#oh its such a beautiful metaphor for death .... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astralnymphh · 2 months

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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 ♡

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dekusleftsock · 4 months

Text

MMMMM OKAY OKAY OKAY

I’m surprised no one has talked about how interesting Izuku breaking his mask is???????? Like oh my god?????

He even comments on the fact that it’s probably useless to wear in a scene like this, since he only put it on previously to shield his face from the waves while fighting and running away from Himiko.

In fact, I could even compare this to another Himiko scene altogether!

Himiko’s broken mask.

It’s a metaphorical mask, but honestly, so is Izuku’s. In this chapter (and previous chapters, obviously) Izuku is hiding from the fact that he has… deeper than desirable feelings for Katsuki that makes him violent and hateful. He does not want to be violent or hateful, but currently, he is at such an awful state of mind (due to Katsuki’s death and then reawakening, and also partly the state of his friends and colleagues) that he can’t help doing so.

That hate and violence cannot be stuffed down deep in his bones like usual, oh no, his quirk elicits a PHYSICAL reaction. But he didn’t have a quirk before, how could he really know that this would happen? It’s like walking through daily life as a teenager, and then in your early adulthood being hit by an extreme anxiety disorder or other health conditions. With no real reason, it just happened one day! Other people have dealt with this before sure, but they had several years throughout their adolescence to figure it out, how to cope with it. And just like it’s said in the manga, it’s like everyone else is running far ahead, and you’re just starting to crawl.

And that’s what the mask is (fuck you dream 🫶🫶🤭) really for. It protects Izuku on a very emotional level. The mask is broken, chipping, dirty—yet he wears it anyway because it’s the only way he can really smile like allmight. Just like allmight found his mask, he also found his smile. It’s also probably why his first reaction to having a quirk stolen (while also strategical) is to hide hide hide in blackwhip. A bubble that hides him from Shigaraki, from Katsuki, from everyone who could see his face.

And comparing this to toga, hello?? Her masking metaphor is about MASKING AS A HETEROSEXUAL GIRL, and her breaking that mask makes her a deviant, an outcast! And here Izuku is, doing the exact same thing.

Shigaraki has danger sense now, by all means, the table has flipped—Shigaraki now knows that Izuku wants to hurt him. Izuku wants to destroy him. Danger sense doesn’t work on just anyone, it has to be coming from a place of malice (because Himiko doesn’t affect danger sense), and an urge for violence. Very Himiko trait.

AND IZUKU KNOWS THIS, HES BERATING HIMSELF, INDIRECTLY ONCE MORE—saying that he has this useless power (similar to how he berated the fish when he was mad at Katsuki in chapter 1), comments on how the mask is broken and that allmight found him that mask, and he even holds this disappointed look on his face.

THIS is the weight I was talking about. This. The berating, the indirect hatred, because Izuku hates. He hates people and things just like Shigaraki does. That’s why danger sense was the only power shigaraki should have taken, it’s the literal power to feel who is loving and who is hating.

AND OF COURSE WE HAVE THE THROWBACK CHAPTER TO 342 OH MY GOD

The fact that Izuku has to say, “you’re a person”, ITS SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL YALL IM DEAD

Oh also! Izuku having matching blood falling over the other half of his face is just too fitting.

To me, with this whole chapter, Izuku and Katsuki, the parallels Katsuki had to ochako last chapter (the falling on the ground, passing out because “it’s getting cold”), it’s just given me a lot to think about.

And I’ve thought and paced and I really really hope I can describe what I’ve been thinking.

Pikahlua (or however their name is spelled, sorry!) translated the text on top of ochako as “Im still not sure what was obvious to that person”. These are the rough translations which is good to keep in mind, but there’s a few ideas I’ve had floating around from that line.

I went back and read 342, Ochako is ofc looking out into the city, calling herself an oddball, even saying she feels like she doesn’t know anything about Toga; if, and this is a big if, but… if this is Izuku thinking about Ochako, then that makes this line far more interesting.

What was obvious to her? A couple of possibilities—possibly understanding that she doesn’t really know Himiko, maybe it’s the fact that Ochako is so openly ready to accept Himiko (unlike Izuku for shigaraki, though this doesn’t apply to Katsuki. Showing Izuku is capable of feeling long term resentment for someone who wronged him, so long as that person doesn’t just wrong him, izuku), or maybe, it was the fact that she was so openly ready to say that she was weird, an oddball (a queer trope for coding characters, “she’s just so weird about that girl”, “I feel like I don’t really fit in”, or “I feel like the way I think of this same sex character—regardless of contextual status such as being a villain or an arch enemy—is wrong, and I should be condemned.”)

Though this could also be Ochako talking about Himiko that wasn’t directly said/shown in that scene, “I’m still not sure what was so obvious to Himiko about me.” (Though personally I find this harder to believe since this isn’t a panel directly taken from the chapter, rather a redraw from Izuku’s perspective. The drawing even makes her look taller than Izuku, which is interesting. Maybe he thinks that she’s better than him, morally)

And if we take Izuku’s comment of “You’re a person” then that furthers my belief that these are thoughts ABOUT ochako. Maybe the “obviousness” was the seeing the villain as a person. She EVEN TELLS HIM that she was thinking of Himiko during her speech about how Izuku is still human to the civilians. Maybe that speech was never about Ochako to Izuku, maybe it was ALWAYS ABOUT HIMIKO.

And ntm, this is another case of Izuku projecting onto someone else; not only is this a declaration to Shigaraki, “You’re still a person (that’s why I know I’m going to save you)!” But it’s also a declaration to himself, a motivator, a reminder that Ochako made to him during her speech, in Katsuki’s apology, and from allmight during his vigilante arc.

“You’re still a person (Izuku).”

The same declaration he made to the fish in the first chapter, to Shoto during the sports festival, and to Katsuki during dvk1.

“I matter.”

And it’s this that truly makes all of this so ironic—izuku speaking for himself, projecting onto shigaraki… honestly they feel the same way about hero society. The only reason Izuku can and does relate to Shigaraki is that he also feels cast away, no adults to reach out to as a kid, therefore making decisions on morality and bias that he mostly made on his own. Not only that, but Izuku has been the boy that was not seen as human. He has been the one to be isolated and shamed for being dirty and looking like a villain.

That’s honestly probably why he agreed with Ochako at all—he saw the little boy Shigaraki once was in ofa yes, but he’s also been an isolated and dehumanized teenager at UA. What if what Izuku was thanking Ochako for wasn’t actually standing up to the people and the speech she gave to him, but that she was able to truly open his eyes, see the bigger picture. Save Shigaraki.

Do I think shigaraki and dekus relationship and ideas of relatability are vastly different from togachako AND dabi + shoto ideas? Yes. Extremely so. Shoto and Ochako don’t and never really did hate Himiko or Touya. Obviously, to an extent Izuku does. Ntm, Shoto and Ochako brought up their conversations about their respective villains on their own, professing their insecurities and doubts, unlike Izuku who only expresses that he relates to them.

Maybe this anger and hatred came more recently, after seeing Katsuki’s death, but I have a feeling it more has to do with a built up grudge of Shigaraki targeting Katsuki.

Regardless of all of this, I see something bigger; when Izuku breaks his mask, he smiles. Genuinely smiles. Not his bright allmight smile, but he smiles regardless on that last page. It hurts and it takes a lot of power to push it, but it happens anyway.

This is the first time I’ve seen Izuku happy, or at the very least motivated, since seeing Katsuki dead. Even when Katsuki woke up, he still looks heart broken.

But the mask is gone. He’s free. Just like Himiko was free, so is Izuku.

And I thought for just a second that he would cover himself up another way, but he didn’t. He got up and he said “You’re still human” And smiled at him like the badass he is (yes I can compliment him, I promise. He’s my favorite character for a reason, I also just wanna kick him in the balls 24/7 for being so dumb).

And what did Himiko do when the mask broke?

She gave in.

She was free.

She let the world know, “this is who I am, take it or leave it.”

And I know, in my heart, that this is what Izuku will do too.

Yk how I mentioned earlier that this was a parallel to this?

I mean that, down to the fact that Ochako is calling Himiko by her first name.

Will Izuku try to give his life to Katsuki? I doubt it, he can’t do much in the medical sense.

However, do I see a shared moment similar to this? Maybe.

Okay all I’m saying is that it’s undeniably canon atp. Like I’m gonna wait for some kind of confession or kiss (bc yes I still believe that will happen, I am in that camp and you couldn’t drag me out unless I was cold and dead on the ground), but Himiko literally says she loves Ochako multiple times, INCLUDING is 395, so like. Idk what else you want. It’s this. We did it. Horikoshi you bastard.

#I got more thoughts on more things I want to elaborate on #but I hope this suffices for now #bkdk #togachako #midoriya izuku #mha deku #bkdk brainrot #bakudeku #bnha deku #bakugou katsuki #mha analysis #deku midoriya

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stardustgates · 5 months

Text

Author’s Notes: Possibly OOC behaviour? I’ve done my best to stick by Canon as much as I can, but given I’m a newer player, I don’t know the relationship between Kafka and Silver Wolf or the characters individually as well I’d like to. Though I did do my best, please be aware that I may have taken some creative liberties in their characterisation and inner thoughts regarding each other. Also I am aware that this may just be 5.5k words of nonsensical BS but I haven’t written proper fanfiction in a hot minute so take it with a grain of salt. Not so much of a reader/canon thing and more like a reader AND canon thing currently. Perhaps that will change in future works, who’s to say? Oh yeah this is a SAGAU.

Warnings: Canonical In-game violence, references and descriptions of dissociation via player-induced body possession, references to drug use (one sentence), yandere tones if you squint really hard (shes a slowburner ya’ll), and a single swear word :3

Beyond the mind, within your body.

Description: Unaware that your presence has been made apparent to the eccentric duo during your first run through of Honkai Star Rail, you happily indulge yourself in the immersive (tutorial) world before your eyes. Kafka and Silver Wolf attempt to adjust to the feeling it brings, which leaves their minds constantly switching between distrust and euphoria, and all the things in between.

Word Count: 5.5k

Hoyoverse’s newest game hadn’t seemed much to your liking when you’d first heard the announcement. For one thing, you weren’t particularly pleased with the constant stream of ‘HONKAI STAR RAIL - PLAY NOW’ interrupting your YouTube doom-scrolling every other ad; Not to mention, you weren’t very keen on the gacha aspect.

Within your small circle of friends, you’d been known to cave easily when attractive anime characters were involved and you weren’t planning on another hyperfiction to solidify your position as the group’s resident simp. That being said, with such a title swaying above your head like a shiny silver dagger, you’d held a metaphorical death grip on your wallet, solemnly swearing that you’d keep your distance from the game for as long you were able.

Ultimately that so-called iron will of yours didn’t last so much as a year, as just seven months after its release a simple character trailer was enough to break your steadfast resilience. Well, it wasn’t ‘simple’, if you were being honest with yourself- It was a brilliantly unique masterpiece, tailored to the exact essence and spirit of his character. You were sure Argenti wouldn’t be released for a good while, so you decided to pick up the game and grind what you could before his arrival.

That was your plan at least. Your friend had warned you a few months prior (Though admittedly, you hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.) that the download and installation would take an exhaustingly long time. Well, it was better than Genshin Impact had been- but still, you were getting bored and subsequently decided to fetch yourself something to drink in the meantime.

With your back turned to the loading screen, you waltzed out of your bedroom with little care in the world- oblivious to the ominous glowing cracks slowly sprawling across the screen of your device.

As you returned a few moments later, you found that it had finally finished installing! You’d certainly waited long enough. Sure, it wasn’t as soul-sucking as Genshin had been but your patience wasn't that of a saint’s either. With a renewed sense of anticipation, you hit start and breezed through the usual terms and conditions without reading anything and let out a sigh at the beautiful change in scenery.

It perhaps wasn't the smartest idea to skip it completely- but you had spent so long waiting already that you weren’t going to bother wasting time reading a document filled with dolled-up words you could barely pronounce.

✄————————————————

Herta’s Space Station’s defences hadn't been particularly difficult to slip past surprisingly, though Kafka didn’t recall any mention of difficulty regarding entry in Elio’s script, so she supposed the lack of security wasn’t of any particular importance.

Despite the calm confidence that usually accompanied her on these little operations, Kafka couldn’t shake the strange feeling of being watched. It wasn’t the usual sort of lingering gaze or sharpened stare, but a vague pulsating heartbeat that faded in and out, as though blinking through blurry vision.

Needless to say, she kept her guard up. Playing none the wiser and bowing mid-air to the tempo of a rather graceful tune. She forced her shoulders to relax and gently swayed her body, controlling her every little move with practised ease- even as that strange pulsating presence slowly sped up and stroked the fires of an oncoming headache- as the elevator descended to the station’s ‘ground’ floor.

(You remained none the wiser to her sudden awareness, the rapidly changing scenes flashing past your eyes far too quickly to pick up on a single, brief second of stillness in her body.)

A sudden explosion reverberates across the station's cold, metallic body and brings Kafka’s impromptu air-violin session to a screeching halt. Simultaneously, that presence settles over her body like a thick blanket of fog. That ‘gaze’ she had felt becoming so vivid she could feel its weight pressing down on her tongue.

She has little time to process the feeling before the usual blueish glow of Silver Wolf’s communications screen flickers into existence before her very eyes.

“... Seems I came at a bad time.”

“No, No – I think you couldn’t’ve timed it better. Twenty-three-fourty-seven-fifteen system time. Very punctual, Kafka.” Silver Wolf almost sounds impressed, though Kafka suspects she’s only trying to butter her up so she’ll let the girl go off task again. Perhaps, under different circumstances, she would have been kind enough to allow it, but with the nature of their current mission and this inexplicable presence, Kafka doesn't find herself in a very generous mood.

Kafka merely hums in response and ignores the empty praise.

“Elio always tells the exact future. So What’s with the explosion just now? Was that part of his script?” Silver Wolf picks up on her cue to focus without any fuss.

“Twenty-three-four-four-fifty-nine system time: The pulses from the explosion cause a massive breakdown from the master control system.”

Pulses. Perhaps it’s linked to the feeling curling itself around her senses?

“You did that?” Kafka doubts that Silver Wolf would waste effort on something so minor.

“No, the antimatter legion did it. They completely invaded the space station two system hours ago.” She whistles in response and glances down the glass panelling to the approaching ground floor. A small group… annoying, but manageable.

“Alright, so do we need to fight the legion?”

“Dunno, Elio didn’t say anything about it, so it doesn’t matter.” Hmm. Silver Wolf made a good point.

“Got it. So from now on, I'll be in charge of this operation.” She feels that tingle of a smirk reach the corner of her mouth, and smiles a little wider in anticipation.

“Copy. Can you let me have some fun this time? Our last few operations turned out to be pretty dull.” Kafka lets out a playful hum as she ponders over her colleague’s request with faux consideration. She can practically hear Silver Wolf’s stifled groan in the second of silence that passes.

“...Sorry~ I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for you- our task this time is just to ‘place’ the target properly.”

Her choice of words is careful, though not enough to cause any alert in potential eavesdroppers. The feeling still hasn’t left.

“But if you wanna go look for some fun yourself, I won’t stop you.”

“I mean… after all…” she chuckles lightly as the blue hologram blips out of her vision, and reaches for the holsters tucked into her lower back. “After all…” Kafka readjusts her footing just in time to watch the elevator’s doors slide open, the sound of metal dragging against metal pinching at her ears.

“Elio didn’t put it in the script… Why would it matter?”

Just as the impact from her gunshots flitters across her skin, Kafka feels her mind being pulled back to the edge of her skull.

The group of voidrangers in front of her feel distant and smudged, the sockets of her eyes creating a blurred tunnel of vision that refuse adjust no matter how much she tries to blink it away. Their dark forms bleed into black speckles that crowd her already limited vision until she’s staring directly into the singed edges of the universe.

Kafka’s body… is no longer hers to command.

✄————————————————

She returns to her mind with startling swiftness. Her memories of the brief battle suddenly bubbling up as though pushing themselves through a thick soup of aether. She feels disconnected from the memory but can at least recall that she’d lost control of her body before blacking out.

She attempts to think back on that burnt, golden memory but is stopped by a sudden wave of nausea. She opts to set that aside for another time and refocus on the operation. Elio had not mentioned this happening anywhere in the script- so either this had no significance or…

Still, those Voidrangers hadn’t proved to be much trouble- in fact, they’d been less of an annoyance than she had prepared for. Either she’d been far more ruthless than intended or the antimatter legion had lost its touch.

“When did the anti-matter legion become so weak?” She asks out loud.

“I could only attract this much. Did you really want the entire legion to come here?” Silver Wolf speaks in feigned annoyance, her usual behaviour.

She hadn’t even realised. Kafka chooses not to mention anything for the moment, instead opting to subtly gauge the extent of control this presence… or rather... Entity, seems to have over her.

“This lot won’t be able to slow down the Astral Express crew.” Silver Wolf sighs in response on the other end of the device.

“Relax, a doomsday beast is also here.”

As she approaches one of the station’s automatic doors, Kafka feels it slip back into her body as if wearing her like a coat. Its influence feels… less heavy than it previously had been a few moments ago. At the very least she remains conscious this time; A strange lightness in her feet as she feels herself stealth towards a lone voidranger lounging about the area.

Her movements come to her now like instinct, striking down enemies with admittedly far more efficiency than she was naturally capable of. If it weren’t for her body being strung along like a puppet against her will, she’d almost be grateful for the power and resiliency it granted her.

Kafka has barely had her fill before a euphoric sense of power seems to swell up all at once; Killer instinct pumping through her veins like a well-oiled machine.

Ahh. Now this… this particular feeling wasn’t so bad.

Truthfully she’d liked to have toyed with this one a bit longer, but she knew all too well that it wouldn't manage to survive her next attack. She chatters to no one in particular, the ecstasy in her mind clouding whatever decorum she would have usually displayed.

“Good times never last… time to say bye.”

“Ah- She’s so cool…”

Kafka tenses up at the stranger’s voice, just as the swirling dark mass in front of her collapses into itself.

She sheathes her sword and adjusts her gloves, ignoring the voidranger approaching her from behind. Just before its darkened claws reach her, Silver Wolf’s ability activates no more than a hands-width from her shoulder blades.

“Cleaning up other people’s mess isn’t in my job description… y’know Kafka?” Silver Wolf huffs out, but her voice has no real bite in it. Was it her? She wasn’t usually one to doubt herself, but that fog of exhilaration certainly could have played with her mind.

“Yeah, yeah. Where did you send it Silver Wolf?”

Kafka turns in time to hear the gooey pop of the silver-haired girl’s bubblegum as she hops to her feet. She isn’t sure if it's Strawberry or Grape, but the artificial sweetness and scent of no-fruit-in-particular is so strong it actually grounds her mind for a moment.

She sighs for no real reason, but it brings her relief regardless.

Oh.

She hadn’t realised how bad her headache was.

“Some random Co-ordinates, not important.” She avoids Kafka’s gaze for a reason she couldn’t care to name before taking on an adorably defiant stance, her hands placed at her hips as though it would help her short stature in any way.

“You care about where that voidranger ended up?” She doesn’t. But she’d rather think about that than, well… She didn’t know what to call it at this point. But it was distracting and she needed to focus on literally anything else for the sake of what sanity she had left.

