriter : hollywood but i wanna pursue my desire to create. first big film around 2011 at age twenty-one. cult following similar to sofia coppola but not in the lana del rey tumblr girl way. be Normal. inspired by david lynch, sofia coppola, jordan peele, and catherine hardwicke. affinity for psychological horror and supernatural. introduction soon.

fame, actress : hollywood but i wanna pursue my desire to bring creations to life. first breakout role in 2009 at eighteen, probably stole the role of jennifer check. idolized by all, sweetest experiences with fans and peers. starts around 2010, can you tell i love 2000s and 2010s media and culture? paris hilton presentation with fluttershy notes. introduction soon.

fame, youtuber / streamer : dolly aesthetic before it was cool. sorta. entirely decked out in pink, starts around 2019. does a bit of everything? get ready, gaming, makeup, come file my taxes with me so the irs doesn't take my home. bit of everything like i said. introduction soon.

movie, challengers : still building this reality don't ask questions or i'll shake like an anxious sick old dog (jk just ask and i'll answer as best as i can) introduction soon.

television, common law : the final boss against my craving for old bad but fun television. homicide detective. detective work has never looked so trendy. back when beige and brown were the sexiest colors. dark honey blonde hair with platinum highlights that blends into my skin color. bangles and hoops. break room coffee and dollar store cinnamon vanilla perfume. introduction soon.

television, house m.d. : diagnostics team. if a cool teenage girl was also a distant unwell aunt. crushed on a married man. hates the australian. kinda. deserves as many smoke breaks as she wants. attachment to her oncology chew toy. scarily good at roulette and blackjack but shit at poker. introduction soon.

television, my babysitter's a vampire : had this reality before i even knew what shifting was at 14. crazy. haven't tried to shift here but adding it because it is special to me. somewhere between awkward youngest daughter in her human family and the average guilt-ridden white chapel vampire or witch. haven't decided. undead couture. something akin to hannah washington and jessica riley. introduction soon.

video games, life is strange one : indie sleeze before it was uncool. fashion designer with runway model intentions. evie zamora's closet. tragic backstory covered by extroverted party girl persona. haunts the narrative in before the storm. sortakindanotreally friendship with victoria chase. facebook icon. good student and liked by teachers. rachel amber kind of popularity. gossipy. can make really good pancakes, like i'm talking mouth melting, my god. introduction soon.

video games, watch dogs two : ummm pretty hacker girl this reality is very new still but ask questions and i'll answer as best i can!!!! introduction soon.

[typewritingyip]

Menasor, Motormaster, Dragstrip, Dead End, Breakdown, Wildrider, Offroad, Blackjack.

25, 24, 22, 21, 20, 18, 17, 13

Breakdown has seven siblings.

Offroad is in the city, getting a part to fix up an old tractor for their parents. Offroad dies in one of the earliest quint attacks. His last words? Who knows. He died alone.

He was seventeen, the second youngest.

Breakdown has six siblings.

Three years pass.

Dragstrip is a pilot. Dragstrip loves to win, it's what kills him in the end. Dragstrip could have lived, but he would have had to run. Dragstrip kills the quintesson. Dragstrip gets to win. Dragstrip dies that day.

He was 25, the third oldest.

Breakdown has five siblings.

Two years pass.

Blackjack isn't compatible, Blackjack is safe, but he's moved away from everybody. But Blackjack is safe, their youngest brother is safe.

When six out of seven siblings tested are compatible, it makes you wonder why one isn't. This is probably what the government thought when they sent him to be experimented on.

He was 18, their youngest.

Breakdown has four siblings.

Menasor, Motormaster, Dead End, Breakdown, Wildrider

30, 29, 26, 25, 23

Ten years pass.

Breakdown goes to space on a mission the government told him to go on.

Breakdown falls in love.

Breakdown has four siblings (too far, too far, toofar, toofar toofartoofartoofar), and one lover.

Knockout is... well, a knockout. Glowing red eyes, a pale white face, long talon-like nails. It sounds like he's describing a vampire. The reality is even more insane. An alien robot doctor, Ha! If only his mother could see who he ended up with, she might have nagged even harder about finding a nice girl to settle down with.

Menasor would laugh his ass off if he ever heard about who Breakdown fell for.

Motormaster would probably huff a bit, pretend he didn't care, then go give the meanest shovel talk he could to Knockout.

Dead End and Knockout might like each other, both paying quite a bit of attention to their appearances, but it's far more likely that Knockout would dislike Dead End's constant pessimism.

