#ITS BEEN A LONG TIME!!! A VERY LONG TIME!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

archive-doll · 2 days ago

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Oh, sweet neighbour. II

Johnny Mactavish x f!reader. He cannot let you move a little finger because no, and well, you need a guard dog.

18+ CW: the military. you're pregnant, that's a warning on its own. takes place in Scotland, AU where Johnny is forcibly retired and finds a new project - you. breaking and entering. food is mentioned. foot fetish. panty-stealing. noncon - he kisses you while you sleep, touches you too. fantasy of somnophilia. hints of dom/sub dynamic.

Have mercy on my grammar, English is not my first language.

PREV. MASTERLIST

Days continue to pass by as peacefully as they did before. The bull you had been negotiating to buy is now happily roaming around, in the middle of all the chickens and the goats. An old guy, rather calm for one of his kind, who comes to greet you every morning. He even starts to play with your Bernese Mountain dog, not that you're surprised, Leo can make everybody his friend.

While you sit on your porch, slowly shifting on the rocking chair after a long day of work, you can see them running after one another. You name him Cowboy. The stable starts slowly being renovated, and your ankles are more sensitive than they used to be. But you get one wall done thanks to your nail gun, and you slowly start to get used to the recoil, barely even gasping at the loud sound anymore.

Evidently, it is seeing you perched on your stool that makes Johnny leave the security of his new house and cross the distance. It is barely day six after your meeting, and Johnny is growing restless, watching you from his window. He had been unable to do anything, and there was a mountain of chores waiting for him inside, but nah. Each time he sees you in the morning, a cup of dark coffee dwarfed into his hand, and you take his breath away.

With your laugh when the sun rises, when you go about and around with a skip in your step, a bucket of grains in hand. How you pat that dangerous bull and scratch at his head and trim the ginger hair around his head, uncaring of those giant horns that could impale you. Your yellow raincoat makes his heart ache with tenderness, but god, does he hate seeing you sitting on that stupid stool. Shouldn't be doing this, not by yourself anyway, not as long as he has something to say about it.

And you listen very well.

You’re trying to adjust the gutter, standing there while grumbling about it, a frown curling your eyebrows. It is not raining this morning, which is why you want to clean it and see if it needs changing as well, taking a handful of debris out. You hate the feeling of it, the leaves all wet that stick around your fingers, and the sight of dead insects and other things you don't want to know the name of. Your nose twitches in disgust, and you gaze away for a moment before dropping it down.

Johnny can feel a cold sweat pearling on his skin at the sight of you, sitting so prettily in such a dangerous position. You are wearing an adorable pink jacket today and a green silky scarf around your hair to keep your face free, with a little bow at your nape. It makes him want to nestle into you, cradle your elbow and kiss the soft flesh there. The sight of you is almost too difficult to watch for a man like him.

“Hen, ya’re goin to giv' me a heart attack.”

You jolt at the sudden aggravated voice, so concentrated on your task that you don’t notice the shuffling sound of him approaching your position. Your heart shudders in your chest, the rumble of his voice making your skin flush when you flicker your eyes at him, one hand securely holding onto the edge of the roof.

“God, Johnny!” You whine with the remaining of your fear, shifting so you sit with both feet on the stair, making the man hurriedly walk to you.

“C’mon now, lassie.” He asks of you, standing at the bottom of your high stool with careful eyes. His hair is unruly today, making you want to brush it back, and his black pants are already stained with mud. You can't imagine the state of his sneakers.

“What?”

“Get down. I’ll do it f'r ya.” He says back with no hesitation, already raising his hand for you to take.

The worry on his face is evident as he waits for you, warm eyes flickering along your silhouette, ready to rescue you if you fall. It’s what makes you accept his hand, that and the pain in your shoulders. You’re not certain how he’s going to take care of your gutter with one arm in a cast, but you don’t bother asking him, not as he is readjusting the silky scarf around your head with such a concentrated face.

It brings a shy grin to your face, having such a strong man bending down to you, his thick fingers pushing your scarf back carefully, and curling your hair back around your cheeks. You nibble on your lips, gazing up at him quietly when he wipes something from your cheek, his hair grazing your forehead at the proximity. It's with a gentle word that you give him your thanks as he thumbs at your jaw.