Though some could argue that she wasn’t sane at all- which was only half true because most people’s definition of sanity varied greatly from her own.

Oh, Silver Wolf was still blinking up at her expectantly.

“Of course not- I’m just amazed at this fancy technique of yours, as usual.” she smiles down at her colleague, who only rolls her eyes in response. To the girl’s credit, she’d been dealing with Kafka’s empty flattery for quite a long time.

“Just a little trick of tampering with the data of reality, I wouldn't call it fancy.” Kafka smiles a little wider, following behind as Silver Wolf strolls down the hallway. Her tells were always so obvious.

“What were you looking at just now? Let me see.” Silver Wolf huffs a bit as she settles herself onto a desk and faces her.

“Herta’s toys,” she begins in an almost mocking tone

“A catalogue featuring the space station’s collection of rare items.” Her fingers briefly tug on the white fluff of her jacket as she speaks “They’ve got quite a looot of interesting gadgets~”

Kafka’s previous interest (however feigned it may have been) dies down a little at the prospect of these ‘gadgets’ but nonetheless she indulges Silver Wolf’s unspoken desire to share what information she’d dug up.

“Like what?”

“There’s this gun, it can rate any creature within its crosshair as a score from 0 to 100.”

“... Doesn't sound very interesting.” Her brows pinch together and her mouth stretches into a thin line of clear disappointment. Not one to be disheartened so easily, Silver Wolf continues on

“Aren’t you curious how much you would score? I kinda wanna know mine.”

So this is what she’d been hinting at since earlier. Kafka crosses her arms and takes on the tone of an exasperated mother having finally given up after being nagged at for far, far longer than the reality of it.

“Fine. I guess we can swing by and play with it, if it’s not too far. What’s our destination?” She redirects Silver Wolf’s distractable attention onto their current objective with practised ease.

Hmm.

She feels a little cold for some reason… and those watchful eyes haven't left during the entirety of their conversation. Kafka’s guard raises a little further than before.

Her colleague’s eyes flit down to a small blue hologram, her fingers swiping past various screens until arriving at what Kafka could only presume was a list of directions given to her by Elio.

“Go down the corridor, behind the door… ooon the left. There’s a room where some kind of rare item is stored.”

Kafka feels the entity strongly now, she stares just beyond Silver Wolf’s shoulders where it feels most concentrated. The feeling she is met with is a dense smouldering hotness. It’s like melting iron dripping down her throat and burning it in the process. It feels almost itchy.

She redirects her gaze back to Silver Wolf far quicker than she’d intended to and resists the urge to scratch at her throat.

“So that’s where the Stellaron is?” Kafka is somewhat relieved when the feeling seems to simmer down. She once again debates speaking on the sensation during the slightest lull in their conversation but when Silverwolf turns her head back to face her, she finds the girl’s gaze to be much sharper than before.

“That's where we can find out where the Stellaron is.”

Kafka immediately knows that Silverwolf has finally caught on to this feeling and says nothing as she readies herself for the next half of their mission. Almost instantly, she feels the presence shift and roll over her shoulders, like a cat stretching out its limbs.

It's languid and smooth and she feels her tense- She had been tense this whole time?- muscles slowly relax until she finally feels that usual calm focus she’s so intimately familiar with. She hadn’t realised the extent of how cold she’d felt when it had stepped- strange, it feels like a person?- away.

Kafka decides that her feelings towards this... Being- She isn’t totally sure if it feels sapient, but it certainly has some form of will… That much she can tell- are mixed, to say the least. She wonders one more why Elio hadn’t mentioned anything about something so foreign and strange but sets the thought aside and refocuses on the task at hand.

She locks eyes with Silverwolf briefly, and just as she thought, Silverwolf is most definitely aware of it at this point.

“The central area of the space station is up ahead. There’ll be loads of Legion Void rangers there.” Silver Wolf hops to her feet and saunters toward the door’s control panel. A bit too casual to be natural, but it doesn't cause the feeling to stir, so she says nothing.

“Okay.” Kafka breathes out.

Then that feeling of puppeteering seems to stitch itself into her mind once more, albeit in a much more faded sense- it feels more like muscle memory than it does being pulled from her own body. She allows it to pull her along and lead her toward whatever it wants. As her fingers glide over the room’s control panels and her heels click against the cold steel of the station, she feels that fog of exhilaration settle over her again- that almost euphoric surge of strength from earlier suddenly vivid and fresh in her mind.

Silverwolf seems to feel the building strength in her own body too, as she quickens her pace when they turn the corner to find themselves at the back of a particularly strong-looking voidranger. She huffs out in bemusement and half-heartedly mutters out some encouragement to her colleague.

“May as well kill them all.”

Not needing much more encouragement than that, Silverwolf leaps forward with as much grace as her short form can allow her and drags her digitally enhanced blade across the muscles and sinew of its chest. She leaps back beside Kafka as it staggers on its feet and tries to regain its footing. Kafka’s arm pulls itself up, gun in hand, and fires out a cascade of bullets that each burrow and pierce into its flesh.

“This… seems a lot easier than it should be.” Silverwolf comments under her breath quietly.

“Well, let’s count our blessings–” Kafka is cut off as her arm is singed by the blast of the voidranger’s fire canon.

“Tch. Didn’t hurt.”

Silverwolf pulls out her holographic system at such speed that Kafka feels the static waft across her skin.

“Hmph, still. This combat needs optimising.” Just as the creature aims its weapon once more, it’s hit with a blast pulled from the loosened strands of reality itself.

“At that speed? Too slow!”

Kafka almost feels sorry for it, as she watches its body disintegrate while collapsing into itself.

Unfortunately, the girls are not left with time to bask in their victory- Silver Wolf lets out a small yelp- the entity has left its place on Kafka’s shoulders and draped itself over her companion it would seem. Her short colleague adjusts to the sensation of its guiding hand far better than she had, if her losing conscious was anything to go by.

Kafka follows behind silently, eyes trained intently on the girl in front of her for any indication of danger.

“Hold it. Someone.. Or something is up ahead.” she warns quietly, arm extended out to her side like a makeshift barrier. They both come to a sudden halt as the entity violently rips itself from their bodies and settles just beyond their skin.

Goosebumps this time.

The cold seems to get worse and worse each time it separates from them… well, her. Silver Wolf grits her teeth. Kafka notes the tiny pearl of sweat rolling down the side of her face. Still a shock to the system then.

“Looks like we’re the ones getting ambushed.”

“...But they’re the ones getting besieged.”

✄————————————————

The game has felt pretty cool so far, and you quite like this Kafka woman. You don’t recall her being part of the main cast your friend had rambled about however many months ago it was, but you hoped you’d get to see a lot more of her.

Her design was really nice- though strangely familiar?- and her voice was pretty too! Silver Wolf was alright, but she hadn’t really caught your interest so far, so you werent sure what to make of her yet.

They did seem to be close though, but less like friends and more like tired workmates who’d been stuck in the same dead end job for a decade- that is to say, it definitely felt like they were used to dealing with each other’s nonsense.

Were they a ship? You could see it. Ah, another battle, sweet!

The combat system Star Rail used wasnt particularly innovative or anything, but it’s playstyle was strangely addictive- especially the Ult animations! Kafka’s especially had you nearly squealing with how badass it was. Did the MC have a cool one too? You could hardly wait to see.

✄————————————————

The mood is light despite the circumstances, they both feel a sense of safety and confidence while the presence pulls them along, as though leading them in a dance. The Voidranger’s movements stand out like a pindrop in an empty room. Predictable, and delectably so.

Silver Wolf barks out a short, quick laugh- a taunting thing that aggravates the musclehead stomping around in front of her- before decapitating the creature in a single, swift move.

“You took the bait, just like that?” Her jubilance is cut short by an attack from her blindspot, it isnt fatal- hell it barely counts as a battle wound- but its enough to flip her mood in the opposite direction. “Tch.”

Kafka laughs lightly at her, amused with her momentary lapse in spacial awareness. Silver Wolf scoffs and scowls lightly at her. Really, like she hadn’t gotten hit before?

Just as she opens her mouth to hurl a barely-an-insult-but-im-still-annoyed-with-you comment towards the magenta haired woman next to her, Kafka’s aura shifts somewhat. Time seems to slow down for a second as Silver Wolf watches the woman’s pupils dilate in slow motion.

Had she appeared like this? When that wave of energy had swelled within her?

She receives no answer to her unvoiced question, and instead hears Kafka’s voice ring through out her ears.

“That breathing sensation. Remember it.” Silver Wolf gulps in a breath of blood-scented air and breathes out a sickly, golden-sweet taste. As Kafka’s bullets rain down upon the bodies of their would-be-ambushers she can't help but feel pure ecstasy in the moment. Truly…if this was a drug she’d be hooked like a fish to water.

Even just being near it is enough to cloud her mind.

“Alright, now that that’s over with…” Silver Wolf’s body relaxes significantly as Kafka speaks, the strength of whatever had possessed them slowing dripping out from their bodies like tree sap. She feels like she just got a massage.

“I could get used to that.” She isn’t sure who she’s talking to, but it feels appropriate to voice. Kafka ignores her and spins her around to face the door, and Silver Wolf seems to go into auto pilot as she unlocks the control panel blocking their path, stepping lightly as her taller colleague gently pushes her forward without a word.

The monitoring room is completley empty. Nothing but the quiet beeping of a few monitors and the rustling of swaying leaves, courtesy of the air conditioning unit humming softly above them.

“Huh. not a single soul here. Impressive evacuation work. Did herta organise it herself?” Kafka seems mildly impressed- and entirely unaffected by the sensation Silver Wolf is still trying to shake from her skin.

“According to the access history, she hasnt logged in her for over six months. The evacuation was directed by the acting lead researcher - a girl named Asta.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Oh, right. Elio said we wouldn’t run into herta. It seems she really isnt here.” Though something else definitely was, but Silver Wolf supposed they weren’t going to be making any conversation on that topic.

She sighs, and scrolls through her holograms nonchalantly.

“Elio’s Script doesnt include any info about the location of the stellaron. Which means in the future he foresees…”

“... we would find the stellaron in a non-physical way?” Kafka crosses her arms, easily having picked up on her train of thought and already dipping her metaphorical toes into several different plans of action. She was always efficient like that. Silver Wolf strolls over to the water cooler and pours herself a cold cup. She gestures to Kafka who only shakes her head in response.

“This space station is packed with extraordinary objects, I wouldnt be surprised if theres one that can make it happen.” She takes a long sip, the cooling sensation bringing relief to her sweltering body. The combat efficiency was nice, but she was left feeling like an overheating graphics disk everytime it took control of her. She idles on a page in her hologram briefly before continuing on her scroll-fest.

“Hiding something extraordinary with something extraordinary… this is pretty Herta. I assume you know what to do? I mean, You’ve been reading that cataogue for a while?” Ah. Perseptive as ever, Kafka never changes. She ignores the heat building in her ears at the prospect of being caught slacking-off, and bins the styrofoam cup as she turns to the older woman.

“Hmph. I’ve got all the clues we need. The only piece missing is a simple trick- maybe this entity thats been stringing us along could lend a hand? After all, it doesnt have a physical form.”

(You didn’t expect them to involve the player like this! What an awesome storytelling device, and it would hopefully grant a lot more player agency too! Hoyoverse had truly out done themselves this time. Feeling a surge of excitement at being learning you’ll be able to lend a helping hand ‘directly’, you decide that Silver Wolf is also really cool.)

Kafka says nothing in response, only staring down at Silver Wolf in consideration.

“Why dont we have it help us investigate the terminals around here, that item we’re looking for may be inside.” The magenta haired woman only sighs, internally cursing the girl’s lack of caution. Though… she couldnt deny that it had only been helping them so far.

“Alright, lets give it the spotlight.”

“Oh god, I hope I don’t fuck this up…” Kafka stills. The same voice from before. So it can speak? She tucks the information away in her mind for later.

She watches it guide her along the messily arranged desks and flickering monitors. Stopping at a memory storage cart- which is, of course, missing its memory. Not useful for her current objective, but it at least told her that whatever it was could see the same things she could.

“...I cant see the memory storage for this terminal.” Her body shifts slightly.

“This is the monitoring room, the must have deleted the records and made a run for it. Classic.” Silver Wolf is still scrolling through the holographic catalogue, idling against a desk in the middle of the room. She doesn’t look up, even as Kafka is strung along past her towards a monitor on the other side of the room.

“You don’t seem to be very affected by it? Its control over you, I mean.”

“And you? You seemed a little weary earlier.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s just new, thats all.”

Kafka’s hand reaches out to flick through various active surveillance cameras, interesting but ultimately fruitless.

“Hmmm… I can see the whole space station on the surveillance screen. But not the Stellaron.” Silver Wolf scoffs indignantly behind her, she almost sounds offended.

“Even if you could it’d be a trap. Herta doesn’t display her collections.” She turns to her hologram once more.

“This thing isnt very good with investigating, is it?”

Kafka expects some form of insulted rage to squeak in her mind’s ear, but she hears nothing. Though faintly she imagines a rather adorable ‘Hey! I’m trying my best!’ echoing in her skull.

Kafka staves off the sudden urge to get defensive in response and clamps her mouth shut.

Silver Wolf sighs at her lack of response and shifts onto her feet.

“Make your way over here then. There’s no point in trying to search like this.”

“So? Got a master plan? I’m all ears.”

Kafka’s tone takes on a slightly irritated edge, for a reason she herself doesn’t quite understand. If Silver Wolf picked up on it, she chooses not to say anything and instead gestures to the warping static of the holographic screens lining the walls of the office.

“Its a matter of hacking the surveillance system directly.” She says matter-of-factly, smirking playfully as her iconic vandalism plasters itself onto every screen in sight.

“Aha, I see. Herta’s collections aren’t in the system so anything unaffected should be our target.”

Their heads are guided to turn and face the back of a lone monitor by the main desk. Ah. that one then. As they both stroll over to investigate, Kafka feels a strange sense of pride bubble in the back of her mind. Not for Silver Wolf’s accomplishment- that much would be expected from the shorter girl- but for the entity curling along the edge of her mind. What exactly she was supposed to be proud of she couldnt tell, but the feeling was pleasant regardless.

Silver Wolf slips into a chair and slides forward to the desk, cracking her knuckles and wiggling her fingers as she readies herself for some data mining.

“Crude, simple, but effective. Look, found it.” The computer’s cursor circles a line of code tauntingly. Kafka doesn’t understand what any of the values mean.

“Item number two-eleven, ‘Blind Spot’ : a simple light-deflecting field. It allows an object in its field to pass unnoticed, but if a different item ceases to be obvious, the object gets revealed.”

She isn’t sure which set of numbers.. Or letters? That item is supposed be, but it does seem like a very… uncomplicated form of security for someone like Herta.

“So, Herta the genius… hides her collection with something as simple as this?”

“the simplest method is the hardest to spot, isnt that our motto?”

“Huh? How is that simple?” Kafka nearly chokes on her saliva while trying to hold back a bark of laughter and wonders why she’d kept her guard up for this thing. She follows Silver Wolf towards the glitching hole in the wall and sighs bemusedly.

“The data suggests its just an ordinary hologram. But it has an added layer… “ Silver Wolf eyes the frayed edges of the hologram cautiously, despite the confidence in her voice.

“Lets take a look. Dont worry, this place wont be our grave.” The girl only puffs her cheeks and steps forward, ignoring Kafka’s words of comfort completely. Well, she’d expected that much at least.

As she follows behind, her vision melts into a stark change of scenery.

The bright, ethereal glow of the Stellaron coating the walls of the closed off room in a golden-blue light. A strange combination, but one that was all too familiar; the everchanging strands of reality warping and stretching around itself, as the Stellaron sat patiently- sealed away- in the center of the room. Such an otherworldly treasure was exactly what all Stellaron hunters across the universe strove for. Though admittedly it was a mere front for their true purpose, a fact that Kafka was intimately aware of.

Their true goal would see this stellaron- sealed away, courtesy of Herta- to another use. Once said seal was removed by Silver Wolf, all Kafka would need to do was take hold of it and place it inside that vessel.

It had been laying in wait for this exact occasion…Kafka smiles fondly at the memory of it. Silver Wolf makes a small noise of surprise, catching her attention. She steps over towards the girl and the control panel, asking a question without speaking.

“It has its own security system… I guess even for herta, a Stellaron is no ordinary rarity.” Silver Wolf sounds genuinely surprised at this fact, though Kafka feels this was a rather likely outcome.

“Can you get it?”

“Of course, even the genius Herta cant compete with me when it comes to hacking.”

“Good. Then I’ll also count on you for the preparation of the receptacle.” Not to mention, she was quite sure this being wouldn’t be able to provide much help if Silver Wolf couldn’t figure it out herself. Speak of the devil, she feels the entity waft away like smoke in the wind and settle in the air around them as she lifts the Stellaron from its prison. She turns to her Silver haired companion and unspoken words flicker between their eyes.

This is Kafka’s decision.

Or perhaps it isn’t, she corrects herself over the distant sound of Silver Wolf’s voice.

When it enters her body, it no longer feels like being puppeteered or controlled.

She recalls that first feeling of possession, and the bleeding darkness making way for glowing golden edges of a burnt milky way. Her mind is dipped like an apple into the thick syruppy taste of synethesia. The amber eyes of the vessel- piercing into her soul and leaving her tongue sizzling in an almost addictive sort of pain- briefly flash open before collapsing to the floor in Kafka’s arms.

The Stellaron has found its place. And something else entirely has made its home there too.

(What an amazing tutorial and intro! You get the feeling you’ll be playing this game for a very long while!)

#not super happy with how this turned out honestly but I can’t be bothered looking at it anymore #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail #(sort of?)#hsr kafka #kafka x reader #silver wolf x reader #hsr silver wolf #kafka honkai star rail #silver wolf honkai star rail #hsr fanfic #yandere hsr #my writing

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anianurst · 5 months

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Dreams Do Come True

Summary: days go by, and Yuji's dreams stop. restless by your absence, Yuji decides to confide in his teacher

A/n: the final part of this mini-series :( im happy that it's received so much love <3 thank youuuuu

Warning(s): mentions of death, puke, mental breakdown, spoilers for jjk season two (episode 17)

It's quiet without you. Not a peaceful quiet but an unsettling one. One that fills your lungs and sits and you struggle to breathe. You hadn't appeared since Yuji was awakened from his last dream with you. Night after night, he goes to bed with bated breaths, hoping you'll appear and he can again relish in your devoted love.

But that doesn't happen. A day goes by, then another, and before he knows it, two weeks pass by with no appearance of you. It's noticeable to everyone that something has been irking Yuji. He smiled a little less and always responded with short answers.

The more noticeable change was the absence of the curse within him. Now that he thinks about it, Yuji doesn't remember Sukuna appearing or talking to him ever since you had appeared in his dreams. The king of curses had been quiet and seemingly lurking in the depths of his soul.

There was one moment that Yuji remembers (more like his body remembers). The moment that you had left with Uraume, he remembered a deep pull from the bottom of his soul. A rough tug that told him he needed to go to you now. The sharp pull then fizzled out as his body turned the opposite way.

"So, what's bothering you, Yuji?" Satoru asks, his bright blue eyes filled with curiosity hidden behind his trademark blindfold. Yuji jolts from the sudden question as he looks up from his phone. An unsure feeling fills his stomach before he sighs and confides in his teacher.