Wildrider is a toss-up. He's a crazy bastard and always has been, who knows what he'd think about Knockout. (He'd love him because he makes his older brother happy.)

...

Someone jokes that Breakdown doesn't know what it's like to lose to the quintessons.

Breakdown goes quiet. Knockout notices. Breakdown leaves. Knockout follows. Breakdown waits. Knockout asks.

"What's wrong Breakdown?"

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok, so here's the thing I actually didn't mean to write him a backstory, I wanted to have Breakdown have... well, a breakdown. I feel like the circumstances are what would be the difference between rage and sadness, but I'll write that later.

Oh, also, I scrapped the last line this but I really liked it, so here's the original

"What's wrong Breakdown?" Soft red velvet voice, not in a tone to speak to a spooked animal, but close enough.

It probably would have turned into a Thing (yes that is capitalized for a reason), but I am not going to stare at this for another hour because I can't summon the right emotion to write it the way I want to

TLDR: I can't write Breakdown having a Breakdown, so have a backstory instead + a tiny bit of angst and an open ending

Also, I didn't write anything about the parents because I couldn't remember if they were dead or not, and I was too lazy to check, so they're Schrodinger's parents.

I also couldn't remember exactly when Arcutus One started, but I thought it was about 15 or 16 years from the first quint attack.

I also wanted to keep all the Stunticons alive originally, but then I read about Dragstrip and I immediately decided I wanted him dead <3

Ok, Now I'm done rambling

Oh my god that’s so fun. God I’m an Angst writer too…

I have to share this, it’s so good.

I also had to check, Breakdown’s parents are still alive, as for how long it’s been in the current time like it’s 2014. The Quints first arrived on earth in 1984, the war had been going on for almost 30 years.

(Originally, Arcturus was supposed to take place in 2004 but I kept writing thirty instead of twenty so.. yeah)

Breakdown is likely of our group the only one to have been old enough to have some memory of the first attacks, so his brothers living and dying does make sense.

I promise some of his family lore will come up in Arcturus One.

[porters-fangs]

the vampires playing blackjack and porter says “hit me” but he actually means it

[sunlaire]

9 Books I want to read in 2025: tagged by @johnnyy-guitarr and @futuristicdoormats789 (thank y'all, I've been wanting to sit down and do this all week, this was really fun ahhh <333)

An Unsung Hero: Tom Crean, Antarctic Survivor by Michael Smith (let's gooooo, when I saw there was a crean book I added it to my list, hype hypehype)

I May Be Some Time by Francis Spufford

What Manner of Man by @stjohnstarling (vampire seduces priest, yes thank you, I will be reading that)

Ada Blackjack by Jennifer Niven

I'm Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid (listen, I could only hear Jacob geller reference it so many times before I succumbed to curiosity)

Shackleton's Boat Journey by Frank Worsley (and after this, I want to read his Endurance book too)

The Wager by David Grann

Moby Dick by Herman Melville

This Savage Kingdom by @dravenscroft

Tagging: @antarcticlovebirds @moongazeonastarfillednight @incesthemes @strogoff-era and bonus, because I think it would be really funny if they responded @pjackk (if any of y'all have already done this,,, sorry. But also could you link me to the post? I'm a curious person 👀)

[craniodedragao]

Btw, since I have a lot to read I also want to do an illustration of the manga/chapter I'm reading, I think it would be interesting.

My Osamu Tezuka manga collection + PLUTO, Astro Boy 2003 and Princess Knight - The Night of the Princess.

I am reading them at my pace.

I think you can tell which ones are the french and the brazillian editions.

The Brazilian editions are not with me yet besides the Kimba ones.

For curiosity, Kimba was my first Tezuka manga ever.

I want to read/collect all Tezuka's works, impossible? probably.

I will post new photos when I can buy more mangas.

