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POSTED ON Aug 21, 2021 22:48:41 GMT

GESTATION

ACCLIMATE SUBJECT #WT001

SILENCE HOLDS THEM STILL. No matter how high Fernando requests the temperature to be raised, the water provides no relief. The blistering heat isn’t enough to distract him from the sensation crawling inside his arm. He can feel it, whatever it is, take hold. Like it’s alive.

Parasite, as Eden had so aptly diagnosed.

That’s the only reason he risks compromising her. Leaving the subject alone in a bid to keep an eye over #wt001.

It’s a change of scenery; relief from her self-induce bondage.

For a second, he wonders what will become of her curls. The damp humidity of their bath is sure to kill their buoyancy. It tickles him in all the right spots as his mind tries to entertain other parts of him as a distraction.

But he doesn’t dare intrude on their tranquility.

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POSTED ON Aug 21, 2021 23:10:39 GMT

his own evolution is upon him. she is a constant by his side now, when the world permits (which, given the changes of late, is often) and she has become comfortable with his company. her need to satiate her bodily desires with throes of drunken whores is gone, replaced wholly with the desire to have this one's flesh beside her.

she's disgusted by it.

but the body wants what it wants. she is on the other side of the pool from him, giving him his space. he's been agitated all day - that beautiful thing in his arm. she does not understand it yet, and so it remains a wondrous enigma. it may eat him from the inside out.

will she miss him? ~~indubitably so.~~ decidedly not.

let him fester while she stretches. her curves are covered by the spring's bubbling water (is that why he demands it so hot?) but a sheen of sweat covers her face like dew, and her curls drape like velvet curtains around her face, tickling her ears.
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POSTED ON Aug 21, 2021 23:28:13 GMT

GESTATION

ACCLIMATE SUBJECT #WT001

ONLY THE SOUND OF HIS STRAINED EXHALES DARE INFRINGE ON THEIR ALONE TIME. Concentration doubles as he tries to cultivate his inner thoughts. Every time he settles into a state of peace it writhes.

His arm doesn’t move. There’s no signs or traces. But he can feel it. Not alive, per se, but a serving reminder that it persists.

Annoying, he determines.

Sssszzzzhh.

A hiss enters the hot springs as he blankets the field in his own domain. MISTY TERRAIN is expunged from his body, channeled through his mouth and nostrils in an effort to curb it’s influence. If he can’t ignore it then he’ll subjugate it to his own will.

Tapu Fini’s presence should prove stronger than any foreign substance. They are welded, Avatar and Patron, with years to acclimate to one another. That power alone should overwhelm and corner the Wish Tag into submission.

At least on paper.

The end result is anything but. His efforts backfire spectacularly. The BESERKER MIST settles in the pit of his stomach and rebounds into his own mind. Friendly fire becomes self harm as his brain works against him.

fernando can also expel a fog that causes affected targets to enter a BERSERK TRANCE. this can be used to tunnel their aggression onto a particular target. in roll-based events, characters who are in this fog roll with disadvantage (take the lower of two rolls). spread of the fog is determined by the moderator.

And, to a lesser effect, it’ll spread. Like a pandemic, the influence will inhabit all that come into contact with him. Like a dull ache, it’ll push them together.

extensive use of the fog can be used to alter a victim's personality (with consent). this can skewer their mental state. repeated exposure to this fog will prove addictive.

Because there cannot be one without the other.

An insidious need beholden behind an undying wish.

No.

Us.

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POSTED ON Aug 21, 2021 23:55:52 GMT

her instruments would be able to pick up on these pulses, but he's had enough of her poking and prodding and her endless grind. the desire to come to these hot springs is a desire for space - from their work, from their world. to put that distance aside, to stretch away from it, is to bring their selves closer together.

she shudders, briefly, with anticipation.

she slips further under the water, if only to hide the sudden flush to her cheeks. she watches fernando through the fog and then straightens as her vision obscures even further. she inhales lightly and then parts her lips; his misty terrain swirls around them.

at once this safe haven of comfort becomes his domain. the water bubbles, this time with a heat that turns her skin red. and she accepts him into her, as she has before. satin sheets have coiled with his mist; those curling wisps have wrapped around her ankles, swum in her head, granted her euphoria.

she gives up her abstinence, suddenly craving his touch, and wades warily over to him. both hands reach for his arm, where that heartbeat pulses and thrums, and she readies a sultry kiss on that scar, just under the surface of the water.
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POSTED ON Aug 22, 2021 2:32:44 GMT

GESTATION

ACCLIMATE SUBJECT #WT001

HUBRIS BECOMES HIS UNDOING. A weapon once thought insurmountable turns on its mater. Tainted thoughts, illicit compulsions—they surge with the same malice he’s inflicted on pawns and enemies alike.