"There's this girl."

"Oh?" There's a teasing tone as Satoru smirks. Yuji's cheeks flare up as he quickly shakes his head.

"It's not how you think it is," he says. "I don't know her." Okay, now Yuji's just talking nonsense, Satoru thinks. "She started showing up in my dreams a while ago, but she hasn't appeared in a like long time."

"Oh?" Satoru says, and it's different this time. He's intrigued by Yuji's confession.

"It's like I know her, but I don't at the same time," Yuji adds. Satoru hums and runs a hand through his snow-like hair. A second passes before he snaps his fingers and makes finger guns at his student.

"You don't know her, but someone else does," Satoru concludes, and Yuji's eyebrows furrow. Why is his teacher always speaking in a metaphorical way? It isn't until Yuji feels something shift on his cheek. A single eye surfaces underneath the teen's left cheek and glares at the white-haired male, warning him not to dig any deeper.

23:14, Dogenzaka, In Front of Shibuya 109

Your lips are parted in awe as you stare at the crater of destruction before you. Even now, in modern times, Sukuna's destruction has always left you breathless, in awe of the beautiful chaos left behind.

A gust of wind comes from behind you, and you turn to look. 'He looks different,' you think, your eyes meeting four ruby-red ones that have always sent warmth through your body.

As he steps towards you, a smirk makes its way to Sukuna's face. A single hand (he has two arms instead of four. a fact that makes you question if you like this change) caresses your face, and you snuggle into the warmth of your lover's hand.

"Be sure to savor this, brat," is all Sukuna mutters as his red eyes give way to brown ones. His hand falls from your cheek, and Yuji's eyes are wide in horror.

He takes in your captivating form, smiling at him and the mass destruction behind you. His hands come up to clutch at his face as shaky breaths leave his lips. Memories of Sukuna's destruction fill his mind, and he falls to his knees.

A groan leaves him as he empties his stomach onto the ground before him. Tears start falling from his eyes as he screams his lungs out. Chants of 'die' and 'only me' fill the air as you continue smiling at him.

His cries die down in volume while you kneel down, your traditional, thin kimono becoming stained with his puke. Your welcoming arms wrap around his shoulders as you pull his figure into yours, your neck becoming damp with his tears.

"Welcome home, my love."

taglist: @aish777 @chuuberrysworld @reigenation @shegetsburned @destroyer-of-za-warudo @darkcowboypirate @cunisna @reverrieee @hotpossumjam @nnasv @sunshinesetsstuff @smolgojo

#sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna x reader #yuji x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk spoilers #jjk x reader #sukuna ryomen #itadori yuuji x reader #yuji itadori

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fandomsandfeminism · 9 months

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I think a lot of my complaints about Oppenheimer might boil down to- "it's a movie about Oppenheimer, not Los Alamos, and I kinda just wanted a movie about Los Alamos."

But also, which things get call backs later in the film and which things don't, and whether or not the call backs make sense? Doesn't? Really? Track? (Granted, I just saw the film, so maybe it needs to marinate more.)

But like, we spend a whole scene establishing that Oppie knows that New Mexico thunderstorms break before dawn....so that when it's raining in the Trinity test, we're like "oh! But he knows about the rain." ....which...ok? Sure.

But at the beginning of the film, we get a whole sequence where he tries to kill a teacher with a poisoned apple, realizes that was fucked up, and is able to stop it from harming anyone. Rather than like...connecting this to how he creates the bomb, realizes the damage it will do, but is UNABLE to stop it- the only call back is...he tells Jean about it and she tells him that he needed to get laid?

And speaking of Jean. Oh Jean. Jesus, Nolan needs some therapy about women. But like... the fact that Oppie reads the "I am become death" line *while having sex with Jean*- why? Why is the movie trying to connect that moment to the Trinity Test. It FEELS like it could be a metaphor. At the Trinity Test, its all about the duality of accomplishment and dread- of success and impending doom. But why are we connecting that to him sleeping with Jean the first time? If she played a larger role in the movie or in his eventual "downfall", it might make for a metaphor. But....it doesn't? So why, except to have another scene with topless Florence Pugh? (Which, hey, I get it.)

Nolan, if you are going to create a mental connection between fucking a beautiful unstable communist woman and the *Trinity Test*, at least have it mean something, my dude. Otherwise it just feels like a "heeeeey, I understood that reference" moment.

#oppenheimer #oppenheimer spoilers

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thelunarfairy · 4 months

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A long analysis about the Yugi twins

How should I start? Maybe in a more objective way, or perhaps with a "once upon a time"

No? haha I imagined.

How could I start with "once upon a time" when there is no fairy tale in this story? Maybe it's more like the Grimm brothers' tales.

The story of two twin brothers that culminated in a mysterious family tragedy, how should we tell this story?

How about we start with brotherly love?

Oh yes, that's a good start.

The melancholic, brotherly love of the Yugi twins. Ah… the love of identical twins, more intense than the love of ordinary brothers, there is a connection, a bond, being born together and sharing the best and worst moments of life, discovering the world little by little, each in their own way . .

Their love transcends and surpasses death.

A beautiful story, isn't it?

But why do most beautiful stories tend to be so sad? A 4-year-old child who gives up his own life because his older twin brother will no longer be by his side in the future.

A younger brother who feels rejected, unloved and who strives to his own limits to win the love of his older brother, come on, see him fill his room with toys, books about stars, what else Amane likes ?

He wanted to do something for him, to give Amane a kind of genuine happiness, even with such simple and small gestures. For a four-year-old boy, giving someone his favorite things would make him happy, wouldn't it?

He gave everything to Amane, including the health he wanted so much.

And in exchange for that, he gained solitude.

The first shock was born here, the disappearance, the despair, the sadness, the melancholy. How many times can you imagine little Amane leaning against the window looking up at the sky, hoping and wishing that his brother would miraculously appear to him?

Amane's desire that brought his own pain.

How did he react to Tsukasa's return? Did he cry with happiness? Did he pretend he was strong enough to not let the tears fall in front of him?

Are you listening? Yes, the sound of silence, we still don't have an answer.

There is the first great brotherly love here, a younger brother who fears the death of the older one, who did everything to make his days happier, who found a way to save his brother… And the firstborn, the one who just wanted to be healthy like his twin, he suffered the sudden and inexplicable absence of the youngest.

What were the consequences of this? Insecurity? Lack? possessiveness? Want to be in control? Did Tsukasa's disappearance change Amane?

What has changed at Amane?

What kind of love did he feel after Tsukasa's return? What happened in the interim between childhood and pre-adolescence that culminated in such a tragic end?

All we have are symbols, metaphors, flashbacks. The flowers that surround them in moments of tension or reunion, the camellias, which represent love itself.

We could list its colors, but only one interests us, red. The color that reflects on Hanako's clothes, which represents him as a whole. The red camellia, the one that represents love, passion…. Passion?

They appear between Hanako and Tsukasa, in the same intensity as they appear between Hanako and Nene.

What do they have in common?

Love… but what kind of love?

The human being is a handmade work, as complex as all the stars that mysteriously float in a dark immensity. How many ways could a human being love?

The flowers represent passionate love, romantic love, the love that Amane feels for Nene, but then, why do they appear to Tsukasa? Why is Tsukasa sometimes represented by Sakura flowers, those that show femininity and fragility?

How would Tsukasa fit in here? Freud could help us with this, he, with all his wisdom and experience, showed us a new concept of unacceptable love, the tragedy of Oedipus, the boy who, as a child, had loving and hostile desires towards his mother.

The boy who would kill his father and marry his own mother. Oh, another tragic story involving forbidden love, sound familiar?

What kind of love did Amane sow and allow to grow? What was Tsukasa to him? And what does Amane represent to Tsukasa?

"Oedipus complex: The Oedipus Complex is a phenomenon described by psychoanalyst Freud to designate a time in child development in which the child develops loving feelings for the parent or family member."

I could spend hours explaining the concept, but I believe you already understand perfectly where I'm going. We are on the fine line between brotherly love and romantic love, what separates them in the case of twins?

That's the right question.

At what point was Amane's love sown? There are no answers, just clues. The suggestive touches, the strangely romantic and sometimes ambiguous displays of affection, the light touch on the older brother's lips

A warm hug enveloping him between his legs.

An almost reunion kiss

The older brother on top of the younger one, while he places one of his hands on Amane's arm and gently touches his lips with the other, as if waiting for him to come closer.

Amane's squinty eyes looking shyly at the camera "there's someone watching us"

What would you understand if I used a random couple's name during these times? Isn't this an intimate and intense moment between a couple?

We could perfectly confuse the type of love that exists between them… romantic love, brotherly love… love… obsessive…

Ah… one of the evils of the world, obsessive love, a complete and dangerously alarming package. It is a love that transforms people, making them obsessed, controlling, selfish, inconsequential, disrespectful, jealous, and invasive (with unfounded distrust and suspicion).

I'll ask once again, does it remind you of anyone?

Can you see in those golden eyes a love that shines through your whole healthy way of being? No? This does not exist in the universe that hovers in Amane's head and heart.

What is his is HIS. There is no second option, there is no other alternative, it is his, it is for him, it is all related only to him. Nene is his, Tsukasa too. And if both of them are about to get out of his control, he traps them, like birds that have just lost their wings.

It's a selfish love… It's a jealousy so painful that he cries to the point of almost getting sick. The terror of loss, he hates losing. How did Hanako shock people by crying inconsolably after her little brother kissed the girl he likes?

Would he cry the same way if it was someone else who had kissed Nene? Would he have cried like that if Akane had kissed Nene on the day of the elevator?

Hmm….it's not just about her….

Why did Hanako start showing more love for Tsukasa when he kissed her? Hanako found the two of them falling to the bottom of the abyss of number one's boundary, and he went to Tsukasa.

He wasn't looking at Nene, he wasn't talking to her, he was talking to Tsukasa. He looked him in the eyes without trembling, without hesitating, without yelling

He placed him between his arms and later wrapped them between his neck. He saved them both equally.

And even though he showed irritation, he denied being angry, was he just jealous of Nene? If he was jealous, if he was suspicious, why would he throw Nene to Tsukasa? Why would he scream his name with so much concern?

Why was he so embarrassed when Tsukasa found out that he wants to do perverted things? Embarrassed to the point of turning red all over, including his hands, embarrassed to the point of almost crying, can we see a tear falling here?

Yes, he was more embarrassed here than when Nene kissed him on the cheek….

The chaotic energy that emanates from these two, uncontrollable, one is calm and the other is storm, the Yin and Yang, the sun and the moon. Come, allow me to show you Tsukasa once again being represented in a feminine way, when he becomes the moon of Amane.

Yes, the moon, the one that represents yin, femininity, the opposite of the sun, the masculine, virility, masculinity. Ah, the moon, the one that Amane loves, the one that Amane dreams of finding every day, touching it, making it his own.

Why would Tsukasa be her representation?

Many say that it's because Tsukasa is Amane's treasure, the one who made him give up on his own dreams, the moon is Amane's unattainable hope of freeing himself from the ropes, the ties that don't allow him to float so far.

The moon is the light in the middle of the darkness that he seeks so much.

Who is Amane looking for so much?

Tsukasa?

It's convenient that he's the moon, she represents the unattainable, the love of an older brother that can't be completely true because he knows it's an equally… unattainable love…

The love locked away in the chest, the love that made Tsukasa become a prisoner. Amane loves him, but he can't express it, he can't admit it, he can't be honest, but he doesn't want to let him go, he doesn't want to let him go again, Tsukasa's love is his.

He trapped Tsukasa himself in a cage that has no doors… But can Tsukasa create a passage?

On the other hand, we see the youngest, the boy who shows his emotions without regret, without being ashamed, he just loves, Tsukasa is a simple boy.

But he loves it too much. Permissive and loyal love, let Amane decide, let Amane tell me. I sacrificed myself for him, but it wasn't enough, I want to understand him.

Why? Do you want to fix things? Want to do better?

The silence echoing everywhere denounces this boy's motivations, the permissive love, so altruistic to the point that he still misses the brother who would kill him in the future, perhaps Tsukasa could even justify Amane's reasons for killing him.

It's a strong love, but it's not unconditional.

Amane tied Tsukasa to him, the boy didn't have the opportunity to truly die. He has lived in eternal purgatory since he was four years old, and from the beginning it was always for him, it was always for Amane…

Tsukasa befriended death, and made it a great friend.

He never had a "rest in peace" it was always a "see you soon". He didn't go anywhere, he remained in purgatory alone for years on end

And when he returned to live next to his much-loved older brother, he deluded himself into believing he had achieved freedom, when in fact he was thrown straight into limbo. .

He was lonelier than before.

Limbo only had memories, darkness and silence… The walls revealed his presence, the hands marked with a certain constancy, with a certain insistence, were marks that Tsukasa left before finding a way out.

The only thing that could be heard was Tsukasa's voice echoing between the walls

"Amane" - he called on Hanako's boundary.

The walls were discreet, Amane didn't hear him

No one listened to Tsukasa.

It will be?

"I'm not going anywhere" - said Amane, forgetting to complete his own sentence - "Neither is Tsukasa."

Tsukasa's loneliness screams intensely but no one hears, no one sees… No one listens to Tsukasa

But no one listens to Amane either… equally lonely, sitting on top of an old toilet while waiting to be called by someone, while waiting to be heard again.

He can break free, Tsukasa can't.

Ah, obsessive love…. it has those things. Amane feels remorse for everything, but his mouth stops, it shakes to the point where he can't speak, he may lose his tongue but he won't ask for forgiveness.

It will be? Ah, my mistake, he will, at the right time.

Love is slowly awakening… Amane had locked him away together with Tsukasa, but now that he is free, love is blooming again…

Hanako had abandoned a love that he couldn't deal with, but that was embedded in his chest, there is nothing he could do that could get that love out of there, it was just dormant…

He was?

Or has Amane been suffocating him all these years?

A tiring love… for both of them… so the Yugi twins' great dilemma was born, to stay or not to stay?

Tsukasa didn't leave because he was selfish, he went to give Amane everything he wanted, he exchanged his own life for his. We can imagine little Amane's pain when he no longer finds his little brother anywhere, even searching among his favorite toys, even calling him over and over again.

Tsukasa didn't respond.

When he returned home, something awakened in Amane, the intense and dark fear of losing, how could he deal with it? His naivety was broken at the age of four when he suddenly lost the one he loved… but, that person came back…

He won't let him go anymore.

Tsukasa wants to go, he wants to give Amane wings to make his dreams come true, but Amane chose to cut them off, he doesn't want to fly anymore, he wants to stay next to the person he loves.

The dilemma that culminated in a tragedy

We could paraphrase Shakespeare, when the famous tragedy born of his genius thoughts told us "to be or not to be, that is the question" to suit the Yugi twins, we would say

"To stay or not to stay, that is the question"

Tsukasa was often stabbed by Amane's silence, the intense attempts to make Amane talk about how he felt, made Tsukasa tired, he wanted to hear, he wanted to see…

It was a tiring love….

What did Tsukasa become when he allowed his chest to fill with the purest supernatural darkness? What did he become when he went there? And who was he when he returned?

Was Amane's love able to overcome the inevitable loss of his four-year-old brother? Tsukasa who returned was not the same, the old Tsukasa died. What kind of relationship did they have when Tsukasa became an otherworldly being?

He who carries death with him.

When Amane allowed Hanako to be born, was he still Amane?

Yeah, he's back, can you hear it? The silence of a non-existent answer.

Supernaturals are not human, and do not relate as such.

To repeat, supernaturals are not human.

How do they love?

It is a mysteriously hostile and unpredictable love, the love that reflects the intensity of the deepest desire, to devour, to desire…

The twins love like humans, but have similar desires as supernaturals. Devour or be devoured. Ah, the explicitly sexual connation in the context, having someone in possession of you, desiring it with all the intensity that you carry in your chest, making it his, uniquely yours.

The misunderstood and illusory love of Hakubo and Sumire, the girl who is geniusly in love, who created castles in her own mind to suppress the pain of living in reality. Being loved by at least someone is a comfort that eases the pain of loneliness.

The years that escaped time separated them, but the resolution came, even after a long wait, Hakubo returned. He took her as his wife, he asked to take her… and she allowed him. The consummation, the blood on the floor showing the painfully unforgiving love they had to submit to.

An Oni who pretends not to see, and a Kannagi who asks for help without speaking. A disagreement that ended in consummation.

How do they compare to twins? Love misunderstood and unresolved… a love that will end in consummation…

It will be?

We see it again, yes, the fine line between sibling love and romantic love.

Taking Tsukasa as his, devouring him, consuming him, as a last gesture of true love.

But would Hanako devour him?

Does Amane love Tsukasa the same way he loves Nene? Does Tsukasa love Amane the same way Nene loves him?

Is it as heavy and difficult to love Amane as it appears to be?

This is the lock, full of clear and objective questions, but the same question screams with all its force at all times:

What kind of love is that?

We still haven't found the key that will unlock the truth, the answer to that question…

We remain trapped in a bird cage, waiting for Amane to arrive with his golden key, only he can bring the truth, the big problem is

When will he come?

Important observations:

The post is an analysis, it has nothing related to my personal preferences, I don't ship the twins and my intention is not to encourage behavior similar to theirs, again, it's just an analysis based on their behavior. Don't take what I say here too seriously, these findings could be completely wrong, so it's just an analysis.

I carried out this larger analysis due to the number of requests to create new posts or complement existing ones about the twins.

There is more content about them on my blog, if you are curious, just go to the pinned comment and look at the index, there are the main posts.

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cellarspider · 2 months

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20/?? Special delivery

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We return to a movie that has never been to medical school, Prometheus.

Here it is. The scene that everybody remembers because it gave a fair few people the screaming heebies. This is their version of the chestburster scene–except for the less impactful, literal version of the chestburster scene we’ll get later, I mean. This one, though, this one, they got it right.

Content warnings for gore, nudity, nude gore, exhaustive discussions of the place of chestbursting in franchise history.

But first! I saw a tag with a desire to see the scene with David and the star map. To spare everyone from watching the rest of the movie to get there, here it is!

youtube

[See previous post for lengthy description of the events. I didn’t talk about the music in this before though! It really adds to the sense of wonder in this scene. It reminds me of Daft Punk’s Overture to Tron Legacy (2010), another beautiful and flawed movie. Given the modern use of temporary music in editing that definitely sneaks into what directors demand of scores, there’s a chance this was a direct influence. In terms of the “oh wow, space!” feeling it gives me, I’d also mention the Star Trek TNG opening theme.]

Anyway! On with the horror.

In Alien, the creature’s life cycle was developed by writer Dan O'Bannon, who had two major ideas for its early appearances: sexual, reproductive threat directed at a male character, and Crohn’s disease. O’Bannon had Crohn’s, and he said that inspired the idea of a critter chewing its way out of a man’s guts.

That personal connection has been lost through subsequent media, in part because the series has continued to use the same creature and the same method of killing, minor deviations like in Covenant and tasteless ones like AvP Requiem notwithstanding. The chestburster is a thing that can only ever really work once in a movie. The first time is relatively drawn out, made a setpiece of the movie, and is a horrifying plot twist for anyone who goes in blind. After that? Drawing it out may risk becoming meaningless gore or boring, so most movies have chosen to just have the little bugger pop out within seconds. It’s the sideshow before you get to the main event, despite being the iconic scene of Alien.