You watch him raise up on the stool easily, bulging arm catching your attention for a moment when he asks you for a tool. You feel your face slightly heat up as you falter toward your box, taken out of your admiration. Your hands push in the mess of it, and Johnny doesn't judge when you first show him what you think he asked with hesitation. He nods, and you grin once more before approaching, one hand on the edge of the stool, before you raise up and give it to him. You don't miss how his broad shoulders shift at each of his movements.

Once again, Johnny starts asking you questions, not that you mind much. It is rather nice to have someone to talk to. And Johnny is good company, always listening to everything you say with attention. His eyes flicker to your mouth occasionally, as if drinking the words you give him straight from the source.

"I decided on Scotland when I saw pictures of the mountains." You recall a little haze in your eyes while you think back on it. It's a happy memory, though it didn't start as one. "I lived in a city and grew up there. I wanted a change, and it called to me."

"Mountains, eh?"

"Yeah! I like the quiet. The nature. When it's spring or summer, I want to hike up there." You confirm, pointing at one mountain there, up west.

Johnny stares at the mountain, one hand busy screwing back the gutter in its rightful place, where it can't fall into your path or, worse, on you. When he gazes back at you, you're still admiring the landscape, with a gentle smile grazing your mouth. He can't really understand, having seen these mountains and nature all his childhood and travelled in dazzling places during his missions.

But if it's what brought you here, safe, to him, then he's pleased.

"And, everyone always told me the people were nice here. And the food." You add, twisting on your feet to lean against the stool, which barely moves under Johnny's weight. You cross your arms on a lower stair, and he huffs a laugh, catching your little smile.

"Food, righ'."

"That, and the houses cost less than in Island. And it's warmer, if you can believe it."

The screw dig into his palm when you say it, Island. Fucking hell, he could have never meet you. Could have awakened to an empty land, alone. Never known the sound of your breathing, or how your nose twitches when you smile.

"Everythin' is warmer than Island." He gruff, giving a good tug on the gutter and watching it stay put.

"True. So I came here."

The more he listens to you, the more certain Johnny is of the good in you. He makes quick work of the gutter as you explain it all to him. You desire for a refuge and have a family of your own to look after and care for. With your precious hand smoothing up and down your tummy and that genuine smile curling your mouth, it feels like redemption. To help you. To make you safe when you walk further in, your fingers curling around his palm, your rain boots sinking into the mud. You don’t care for the mess, he finds out. Not when you settle inside the stable, and tell him the work needed to be done next, with dust floating around you and a piece of spider web on your shoulder.

His knees shake as you settle one of your hands on his elbow, guiding him to where you keep the tools and the rest of the materials you will need for the rehabilitation of the stable. Your fingers tense inside the crook of his elbow, and he feels frustrated with his own state, not able to secure you with both hands. You lead him toward a table there, with the plan you have imagined laid out on paper. The drawing is rather rough, but he understands it easily.

"Five? Plannin' on buyin' horses, bonnie?"

"Mhm. A stallion, two mares. Then, time will tell," You hum, leaning into the table as you nod in confirmation. You had years of dreams, years of imagination, and of planning behind you. You know what you want and how you'll get them, too - there are so many horses that need a home. There are so many strays that need shelter. "I'd like a donkey too, but it'd be noisy for you."

"Dinnea care, bonnie," Johnny says, voice unwavering, completely honest. A donkey or not, it doesn't matter much to him. As long as you're happy. As long as it's not quiet anymore, empty. Anything else, it's fine.

"Then a donkey it is." You grin up at him, leaning closer into his space. He doesn't care much either, not when your shoulder nestles into his side while you go back to your explanation. Little independent girl, already thought of it all. Only need a strong man to help you.

Johnny is good at listening. His lieutenant might say something else, but he's well-behaved now. Better than when he first enrolled, a pent-up kid who only knew demining figures, the weight of negligence, and parents who could hardly remember his name. He's a good soldier now, broken apart and shaped back by an entity bigger than himself - bigger than the whole sky he even thought for a while.

Finding intel, chatting up some guys for distraction, following a plan. Johnny can do that, shit he wants to, feeling useless by himself, without anything to do in the silence. And your plan, it's a damn good one. He can see you don't really know what to do, but you went and looked it up, and did it yourself, sweet girl, finding what tool to use for what, the width each box needs to be, and what's the best wood to buy for a decent price.

He doesn't mind having you guide him. Pointing his target, the next step for this mission and even less when you reward him with a smile, much better than any medal or tight handshake he ever received in return for his service. You look so pretty there, doing your best as you measure the planks and cut them carefully with gloved hands. Even with the protective glasses perched on your nose, you're a sight for sore eyes. And the doc said exercise is good or something like that.