Fernando’s breathing hitches as his frustrations mount. What he sees before him is no longer the truth but a twisted perception used to prey upon the feeble. Every details becomes passive aggression personified. Reason become victimization and suddenly Anya’s wronged him one time too many.

She comes in close. Too close. Not for him but for what he holds. She cares little for him.

He’s just a guinea pig. A benefactor that she’ll dispose of the moment he loses his leverage over her. As if she hasn’t sabotaged him already.

Their time together means nothing. Intimacy? A joke. Weaponized affection bred from her wit. She knows his weakness. What he wants. What he needs. So she entertains him. Swallows her pride and disgust in a bid to subject herself to his lust. All to deceive him. To get closer.

He blinks and she’s upon him. Hands wrapped around her precious ‘experiment’.

Us, it reminds him. Infuriating. Taunting.

He’s been compromised. This is all her fault.

Rage comes to the forefront of emotions. It’s delivered in ample demand, gift wrapped in insecurities. The fragile male ego kept in check with unadulterated ambition cracks.

Her kiss, again, is aimed not at him but at it.

Us, it laughs. It’s all in his head but he can hear it loud and clear.

They very arm she worships comes to greet her. A soft caress up her sides, across her chest, cupping, but not stopping. It crawls, on its own free will, until he grabs hold.

Fingers wrap around her throat. Blood shot eyes judging her.

A simple thought crosses his mind.

It takes so little force to crush a human windpipe.

His grip tightens but not enough to harm. He still needs her, he reminds himself, but that only hurts him more. Makes him resentful. Fingers close in on themselves.

Fucking bitch, he thinks.

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POSTED ON Aug 22, 2021 3:05:33 GMT

she is not the same woman he met all those moons ago. wracked by fear, she struggled for months with the realization that as much as she may deny it, she is just like them. she is the cockroach that scuttles away from the light, an individual among millions of the same breed. like that theo . . . he's like me.

she is heady and the water is warm, too warm, but her skin is alive. and that thing inside of him, that thing that is part of him, calls softly for her. her lips form the words under the surface of the water - do you cry for your mother?

the mist is whip-like now and she knows that she is in danger. his fingers drape over her skin and she lolls her head back, lips parting. water forms large droplets on her lower lip, a product of her blood-red lipstick. it drips, slowly, like a bead of blood down her throat, and onto his hand as they graze her collarbone.

and as he wraps his fingers around her throat, there is a reverence to her lidded eyes. her arms come up her sides; one tug on the back of her top is all it takes for the piece to slide off of her.

"eliard," she whispers. his name. her name, the one that dances off the tip of her tongue. the one that can bring him back. but does she want that? truly? goosebumps ripple over her heated skin.
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POSTED ON Aug 22, 2021 3:30:59 GMT

GESTATION

ACCLIMATE SUBJECT #WT001

HIS PULSE QUICKENS. Twitches vibrate from his wrist. They compound to the point that his bicep flexes. Muscle, veins, tissue; all pronounced as his grip strength is questioned. Whatever control he thinks he has vanished right out from under him.

His own consciousness takes a backseat to the tirade of emotions that threaten to overwhelm. His own mental prowess is acute but far from Legendary. He is merely mortal, after all.

Eliard.

His name. His keepsake. One word that means nothing on its own but means the world to him. Just its utterance is a token of trust granted from himself. Few know his name.

I think, he repeats in his head. Therefore I am!

A small breach breaks his trance. Willpower throws itself against the wall. When he stares up at it, he has already fallen. So the climb begins.

His calves tighten. His butthole clenches. Every fiber of his body fights against itself in a bid for control.

I am Fernando. I am Silph.

Insecurities are realized but addressed with the same need to conquer that pricks at his hips. Hateful passion becomes needy lust. While revenge festers in his mind its purpose is reshaped. He sharpens the end of his spear willingly, directing it into more productive uses.

I am Fernando Eliard Silph.

MISTY TERRAIN plumes like wildfire. The bath becomes saturated in pink steam. The world around them becomes a dreamland of sparks and glitter. The contest between his boon and his submission causes the power to spark violently with cackles.

NATURE’S MADNESS becomes his own.

The urge to break her moves from physical violence to spiritual domination. His arm slackens under his own guidance. His chokehold is loosened but never withdrawn. Instead, a thumb traces over her lower lip.

His eyes. They never change.

The BERSERK MIST has not been dispelled. It has merely been recognized. Reworked to fit his desires rather than trample unhinged. All his budding turmoil has to go somewhere.

And it is through her he will channel them.

“Do you love me?”