Prometheus’ equivalent scene wins back a fair amount of tension by altering the details of the event, if not the general arc of it. It certainly hammers on the reproductive horror aspect, but loses the original subversion of targeting a male character. Which is a shame, because male-targeted reproductive horror is still boundary-pushing. From the world of horror gaming, Outlast: Whistleblower produced some notably panicked reactions from male players when they encountered the emasculating, specifically reproductive threat of Eddie Gluskin. (Content warning for gore, death, forced feminization, misogynistic language, censored nudity.)

Regardless, we have The Chestburster Scene again, but now it’s in the back half of the movie, and happens to the main human protagonist.

I find it very odd that this movie is so self-consciously iterating over things that were first done in Alien. It’s like watching a devout Catholic pray at the Stations of the Cross.

Speaking of crosses

Before we get to the main event, there’s the first actual attempt at character work between David and Shaw in the movie, as we’re in the final act. David confiscates Shaw’s cross as she wakes up from her post-boyfriend-barbeque faint. “It may be contaminated,” he says.

Shaw’s christianity is one of the few character traits in the film that ties into one of the themes, and has its own arc. She’s giving up her cross to the person who killed her partner, a metaphor for a crisis of faith which is so blatant as to barely be a metaphor at all. And, given the general arc of how these things go, means she’s going to get it back at some point. The context for it is going to be confusing and disappointing, frankly.

And it’s especially weird given the other metaphor going on simultaneously: David runs some scans on her, and declares she’s three months pregnant. This is a non-virgin virgin pregnancy. She is Alien Mary. This, then, is the narrative reason why Shaw is infertile–so that she could be the Mary figure, and, more practically for the plot, have foreknowledge that something was wrong.

Except it really didn’t have to be that way to make this work. While christian allegory and the creation of life are themes in this movie, Shaw’s infertility was handled with zero grace. And honestly, the movie could work without it–Shaw and Holloway did not have romantic chemistry, as far as I could tell. Lean into that! Just say they haven’t had sex in ages. This scene would actually flow better, because Shaw explicitly objects that she only had sex with Holloway “ten hours ago. There's no bloody way I'm three months pregnant.”

Which again hammers in how stupid fast this movie has been racing its characters toward their doom, but I’m immediately distracted by David pronouncing “it's not exactly a traditional fetus.”

It certainly isn’t. It’s an alien squid, placed there by the holy spirit of black goo. She’s all set to give birth to Squesus.

I think that’s the only worse way he possibly could’ve said it.

David, frankly, gets some of his worst dialog of the movie here, because he is infected by The Plot for a bit. “It must feel like your God has abandoned you,” he says, after sedating her, “to loose Dr. Holloway after your father died under such similar circumstances.” Which leaves one momentarily with the wild mental image of Dad Shaw sacrificing himself to a flamethrower-welding corpo, but no, David means ebola. David found this out via that dream-watching tech that exists solely to be a mildly unnecessary plot point. Blessedly, this is the last time we see any mention of it.

It’s very strange, how the movie is stuffed full of plot and edited so tightly around the plot that characters barely have room to breathe, yet what it prioritizes as plot-relevant is so scattershot. This failing is also inflicted upon the part of the otherwise very effective Chestburster: The Prequel scene.

Shaw attacks the people who come to take her away to cryo, running in her underwear to the PAULING MED-POD the movie very loudly announced earlier, so that you wouldn’t forget it exists. She tells the PAULING MED-POD that she needs an emergency caesarian. The PLOTPOINT MED-POD informs her that it’s only formatted for male patients.

I’ve seen many people complain this makes no sense. It’s in Vickers’ quarters, why would she have an expensive medical device that she can’t fully use? Others counter that no, it makes sense, because the med-pod was actually installed for Peter Weyland, thus justifying its male specificity. He’s a selfish bastard, he got it for himself, plot hole avoided.

…Except that doesn’t address the more fundamental problem: What does this add to this scene, to balance out the fact that the audience is now distracted by this information? It slows Shaw down a bit as she figures out how to cue up a foreign body extraction from the abdominal cavity, adding to the tension. But you don’t need that to be what draws out the scene. Maybe the PAULING MED-POD has a slow boot-up sequence. Maybe someone follows her there, and she has to fight them off, possibly killing them in her panic. A dead body in the room would solve an actual logical problem with a later scene.

It’s frustrating, because the pacing of this scene is actually excellent, as is its premise. Shaw has to forego anesthesia and make do with self-administered local painkillers, because the prosthetics and CG teams have done a bang-up job making her stomach writhe unpleasantly, making it very clear that whatever’s in there is mobile enough to be a danger to her, even if it’s removed.

The pods instruments are mostly CG, but its combination of unhurried routine and abrupt, industrial roboticism adds to the uncomfortable nature of the scene. Sound design is also important here, with all sound effects well-chosen, and mixed to imply claustrophobic closeness and how trapped Shaw is.

The creature itself? Eh. It’s a slightly phallic squid, and squids were already slightly phallic to begin with. They added on a slightly vaginal mouth, which is also a lateral move--squid mouths already look quite a lot like an unworksafe orifice with a beak tucked away in it. Unless you're looking at Promachoteuthis sulcus, whose inner lip structures fold into patterns that look distressingly like human teeth.

Honestly, this is freakier than the actual prop. Good job, Promachoteuthis sulcus. You're only 25 mm long, and a delightful tiny terror.

...But the fact that Shaw’s stuck in the pod with her flailing squid-child is what actually adds another minute of fear and wince-worthy pain, as the almost comically brutal medical staple gun closes her incision and the pod slowly opens up.

She tries to kill it with what appears to be a soothing mist of decontamination spray. This is the one other stumble of the scene, because it’s just… I mean, look at it.

It’s just been spritzed with Febreze. There’s nothing that leaves you wondering if the thing’s still alive for later, you know it’s still alive.

But overall, a well-done scene. The standout horror scene of the movie, which is light on scares. That sparsity wouldn’t even be worth mentioning if the movie were going for slow tension, but with its strange blend of existential quandaries and unremarkable horror tropes, it takes a very strong, singular scene to feel like the tension has actually paid off. I don’t think it completely balances out the deficits of the rest of the horror, but it very nearly manages it, and does manage to be memorable.

Next time: An entirely underwhelming horror scene, and the movie takes another swing at having themes.

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Citations for alt-text rambles:

https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/aug/30/memory-the-origins-of-alien-review-francis-bacon-greek-myth-dan-o-bannon-sci-fi-classic-film

https://www.stanwinstonschool.com/blog/aliens-chestburster-mechanism-behind-the-scenes

https://avp.fandom.com/wiki/Seegson

https://stackoverflow.com/questions/3314219/how-do-u-v-coordinates-work

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surgical_staple (medical gore cw)

https://sites.uw.edu/pauling2020/

https://www.paulinamarket.com/

Overflow Ramble #1

A shot of the screen on Chekhov’s g–I mean the PAULING MED-POD, showing the text “EMERGENCY PROCEDURE”, and that it is “AWT VERBAL CMD”. The med-pod turns out to be a Weyland product, because all corporations in Alien movies are either Weyland, Yutani, or Seegson, if you’re particularly unlucky (cite 3).

They made the mistake of putting more actual words on here, and so I’m squinting at the top right corner at “CARDIAC STRESS TEST”, “ELECTROCARDIOGRAPHY” AND “MECH ALGN TCH”, which means the pod appears to think she needs to have her heart checked or her wheels aligned.

But what I find funniest is that there’s coordinate sliders in the center bottom: X/Y/Z and U/W. You know where I recognize that from? 3D modeling. U/V/W are used as an alternate coordinate system in that context (cite 4). Somebody was designing this, thinking “well, we need more buttons. Where can I get more buttons?” and then looked at the horrid mass of options and sliders in their modeling software and realized they had the answer.

Overflow Ramble #2

A close-up of David’s hands, holding a sample container and placing Shaw’s necklace inside. Two details, one of them insane, the other just plain funny: First of all, this is a different set of hands than the one when David was messing with the black goo–there was a small but notable blemish on the fingerprint that wasn’t there, proving once again that hand and arm doubles are one of the odder things you don’t think about in film production.

Second: The container is turned so that the label on it is facing away. This allows you to see the necklace, but it also highlights a completely flat Braille label, reading “PN#ZTZouSthe#Z”, which is obviously very informative.

But the real reason why the label is facing away is because it almost hides the fact that the label says “PRODUCT CODE” on it, which means he may have just put Shaw’s necklace in an empty peanut butter jar.

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#Prometheus 2012 #Prometheus (2012)#finally some well done scenes #though the plot still does not leave them unscathed #Youtube

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cedarxwing · 2 months

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Faust allusions in Hannibal

"I believe that Hannibal Lecter is as close as you can come to the devil, to Satan. He's the fallen angel. His motives are not banal reasons, like childhood abuse or junkie parents. It's in his genes. He finds life is most beautiful on the threshold to death, and that is something that is much closer to the fallen angel than it is to a psychopath." - Mads Mikkelsen on Hannibal as the Devil

I'm not a Faust expert or anything, but I've been balls deep in Wikipedia for the last week and here are my findings:

Super Short Summary of Faust:

Faust is an old scholar dissatisfied with life. One day Mephistopheles (the Devil) shows up and offers him a deal including unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures. The particulars of the deal vary by version:

Original Faustbuch: Mephisto offers 24 years of service, and then Faust must serve him forever in hell.

Goethe: Mephisto will serve Faust until he experiences a moment of perfect satisfaction, after which he'll be dragged to hell. (Mephisto also makes a secondary bet with God that he can tempt Faust away from righteousness and into damnation.)

Gounod's opera: Mephisto turns Faust young again and wins him the beautiful Marguerite's heart. He also offers knowledge and power, but the story is more about Marguerite.

In most versions, Faust is damned to Hell at the end. In Goethe's version, Faust finds his moment of perfect satisfaction, but Mephisto doesn't succeed in tempting Faust into sin, so Faust ends up going to Heaven.

Explicit References

I won't list all the times the script refers to Hannibal as the Devil, but they're fun to look for. :)

The first explicit reference to Faust is in Sorbet (1x07), when Gounod's Le veau d'or plays while Hannibal gathers meat for his dinner party. This aria is Mephisto's manifesto on human nature:

"The calf of gold is the victor over the gods! In its derisory (absurde) glory, The abject monster insults heaven! It contemplates, oh weird frenzy! At his feet the human race, Hurling itself about, iron in hand, In blood and in the mire, Where gleams the burning metal, And satan leads the dance"

People are slaves to greed and easily tempted away from their morals--a nice description of Hannibal's perspective on humanity and his favorite pastime. I also like the implication that the rude people in his Rolodex are damned souls that he's come to reap.

This is a quote from Hannibal Rising when Hannibal watches Faust at the Opera Garnier with Lady Murasaki and the Paris Police Commissioner (which, wow, this chapter is practically Phantom of the Opera fanfiction). It's funny, because at that point in the novel, Hannibal is more Faust than Mephisto, so he's contemptuous of himself. Later, once he's undergone some, ahem, character development, the book quotes Goethe:

"I'd yield myself to the Devil instantly, Did it not happen that myself am he!"

This is probably the origin of the "Hannibal is the Devil" interpretation.

Also, I just want to point out that it's not particularly unique to be contemptuous of Gounod's Faust. He's a skeevy old man who fucks up his own life and everyone else's out of boredom, which is very human and relatable, but not very likable! We're all Fausts who are contemptuous of Faust, just like we're all rooting for Hannibal and contemptuous of Chilton.

Another quote from Goethe. Faust says this line while complaining that he has to choose between a simple/familiar/earthly life and a life unbound by earthly limitations (x). The double meaning of this line perfectly sums up Dolarhyde's predicament. He gave up a normal life to experience something otherworldly, and now he's fighting against the Red Dragon to save Reba.

This line also summarizes the temptation Hannibal dangles in front of Will. "Don't you crave change, Will?" A moment of perfect satisfaction, after which his soul will forever belong to Hannibal. This moment comes to pass when they kill Dolarhyde and go off the cliff, a metaphorical fall from Heaven (better explained here: x).

Not to get too lost in the weeds, but I would argue that killing Dolarhyde wasn't really a sin (maybe it was a sin to let those prison guards die, but killing Dolarhyde was self-defense and he was a serial killer for Pete's sake), so Hannibal lost his bet with God (Jack), and Will (Faust) is going to heaven after all, just like in Goethe's version. Maybe this idea would've been explored in Season 4, who knows.

Faustian Bargains

Once you strike a bargain with Hannibal, your soul belongs to him, and he can collect it at any time. The whole show is a series of people falling for this trap (except for Will, to Hannibal's never-ending frustration).

Some characters go to Hannibal seeking "otherworldly knowledge" while others are motivated by material greed. Gideon wants to know the Ripper and pays the price. Chilton and Sutcliffe commiserate with Hannibal in their medical malpractice and are punished accordingly. In Digestivo, Alana/Margot accept Hannibal's offer to take the fall for Mason's murder (and also get Mason's sperm) so they can inherit the Verger fortune.

The Faustian bargain motif is most apparent in Season 3, when Hannibal starts making characters explicitly ask for his help:

And, of course, the bargain Hannibal waited three seasons to strike:

Bedelia is the purest manifestation of this. She makes not one but two deals with Hannibal. The first was to help her get away with murder. The second was to take her "behind the veil" in Florence, where she acquires otherworldly knowledge and experiences. This is framed as "lucid greed" on her part, and maybe not just greed for knowledge, depending on how much she made off her lectures about being Lydia Fell! Hannibal spends Season 3a trying to get her to "participate" and makes some headway before his plans are derailed. She gets her come-uppance in the post-credits scene.

Finally, the most heartbreaking deal Hannibal makes:

Abigail's soul belongs to Hannibal as soon as she accepts this offer. In Mizumono, she willingly goes to her fate. :(

(Again, I'm not an expert, so if I got anything wrong please correct me!!)

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannibal meta #faust #bedelia du maurier #alana bloom #will graham #abel gideon #frederick chilton #margot verger #francis dolarhyde #cedar writes

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dwaekkilinos · 3 months

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wind and water (pt. 2) | lee felix

summary: People always had a way of looking at you as if your skin were composed of paper mâché and your heart was made of glass. They just assumed you were kind of like a weak bird . . . but Felix Lee looked at you like you still had some flight left.

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | surfing au, childhood friends to lovers, slice of life, angst, fluff, eventual smut word count: 11.7K chapter summary: you think you're kind of like a weak bird; felix lee believes you still have some flight left. warnings/notes: explicit language, typos probably, more talks of death and not too good coping mechanisms, hurt and comfort, felix rly is a sunshine and i love him, reader is all over the place, it's very obvious they have crushes on each other but duh they can't get together, fleabag references, bird metaphors, a painful mother-daughter relationship, bridgerton easter egg, my mad fat diary easter egg, sexual tension, unresolved sexual tension, dry humping, making out, they're young and dumb and both extremely traumatized, bat metaphors aka felix is afraid of bats, and i think that's it for this part but if i missed anything let me know, ok ok hope you enjoy <3

chapter two: can you see right through me? ( ← previous | next → )

Here was the deal: you did not like to think of yourself as a little bird. Not anymore. It felt too fragile, too innocent, too beautiful, and you now felt like you were anything but.

You’d always been a wimpy-looking kid. You’d been told you had these off-putting eyes, not the kind that’s intimidating or anything like that, but the kind that's a little too hard to look at without getting a chill up your spine or something. Your lips were always chapped too, so you supposed you weren’t winning any beauty pageants any time soon.

And god, did you hate your nose. You had always considered yourself one of the unlucky ones, inheriting your father's nose which, not to mention had its own small legacy within your family. It was a nose that was only found on your father's maternal side of the family tree. And of course, your (fucking perfect) sister got lucky and ended up with your mother's nose (like of course!).

So there you had it—you had always considered yourself unlucky in the looks department. It was something that you’d come to terms with anyway; something that you had to after being picked on throughout elementary, junior high, oh, and then high school, because, well . . . yeah . . .

That was the thing though—you had always viewed yourself as less. You never really felt like your mother's little bird, you always just felt like yourself: unnerving and . . . odd. You never felt pretty enough. You always felt like you were just . . . there. Erin was the one everyone was always looking at.

You supposed that was why you fell for every guy that gave you a sliver of attention, especially your ex-boyfriend. He had been the first to call you pretty—something you never thought you were. You supposed that was why you got so attached to him. He was the first person to make you feel pretty enough . . . until he ruined that too, and left you feeling like some kind of ugly, unfortunate little soul.

That winter after he cheated on you and the relationship fizzled into nothing, you spent alone. You didn’t even tell anyone. It was too bothersome; too personal; it was like if you told someone, then it’d lose all its meaning (not that it meant much to him anyway . . . ).

But it meant everything to you.

Everything meant something to you.

And when that winter turned into spring, then summer, autumn, winter, and spring again, you finally did get over it, silently and alone as you had always done. You told people then. You told your mother then.

You remembered it even now.

You’d told her and it was as if she had lost her little bird. You watched it all happen, too. You watched as she realized.

People looked at you as if your skin was composed of paper mâché and your heart was made of glass. You were always breakable, ever so fragile. When you were young, your mother used to call you her Little Bird. Delicate. That was what you had always been. Never harsh or rough, just delicate, soft. You were your mother's little bird, in desperate need of protection.

And when she had found out her little girl had kept this relationship from her; had kept the fact that she had given herself to him body mind and soul . . . well . . . she was no longer her little bird.

You were no longer her little bird.

I can’t believe you would do this to yourself, your mother had whispered, voice full of shock and . . . and an ugly hint of betrayal.

That was the last time you cried before you found out the news of her illness. That was the last time you let yourself resent her. That was the last time you could without a guilty conscience.

But it never left your mind.

You hadn’t known what she meant then, and you still didn’t. However, you did know that you wished you had never told her, because maybe then she wouldn’t have died disappointed in you.

And now all you had left of her were memories you wished you could erase.

Your mother’s little bird . . .

What a fucking joke.

You were no little bird. You weren’t delicate or gentle. Your mother had made sure you knew that. Your mother had made sure you knew that Little Bird had finally flown too soon from the coop, with broken wings, crashing toward the ground, unable to take flight. And on her way down, she met a boy who made her feel soft, and graceful, beautiful . . . until he didn't anymore. She met another boy soon after, and another, and another who made her feel like the delicate bird her mother always told her she was. But they never lasted. They all eventually poisoned her softness, morphing it into weakness.

Still, she . . . you . . . you never stopped chasing that soft, warm feeling they gave you in the beginning. You looked for it in every boy, hoping you'd meet one and the feeling would stay. And just as you were about to collide with the ground, broken wings and all, you met one who made you feel exactly like that.

But this time, the feeling stayed longer than a few weeks. So, you thought that was it. You thought you had found the one everyone was always going on about, until he, too, used your softness against you and poisoned it, turning it into weakness.

And it broke you quietly, harshly like a hiss, not a whisper, until you were able to glue back the feathers he had ripped from your back when he left.

You supposed that made you foolish. It was silly of you to think someone would stay.

Your mother made sure to tell you that. She made sure you knew giving your heart or . . . giving yourself . . . your body to a man, no, a boy was, indeed, foolish. It was stupid, and you were the idiot for believing otherwise.