[hyunpic]

list of songs hyunjin has played on his lives/recommended:

note: im probably missing some & i couldn’t put links to all of them cause apparently tumblr has a link limit 🤨

lauv: julia, lonely eyes, invisible things, paris in the rain, never not, im so tired, the story never ends, i like me better

offonff: photograph, cigarette (ft. miso & tablo), dance, bath

beyoncé: crazy in love (remix)

billie eilish: i love you, &burn, idontwannabeyouanymore, ocean eyes, before i go, tv

honne: day1, la la la that’s how it goes

christina perri: a thousand years

shawn mendes: mercy, treat you better, in my blood

dvwn: phobia

dpr live: jam & butterfly

jehwi: dear moon

leehi: rose

bts: dna, waste it on me, make it right

colde: where love begins, string (ft. sunwoojunga), the museum, wa-r-r, your dog loves you (ft. crush), control me, a song nobody knows, im in love

got7: miracle, hard carry

justin bieber: lonely

josef salvat: call on me

taemin: criminal

night off: sleep

sam kim: make up (ft. crush), like a fool, sunny days summer nights

niki: lowkey

iu: the visitor, lullaby, knees, love poem, give you my heart, my sea

cha ni: starlight

sia: snowman

akmu: happening

sunwoojunga: run with me

the black skirts: everything

korea cracker: ocean (ft. hoyeon kim)

cosmic boy: can i love?

penomeco: no.5 (ft. crush)

yerin baek: blooming memories, limit

10cm: so…., however

day6: i’ll try, love me or leave me, when you love someone, you were beautiful, congratulations, zombie, days gone by, afraid

dean: d (half moon), instagram, what 2 do, bonnie & clyde

exo: first snow, the eve, love shot

sam fischer: this city

jukjae: do you want to walk with me?, lullaby

ph-1: nerdy love (ft. yerin baek), as i told you

baekhyun: love again, un village

amine: blackjack

young k: come as you are, guard you

flume: say it (ft. tove lo)

twice: dance the night away, fancy

ariana grande: thank u, next

hajin: we all lie

about: it has to be you

caroline says: winter is cold

h.e.r: u, wait for it

bol4: to my youth

monday kiz: winter is as i wished

paul kim: the road, additional

sweden laundry: the winter

jung seung hwan: in that winter

chungha: gotta go

zion.t: no make up, snow

airman: gloomy star, i’ll be your spring (ft. j_ust)

motte: dont run away

seventeen: a-teen, super

khalid: location

lukas graham: 7 years

imagine dragons: believer

bo kyung kim: dont think you are alone

jung ilhoon: spoiler (ft. babylon)

davichi: falling in love, 이 사랑

coldplay: everglow, viva la vida

lyn: my destiny

jus2: focus on me, long black, senses (jpn version)

crush: beautiful, you and i

ed sheeran: lego house, perfect, photograph, beautiful people

croosh: why

20 years of age: x

tori kelly: paper hearts

seulgi: always

luna: do you love me? (ft. george)

wisue: someone’s shining

epik high: eternal sunshine

jp saxe: if the world was ending

seori: fairy tale

bruno mars: marry you

the weeknd: earned it, die for you

jung seunghwan: its raining, an ordinary day, dear

sam tinnesz: play with fire

post malone: motley crew

jihyo: stardust love song

kim feel: your voice

sung sikyung: solar system, heejae

younha: stardust

wonpil: a journey

taeyeon: invu, some nights, toddler, drawing our moments

nct dream: boom

ha hyunsang: 3108

huhgak: memory of your scent

se so neon: nan chun, a long dream, midnight train, stranger

umi: remember me

tvxq!: mirotic

johnny balik: honey

red velvet: psycho

new jeans: hype boy

christian kuria: losing you

cigarettes after sex: k. , each time you fall in love, sunsetz, apocalypse

dpr ian: nerves, no blueberries, 1 shot

samm henshaw: broke

woodz: drowning

kelly clarkson: underneath the tree

kimmuseum: to you who cant sleep

taylor swift: betty

lana del rey: young and beautiful

harry styles: watermelon sugar, she

pink sweat$: honesty

masego: tadow

olivia rodrigo: vampire

troye sivan: youth, for him

kai: mmmh

2pm: my house

oasis: wonderwall, hey now

mac miller: that’s on me, everybody

nothing but thieves: amsterdam

bren joy: sweet

back number: i love you

mac ayres: next to you, roses

daniel caesar: blessed, ocho rios, get you (ft. kali uchis), take me away (ft. syd), do you like me?, disillusioned

green day: dilemma

puma blue: already falling

bruno major: nothing, easily, places we won’t walk, the most beautiful thing, old soul

[fearsomejibblet]

assorted Beyond the End doodles

[stunningtoredorsweetheart]

Stunning VTM OC Writing: Dottie

A short drabble about Dottie's first night after her embrace

Word count: 628

CW: Blood mention

Stunning

Dottie had to wash her hair several times to get all the blood out. The cheap shampoo stripped her hair of its softness, but it was better than letting the blood stain her pink hair a rusty brown. 