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POSTED ON Aug 22, 2021 4:13:24 GMT

FERNANDO SILPH likes this

there. it's in his eyes. puppet strings arch from her mouth and embed themselves into his skin, burrowing into muscle and sinew and settling into the nostalgic grooves of his bones. she is puppet-master, looking down on him as his fingers threaten to snap her throat like a twig.

the mist shivers and she, ever-accustomed to walking through his clouds, raises a hand, trailing fingertips up his human side, touching him in those soft, secretive places no one else can.

and his grip on her tightens and she tenses like a snake waiting to strike. he holds her head to stave off her fangs, but she grasps the hands at her throat in one of her own; the other, she places around the curve of his shoulder.

and she pulls herself against him; legs wrap around his waist as she closes what distance she can between them.

the mist strengthens and her fingers curve, biting into his skin (and she remembers their first night - tipsy and languid, with bourbon on their lips and jazz lingering in their steps).

she meets his gaze. there is fury and rage, and the bridling of something alien that she can't recognize - that she will never recognize. and with his slackened arm, with his hold on her life, his grasp on her soul, she leans into him.

her cold, always-and-forever desolate eyes are alight with a fire that has overcome her. she presses her bare chest against his, struggling into his hold.

yes, this is love.

but that is not what he needs.

"i worship you," she breathes.
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POSTED ON Aug 22, 2021 20:52:32 GMT

GESTATION

ACCLIMATE SUBJECT #WT001

WORSHIP.

A nasty curse once thought benevolence, lashes at his psyche as it rolls off her tongue. She casts blasphemy upon him. Puts reverence to his name, his person. One phrase, when spoken earnestly, unfastens everything he has ever put into his life.

It floats away from him, parallel to her discarded top, cascade and forgotten.

This may be what he needs but it’s not what he wants. It’s the opposite. It is his undoing.

“Me,” he reiterates. Demanding.

“Not it. Not this thing. Not the requiem I sought.”

It all comes back to him. To the validation he needs.

“Me, Fowl.”

Fingers cut into him but that pain is inconsequential. How can he worry about the flesh when she has so openly torn apart his soul.

It throbs against her. Needy. Yearning. But pride and arrogance runs through his veins while in this circular bath.

He needs to hear it.

“Do you love me?”
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POSTED ON Aug 23, 2021 18:26:31 GMT

and here is the desperation, the one thing that should set him apart from the rest of them. here is his desire - to be loved in likeness, for who he is, not for what he will become. logic and biology tells her that they are parasite and host. they are not a singular entity.

but the mist that wavers in her ears, snaking like tendrils into the neurons firing in her brain, that cannot be ignored. this thing - whatever it may come to be - is part of him. part of them. after all, she is its maker.

"you," she says. sweat runs in rivulets down her face and onto the hand that is still snug around her throat.

"incorrigible, insatiable you." she pulls his thumb into her mouth, suckling softly. she slides up, settles herself properly on him, low whine whistling from her as she takes him, as she promises him that yes,

"yes, i love you. i love you."
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POSTED ON Aug 23, 2021 19:53:03 GMT

Lulu Flint and KING WAYLAND like this

GESTATION

ACCLIMATE SUBJECT #WT001

DENIAL CULTURES IN HIS GUT. It spreads, viral, feeding on the inner lining of his stomach walls until he becomes nauseous. A lack of control bubbles in his throat until he vomits out a single accusation.

“Liar!”

Because her love is not his love. That belongs to one and only one: the white haired woman that set him on this path in the first place.

How many people have dared usurp her? Who dare confess their preconceived notion love? Lulu Flint, Stormy Silph, cait alfric?

What is love?

Questions become doubt. Insecurities, long buried under the patriotism of duty, breaches the loamy soil of his subconscious one decayed finger at a time. Without a doubt, she is lying to him. He refuses to accept anything else.

There is nothing she can do to change his mind. He knows this but continues down the path of refusal.

Stubbornness blooms from the unnerving green thumb of Tapu Fini’s MISTY TERRAIN. It grows wild, voracious thorns pricking away at his sense of logic, slipping into the cracks of his mental stability.

“You’re a liar, Fowl.”

He can hear his teeth grind in frustration. It’s grating. Echoing in his head, resonating against his jaw. But he doesn’t stop.

“But I’ll make it true. You will love me.”

The actuality of Anya Fowl is no longer a concern. An afterthought. A distraction. Inconsequential. Clouded behind a haze of emotions that Fernando uses to torment those that dare oppose him.

Who she is and what she likes is rewritten to suit his own narrative. All he sees is a caricature painted from his own experiences. What he perceives her to be, no matter how distorted, how inaccurate, becomes his truth. And it is this rendition of Anya Fowl that he looks to please.