I’m just trying to protect you, she’d whispered as she came to tuck you in for the night, stroking your hair like she used to when you were a kid.

But her words still stung, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth for months to come.

And a few months later, she got the news. Stage four. Practically untreatable.

A year later she was gone.

But her words remained, and your anger grew.

It was something you couldn’t admit; something that was almost cruel, but you couldn’t help it. But you were angry. Angry at her. Angry at her for what she’d said. Angry at how she’d favored your sister more. Angry at how you grew up. Angry at her for dying. Just so . . . so angry.

And how could you even admit that?

Your mother was dead and you were alive, haunted by the fact that you were so angry at her and she never knew. What kind of sick person did that?

Maybe she did know. Maybe she’d told you to look for her in the wind, knowing it’d haunt you forevermore. Maybe she wanted you to know what a horrible daughter you were. Maybe she knew . . .

But then . . . why didn’t she haunt you?

You’d seen glimpses. You could’ve sworn she was there, somewhere in the shadows lurking. Sure, could it have been the hallucinations? Yeah, you supposed . . . but you could just feel her.

She was still ever-present, and yet . . . she wouldn’t visit you. Had you displeased her that much?

It didn’t make any sense.

When your mother was just a girl, she’d lost her father. She’d lost him and she’d born it well; she’d told you stories about him when you were growing up; she had old pictures and still celebrated his birthday every year. She knew what loss was. She knew how this felt.

And she also knew she, too, would’ve given anything just to see him one last time.

Yet . . . for you . . . she remained silent.

It didn’t make any fucking sense.

Losing someone felt a lot like losing yourself. Your mother knew this. You’d seen it happen to her. You’d felt it happen to yourself.

At first, it feels like nothing . . . like this perpetual numbness is all you will ever feel because it's all you can fathom. But that's because it hasn't hit yet. You're still holding out for a sliver of hope, convincing yourself that you still have time, that she could be brought back and the treatments would finally work. It's a human thing . . . a sad, utterly human thing everyone made of flesh and bone falls victim to. It's a weakness—a devastating one at that.

Hope is what makes us human. So when you lose all your hope . . . what then? What do you have left?

Nothing.

That's when it hits—when you realize you have nothing left. You realize this isn't some obscure bad dream that you can't wake up from. You realize that this person that you held so close to your heart is really just . . . gone.

They're gone, and you're not.

That's when it happens: your entire being fails on you. Everything stops working, and you lose yourself. You stop working because you realize that this person you depended on so heavily throughout your entire life is no longer there. They no longer exist. They're just gone, but somehow for some reason, you're still here. And all you can think is—what makes me so special? Why her and not me?

Grief had a funny way of feeling a lot like guilt.

And your guilt always manifested as ghosts—the ghosts you'd lost throughout your life.

No one ever truly felt gone to you. It'd always felt like they'd gone away on a trip and you were just patiently waiting for them to return. Sometimes you could hear them. Sometimes even feel them, their essence, the person they used to be.

It'd been that way ever since you were a kid. Oftentimes, out of the corner of your eye, you swore you could see figures pass your vision, figures that had passed on. Hell, even the kids in your grade would joke how you could see dead people, but you never really paid them any mind.

You couldn't see dead people. You didn't have some sixth sense or anything like that. You had guilt and grief and ghosts.

Because really . . . if what people said about you had been true, if you really could see the dead, then why wouldn't your mother haunt you?

Haunt me, you would sob for weeks after her death under your breath in the dead of night. Haunt me, please. I need you. Please, haunt me. Fucking haunt me.

But no ghost ever came, only the perpetual darkness galloped in, consuming you whole.

Your mother was gone, and all your memories of her came with anger and resentment and pain. . . . Guilt was your ghost, not her.

Because the truth was: you knew why she wouldn’t haunt you.

You’d failed her. She died with disappointment in her veins; she’d died in vain.

And then you fucked up your life.

She’d wait for Hell to turn over before she even thought of seeing your face again. That much was clear.

Yet . . .

Haunt me, you carved into a wooden panel of the bed slat you were currently (and begrudgingly) glaring at. Your hand shook as you marked a line under the words with the beer bottle cap you were using to carve. And when that was done, your hand fell to the floorboards, just near your head, and you stared at the two, daunting words.

Now . . . let’s back up. Where are we? How did we get here? What’s going on?

Well, dead mother aside and it’s just another boring, hot day in Southhaven, duh. Day is normal. Grace. A glimpse of Felix. A look from Chris. Blah, blah, blah.

Then, Chris comes barging into the kitchen just when it’s getting dark. He needs the minivan. Why? Well, apparently he and his old friends from high school are getting together for their annual bonfire or . . . whatever. Felix is trailing in behind him, apple in hand as he watches Chris beg like he’s a preteen once again.

And you, well, you’re caught in the crossfire, accidentally stumbling upon the situation just as you’re going into the kitchen to grab popcorn for you and Grace. One thing leads to another and . . . Chris is allowed supervision of the minivan for one night if he drags you along with him (you know why; you know the Bahngs are worried about you; you know they want you to hang out with people your own age, but still).

So you’re forced to tag along. But . . . Felix is there, too, sitting in the front with Chris. And then you’re there. The place reeks of smoke, and you immediately wonder if throwing yourself into the bonfire is too dramatic for a Wednesday night.

Chris is gone in ten seconds, being whisked away by one of their friends. Minho, you think you catch his name, but your mind is elsewhere. Felix leaves next, not by choice, however. He’s quite literally picked up by two other guys and taken . . . somewhere. And then you’re alone again. Of course.

Whatever, anyway, you couldn’t remember how it happened now, but one minute you were outside, then the next you were in their kitchen, taking a shot of whatever. Tequila or vodka, you don’t know. All alcohol just tastes like rubbing alcohol and hot coal sliding down your throat.

And the next thing you know, you suddenly can’t stand to be in your own skin anymore, and you’re wandering up the stairs with a beer bottle in hand and a need to be alone, alone, alone.

You supposed you freaked out again. Just a little, right? You couldn’t remember how or why but somehow, you ended up in a random bedroom, tucked under a bed, staring at the words Haunt me for the past five minutes while you calmed your shaky hands and beating heart.

“Fuck,” you hissed under your breath as you ran your fingers across the horribly carved words.

What were you doing?

Why couldn’t you just drag yourself downstairs and be fucking normal?

You used to be so good at it. You used to be so . . so different. You used to be able to let Hyunjin and Jisung drag you to bars where the three of you would just walk around shitfaced, trying to find the bathroom in each and every bar. It used to be fun. Now . . . now you didn’t even feel like drinking the rest of the beer that sat just on the outside from under the bed.

Dropping your other hand to cover your face, you loudly groaned. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

With a sigh, you dragged your hand down your face. Your eyes were on the carved words once again. Swallowing hard, you allowed yourself to trace the carvings with your fingertip.

Haunt me.

And you were back in that house; back in your house, eyes always on that damned dining table. You didn’t know how long you’d waited for your mother to take her seat every single night. You just remembered watching, waiting, wishing . . . only for nothing to happen.

Haunt me.

Would the next person to knock at your door be her or . . . death? Would she see you then?

Almost as if like clockwork, a knock at the bedroom door came. You whipped your head in that direction, eyes on the sliver of light peeking out from the gap in the door. A shadow of two feet stared back at you, making your heart hammer in your chest.

Waiting in silence, you didn’t dare speak a word, wondering if the person or . . . ghost would be the first to talk. And slowly, they opened the door, stepping inside while your heart climbed to your throat.

But then:

“Can I join you?” the person asked, their voice deep and smooth, and you instantly knew who it was.

Your heart dropped.

It wasn’t her.

You watched, oddly heartbroken, as he awkwardly shifted his weight from foot to foot, but you didn’t dare say a word. “I’m not, like, stalking you or anything if you were wondering . . . um—” a clearing of his throat— “I just . . . I didn’t know where you went. Someone mentioned seeing a girl go upstairs and then, well, I heard you in here. So . . . totally not stalking.”

A beat of heavy silence.

Then:

“There’s room, Felix,” you mumbled out, letting him know in the littlest of words that he could, in fact, join you.

Within seconds, there he was, his face peeking under the bed, eyes finding yours and immediately smiling. You felt yourself trying to fight off a small smile of your own as he crawled under the bed until he was laying comfortably next to you, arm brushing arm.

The funny thing was: you oddly felt more comfortable than you had a second ago. But then again, you quite liked being around him. It seemed everyone did anyway. He was just that type of person.

And yet he kept following after you. (You hated how it made you feel warm, almost . . . special.)

“So . . . “ he chuckled under his breath, eyes on your profile, “what are you doing under here?”

You didn’t turn to meet his gaze. Feeling it on you was one thing but having to make eye contact felt like a whole other path you did not want to cross just yet. So instead, your eyes remained on the bed slat as you whispered, “Dunno . . .”

“Right,” he breathed out, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath. Oddly, it only made you want to scoot closer. “Well . . . hiding from the world doesn’t seem like too shabby of an idea actually.”

“Mmm . . . why?” you forced yourself to ask.

“I mean it sucks, doesn’t it?” he elaborated with a small shrug. “Why not hide under a bed? Makes me feel like a kid again . . . small . . . almost untouchable. No one can tell you what to do; what to feel; who to be.”

Then, you did turn. Your eyes on his, searching. “Hmm, I never thought of it like that,” you whispered. “I mean . . . . well I guess I’d do anything to be little again, too.”

“So you can speak more than two words at a time,” he whispered back, his eyes trailing across your features almost as if he were trying to memorize them. And then . . . then he smiled that warm, kind smile he always sent your way, and it was like you were eight years old again watching the sunset with a hand in yours.

You smiled back.

Felix breathed in sharply, his smile flattening as he tongued his inner cheek. “You know . . . we haven’t talked much,” he murmured as his gaze faltered, landing on your shoulder instead of your eyes.

Feeling anxious under his gaze, you toyed with the end of your old tee. “I know.”

“Well . . . you don’t say much either,” he muttered again, chuckling under his breath.

Something tugged at the corner of your lips—a small, ghost of a smile. “I know.”

“I’d like to change that,” Felix whispered back, not missing a beat. Then, when he’d realized what he said, he cleared his throat and turned his attention to the bed slat. “Not the not talking bit, well, I mean not the you not talking part. I’d like to change the not talking at all thing.” He was waving his hands around now.

You raised your brows.

He dropped his hands.

An incredibly awful awkward beat of silence.

Then: “Yeah . . . “ he went on, puffing up his cheeks and blowing out air. “I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . I’d like to talk to you more . . . if that’s alright with you.”

He turned his head then, his eyes searching for yours, but this time, you were already staring at him. His brows were pinched up, almost as if his whole body were asking you this one question.

And you began to wonder . . . did you make him nervous, too?

The thought almost made you laugh. There was nothing intimidating about you. How could you ever make someone like him nervous?

Before you could stop yourself, another smile lifted onto your face, except this time, it morphed into a grin. “I think . . . I think I’d like that, too,” you found yourself mumbling, the grin never leaving your face, because really, you just couldn’t help yourself.

Relief instantly flooded his face. “Good. Good,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head with a small, dopey grin on his face. Then, he nodded once and turned back to face the bed slat. “Great.”

However, your eyes stayed on him a little longer. To be honest, you couldn’t tear yourself away. There was something in you that just wanted to memorize this moment. You weren’t sure why and you weren’t sure what it meant, but you did know you had taken extra care to focus on the freckles adorning his cheeks, especially the one that oddly resembled a small heart. That one you were sure would be ingrained into your brain for weeks to come. That one you were sure you’d draw over and over again in your sketchbook, unable to completely replicate it.

You began to wonder if he had these freckles when you were kids, too. You wondered if you had been so enraptured by them back then, too. And then you began to wonder why you couldn’t remember.

Felix Lee seemed like a hard person to forget.

. . . Why had you?

“You know—” Felix abruptly pulled you from your own mind, making you blink a few times before you tore your attention from him— “when we were kids, I used to think your house was haunted.”

Quickly, you snuck a glance at him through the corner of your eye. His eyes were trained on the bed slat. Well . . . they were trained on where you had carved your thoughts. He’d seen it.

Haunt me, he’d seen and he’d begun to tell you his own ghost stories. You, of course, stayed silent, swallowing hard as you waited for him to continue, because truly . . . you couldn’t remember any of it.

You couldn’t remember your old house or him or anyone from your life here. You just remembered fights and crying yourself to sleep. You remembered hurt, and yet . . . sunsets and Cherry Cherry saltwater taffy.

But everything was bleak, almost blurry, almost like they weren’t your own memories. Or maybe you hadn’t wanted them to be your own. Maybe you’d wanted them to belong to someone else.

Maybe that was why you stayed silent, and let Felix tell you his memories.

And, so, he did, and you listened.

“This was when I had trouble sleeping yeah? So when Chris and I would stay the night . . . I’d always be the last one awake and I swear I could hear people, like, talking in the middle of the night. But, like, it was crazy. They were always angry, always kind of, like, yelling but in a whisper, you know?” he went on, trying to paint the picture with his hand motions, but your eyes were locked on his face, watching each and every expression he made. “I was convinced your house itself was possessed and angry that me and Chris were there.”

It was unusual, because he’d said these things and you instantly had this dumb grin on your face that you were desperately trying to bite back. You just couldn’t imagine the man beside you cowering in a sleeping bag as he convinced himself ghosts were haunting him.

Then . . . it slowly began to dawn on you.

His ghosts . . . they were fighting, he’d said.

And it hit you.

His ghosts weren’t ghosts. They weren’t even just a child’s mind playing tricks. Because they were real, yes, but . . . Felix’s ghosts had been your parents.

Your smile slowly fell, your heart sinking as the corners of your lips crumbled into a thin line. And you began to wish your house had been haunted.

Felix, of course, caught onto your expression, but he hadn’t known. No, instead, he went on, “It’s stupid, I know, but back then I would always go home and beg my mom never to let me go back, but then . . . you’d ask and I’d end up back there, absolutely shaking in my sleeping bag. I swear I nearly pissed my pants every time.”

“I don’t remember that,” you muttered back, but you did know.

“The sleepovers or the ghosts? Because the ghosts were one hundred percent my imagination,” Felix said, laughing under his breath.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to offer even a smile back, because although you didn’t remember, you did know. You knew how it felt to be twelve, hiding in the bathroom with your older sister while your parents fought in the kitchen. You knew how it felt for her to tell you that your parents wouldn’t be together much longer and you should just accept it. You knew how it felt to be a hopeless romantic, watching Disney princess movie after movie, dreaming of your true love’s kiss, and then have it all crushed the moment your eyes set on your parents. You knew how it felt to ask your father if he still loved your mother, only to be met with an I don’t know anymore.

You knew how it felt to be a child and have your heart broken again and again, even if you couldn’t remember . . . this.

“All of it,” you ended up hoarsely whispering out. And then you felt it: a tear spilled down your cheek. Embarrassment flooded in quickly, and you harshly wiped it away. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I do this. I don’t mean to be such a fucking downer. It’s just . . . I think your ghosts were just my stupid parents.”

His eyes were on you again or maybe they had never left, but now . . . now you felt him staring. He didn’t speak, although, that told you what you needed to know.

He wanted to know . . .

He was waiting for you to continue on your own time, and you . . . you just couldn’t help but indulge yourself.

“My dad’s not the best guy,” you all but hissed out a second later, rage piling up inside you as years and years of anger and hurt spilled down your cheeks in the form of tears. “After my grandma died . . . he went away. Business trip. When he came back, I found out that he had been cheating on my mom the whole time. Apparently, he’d been cheating on her with multiple different women throughout the entire relationship, and the only reason why we moved was because he was fucking one of his goddamn students.”

You didn’t know why you were telling him this, you just . . .

You just . . .

“I wish I could tell you the house was haunted. I wish it had been one of your ghosts, but . . . “ you muttered, bitterness on your tongue as the words tumbled from your lips, unable to stop it.

A deafening beat of silence.

And then you realized what you had done.

Felix had never asked you what happened. He had never given any indication that he wanted to hear anything about your bullshit. No one ever really did, so why did you ever expect him to?

Quickly covering your face with your hands, you wished the ground would swallow you whole. “God, I’m sorry. You can leave. I’m fine, just tired, really,” you huffed out, your words muffled by your hands. “Go, it’s OK.”

But Felix just . . . laughed under his breath once again and simply hummed, “No.”

That was when you peeked at him through your hands, finally meeting his gaze. “No?” you questioned, searching his eyes for the punchline of the joke.

Felix only shrugged. “You’re a person of few words. Why can’t I be one, too?”

But you couldn’t take him seriously. “I’m serious. Don’t be dumb, you don’t have to listen to me whine about my dead mom and deadbeat dad,” you went on, watching him carefully. “Seriously, go, have fun.”

Nodding once, you thought Felix understood. You thought he was going to finally crawl out from underneath the bed, and leave you be. You thought he was going to finally leave your side like all those before him. But instead . . . he just pointed to the bottle cap resting beside you and asked, “Can I see that?”

And you were left shocked again. “I guess,” you tried to whisper out as you picked up the cap and hesitantly handed it to him, wondering what he was up to.

Felix muttered a quiet thank you before he took the cap from you and began to carve something into the bed slat. Only when he pulled his hand away did you realize he’d carved out the word ‘No’.

Your brows lifted.

“Sorry, I thought maybe you needed a visual,” he mused, finally turning back to you with a small grin playing on his lips.

Scrunching your brows, you glanced between him and the carving. Until: “Dick,” you scoffed out, but . . . but you were laughing. It was quiet laughter, sure, but laughter nonetheless as you shook your head at him.

His grin only grew.

Beat.

He still wasn’t leaving.

One more beat, and you breathed a hesitant sigh of relief. Maybe you could do this. Maybe you could let yourself trust him little by little.

You turned to meet his gaze, maintaining eye contact. His brown eyes were warm . . . welcoming . . . trusting. (It was no wonder he was such a brilliant muse.)

Maybe you really could trust him . . .

Beat.

B—

“Fine . . . “ you heard yourself choke out before you knew you were speaking, “where do I begin?”

His grin had begun to morph into a warm smile that matched his eyes. “Wherever you want,” he whispered, his voice deep, yet . . . gentle. “No one can tell you what to do under here, remember?”

Beat.

He smiled wider, his eyes crinkling now.

You finally smiled back, weakly.

And then . . . you started from the beginning.

You told him about how you realized everything when you turned seventeen. You told him about the fights during your childhood and how you always thought that was what love was like. You told him about when your grandmother died and your mother cried every day. You told him about when your father finally came back and the cups and plates that were broken in the following days. You told him about how your sister moved away shortly after that, and how you were stuck.

You told him about senior year of high school. The fights every night until four in the morning as you laid in bed, listening. You told him about having to clean up the broken plates after your father would leave in the middle of the night to get away from your mother, and how one time a shard of glass managed to embed itself into your skin. You told him how much it hurt feeling the glass press deeper and deeper into your skin day by day. And how it took two weeks for your body to finally push it out.

And when the floodgates had finally opened, your cheeks quickly staining with tears, you finally mentioned the night you begged your father to stay only for him to give you a look with pain that matched your own. You told him how your father heard you cry for him, and how he simply told you he never wanted to see you or your mother again.

You told him how your father returned home the very next day, and the cycle restarted. (It would continue, end, then restart for the following four years, as well, but that was a horror for another time.)