It felt so strange to watch the river of red and soap bubbles roll down the drain like a horror movie scene. She wasn’t entirely sure if all the blood belonged to her or the poor soul she drank from.

Dottie wrapped herself in an oversized white bathrobe and sat down in front of one of the vanities. The yellowish, bright lights emitting from big light bulbs around the mirror’s frame warmed her face.

Dottie was relieved to see she still had her reflection even if her smudged eyeliner made her look like a panda. When the club owner told her she was a vampire, she was not sure what to think. It all felt like an elaborate prank. One minute, she’s dancing the night away, the next minute she buries her teeth in a waiter’s neck. She half expected someone to burst in the room with a camera and laugh at her for being gullible.

There had been several people coming in and out of the club’s dressing room. They came to grab some little forgotten item or ask her if she needed something. Their eyes seemed to linger on her, but their eyes would quickly dart away if she turned to look at them. Of course, they always knocked and asked if she was decent before entering. Yet,they seemed disappointed when told them she was dressed.

The club staff would whisper to one another as soon as they left the room. All she could make out were the words, “fledgling”, “sire”, and “ghoul”. Were they talking about her?

Many of the staff in this club were vampires and ghouls. Dottie did not really understand what a ghoul was, she had only been undead for about 24 hours. She would have to ask Phoenix about it later.

Right on cue, she heard a knock at the door. “May I come in, sweetheart?” Phoenix chimed. “Yes,” Dottie squeaked nervously. A tall vampire with tanned skin and dark curly hair strode into the room. “I got you a little present” Phoenix cooed as they handed Dottie a hanger. On the hanger, there was a black mini skirt with a matching vest and a white dress shirt. “I figured since my ghoul will be out for a while recovering from blood loss, you could fill in for him,” Phoenix suggested with a commanding aura. Right, the waiter she almost killed. 

“Yes,I’m sorry about all that,” Dottie sheepishly replied. “Don’t be sorry, it happens to us all when we are embraced,”Phoenix reassured. “I think the rest of the staff might be mad at me,” Dottie confessed.

“What makes you say that?”

“They keep coming in and out of the room to stare at me, then run to their friends to talk about me.”

“Sweetheart,they’re not angry at you. You’re stunning. They just want to get a good look at you. It’s not everyday that a gorgeous girl walks into the club.”

“Stunning?”

“Yes, stunning. You will have an easy time getting tips, just remember to pitch your voice up and smile.”

There was another knock at the door. “What is it?,” Phoenix called. “It’s Blackjack and Duck, Scooter wants the new girl’s number,” a southern voice drawled behind the door. “Didn’t she nearly kill him?” a Bronx accent quipped.

“Yeah, but have you seen her?”

“Good point.”

“Boys, let the poor girl rest before you start pestering her with suitors. She’s just a fledgling” Phoenix sighed.

This whole “stunning” thing was going to take some time getting used to.

[see-arcane]

What happens when the Harkerists split off to become their own vampire hunting club with blackjack and hookers without the Vatican's approval?

If this is still in the realm of Hellsing jokes, then uh

Harkers/Hel(l)sings are very much doing what they do sans Vatican approval. By a lot.

They let their own aggro knife guy loose on the Hellsing Organization about it

[moqi2004]

Omgomg I need to see Dalv being introduced to Starlo's family

Hi! Sorry for how long this took! I wrote about 400 words last Wednesday and couldn't get myself to write more, and I was busy after that. It's done now though, and I hope you enjoy! I will tell you that on the proofread, I screamed to myself saying "THEY'RE GAY" multiple times out loud.

And to the anon who more recently asked for this same thing, you get your wish early :) congrats!

Family Introductions

Words: 1530

Cross-Posted on Ao3

Tags: implied past Staroba (one sided), family interactions, fluff, self-consciousness, anxiety, family teasing, sugary sweet, reassurances, Starlo being a proud boyfriend.

Summary: Starlo takes Dalv to meet his family in Sunnyside Farm. Dalv is understandably nervous about this. He finds that he has nothing to worry about.

Fic under the cut. Enjoy :)

Dalv’s first time in the Wild East had been the most fun he’s ever had. At first, the heat had been difficult to deal with, and the grains of sand loitering around within his shoes were almost unbearable. Luckily for him, his boyfriend was there. Starlo had offered to carry his cloak while they walked, which Dalv was quite happy to let him do. He also rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, attempting to cool down his body as much as possible. It didn’t take Dalv long to notice that Starlo was staring at him, eyes widened and face slightly flushed. Dalv bashfully held back from bringing it up.