So he listens to you, well. Intently. Never turning his back on you, always adapting to your soft orders and determined wishes with no hesitation, his mind quiet as you soothe him into action. You don't have Kyle's sickening smile, or his Lt's rough hands that dig deliciously into him, nor Cap's approving eyes that make his teeth hungry for more, but god, you are something.

He's desperate for your praise, for that smoothing hand down his back as you come to watch the finished result. It makes his chest puff, makes his hands tingle with anticipation, and he's eager to do more, just for another look from you. You have these soft eyes, a dreamy voice that sounds like a melody, and he feels like a damn pup, a lovesick mutt famished for the warmth of you that makes him drool. Aye, you don't need to be Kyle, or Lt, nor Cap. He'll do anything you ask, do anything you need. He'll be good.

It’s well into the afternoon when you enter the stable again, with a plate filled with a warm teapot, two mugs, and some sandwiches you made for the two of you. It’s no surprise to find that Johnny is very quick with his hands, even with one not in good shape, and you find yourself standing there, by the table, with shining eyes as half of it is already finished.

After a long and grumbling discussion, Johnny had let you work too but not without the threat of making him leave and doing it all by yourself. Though he managed the heavy lifting all on his own, you can't deny that. Your heart stutters, finding him putting on a lock, his large form bent forward and strong shoulders rolling underneath his sweater.

“Johnny?”

“Aye, hen?”

“Let’s take a break, hm?” You propose, watching him gazing at you from over his shoulder.

It’s almost immediate how he puts down the screwdriver and shifts on his feet to face you. Black boots he went and fetched in his house, trudges on the ground, and your eyes flicker to the dark curls around his head, seeing drops of sweat shining on his skin. He does not move away from you anymore when you approach.

Before, there was a moment when Johnny would stiffen, all of his body rigid as he watched you close the distance.

Instead, now, he leans into you as if anticipating your next move, blue eyes blinking as he waits patiently. You pass the clean towel around his face, wiping away the crass and wood dust accumulating on him. The arch of his nose, with a slight bump, the bones of his cheeks that you gently rub clean, even his scarred temples that you do not mention.

Johnny allows you into his personal space gladly, his eyes shining with an energy you can't quite decipher. Your head tilts back when you roll your weight to your toes, raising yourself to slide the towel over his nape with a smile. You have to shuffle closer, enough that your shoes tap his own, your belly pressing into his coat as you slide the towel over his skin. You blink before finding his eyes that never left you.

“You hungry? I made us sandwiches.”

Big blue eyes stare down at you, and you have half the desire to stroke them and feel his long lashes tickle your fingertips before he offers you a nod. Your mouth turns up into that beautiful smile once again – a sight he will never get tired of – before you step backwards. His body sways forward; the magnetic force you affect him with is inevitable. He stays close, towering on your right side, and watches quietly as you fill the two mugs there, and your shoulder brushes his chest when you cut the sandwich in two.

He relishes in everything you grant him with.

From where you both sit, you can see well into your land. The little river there, down the slight hill that leads to Johnny’s house. The trees at the edges of the forest bend and dance beneath the wind. The thyme tea warms you as you listen to Johnny eating with gluttony.

Your lips twitch at the groaning he lets out, and with warm cheeks, you glance his way. His eyes are closed, and he munches about one sandwich already eaten. His legs are spread out as he bites another piece of it, barely breathing between mouthfuls, and you let out a little amused giggle, seeing him nod mindlessly to himself.

“I’m guessing it’s good, then?”

“Bloody amazin’, hen.”

Your face brightens again as you let out a chuckle, finding Johnny endearing. It's a strange thought to have about a man, but one you can't contest. Your hands cradle your cup as you watch him, a smile lingering on your lips when he sighs, finally satiated. It’s the least you can do after today. Your hands twitch then, when he raises his hand to his lips, licking at the tip of it. A pink tongue passes the threshold of his mouth and curls around his thumb, licking the last crumbs.

There is something slightly erotic in it all, seeing how his fingers shine with his own spit as he leans back in his chair, completely satisfied by your cooking. Big, large hands, calloused and scarred, now used to help create your home, knuckles pink under the little dark hair there. Large frame, warmed by the tea you made for him, and the food you nurtured him with.