The days you would leave class early to cry in the bathroom because you just couldn’t take it, weren’t forgotten either. And how even the simplest of comments would set you off.

You told him how you went from this A student, never missing a day of school since the start of junior high, to someone who would ask her mother to pick her up early or beg to stay home from school just this one day. You told him how suddenly it went from being December to July in the blink of an eye so fast that you couldn’t even properly remember your graduation.

And just when you were about to tell him how in those years, this sadness had turned into rage toward both of them, you stopped. Nearly holding your tongue, you glanced at him in shock. You couldn’t say that, could you? What if he judged you? What if he called you ungrateful? What if he told you you were sick, just like you had hypothesized? What if—

But then you did look at him. You really looked at him, your eyes meeting his, searching on a deeper level than before, and you knew the answer.

Felix’s eyes were warm and gentle and kind. They were unlike anything you had ever seen; unlike anyone you had ever known. And under that bed, you swore they had whispered to you, assured you that there was no judgment there.

And you believed them. You believed him.

“I’ve been too scared to tell people this but . . . “ you slowly mumbled out, continuing to search his eyes. (Any sign of disgust and you’d shut everything down.) “I don’t know how much my mother loved me. God, that sounds stupid, but I know she loved my sister more.” Wetting your lips, you nearly laughed. “You know . . . parents always say they don’t pick favorites but, like, Erin . . . Erin is perfect, and I couldn’t even keep my GPA above a 3.4. I had nothing else. It was just school and sleep and nothing for me, but Erin was out there doing . . . doing everything.”

Felix nodded, listening, eyes attentive. And you felt this weight lift from your shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief as you continued, “And, you know, Erin doesn’t actually know shit about anything. She wasn’t there when it happened. I had to hold mom down every fucking night. I had to cling onto her fucking leg so she wouldn’t go after him. While Erin . . . Erin was building her new life, and yeah, I’m happy for her or whatever, but she has no idea how hard that was, and mom always acted as if she was this—this saint that drove her to the hospital one time, but I was there. I was fucking there.”

The rage had set in. It trickled through your veins, poisoning your heart.

“I brought mom breakfast every morning when she couldn’t get out of bed. I stayed with her every time she cried. In—In college, I came home on the weekends instead of being with my friends because I didn’t want to leave her alone with him. I was fucking there and I got nothing for it,” you all but sobbed as you shook your head. “She never even asked if I was OK, and I was begging for her to see that I wasn’t. I wanted her to hold me. I wanted her to apologize for taking my innocence away for—for stealing my fucking childhood. I wanted her to be my mom.”

I wanted her to be my mom, your words rang throughout your ears.

That was perhaps what hurt the most—the fact that she was supposed to be your mother, and the fact that you couldn’t say she hadn’t been. Because she had. She’d cared every day; she’d loved you every day, but some days you wondered how deep that love ran. Some days you wondered if she would’ve rather not been your mother. Some days you wondered if she resented you because you also came from your father and wore his face, practically taunting her.

I wanted her to be my mom. But perhaps she had wanted you to be her daughter, too. Only, maybe she had wanted you to just be her daughter and not his.

I wanted her to be my mom. But she never asked to have a daughter who resembled the man who’d torn their family apart.

Clutching the locket around your neck, you breathed in a shaky breath, your bottom lip trembling. “And then she got sick,” you barely managed to croak out. “It was like my world ended, because as much as I hated what she did to me . . . I think . . . I think she was the one person I loved the most in this world, and the thought of someday being without her . . . “

Your words trailed off but you knew you were nowhere near done. The floodgates were open now, and you’d be a fool to think you could stop them.

“I know she loved me,” you went on, trying to ignore the trembling in your voice. “I know that. I know. She would tuck me into bed every night even when I’d come home from college. She would give me forehead kisses and hug me and tell me she wouldn’t know what to do without me, but . . . she also used to call me her little shadow, like I was just her daughter and not a person.”

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Your heart or his? Or . . . hers?

“And I knew what that meant. I knew she saw me as an extension of herself, and so . . . we would fight. We fought all the time, and every time we did, she’d bring up the fact that I was just like my father,” you bit out. “She’d say I knew how to make people feel horrible. I knew how to ruin everything, like I couldn’t possibly be her child, I had to be just his and only his solely because I wasn’t complying to her every fucking whim. And, you know . . . every time I’d wonder if she truly did love me as much as she said . . . or if she loved me the same way she loved my father: in moderation with grudges and resentment. I wondered if she hated me as much as she loved me.”

There it was. I wondered if she hated me as much as she loved me. Would you be condemned now?

But for once, you didn’t care. You just . . . you wanted these words, these feelings out. And so, you went on . . .

“Then . . . she fucking died and when she did, she told me to look for her in the wind as if that makes any fucking sense at all,” you nearly scoffed, shaking your head as your tears continued to fall. “But . . . she missed home. I knew that. Dad had taken her away and she’d blindly followed him and I knew she regretted it every day. She always wanted to go back home; back here. I mean she always wanted me to come back with her, too . . . so I guess I knew what she meant. If I ever found myself back here, she’d want me to see her in everything. In the long roads, in the sand between my toes, in the trees . . . in the ocean, but now that I’m here; now that I hear her voice everywhere . . . I can’t help but wonder if she meant for it to be this cruel.”

As those words left your lips, you could have sworn you could feel her ghost. And maybe she was there, listening as her resentment for you grew. You’d understand if it did, too. You were angry and hurt and Erin was grieving.

There was no competition to determine who the better daughter was. The answer was clear. It was in the wind, the ocean, the sand between your toes, the sunburn on your back . . . hidden in the lines on your face.

Dropping your hand to the floorboards, you choked out a gruesome sob, nearly coughing all over the man beside you. “Like . . . did she mean she’d always be with me? Or did she want me to know that I’d never forget her dying; that I should be haunted by her death throughout my life?”

Felix didn’t reply, and you didn’t expect him to. This was no question for him. It was for her, and she was no longer there to answer. You’d forever be wondering . . .

And when the silence had gone on for too long, you angrily wiped your cheeks and nose, before you sighed out a shaky breath. “I haven’t had much time to think about what I want in life or what I want here,” you began, your voice quieter now. “All that I’ve done is for my mother; for her to be proud of me. That is my life. But . . . I think . . . what I want is to be loved as much as I am hated. I think my mother’s love would have been much easier to swallow then. Maybe then I’d get it down without choking. Or . . . maybe it’d kill me.”

Fuck.

“Fuck,” you spoke aloud. “And you wanna know the worst part? . . . I still . . . I don’t get it . . . because now I just . . . now I have all this love and . . . and hatred for her and I have nowhere to put it. I don’t have a mother. She’s gone and I’m here, and I’m stuck with everything she left behind. I just—How . . . how do you love someone who’s gone? Who do you give it to?”

Your words rang throughout your ears. If you knew the truth, would it kill you? If she was still alive, would it have been you instead of her?

You couldn’t help but think that that was how it should have been. It should’ve been you instead of her. It should’ve—

The warmth of a hand sliding into your own caught you off guard, pulling you from your mind. Slowly, you glanced down at your hand, finding Felix’s intertwined.

Had you spoken too much? Was he telling you to shut up? Did he—

“Sorry,” you immediately blurted out, trying to pull your hand from his, “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

But Felix gently secured his grip around your hand. Hesitantly and cautiously, as if asking for your permission, he laced your fingers together, holding your hand firmly in his.

And it was as if you finally understood what he had been saying the other day.

“Felix?” you questioned, unsure.

He only squeezed your hand as if telling you it was OK. “She’s always going to be your mom, you know?” he began a second later, his words quiet, cautious. “Death doesn’t take that away from you. I don’t think it has to take your love for her, either. That you should keep, and don’t . . . don’t let it go.”

Slowly, you turned your head to look at him once again, only now . . . now he was staring at the bed slat and not at you. And you watched as the thoughts raged on inside his head.

His brows scrunched in thought. “I didn’t know her well. I mean I can remember bits and pieces, but it’s not her I remember from back then. I didn’t know her. I know that, but . . . “ he trailed off, wetting his lips. “I remember you guys being here, and I know what my mom told me in the years after you left. Your mother loved you, too, and that kind of love . . . it’s not cruel. Know that.”

“But . . . “ you swallowed hard, “what if as I grew up . . . her love for me outgrew, too? What if she only loved me because I was a kid? Because I was small and needed her?”

“I’d like to think once you love something . . . someone, that feeling . . . stays, and if it doesn’t then . . . “ he turned to you, his eyes glassy now, too, but he wouldn’t let the tears fall, “then it was never love in the first place.”

You offered a weak smile. “Well, I don’t think there was much love in my family to begin with. I don’t even know if I know how to . . . how to do it.”

He offered you a weak smile back. “I’ve found that it’s those people who know how to love better than anyone,” he nearly whispered as he squeezed your hand once again, now rubbing your skin with his thumb.

And for once . . . for once, you squeezed his hand back. It was comforting. It was innocent. It felt . . . safe. He . . . he felt safe.

“Grief feels a lot like guilt and . . . fear,” Felix went on, searching your eyes now. “And when you lose someone, it’s like learning how to be a person again. You question everything. You wonder if you have actually lived at all. You begin to ask yourself if you could have done more when they were alive. You blame yourself. Hate yourself.” He took a deep breath, and in that time, he reached out to curl your hair behind your ear in a comforting manner. “It takes a long time to forgive yourself for just . . . being a person and . . . being . . . alive, but it starts with knowing that your mother would not want you to live the rest of your life thinking about how hers ended.”

Beat.

You swallowed hard.

Beat.

He stroked your hair.

Beat.

“Love doesn’t work like that,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It’s forgiving.”

Your brows twitched. “And if I can’t?”

The corners of his lips tugged into a small smile. “That’s the thing, sad eyes . . . you will,” he mumbled before his thumb was touching your cheek, wiping the tears that had fallen.

Beat.

Your heart or his?

Yours.

Definitely yours.

Once again, you swallowed hard.

His hand remained.

“How about we go . . . “

But his words muted in your ears as you zoned out, getting trapped inside your mind again. You felt the urge to do something to thank him. No one had ever listened to you like that and told you that everything wasn’t ruined and you weren’t this horrible, no-good person. No one had ever let you know you weren’t alone like that, and if there was one thing your mother had told you growing up, it was to thank those who helped you.

But you never knew how to do things right. You always did them just a bit wrong. So when he’d told you everything would be OK, when he’d brushed your hair back, when he’d wiped your tears, when he’d cared for you like no one else had proudly done, you felt the urge to tell him that you liked him . . . that you had been drawing him and he’d become something of a muse to you.

Now, you were your mother’s little bird who’d flown from the nest too soon and met boy after boy. You were an adult whose younger self had dreamt of finding her prince charming. You were someone who found love in many things and longed for that love back. You had always loved people with a hug or laughter or a kiss. You’d loved every boy who’d made you feel special, and you’d always shown them through your body.

So, yes, you had a tiny crush on this someone you knew from the past, and now he was so close and you just wanted to let him know that you were grateful. So why couldn’t you just tell him that?

You tried, but you couldn't get the words to tumble from your tongue. You were thinking too much again. So you just stared at him, with your mind spinning and your heart pounding in your chest. Beat. Beat. Beat. For a split second, you thought you might tell him that because he cared for you, you just had to care for him (because that was just how you were raised, right?).

But you didn't.

Those words never left your lips. Instead, you did something that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you. You glanced at his lips, then crashed into him, slamming your lips onto his and nearly knocking out all the air in your lungs.

The warmth of his lips obliterated every thought in your head, melting your mind as you melded into him. Felix, however, remained stunned, his hand frozen still on your face while you pressed your chapped lips against his soft, plush ones.

But when your fingers gently grazed his cheek, traveling up to curl his hair behind his ear, he gave in. He reacted quickly after that, and gripped onto your hips, locking your leg over his hip the best he could under the bed to shift closer to you. And then he was wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer to him until there was no space left between. His other hand found its way to the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss. It was sloppy and needy . . . like the two of you were trying to drink each other up; like you were thanking him and he was thanking you right back.

And his touch. His touch lit a fire inside you as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, asking you for permission first. And you willingly gave it to him, parting your lips just enough to allow him access, and relishing in the way he nearly groaned at your neediness.

Every squeeze of your hips, every hurried touch he left along your sides, your legs, your arms, face, lips . . . you felt yourself sinking further and further into him. You just wanted more and more and more. No one had ever felt this good. No one had ever tasted this sweet. No one had ever made you want to kiss them until the sun rose, but him . . . He was nearly otherworldly.

“You’re so pretty,” you heard yourself say against his lips before you began to kiss his cheek, then his jaw, until you reached his neck.

Felix chuckled under his breath, tilting his head to the side to allow you more access and you eagerly took it. “I’m pretty?” he questioned, his voice deeper now as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when your tongue lazily licked the lobe of his ear.

“So pretty,” you mused, continuing to kiss his beautiful, beautiful neck as you drew yourself closer to him, your core now directly resting on top of his lower half.

That was when you felt it—his hardness poking you where you needed it most. You couldn't tell if he was fully hard due to the material of his jeans, but you didn't care. The feeling alone was enough to set you off—your skin grew hot and your breath hitched in your throat as your core ached for even the simplest of touches.

“You’re—” he began, but his words quickly died on his tongue as you worked your way back up to his lips. Slotting your tongue against his, you swallowed every thought he could’ve spun.

Grinning against his lips, you mumbled, taunting him, “I’m?”

(See . . . the thing was, being intimate with someone . . . it gave you confidence, so being intimate with him . . . well . . . you felt . . . otherworldly, too.)

But he only groaned, his deep voice doing unspeakable things to you as his grip on you tightened. His touch only spurred you on further. “You’re—” he cut himself off as dived back in, his mouth skillfully working against yours— “everything.” His words shocked you to the core, but not for long as one of his hands tightened around the hair at the back of your head, pulling you into him while his other hand tugged your body against his, the movements simultaneously brushing your clit ever so slightly against the tent in his jeans.

If he knew how he was affecting you, he didn’t show it. It just seemed he wanted more and more of you, and that was it. Yet, still, his simple touches were making your underwear stick to your core, and you were becoming more and more lost in him as the seconds passed.

When your core began to ache all too much, you listened to your body, subconsciously grinding against his hardness. And instantly, he curled into you, a deep moan sounding from the back of his throat as he buried his head into the crook of your neck.

But he didn’t dare touch you like . . . that . . . back. No . . . instead . . . his hands stilled, his touch light against you as he halted you from grinding against him again.

And you were left out of breath, dazed, and confused, with an odd ache in your chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kissed your neck once, but it was gentle, almost innocent, and then he was pulling away.

And you realized what had happened.

He hadn’t wanted this. Holy shit, you’d just. You’d kissed him and he didn’t want you. Fuck, fuck, you’d fucked everything up again. Fuck.

Shaking your head, that sudden realization was the only thing you needed to know before you practically jumped away from him. “No, I’m sorry, I—fuck—” you stammered out as you detached your body from his and leaned back, facing the bed slat in utter shock. “I should’ve asked you. That’s so creepy. Oh, my God.”

“Shit, no! I didn’t—” Felix quickly ushered out as he reached for you, his hand caressing your cheek in an instant. “I just . . . “ His eyes met yours, searching and you searched right back, practically begging him to tell you the truth. You knew you’d never been someone people . . . liked. You could take this. He just . . . he just had to tell you. But instead: “I just . . . I can’t be . . . intimate with you.”

Your brows furrowed, your face hot. “Um . . . OK . . . I’m sorry. I’m just confused . . . why’d you kiss me back?” you questioned. Your eyes widened once you realized what you’d said. “I mean, not that you like have to. You don’t have to want to kiss me. I just, I guess what I mean is, well—”

“Because I wanted to,” Felix quickly cut you off, his deep voice like silk. “I want to kiss you. Fuck, I want that so fucking bad.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “A lot . . . but I can’t want that . . . not right now.”

You blinked once. Then twice. Then once more as you stared at him while confusion and something else twisted through your brain. He wanted to kiss you. He had, and yet . . .

Why was he holding himself back?

Beat.

And then:

Felix sighed, his hand dropping from your cheek. “Can I walk you . . . us home?” he asked.

You nodded in response, but your mind was elsewhere.

He’d wanted to kiss you, but he couldn’t. Somehow . . . you understood. And oddly enough, it made relief revisit you once again that night.

As you walked through the empty streets of Southhaven, you couldn't help but wonder how you ended up here. Because the thing was: you had just spent a few hours with a boy you had known when you were small but couldn’t place his face to your memories, and now . . . now you were . . . kind of friends.

Not only that, but you had never felt more seen, more understood in those few hours than you ever had in your entire life. No one your age had ever actually cared enough to try and get to know you. The only ones who had were Hyunjin and Jisung, but they weren’t here, and you’d been missing them for some time now. You thought maybe you’d missed them before you even left. You thought maybe you’d missed them once your mother was gone.

(Perhaps you’d missed the person you had been with them when your mother was alive.)

But the others . . . Those who you’d grown up with all just labeled you as one thing and steered clear of you their entire lives.

But it wasn't like that with Felix.

Now . . . before you admitted this, you would just like to defend yourself by saying that yes, you knew it was a problem, and yes, it was probably a character flaw or whatever. But . . . ever since you were a kid and the boys in your grade would stick notes in your locker, asking you out as a joke, you’d had this innate urge to prove yourself to men . . . or rather . . . to be liked by them.

It was sick, and you knew it, too, but it was something that’d haunted you for years. It was something you desperately clung onto throughout your life.

It was something you’d hoped no one else saw in you. It was also something you knew men or at least the men you’d known liked to take advantage of. Because you were you—a weak bird hoping someone would take her wings and help her fly.

And when you’d kissed Felix, you’d kissed him because you wanted that approval from him. You knew that. You knew it was wrong, but he’d looked at you, listened, told you everything would be alright, and you just wanted to show him you were grateful in the only way you’d known how.

So when he’d stopped you, it’d stung as it always did, but that was better than the disgust you felt with yourself after. So, did it feel like shit? Yes, but there was relief there, too. Because, now, now you hadn’t ruined this. You hadn’t ruined the comfort you’d found in him.

For once, nothing was ruined. It just was.

And the best part—he was still walking right beside you. He hadn’t left (and oddly, you wanted to fight against the urge that told you to push him away), and it seemed he didn’t plan on doing so for a long while.

That, to you, was the hardest part of that night for you to wrap your head around. Everyone left sooner or later, but when he’d told you he wasn’t going anywhere . . . a part of you believed him.

And you . . . you had never felt this way with anyone. Everything and everyone had always felt like an expiration date. The girls in school would talk to you there, sure, but never outside of those walls. They had never asked you anything about yourself. It had always been about them, so much so that you forgot you actually had a personality of your own.

You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up in that position, but you were you and had a small bit of an inkling.

Because here was the thing: when you're sixteen, you'll do anything to fit in. You yearn to be prettier, to be girlier, to be more, but not more in the too much sense, rather more in a just right kind of way. So you befriend people who aren't considered weird by the masses, and it works for a while, because you are able to mask your true self for a while. But sometimes she slips out. Sometimes you say something a little too . . . odd . . . and they look at each other, laugh, and call you weird, trying to pass it off as if they're not ridiculing you.

Then after a while, you realize, they're not just laughing as a joke . . . they're making fun of you.