He made a mental note of the reaction regardless.

The Wild East itself was a quaint little tourism spot with limited technology. Dalv noticed that most shopping and general commerce was done in Oasis Valley just west of there, while classic Dunes entertainment was celebrated right here. With a rustic tavern and even a jail (for show, thankfully), the place felt like it had jumped right out of a children’s tale! The aesthetic and charm quickly drew Dalv in, allowing to forget about the unbearable heat for just a moment.

Having the opportunity to meet all of Starlo’s friends was truly a blessing for him. After saying a quick hello to Ceroba, who he had kept in close contact with after she visited him in Snowdin with a box full of corn, he was introduced to The Feisty Four. They were all a joy to get to know. Dalv was content to sit and watch as Ed and Moray teased and bantered with Starlo, Ace staying back with him to make sure he was comfortable. Dalv had to reassure Ace a couple of times that he didn’t feel like he was being dragged around or forced into goofing with the posse. Star did have to stop Mooch from looting Dalv’s person a couple of times.

The two of them didn’t linger for very long, however. While Starlo did consider his posse as a second family, the real reason the two came all this way was so Dalv could visit Starlo’s family. As the two walked past Blackjack’s and out of town, Dalv couldn’t ignore how his heart began to race and his mind began to panic. What if Star’s family didn’t approve of their relationship? What if they didn’t like him? What would he do if things went wrong? Would he and Star have to…?

“Hey, Dal? You doin’ okay? Yer shakin’ a bit…”

Dalv’s attention quickly snapped towards Starlo. In his thoughts he had failed to notice that they had stopped walking, the pair’s hands carefully intertwined. Starlo could probably feel just how sweaty Dalv’s palm was starting to become. 

“Uh- I’m…”

Dalv wanted to tell Starlo that everything was okay…

He knew that would help nothing.

“I’m worried… I don’t really know if your family will like me…”

“Dal…” Starlo reached towards him with his free hand and rested it against his cheek, “I know my Ma and Pa will love ya. With a huge heart like yers, I know they’ll see ya for the monster I love. Heck, with the dedication to yer work and experience growin’ corn yerself, I’m sure even Orion will get along with ya! All you need to do is be the vampire I fell in love with.”

“But what if they hate me-”

“If they hate ya I’ll drag ya outta there and shower ya with all the kind words ya deserve t’hear.”

“So you won’t… Leave?”

“Of course not, darlin’... Never.”

Starlo leant forwards and pressed a delicate, reassuring kiss to Dalv’s forehead. Dalv allowed his shoulders to relax and nestled himself within his boyfriend’s arms. Star returned the hug eagerly, pressing a couple more light kisses to his horns. Dalv was unsure why he was so apprehensive in the first place. He had Starlo, after all. He knew the Sheriff was a noble and kind soul. He was ashamed to even think that he considered Star leaving him because of his family’s reactions.

“So, uh,” Starlo spoke up, the two still embraced, “you still ‘aight to do this?”

“Of course,” Dalv broke away with a warm smile, “lead the way.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *. 🦇 .* :☆ ﾟ｡･ ───

Dalv was certain he had stepped into his own personal heaven. He knew that was probably a little sad, calling a corn farm the equivalent of paradise, but he truly couldn’t help it! The farm was a quaint little area with a corn field bigger than what Dalv could ever grow back in The Ruins. A cute, cobbled path and a little white house completed the homely feel that Sunnyside Farm radiated so strongly. Nearby, a four-pointed star in messy overalls and a plaid shirt was tending to the crops. Star momentarily glanced towards Dalv before waving.

“HEYYY, ORION!” he yelled, causing Dalv to jump a little.

The star turned around, eyebrow raised and lips drawn in a line of mild annoyance. He then caught sight of Dalv, who squeezed Starlo’s hand for support as the two were approached.

“Starlo,” Orion briefly regarded, “who’s this?”

“Right!” Starlo moved his hand from Dalv’s to wrap his arm around his shoulder, “Orion, this is Dalv, my partner! Dalv, this is Orion, my brother!”

“H-Hello there,” Dalv held out his hand for Orion to shake, "It's, uh, nice to meet you. This farm looks so well maintained, you must do an excellent job keeping the crops at this quality. I struggled to grow my own in The Ruins because of the lighting conditions and drab environment, but I found that with enough love and care the stalks can still grow to be incredibly strong and durable. It really portrays the… Strength of the… Plant…”

Dalv trailed off, eyes wide. Oh no, he’d been caught corn rambling! How could he let himself do that??? He focused back on reality when he felt his outstretched hand move up and down.