It makes no sense but the reversal comes into place. Worship is returned as he mutters a prayer into her lips, sacrilege, all in a bid to appease her.

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POSTED ON Aug 23, 2021 20:19:54 GMT

tw // abuse

SPOILER: Click to show

all she has known her whole life is violence. is that true? a voice whispers to her. she doesn't recognize it. is it her own? or has his haze finally driven her mad? because she's peering through the looking glass and seeing a girl with bright red hair, and she's watching her get yanked up and ripped apart from the inside out as that girl's father towers over her.

sweat and tears and blood and no, that happened to someone else, she thinks to her dream, to the voice in her head.

there are hands on her throat; the hands of dozens of men. and she is rising and falling, begging please, asking for more. put her in her place. tell her she's bad, that she's awful, that she's an

artist.

daddy's little artist. with her finger paintings and her cherry smile, the lipstick he puts on her and the way he tells her to twirl - 'round and 'round and 'round.

you're a liar, fowl.

she gasps and her grinding has stopped. his turmoil has bled unto her and reality warps. coming to gives her whiplash but before she can breathe, he is upon her again, and she begs him for more, for that domination.

"scatter these dreams for me, darling," she clumsily mumbles into his lips, but they come out as moans as she grasps his hand on her throat, pressing it hard.

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POSTED ON Aug 23, 2021 20:52:26 GMT

GESTATION

ACCLIMATE SUBJECT #WT001

HIS BODY BECOMES LABOR. Her pleasure becomes his job. All in a bid to break her down and have her fold into him. Because Fernando knows her (he thinks) and has the clarity to recognize her prowess.

She is brilliant. Much more so than him—in every regard. What he surpasses in technology, logistics, in his specialties, is far from comparable to her expertise. He has the means to make his intellect earn the praise from his colleagues but he is just a middle fielder.

She has the brains. The accolades she will never hold. The recognition she deserves but will never realize. They make up the perfect resume that makes her indispensable. He merely molds existing knowledge to fit his agenda. She creates it, a pioneer of the forbidden, navigator of the yet to be discovered.

In that aspect, he respects her, which is why he know better than to break her mind or her soul.

tw // toxic masculinity pov
SPOILER: Click to show

So he will target the only weakness he has a point of exploiting: the body.

This dance no longer bears any fruit for him. It hurts, it becomes uncomfortable, but he continues on with the same tenacity he has with every challenge. Because he must succeed. He must break her until she realizes the truth: no one will ever suit her better than he will.

A cramp seizes his right leg. He can feel the sharp pain of his muscle twisting. But he persists. Grunts through it as she makes her demands.

Water sloshes as movements become erratic. There is purpose behind them and their wish is singular. Worship her body. Become the trigger that sets off nerves she didn’t know she had. No matter the cost.

Because she will love him. If not for who he is then for what he can do. What he can make her feel.

She can understand it, master it, but even Anya Fowl cannot fight her biology.

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POSTED ON Aug 23, 2021 21:16:56 GMT

tw; abuse

SPOILER: Click to show
and scatter them he does. there is a meaning to her craving. there is a desire behind her addiction. it is behind every addict - a monstrous, hungry little thing, with a mewling mouth with teeth like knives and a stomach that's never full. it waits for weakness, consuming all the good it can in its path, until there is nothing but that hunger, that reminder

that she's an artist. a thumbprint here and just a few smudges, and look, she's made a pyroar! it's gold stars and accolades and

a pleasure so deep it rocks her to her core. pain blossoms within her as he grows rougher. she flings her head back and his hands find purchase on her collarbone now, slippery from the sweat and the heat and all this mist that's curling

her hair. she has an art show and it smells like hairspray and expensive makeup. the woman in the mirror smiles like a ten-year-old girl (giggles like one too) and her exhibition is soon. he promises to give her a treat afterwards, for being such a good girl, and her lip quivers and she asks is it ice cream? while knowing the answer is

no, f-"uck." like an elastic on the brink of snapping, she curls inward, toward him, hating him for these visions. but why would you hate him? you know it isn't him.

but he is her everything. he is her world. he is why she is here, breathing/gasping, her life's work a promising yellow-brick road before her. and she knows there are bars around this box, that he still holds the key, but this is her choice now. this is her desire.

she shudders against him, bites her lip so hard it bleeds. and she opens her eyes, really opens them, and stares, open-mouthed and gasping, and this time she is the one who snakes her hand to his throat.

"you're mine, eliard," she says forcefully, voice hoarse. and she stands, exposed with legs shaking, the air just as hot as that infernal water. she towers, for a moment, and then folds. blackness curls against her vision and she collapses against him in the water.

their chests rise and fall in tandem. she breathes, "mine."
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