And you come to the conclusion that you have to accept the fact that some birds are high-flying birds. Those birds, like your perfect sister, fly with their heads held high. They fly with elegance and beauty and class. They fly like they own the world. And you . . . you're a part of the other birds—the birds who don't fly high; the ones who can't no matter how hard they try. You're constantly trying to fly with these high-flying birds, only to be met with failure. Your wings aren't strong enough. You're not strong enough.

So you accept that some birds are high-flying birds, and others are not, but you still hope that you can fly together. You hope for this every time, and every time you're met with that same old familiar feeling of failure.

Some birds are high-flying birds, and others are not. They were never meant to fly together.

It was one of the reasons why you wondered Hyunjin and Jisung were still your friends after all these years. They flew high. They knew who they were. They were something to be admired, and you were just . . . there.

Come to think of it, you’d never met another low-flying bird before. And then . . . as you kicked a stone in your path, your head hanging low, you snuck a glance at Felix out of the corner of your eye.

You began to wonder what type of bird Felix Lee was . . .

“Vulnerability is a tricky thing,” Felix sighed out a second later, almost as if he had felt your eyes on him. “I’ve struggled with it a lot this past year, and I know what it makes you want to do. I know how easy it is to mistake it for something else, and I know how crushing it feels when . . . when reality comes crashing back in.”

Swallowing hard, you took in his words. You knew what he meant. You knew he was talking about what had happened between the two of you back at the bonfire. And you knew what he was saying.

It wouldn’t happen again.

His lips on yours couldn’t be, and that . . . that you were beginning to think was OK. Did you find yourself staring at him a little too long sometimes? Yes. Did you maybe think you felt something for him? Yes, but . . . you’d always had a hard time distinguishing your emotions.

Everything would be ruined if you did find yourself drawing his lips one too many times. So you’d stick to walking side by side, knowing nothing would ever happen between the two of you. You’d stick to being his friend, because that . . . that oddly felt right.

And for some reason that was what you wanted . . . and you hadn’t wanted something in a long time.

So, your heart didn’t sink when he said, “I know you think you know what you want from me, but . . . it won’t help. It won’t help and then . . . then you’ll hate me.”

And with a small smile playing on your lips, you understood. “I don’t know if it’s possible to hate someone like you,” you hummed back, unable to wipe that smile from your face for once in the past several months.

Felix stiffened ever so slightly beside you, but he didn’t cease walking. He didn’t think you were hitting on him, did he? (You nearly laughed. As if you could ever do that.)

But nevertheless, you stopped in your tracks and tugged on the edge of his shirt, pulling him toward you. Where this sudden confidence came from, you had no idea, but for some reason, the anxiousness you’d once felt around him had lifted.

Felix, too, seemed shocked by your display, but you ignored this, keeping your hand clutched around the fabric of his shirt. “Listen, I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what you’re worried about,” you sighed, lowering your eyes to your feet. “I told you sometimes I say things I don’t mean . . . but sometimes . . . sometimes I do things that I don’t mean to do and then . . . “

“Yeah, me too,” Felix hummed back after a second. “However—” his words paused, causing you to meet his gaze— “I was hoping we could be friends.”

And whatever was left of your anxiety toward him was gone, relief replacing. “I’d like that,” you found yourself breathing out with a small grin on your face.

I was hoping we could be friends.

When you were a kid, you had a hard time making any friends. You were awkward and kept your mouth shut at all times. The messages in your yearbooks would always be directed toward how nice you were, but they didn’t know you. You didn’t have a kind soul. It took a while to realize that. It took even longer to accept it—that you were a miserable child who grew into an even more miserable adult.

And yet . . . I was hoping we could be friends.

When you were a kid, you had a hard time making any friends, except . . . it seemed . . . for him. And although you couldn’t remember him, you remembered how he’d made you feel.

Sunsets. Laughter. A hand in yours.

The two of you had been friends long ago, and now . . . I was hoping we could be friends.

Had it always been that easy? Had—

“Where’d you go?” Felix whispered in that deep voice of his, dragging you from your mind.

“Hmm?” you hummed, looking up at him in a daze. Only then did you realize you’d zoned out, a smile on your face as your mind raced. This happened a lot, yes, but no one had ever noticed before. (It seemed Felix had a funny way of shocking you again and again.) “Nowhere, just . . . just here.”

Felix nodded once. “OK . . . ” his words trailed off, and then he was leaning toward you, his face so close you could feel his breath on your cheek. Tilting his head to the side, his eyes flicked across your features before a small, half-grin touched his lips. “Maybe one day you’ll take me with you, yeah?”

Your brows twitched, eyes searching.

“I—” he began again, but he was quickly cut off by the sound of distant clicking. His face fell instantly. “Shit.”

Thinking nothing of it, you cluelessly looked around. “What?”

Felix grabbed your shoulders, his eyes searching the trees. “I hear them.”

“Hear . . . who?”

“The bats.”

“The bats?” you deadpanned, nearly laughing. “Really?”

Felix clicked his tongue in fake annoyance. “Yes, the bats,” he scoffed as he dropped his hands, pouting slightly (you found this . . . endearing to say the least).

But you only shook your head in response, not knowing what to say. And then . . . the two of you began to walk again. Felix walked a little faster. . . . You found this also amusing.

“God, you know I fucking hate those little fuckers,” Felix huffed after a minute (still going on about his . . . bat problem). “I swear it’s like they haunt me.”

You snorted, “You’re crazy.”

“No, no, I’m telling the truth,” he quickly defended, now walking backward so that he could face you without stopping. “There was this one time Chris and I went camping, right? I wake up in the middle of the night, have to piss, so I go outside, I’m wringing it out and then I hear this clicking noise.”

And for now, you humored him similar to how you always humored Jisung and his outlandish stories. “No way,” you hummed, only half-listening as you watched his face light up in excitement while he spoke.

“Yes! Yes!” Felix clapped, practically jumping in front of you as he went on. “I’m standing with my fucking dick out, looking over my shoulder like the fucking sky is falling and then I step on a branch and this fucking thing comes flying at me, almost took my head off, I swear.”

A loud clap of laughter that you couldn’t stop escaped you, causing you to slap a hand over your mouth. “Oh, I’m sure!” you couldn’t help but say, words muffled by your hand.

He vigorously nodded his head. “Swear on my life!” he exclaimed, slapping his chest to embellish his point. “I’m so serious, the little asshole chased me all the way back to the tent.”

You laughed again. Louder this time. “No, you’re kidding,” you nearly giggled out, finding it hard to see his excited face as you laughed so hard, your eyes just about squeezed shut.

“I’m so fucking serious,” Felix continued, laughing along with you now. “Ever since then, it’s like they’re out to get me. Like, like that goddamn pervert told all his friends I was an easy target, and now! Now, every time I’m alone, they come out of the fuckin’ shadows.”

And then you were laughing so hard, your sides had begun to hurt. You just couldn’t help it. You just kept imagine this actually happening to him, and that was it.

It was odd, too, yes, because you’d yet to realize this was the first time you’d laughed like this since your mother died. Hell, you weren’t even thinking of it or her or the wind or heartbreak or anything. You were just there . . . and he was there too and that was . . . it.

(And true to word, you wouldn’t think of these such things until morning came. The rest of the night would be filled with laughter . . . just like a childhood you barely remembered.)

“Shut up!” you exclaimed as you caught up with him, slapping him on the arm like you would normally do to Hyunjin. “You’re ridiculous.”

Felix began to slow down, still walking backward but not as fast as his eyes stayed trained on you, watching as you continued laughing at him. “Oh, yeah?” he hummed as you shook your head, covering your mouth with your hand while you continued laughing under your breath.

“Yes, Lixie,” you mused, teasing a stupid nickname and dropping your hand as your laughter fizzled out into just a smile on your face.

He smiled back, warmer this time as his eyes flicked to your eyes. “I like that,” he nearly whispered, now walking in sync with you.

“What?” you questioned, tilting your had to the side in thought (but your smile remained).

His lips parted. “Y—”

A loud clicking sound echoed throughout the streets. And that time, you did hear it.

“Fuck!” Felix exclaimed, immediately jogging two paces in front of you. “See! See! That cunt’s calling my name, I’m telling you.”

But all you could do was laugh (because maybe he had a point, and that was so fucking funny to you).

“Quick. We have to run,” he went on, clearly having a little more fun with this than he’d expected. “Run or they’ll catch you and suck your blood! Quick! Quick!” And then he was moving, quickly jogging down the street/

“Felix!” you called out to him, groaning in annoyance as he grew further and further away from you.

His eyes, however, had never left you. “Oi! Quick, I say! Quick!” he yelled into the night.

Then you saw it:

He was holding out his hand . . . toward you.

And you couldn’t help yourself.

With a wide grin on your face, you broke out into a jog, reaching him in no time, seconds before you clasped his hand in yours. And as the two of you ran, your laughter filtering throughout the night, you began to wonder if you had been here before.

You could remember a boy around the age of eight, and he was laughing. A soft giggle with eyes that smiled too. Then . . . colors. Sunsets. The feeling of floating. The taste of Cherry Cherry saltwater taffy. And . . . (you remembered) . . . the warmth of a hand in yours . . .

The warmth of his hand in yours.

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oceandaffodils22 · 9 months

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Here’s a ficlet I wrote and posted on twitter for the pregnancy day of the past Stewjoni Biology Week organised by @deaddoveobikin 💚

Hope you enjoy some soft obikin with my beloved Preggy-Wan!

The war has finally come to an end, and the two generals can now indulge in some well deserved rest.

Or at least, they would if only Anakin did not let his oh-so passionate horniness enfold and - quite literally - fill his partner, who’s now expecting not one, but two babies.

Needless to say, despite the terrible timing, the splendid news is nothing but a breath of fresh air for the couple.

And so, days, weeks, and months go by between missions (and complaints from a certain overprotective boyfriend) - “Now, Anakin, enough with this nonsense. I am pregnant, not on the verge of death. I am perfectly capable of doing my duty, as always. Nothing’s changed.”

Little does Obi-Wan know, though, that a rather… big change is awaiting him indeed - and not simply metaphorically speaking. The more time passes, in fact, the larger and rounder the Jedi Master gets, engulfed in piles and piles of robes and cloaks, in a clumsy attempt to hide his growing belly.

There is no need, in truth, since everyone is well aware by now of the inextricable bond between the two Jedi - pregnancy and babies included. Yet, Obi-Wan seems not quite ready to be open about it, feeling ever more uncomfortable and insecure each passing day.

Alas, it is known that the stubborn Stewjoni old man has a habit of withdrawing behind a wall of apparent self-confidence and serenity - hard to tear down even for those closest to him. (Hard, yes, but not impossible. Especially for an equally stubborn partner…)

And so it is that on a particularly warm night, Anakin’s usual deep slumber slips away mere hours after its arrival, leaving him half awake in a surprisingly empty bed.

Rubbing his eyes, he looks around, struggling to see through the enveloping darkness, aided by the feeble and delicate light coming from the window - that very moonlight now gently caressing his beloved’s beautiful features.

Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to have noticed the ardent look his mesmerised boyfriend is giving him. Rather, he stays still, sitting on the soft beanbag chair in the opposite corner of the room, his lovely grey-blue eyes fixed on an indefinite point.

Anakin’s gaze, instead, can’t help but linger on the blessed view before him: Obi-Wan’s glorious belly and breasts - only veiled by the lace bra Anakin gifted him for his birthday - shining in all their magnificence.

“Anakin! What are you doing up so late?” The older Jedi breaks his lustful fantasies all of a sudden.

“Well, I could ask you the same thing.” Anakin slowly approaches him, his eyes still fixed on his body. He’s about to make one of his usual naughty jokes, but he stops the second he notices Obi-Wan’s uneasy look as he puts his hands on his belly, almost as if to cover it.

“Hey, is everything okay? Seriously, why are you awake? Wait, are you all right? Do you feel sick or-“

Obi-Wan gives him a tender smile. “I’m fine, dear one. No need to worry. You should go to bed. I’ll join you in a moment.”

But Anakin Skywalker is not one to easily surrender.

Thus, he hops on the beanbag as smoothly as possible, wrapping Obi-Wan from behind before the poor pregnant man has the time to realise what his pesky lover is doing.

“Anak-“ he instantly breathes out, only to relax mere seconds later as he feels Anakin’s soft lips stroking his cheek.

“Master, will you tell me what bothers you? Who do I need to punch?”

“Anakin!” The older man lets out a scandalised yet amused cry. “There is absolutely no need. Truly.”

“Then what is it? What’s the problem?”

Obi-Wan sighs, resigned - relieved, actually - to finally let it all out. “It’s- I’m not quite sure. I don’t even know how to explain it. Everything is so new and I have this… constant feeling of being heavy and big and… awkward. And-“

He lowers his gaze, embarrassed. “Oh dear. Now I feel incredibly foolish and ungrateful. I’m sorry, Anakin. This is all so disgraceful of me. I should only be happy and thankful for this wonderful gift the Force has blessed us with. I truly am. Please, forget what I said. It’s probably the hormones.

See? I told you you should go to sleep instead of listening to this old man’s pathetic rambling.”

Anakin’s lips curve into a fond smile. “Well, the thing is that this old man also happens to be my beautiful boyfriend, who I’m very much in love with.”

“Even this… big and round?” Obi-Wan’s oh-so tenderly surprised eyes turn towards him as Anakin can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, Anakin, I’m not. I believe I’ve made it quite clear. Now, could you please be serious?”

“Sorry, sorry! I will, I promise. It’s just that… It’s so obvious to me.” The younger Jedi smiles, his hands gently caressing his lover’s belly. “Of course I love you. How could I not?

Obi-Wan, you’re beautiful. You’re literally glowing! And yes, you’re soft and round... And I like you even more like this,” Anakin whispers as his enchanted gaze falls on Obi-Wan’s perfect body.

“I mean, I stare at you in front of everyone. I just can’t help it! I can’t stop looking at you.”

“Really? When?”

If he didn’t promise him to be serious, Anakin would surely chuckle again - because how can his Master be so maddeningly cute and oblivious?

“All the time. Even Windu noticed it! And offered me his best scowl by the way, thank you very much,” he huffs, pretending to be annoyed. “ ‘Focus, Skywalker!’ Well, it’s a little bit hard when my boyfriend is so kriffing perfect!”

“Oh, dear one.” Obi-Wan’s voice is as soothing as a balm, his eyes ever so charming and loving.

“Great, I’m blushing now…” Anakin murmurs, embarrassed, as he feels his cheeks burning furiously. “Now who’s the awkward one?”

This time, it’s Obi-Wan’s turn to chuckle and show him his profound love. So he leans in slowly, and kisses him with that mix of passion and gentleness only he is capable of.

“Thank you, my dear,” Obi-Wan whispers right after, finally letting himself go to his safe haven.

“You know I’m always here for you, my love. All three of you,” Anakin says softly as he puts a gentle kiss on his lover’s head.

And so they stay, their hands intertwined in one another on the perfectly round belly protecting the babies the two parents are so eager to meet.

#my writing #pregnant obi wan #my beloved #he’s so soft and round #I adore him😭#mpreg #body insecurity #fluff #obikin #booby-wan #anakin #obi wan #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #anakin x obi wan #mommywan

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bg3ficreviews · 1 month

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The Loving Master series - #BG3 FanFic Review

Review by Apollo (@apollo-stories)

Good timezone my friends, I am happy to present another constellation in the bright sky of fanfiction: The Loving Master series by calqmity on AO3. (You can find the author on Tumblr at @calqmity and on Twitter.)

A note from the BG3 Fic Reviews team: As always, mind the tags, and for this wonderfully dark work in particular, as it includes numerous controversial and dark themes. These include NSFW; dead dove; necrophilia; non-con elements; and abusive relationships; among others. Our review is continued below the fold due to the heavy nature of the content in this particular series.

Virtual photography by @xandirge.

The series is comprised of three separate works exploring the dark desires of our favourite bloodsucker Ascended Astarion. It starts with The Doll Collector, a fantastic title in and of itself with no small amount of sinister foreshadowing.

In this story there is a constant and ominous theme of dehumanisation as well as an exploration of Astarion’s relationship with death. The author details Ascended Astarion’s recently devised methods of collecting his new vampire spawn cohort, as well as the addiction he develops in controlling their lifeless bodies. (Reminder: mind the tags!)

Astarion is obsessively controlling, and takes great delight in stripping any sort of independence or autonomy from his spawn that they may have once enjoyed in their former lives. It is a dark work, and there is no healing to be found here. This is an excellently constructed examination of Ascended Astarion’s dark mind and how he fulfills his most toxic needs as his spawn become his latest possessions to play with at his leisure.

The Unbearable Pressure, the author's second work in the series, is no different to its predecessor in its exploration of Ascended Astarion's growing darkness and cruelty. This work focuses more on on his relationship with his most disobedient spawn, Blaze, and his efforts to break her and ensure her obedience.

The theme of dehumanisation and dollification gets more pronounced the further we read. Astarion wants to control every single part of his spawn. And even despite the obvious sadism of his actions, Astarion genuinely believes he is doing his spawn a kindess, and grapples to understand why his spawn are not more grateful for his 'assistance' and what he considers his dedicated 'care'. The author has expressed Astarion's delusion of benevolence well, as our narrator is wonderfully unreliable.

Haunted By Your Touch, Aching For Your Love is our third and final work in the series, and quite possibly my favourite of the three! (I would call it a crowd pleaser, but that requires that the crowd in question likes breaking characters down and making them suffer oh so deliciously.)

The cycle of abuse and the affection for one’s captor can be difficult to write in fiction. There is a common mistake of stepping back from the scene and becoming more clinical in order to convey why the cycle is happening and why it continues, and, in so doing, create a disconnect between the reader and the characters. This work sees that tripping point coming from miles away and does cartwheels over it.

We are deep in Astarion’s mind and psyche in this work as his delusions and twisted perspective have completely erased any distinction between reality and his wicked desires. It is left to the keen eye of the reader to pick up on the subtle hints and evidence of his delusions, which are expertly described by the author via the reactions of the other characters that suffer Astarion's whims and mistreatment.

The Loving Master, as a whole, is a wonderful exploration into dark themes and abusive relationships. Astarion’s character is portrayed consistently through the entire series using beautiful metaphors that I could hear Astarion himself repeating in his own voice. And beyond our lead antagonist, the author's original characters are well-written and developed, becoming well-established personalities in their own right. Each one has their own clear motivations and responds to Astarion differently, adding to the depth of the overall narrative with every line. These stories are also structurally sound, as you can look forward to a healthy mix of short and long paragraphs and sentence structures that makes the story easy to read and easy to enjoy.

Mind the tags on AO3, as The Loving Master does not shy away from NSFW elements and very heavy themes.

Enjoy your dove, but be aware. It is very, very dead.

---

We have included a snippet of The Doll Collector below for your enjoyment, as well as the author's tags as they are currently listed on AO3 for this particular work. Please remember to support the author by leaving kudos and comments on their work on AO3. 🫶

The Doll Collector

"One more bite, is all it would take."

And now his beautifully pliant Lydia laid underneath him, fully submitted to his one desire: for her to become his. Her jet black hair framed her round, delicate face. Through her long, black eyelashes, her dark purple eyes stared up at him, wide and vulnerable. The indigo moonlight skin that bruised wonderfully under the force of his fingers was soft and warm to the touch.