“You managed to grow corn in a place like that?” Orion asked, letting go of Dalv’s hand.

“Yea, he did!” Starlo chimed in, looking at Dalv with the proudest expression, “really impressive stuff, too! I’ve seen it myself!”

“Ah, it’s nothing that impressive-” Dalv began.

“Starlo!”

The three turned at the call of Star’s name. A sun monster and a moon monster walked down the steps of the house’s front porch. Starlo happily waved to the both of them, Dalv looking at him and then giving a small, shy wave of his own. When the two approached, the moon wrapped Starlo into a hug, which he seemed content with accepting. The sun monster came over to jostle the hat on Star’s head, as if ruffling the hair he didn’t have. The two then regarded Dalv, who Star was eager to introduce.

“Ma, Pa, this is Dalv! He’s, uh…” Star flushed a light pink, “he’s my partner.”

The two simultaneously looked to Dalv, who willed himself not to shrink backwards at the attention. He’d done many organ concerts at this point, but the stage fright from that could barely compare to the anxiety he felt at this moment. He steeled his mind. Please don’t hate me please don’t hate me please-

Dalv feels his hands being held. It felt different to Starlo’s hands-

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Dalv,” the moon monster smiled sweetly, holding both of his hands within her own, “my name is Crestina. I’m Starlo’s Mother. Thank you so much for being there for my little boy.”

“Ma, please…”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all, miss,” Dalv beamed.

“My name’s Solomon,” the sun monster added, “and truly, I’m glad Starlo finally found someone else after all these years. I thought that after Ceroba, he’d-”

“Pa, come on!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Solomon let out a hearty laugh.

“Don’t pay them no mind, Dal, I beg of ya…”

“Don’t worry, Star” Dalv looked at his boyfriend.

Dalv wasn’t sure what came over him after that. He just… Spoke.

“Honestly, I should be thanking all of you,” he began, “thank you for raising Star. I’m so happy I was able to meet him. He’s the kind of monster who can make any situation fun; who can bring joy everywhere he goes. He’s just so… Warm. So much so that I feel that same warmth whenever I’m with him. He’s supportive of me and my art, he’s amazing to talk to, and the only person I can think of spending all my time with… I couldn’t imagine life as it was before I met him… So thank you for having me, and uh, hopefully I can be the monster to stay by your son’s side.”

Dalv turned to Starlo, who’s face was a glowing scarlet. His jaw hung slack and his eyes were blown wide under his hat. 

“He’s perfect,” Crestina whispered to herself.

“Huh?” Dalv looked towards her, hands still within hers.

“Come with me, Dalv,” Crestina began to walk, gently guiding Dalv along with her, “I simply must show you our family photo album. I can assure you, my Starlight was an absolute treasure growing up-”

“MA!”

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REBLOGS > LIKES

[soulsuckcr]

HEY, i think i just saw LUCA VITELLI walking down the strip. stop by to catch up and you’ll learn the TWENTY-EIGHT YEAR OLD is working as a BLACKJACK DEALER AT RIVIERA CASINO AND HOTEL, RADIO PERSONALITY FOR 107.5 KILLER FREQUENCY and lives in MANOR SUITES. given they are JOCULAR but PUGNACIOUS, it’s likely that they ARE a vampire. on the flipside, rumor has it that HE CAUSED A BLOODBATH AT ONE OF THE CASINOS, THE DOORS NEVER REOPENED and it keeps them looking over their shoulder. i bet you can find them tearing up the dance floor to LIKE HIM BY TYLER, THE CREATOR and you’ll know why they’re called THE ACE OF SPADES. ( cis man + he/him + bisexual + capricorn )

PINTEREST. PLAYLIST. STATS.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: abuse, death, mental health, murder, suicide, torture.

EVERYTHING GETS DESTROYED IN THE END, doesn’t it? those people you put your trust in; did they make good on their promises, or did they break them? ( did they break you? ). did any of it ever mean anything, or were they just cute little preludes to emotional annihilation? ouch. you’ve been abandoned one too many times, haven’t you, dear luca? all those failures; betrayal, after betrayal, after betrayal … you could almost consider him a loyalty test in human form — or, former human, anyway — one that everyone keeps fucking failing for some reason [ insert yayyy! cheering fnaf sound effect ] … honestly, it makes sense that this one descended into a bit of madness. that’s the origin story: you take one bright-eyed grifter with a head full of dreams, add a blender full of absentee affection, backstabs, and slow-burn resentment, hit purée, and voilà! there you have him. a lesson carved like scripture: trust nobody. let’s put it this way … when you have to stab your father in the leg and run away from your broken home before you even really reached double digits, you’re gonna be kinda fucked up.