"Be gentle," her quiet voice trembled.

There was nothing gentle about forging an undead monster out of an innocent, precious soul—his perfectly obedient, beautiful little monster, yet a monster nonetheless—but he could pretend, for just a moment.

He brought her wrist up to his mouth, laying a feather light kiss on top of the flesh, eating the garnish before digging into the main course. He cradled it in his hands before sinking his teeth in. Her quick yelp from the sudden pain sent a raging, hot inferno through his abdomen, encouraged by the red delicacy on his tastebuds.

Eventually he forced himself to pull away, letting the bloodied, shaking hand fall from his grasp. He leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of her head, trapping his prey.

"You have given me everything...thank you." His words came out breathy and in between sighs of pleasure. The taste of her blood lingered on his lips, but it wasn't enough. He needed every last drop. While the ritual had rid him of the hunger caused by his supernatural curse, it had been replaced with a new hunger: to take, to take, and to take, from everyone around him. He wanted it all.

She look terrified out of her mind about what was about to happen, her eyes glancing at the liquid ruby dripping down his chin. In this moment, she looked like a porcelain doll. Her plump lips and flushed cheeks had a warm glow cast on them from the candle light in the tavern room. But when his fangs pierced her neck, she did not crack—only screamed. It was like biting into the plumpest, ripest fruit in the orchard, and her cries of pain were the beautiful notes of the birds' song high above in the sky.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfic review #bg3ficreviews #mind the tags!

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bettsfic · 24 days

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hi it’s me again! i finished the kennedy book half an hour ago and i am still reeling.

you weren’t kidding about the last chapters. like the farewell party is a bittersweet anecdote, but then the epilogue is just absolutely crushing. what a brutal note to end on. the true endpoint is the paragraph in the acknowledgements where he thanks his coauthor for freeing him from the emotional prison he was in. phrase practically verbatim. like oh my god.

that thing you said about what’s not said really did nail the sort of very careful sidestepping of….giving his opinions, maybe? there is just a very deliberate sort of distance with which he describes any events, and so you really notice the barest hints of something more. (more than anyone can ever know, mr. hill? care to elaborate??? it’s the implication that they kept many secrets together and also his enduring loyalty to her that keeps us from learning hardly any of them.) i was reminded of the perception of the kennedys as american royalty because he really talks about her like she was a queen. jackie kennedy through his lens is beautiful and gracious and willful and truly given the royal treatment.

speaking of the royalty metaphor, aristotle onassis is two steps from being a mustache-twirling villain hoping that our brave knight clint hill dies a watery death under a yacht??? unprompted??? like, man. come on. honestly there’s a fascinating emotional thread in here about how he can only fully express feelings of protectiveness when they’re expressed by the president first.

anyway. this is a long ask. sorry. i feel like i should have something profound to say about the assassination chapters because of how significant the event is in history but i don’t yet. i probably sound unhinged but man. this was real life and this is how he chose to tell this story. what even was that.

THANK YOU.

re: last chapters: i want to look into what happened between him and his coauthor (they're married now!) but i haven't yet. i'm still feeling my feelings about the whole thing. can you imagine not reading the acknowledgements?? the acknowledgements that provide the only ounce of comfort amid the hurt of the last third of the book??

re: "MORE THAN ANYONE CAN EVER KNOW": i purposefully haven't shared that quote because divorced from its context you don't get the impact. to me that says he either totally had a thing with her but won't talk about it because he's an honorable man, in the same way he won't offer any kind of "no yeah the warren report was bullshit and the shots came from two different directions" confirmation, or he wants us to *think* something happened even if it didn't. i mean it's not like it was a secret that JFK and Jackie had affairs with other people. a great many of those people have written memoirs specifically about boning one or more of the Kennedys. so many in fact that it's basically a subgenre.

also there's some irony in the way he depicts Jackie. she didn't like to be written about. at all. ever. and there's more than one instance where he's, you know, an 80 year old man being a bit patronizing (in an otherwise very sensitively and thoughtfully written book), with all the mentions of mischief and little-girlishness. and so i keep thinking about how Jackie would have felt about this particular depiction, which despite the glossy nostalgia over the whole thing and I Love Lucy-esque antics, is a pretty nuanced depiction, at least compared to others i've read. he manages to revere her, nearly worship her, but still portray her vices, not as faults but as even more reasons he loved her. i don't know, man. it just feels weird to stumble upon a true story of what i thought were fictional feelings.

re: "he can only fully express feelings of protectiveness when they’re expressed by the president first": HOLY SHIT YOU'RE RIGHT. i'm still thinking about that scene where he takes the film out of that photographer's camera and JFK is just like, "ummm we can't make it seem like we're denying the press access to us, so we're gonna have to blame you," which prompted Hill to question his professional loyalty to the president against his personal loyalty to Jackie, and also it made me think, what would happen if he had to shoot someone? would he get blamed for that too? was he really only there as a human shield, able to protect but not truly defend?

re: "what even was that": WHAT EVEN WAS THAT.

#i'm still not even a little bit over this #dazzle

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latenightsundayblues · 8 months

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What if.... instead of beautiful and interesting animals, we have gnarly and interesting insects?

Only problems is idk what insects work out with the characters

I mean, maybe praying Mantis Billy and Ant Stu..?

OH MY GOD how didn't i think of this b4?? Nasty and scary insects fit the tone of the movie way better now that im thinking about it. The only problem is i have zero ideas as to what the main group should be. I have a rough idea for billy and stu tho:

Stu - Brazilian Wandering Spider

I chose this one for a few flimsy reasons; its very big and long-legged (stuilly size difference is like the best part lmfao), its beige which is a color that i associate with him a lot, and its extremely venomous BUT doesn't make webs at all. I feel like that could kinda translate into him obviously being the brawn in the duo and absolutely capable of killing on his own but still at a disadvantage of sorts, you know? If you take webs as a metaphor for scheming and slow-burn manipulation i think it'd make sense to have him be unable of it despite his other abilities.

There's also the way this spider hunts. It doesn't stay in one specific place, it wanders around in search of prey and can directly attack. It reminds me of his frenetic and aggressive nature.

Can't forget about the way in which it dances menacingly. I think its goofy and delightful.

Also death boner lmfao

Billy - Funnel-Web Spider

The web motif is a huge part of why I chose this one; funnel web spiders, as the name suggests, build webs in a tube-like fashion that narrows down the further you go into it. They wait inside the smaller parts until something gets caught on the wide mouth of the tube, which is when they drag it inside to eat. Obvious comparison here to his manipulative tendencies and attack method with the whole 'hiding and striking at the right time' thing

They're usually black with no discernible patterns. Peak Billy vibes.

Their bite is extremely strong, but it isn't as deadly anymore due to modern medicine. I kinda think its comparable to the 'all bark no bite' attitude he displays with Stu

I like to think of their fangs as knives because of their sheer penetrative (haha) power and position on their heads, pointing straight down instead of horizontally.

Thats pretty much it lol

#these are literally just the spiders i took reference from for that spiderman AU i mentioned a while back #still not done with that #prob gonna post it when beyond the spiderverse comes out lmao #stuilly #billy loomis #scream 1996 #stu macher #billy loomis x stu matcher #latenightsundayblues ask tag #Queue 'Em All #lookadat you guys i finally got a queue tag #came up with it on the fly #wheres creativity when you need her

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oobbbear · 2 years

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Hey, was thinking about astronomy, and I was looking up space stuff and thinking about the celestial twins au

I was thinking about binary stars and when one explodes the other one is either obliterated, or surives and continues to orbits what's left

Idk just, its poetic, fitting for these two.

I was also thinking about black holes

And I know sun doesn't have enough mass to become one, im just thinking about like, the emotional fallout from moon's death, a metaphor for grief, sun is alone and he is consumed by his emotions, his pain, and becomes a massive, powerful beast tearing apart the galaxy in his pain...

Grief is like that, it eats you up from the inside and you don't even feel like you anymore, I could see sun becoming so angry at like, how cruel it is, how unfair, and absolutely destroying everything in his reach.

Aaaand rogue planets, planets having been rejected by their star for one reason or another and launched into the cold void... idk alternate (but equally as depressing) end for moon?

Idk just pondering things

Oh god this is beautiful but sad but absolutely beautiful

we have 4 endings now: white dwarf ending, black dwarf ending, black hole magic spirit world ending and this black hole ending

2 bitter sweet 2 complete angst choose your fighter(?)

#ask #celestial twin au #I might make a completely happy ending #the boys deserve some love #we’ll see

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poetryinsilence · 2 years

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Oceans and Engines (part I)

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Female!Reader

part I | part II | part III | part IV | part V

A/n: It's October so you know what that means! ✨Whumptober✨ Fluff to Angst fic. This is a love letter; signed, sealed, and undelivered with unsaid things to no one in particular. I wanted to make myself cry because life got me in a chokehold. And what better way to do this than write a fic that takes away -1hp with every word written. This is a full-on SOBFEST, so, enjoy :) I wanna apologize beforehand because there are just so, so many metaphors and ocean-themed and that's on me :')

Summary: So what if you've found the right person; so delicate with love that he could run his fingers lightly on your face and you would burst into flame? But what if he’s also the wrong person, one that doesn’t put up a fight and runs away? Loving Robert Floyd felt so easy, yet hurts so much.

Wc: 2,290

His breath felt heavy in his chest, tightening with each inhale he took and exhaled with a shaky sigh. Hands sweaty as he wipes it away with the fabric of his pant legs and swaps between what's clutched in his hand. He got on one knee in front of a crowd of party people and drunkards at The Hard Deck as his trembling voice asks:

“I love you from the moment you walk into this bar, and I will always and forever love you for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?”

The gathered crowd gasps at the scene in front of their eyes; you could hear a pin drop at this moment as they await your answer. You were stunned by this sudden proposal proposed by your boyfriend; eyes gazed into yours with affection and adoration. A few strands of his golden hair curl just above his cerulean blue eyes- hiding behind big gold-rimmed glasses. His boyish grin radiates warmth, but his affection cannot penetrate your heart because you know that you are undeserving of taking his last name and starting your own family with him for the rest of your life. You do not deserve his unconditional love because, to you, he’s not the love of your life.

Minutes seem to slow down at the very moment when your eyes travel to the entrance of The Hard Deck, and there he stands tall and upright, with his wire-framed glasses shaped perfectly on his pretty face, just as you remembered it. He gave you a soft smile and a nod. The light behind his ocean eyes flickered with a twinge of sadness, but he knew it was what he must do.

The swarm of people crowds this beautiful moment; he’s the only one that stands out and captures your attention. Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd. He was once your dream. A story of the future that you had, but the pages crisped and torn without knowing what the end truly holds—the one true love that entangles with your soul. And the one that also slipped away.

———

You decided you needed a change of pace from the small town you once grew up in, but now it's just a place blended into one giant shade of monotonous grey. Its cultivation in prime time is long gone and people who remain there either moved away to find a better future for themselves; or are just halfway through death’s door.

That’s when you wanted a clean slate; at the age of 24, to cut out the suffocation and the repetition of your old, stuck-up job. Where else would you rather be other than California? The literal opposite of your childhood town. A place where the heart of the city and its people are, well, alive!

You sat on the beach with that sweltering sun beaming down at you; the grainy sand cradles your feet. You wonder when was the last time you ever felt this feeling of hope and excitement spilling out from your core.

As the hues of the sky entwined with the ocean at the horizon in a sunny shade of orange, the waves draped along the shoreline one moment and pulled back the next, leaving a brief imprint of their existence. Eyes drooped closed as you listened to the crescendo waves ripple in tempo until a sudden searing pain smacked dead across your arm and the backsplash of rough sand splattered across your face.

"Oh God, I-I-I'm so sorry. I-It's my fault! The ball slipped out of my grasp and-and are you alright?" A panic and concern in his trembling voice. You look up to see a black silhouette blocked out by the sun; the shape of his outline appears lanky— hunchback with his shoulders rolled forward.

He crouched down to inspect the damage he had done to your arm. Now in full view, you see his features; eyes wide and filled with blue mimicking the vast ocean, his hair slick back with hair gel or sweat— maybe a mixture of both— along with an old school wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose and tightly fitted with a saffron colored shirt. His lips are pursed together as worry has taken over his face.

The pain in your arm no longer matters when you catch sight of his gaze. He softly smiles at you, and without missing a beat like the waves pushing against the shore- everything about him pours right into your world. The warmest blue eyes and that innocent, boyish smile— you drink it in. And he does the same. Take in your deep-set eyes, trailing down to the top of your nose and lingering on your bitten red lips. You felt intoxicated simply from just one look; the butterflies in your stomach threatened to escape and flutter out to the world, embarrassingly exposing yourself.

He opens his mouth to speak before getting cut off by distant shouting. “Got your foot stuck in the sand? What’s taking so long?” A handsome man, flexed with washboard abs and flocks of blondes. He yells out. He’s good-looking, you’ll admit it that much, but his lack of mannerisms took a toll on you. If he wiped that cocky-ass grin and pretentious personality off his overconfident face, maybe you might just tolerate him.

“I-I think she’s injured! I’ll take her to Penny’s. You guys go on ahead!” He swoops up the football and launches it in one full motion. What surprised you was your underestimation of his physique when he swung the football back to his teammates across the beach with a rough estimation of 30 feet apart. If you weren’t impressed by him before, you sure are now.

He turns back with his brows knitted together. “Let’s get that iced before it gets any worse for you.” He helps you up on your feet and offers support on your elbow. When his touch grazes your arm, the heat of his fingertips lingers and sends a shock of warmth down your spine. Goosebumps light their way on your arm, and you hope he hadn’t noticed as he guides you across the beach to a homey-looking bar with ‘The Hard Deck’ inscribed on the front. He pushed his way in and worked around before seating you on the bar stool.

“Seems like you know your way around here.” You broke the silence with curiosity, as he rummaged around behind all the beer taps. You glance around, taking in the sight of this shack; rows of cups decorated and hanging low from the ceiling, and a piano sits isolated on the opposite side of the bar while the jukebox plays a slow, sultry tune in the background.

It's unusually quiet for a bar, with barely any patrons or servers in the early afternoon. You listen loosely to "I’m in the mood for love" and think to yourself about the irony of this situation. Sure, you just met this guy approximately 15 minutes ago. But he's also the first person you’ve actually had a proper conversion (kind of) in the state of California, where you’re a million miles away from where you came from, and yet, there’s something unique and different about him but can’t quite put it on a canvas.

He whips back around with a bag of ice ready in his hands and treats it gently on your already purple bruise. He frowns. “I um, I-I just come here quite often. I don’t drink, but um- the guys outside hang around quite a lot, so I usually just join them.”

He pursed his lips together again, wondering if he had said the right thing. The icy coolness seeps across your injury and follows up your fingertips, but this arctic temperature could not calm the flush spreading along your cheeks.

His posture slumps, leaning on one hip and still hunched— making himself smaller than the space he’s occupied, but correct himself once he sees you observing his every move. You can’t help but chuckle.

“It’s probably rude of me that um- that I haven’t introduced myself.” He sheepishly pushed up his glasses, “I’m Robert, Robert Floyd. But you can call me Bob. That's what everyone calls me anyway. But also, that is kind of my name.” Bob mumbles on, reaching out his hand for you to reciprocate the handshake, but was immediately taken back by him.

“Oh, sorry…I didn’t- that was your injured arm.” He casually collides his palm back and forth with the side of his shorts before reaching out. You gladly accept the gesture and, in turn, unveil your name. His lips softly repeat your own back to you; in slow syllables, causing your heart to skip a beat. Or possibly just stop beating all at once.

“I think that should be my line since you’re the one that’s helping me. Well, cause the damage and then patch me up.” you jest but noticed the colour drained from his face. You shook your head and wanted to tell him you were joking. But he interjects,

"I-I-I am really, really sorry about that. It's unusually clumsy of me and-and—" fingers fiddling in anxiousness, his chest rises. With a heavy sigh, he opens up again. "Can I buy you a drink as-as an apology and to make it up to you?"

Bob swallows, awkwardly looking down at his shuffling feet against the hardwood floor, waiting nervously for your answer. You can almost see the thoughts in his head, screaming out: 'Is she going to reject me? Am I being too straightforward?' as you hold in a giggle.

"Yes, I would like that very much" a beat, "and...apology accepted."

Bob's shoulders relaxed, and his face beamed with relief and delight. He hadn't noticed the breath he held in with his mind fully preoccupied with the thought of your rejection and possibly resentment for his own little football mistake. But he felt grateful it gave him an opportunity to have the courage to talk to you.

He noticed; you sat by the shoreline, mesmerised by the twinkle of ocean waves, attentive to the sound of nature clashing and contemplating. He wondered what you were thinking, what you were feeling. He wanted to peek inside and see. The mellow breeze blew past you, strands of hair caught across your face as you tucked them behind your ear with your delicate finger, and a few locks weaved freely, where he thought they were radiating in the sunlight. His soul was screaming at his feet to come up to you and strike up a conversation, yet in his gut, he knew he wouldn't have the bravery to be able to keep you around. But all it took was one brawny pass from Hangman, and an accidental slip-up sends Bob landing at your feet as the fates have it.

Conversations flow effortlessly between you and Bob. How he was growing up, living off his family’s ranch on the outskirts of Texas, where he helped raise cattle and sheeps with his father. He remembers every Saturday, his mother would make him omelettes with an extra side of buttermilk pancakes and explained that's his favourite. His eyes twinkle with childish joy as he runs through his nostalgia, and you laugh along when he exaggerates the motion of hands, so immersed in his stories that made you wish you had witnessed it too. In return, you shared your side of the story.

Little by little at first; then all at once, you spilt them out. You’ve never met someone that listened to your life story as intently as him before. Most people you’ve met quickly brush you off as sensitive or overreacting, but Bob, he listens. He laughs along with you at the parts that made you happy and frowned at the memories you lived through that made your eyes wet. He understands how lonely you felt, living in a repeated cycle, but you’ve always looked on the brighter side of life. A life that’s filled with nothing but love, and he hoped that he could be a part of it someday.

Aviators started to roll into The Hard Deck, and that’s when you both knew it was your cue to leave. Bob insisted on walking you home, but you politely declined and reassured him you lived close by. That it’s perfectly safe to walk home while the sun is still up. Before he leaves, he turns and blinks at you, debating something inside his head but decides to ask anyway.

“C-can I see you again? I hope this isn’t too much, but I want to um- talk to you again. I uh- Oh, I work nearby- I-I’m a naval officer, like one of those aviators, well, a lieutenant. Actually, a weapon system officer, w-which is-“ he sealed his lips together to stop himself from babbling on any further embarrassment. But you find his reaction rather cute.

“I knew you were special,” you whispered inaudibly to yourself.

“What?”

“Nothing…Um, of course! I’d love to meet you again.” You flashed a toothy smile in response.

Bob instantly melts into your grin, and the word ‘love’ echoes inside his head. He never had anyone use the word ‘love’ to him before, not in a genuine way. He heard his teammates use it in the context of things like 'Hangman loves the feeling of the need for speed' or 'Rooster loves to beat the shit out of Hangman when he steps out of line.' All of these were in the context of things. But hearing in your silky voice, it’s something he never learned until now. That the word ‘love’ has such a powerful feeling— this intense warmth he never wants to let go of and one he can’t bear to lose.

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