THEY SAY THAT A CHILD WEANED ON POISON considers harm a comfort. maybe they even learn to sip it like tea, who knows. luca? he was practically spoon fed battery acid. biological family? shit. adoptive family? slightly less shit, at least. terrible relationships were collected like pokémon cards. if speedrunning traumas was an olympic sport, he wouldn’t just take gold — he’d win the entire podium, sabatoge the other athletes, gaslight the judges, and spark a doping scandal just because he could. the thing about him — and there are many things about him, unfortunately — is that he has zero filter and even less tact. gossip spreads fast, but luca? luca detonates it. loudly. by twelve, he earned the nickname trashmouth. mostly because “incendiary goblin prince with unresolved issues and a death wish” wouldn’t fit on a yearbook page. his idea of resolving conflict? starting more conflict. you could be twice his size and holding a bat, and he’d still talk shit and call your birth a mistake. he’s the kind of guy who’d flip someone off during an exorcism and then wonder why the demon chose him. no, he doesn’t back down; he leans in. people told him his mouth would get him killed one day. and like any true menace to society, he simply laughed in their face and kept running it. until it did. ( rip. kinda. he got better. or worse. up for debate. ) honestly? kinda shocked it didn’t happen sooner.

LESSON TWO REITERATED: TRUST. NO. BITCH. not your friends, obviously not your enemies, not your lovers, and especially not the sad-eyes sidekick little rat you took under your wing out of the kindness of your own heart. you know, the one who cried to you about their abandonment issues, called you their only family, got you to care about them more than, well, anyone — and then sold you out for a handful of blood money and a free ride home. especially not that one. you see, the only way luca learns things is the hard way. but this one? they were the one that really twisted the knife. he taught them how to fight, how to lie, how to survive, how to make it in this world; gave them protection, purpose, and, mistakenly, trust. and they led him into a fucking trap. backed him into a corner. turns out his enemies were real smooth talkers, and it worked like a charm on this little friend of his. it was, like, a dozen against one ( really? who does that? overkill much ), and they looked smug. self-satisfied. real main characters in his downfall kind of vibe. after the heartbreak melted into rage, he smiled, of course. because even when he’s about to die, he doesn’t let anyone have the last word. and, so, he fought. brutally, beautifully; chaos incarnate, but the odds? ever not in his favour [ insert fading image of effie trinket with vine boom ] … they beat him. tortured him. killed him. yep. fucking dead. like, clinically. flatline. fade to black. roll the end credits, already! except — enter them. a vampire. bella swan moment?

THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS. for some reason, he was granted another chance at life — not that he asked for it, or even wanted it, really; he’s been institutionalized a number of times for his poor mental health and suicidal ideation — thanks to his red-eyed, fang-having knight in shining armour. still the same zero fucks given loudmouth you either love or hate, except a little cooler this time around. we won’t talk about his morals, or the way he’s somehow always ten steps ahead, or the deals he’s made … or how he’ll literally ruin your life if you cross him … or the kill count … or the way a fucking bloodbath occurred at one of the casinos — which definitely wasn’t his fault; he had absolutely nothing to do with it! actually, he wasn’t even there! true story! on paper, anyway. okay, he’s a little fucked up, but so what? at least he’s funny.

[catcas22]

Gushing about my new campaign!

I'm four sessions into my first campaign (as GM) and it's going great! I volunteered to run a campaign to give three of our forever-gms a chance to play, which ended up being a great way for me to get my feet wet as a gm -- three of my four players are highly knowledgeable about the rules, good at improv, and love being in character.

I've got so many plans for upcoming sessions, but unfortunately I can't rant to my usual dnd friends because they're in the campaign and I don't want to spoil the plot (@thatboreddrake this is your warning to block #catsfallcampaignspoilers).

Said spoilers below, if anyone wants to hear me ramble.

The campaign takes place in a standard fantasy setting, but about fifteen years out from a zombie apocalypse. The king got tired of paying wages to his living soldiers and figured paying a couple of necromancers to raise him an undead army would be cheaper. Things went wrong in predictable fashion.

The players are as follows:

Alvar: A bloodhunter afflicted with dragon-flavored lycanthropy after he inadvertently picked up a cursed coin from the horde of a lichdragon. He can't get rid of the coin now, and is violently paranoid that someone will try to steal it from him. Since he killed quite a few people before he learned to somewhat control his curse, he now travels the land protecting innocents and slaying less scrupulous monsters as a way to pay back that debt.

Xenitor: An owlin abjuration wizard. A field researcher for a network of scholars working to gather and preserve as many spells and texts as possible, before they are lost forever in a zombie-induced Dark Age. The type to try to steal Alvar's coin out of pure scientific curiosity.

Hiro: Tom Sawyer-flavored bard. An optimistic young drifter just looking to make friends and go on adventures (who is a reborn and doesn't know it). Due to constantly flubbing his history/insight checks, he still sees Sebastian as a perfectly trustworthy, somewhat eccentric, but definitely-not-a-vampire gentleman. He has seen Sebastian walk on walls and bite people.

Sebastian Pietro Vasquez de Cornelio IV: Dhampir conquest paladin. A nobleman from a family that intermarried with vampires generations ago, recently cast out for mouthing off to the family patriarch. Talks like he's in the Spanish Inquisition, dresses like he's in the Swiss Guard. Having been disinherited by his family, his goal is now to start his own noble house, presumably with blackjack and hookers.

It took him five minutes to surprise-adopt Hiro to act as his herald.

After saving the small town of Alderford from an undead horde, the party did a bit of investigating and found that the town's palisade had been sabotaged. Asking around town revealed that the local liege lord, Barnabas Dunwich, had raised taxes to the point where the people of Alderford said he could take his troops and leave, they'd raise a militia to defend themselves rather than continue to pay his protection money.

A bit more poking around, and the party correctly concludes that Dunwich had left some men behind to deliberately lure the undead towards Alderford. Party sets out for the abandoned watchtower, where they believe Dunwich's men to be hiding.

This is about where the derailment started, but I'll write up the rest later. Suffice to say, I'm having a great time!

[united-as-one]

Under the request of his mother, the matriarch of his clan and the leader of his brood in his absence, Yunjae arrived in Las Vegas for his long two week vacation. The city was warm, and filled with wonders galore for the supernatural and the mortals alike. The sounds, the sights and the bustle of this desert city was something that the vampire prince was not used too, his skin feeling hot and almost too much under the arid heat of walking outside in the summer of the city of Sin. It was much different to Seoul, the ward in which he defended his seat and its people.

Even through the night, at the height of its power, the people of this city partied and bet their money, some their whole life's worth of cash in material items in this world that seemed to favour such material goods. With sunglasses over eyes, to mask the crimson irises that he had, natural yet scary for the more unattuned to the supernatural of this Western world, he kept his distance, taking part in poker and blackjack instead. The more refined and calm games. It wasn't until he had finished winning money from some rich moguls that he bumps into a stranger as he was walking to get his rewards. A brow raises as he turns around, it wasn't him who bumped into the other, almost like the man that ran into him did it on purpose.

"Do we have a problem, stranger?" He asks, a small smirk on his lips. This one was quite the looker, but he instigated first. Yunjae wanted to determine whether he needed to just turn around and leave or stick around. "I'm on vacation, so unless you have a good reason, I'm not biting anyone today." He could sense a power from this one, a familiar one. "Consider preying on someone that probably won't outpower you~" - @hcttogo (closed starter)

[elspethdixon]

The more I learn about Mordekaiser LeagueofLegends, the more hilarious he becomes. Not only does his name sound like a mid-tier death metal band, his backstory is pure Wh40K grimdark OTT-ness.

“Murderous warlord slaughters his way across a continent all because he wants to go to barbarian Valhalla when he dies. Actually dies and discovers Valhalla is fake/doesn’t exist. Is so mad about this that he makes himself immortal out of sheer spite, gets some gullible sorcerers to resurrect him, conquers and slaughters his way across the same continent again, gets betrayed by his righthand evil slutty-looking sorceress and her pet vampire twink, and is banished back to the realm of the dead, where this time he starts creating his own Valhalla, with blackjack, and necromancy. He’s still gonna return a second time to get revenge on the evil slutty-outfit-wearing sorceress and conquer the world some more, though. Just get banished and resurrected over and over to kill and conquer everything ever because fuck OG!Valhalla for being fake, that’s why!”