“What’s next, bonnie?”

“Mhm?” You hum, almost losing yourself in the sight of him.

“After tha’, what do we wan' to do?”

“Oh! My porch needs some repairing.” You answer, shifting in your chair to face him, noticing his use of the ‘we’ with affection. You don’t mind it. Could definitely use the help and the strong arms.

"Mhm. Nothin' inside needs some restoration?" He hums, squinting his eyes at you from his place. It makes you fidget in your seat, lips pinched down before you shrug your shoulders, trying to appear innocent.

"M'eudail." He groans, thick accent twirling around the foreign word at your bad little acting. "Need to think abou' yarself, ya know? Can't let ya be cold oll winter."

"I'm not cold. T's just the bathroom, well, the heater doesn't work. And the sink in the kitchen is having some trouble." You try to dismiss, eyes finding the view of the hill again, only trying to ignore his grumpy frown.

"We'll dae yar house first." He finishes on, and though you sigh, you don't refute his decision. You know better than to lie to him, not that you want to anyway.

You pass the early evening finishing the last touch in the stables – the little chamber there, where you sand the wood carefully. Actually, Johnny uses the sander while you do the finishing touches behind his passage, running your palm over the smooth texture with appreciation. There are five boxes done, and while Johnny rearranges all of your tools, you looks at it, hands on your hips.

This would have taken you ages to do by yourself because, even with all of your good intentions, you do not know what you’re doing most of the time. But there is no hesitation in Johnny’s actions, and with a few sentences, he always reassures you, giving you the options before allowing you to make your decision.

It's easy how he walks you into your home as if you've done it before. Your hand is warm, settled into his elbow as he slows his steps for you. The air is cold tonight, and you figure winter is not far anymore with how soon the sun sets over the green land. Johnny’s hand moves and curls around your fingers, helping you take the first step toward the porch.

Johnny walks you inside, hovering behind you and finds the collar of your coat quickly, without a word. You sigh when your feet finally go into the comfort of your slippers, ankles slightly hurting from today's work. You don't question it when, after wiping your hands, you give him the little towel you always keep there to dry his face and hair.

"I was thinking of making bruschetta for dinner." You reveal to him, turning to watch him pass the towel over his hair, seeing how the usual brown of his hair had turned black from the evening rain. "With cream cheese, some tomatoes."

"Ya intivin' me to dinner, m'eudail?" It's a tease you know, just from the little tingle in his lips when he stares down at you.

"If you want to." You say, watching him putting his khaki raincoat on the wall. You pinch your lips as he wipes his hands on the towel, his blue eyes electrifying in the dim light, making you slightly nervous. It should be a bad idea, literally, inviting a stranger - an acquaintance? - into your home.

But you don't think Johnny could ever hurt you. Not with how delicately he handles you or tries to anyway. He's not used to this life, to people who aren't shaped by the sound of gunshots, and trained to assess everything around them as a potential threat. Not used to the softness of your wrist, of the light in your eyes. His fingers may circle your forearm too strongly, and he may stomp around silently to avoid alerting anyone of his presence and so scare you, but he always tries. He's always careful.

Your weight shifts from foot to foot as you keep looking at each other before you offer him a smile, softly moving to the side in silent invitation.

"Got nothing to thank you for your help. But I can cook."

"Shouldn't stand too much on yar feet, hen. Yer legs are goin' to hurt ya."

'I'll be fine, can handle a bit of pain, Johnny." You answer back after a moment of silence, seeing him squint at your legs as if they're a mathematical problem he can't resolve - or an untamed being who doesn't listen. Which, really, could be.

"I ken. But you shouldn't have ta." He grumbled then, passing the threshold of your house, coming to you easily. And it warms you how serious he is with it, with your health and your comfort. "C'mon then."

You don't say anything, simply accepting his help when he places a hand on your back. Johnny doesn't talk much, you find; he simply stays by your side as you open the old fridge. Your left hand skims over your belly as he looks into a high cabinet, finding there the plates you'll need for dinner.

Every ingredient is placed on the wooden island you also need to repair, and you hear him grumble as he opens and closes one cabinet, making it hiss. You hide your smile as he moves around, quickly finding every little thing that will need reparation or to be changed. It's actually rather amusing, seeing such a grown man mumbling to himself as he cusses and huffs and puffs.

"You know, I didn't invite you here, so you'll swear at my kitchen."

"Bonnie," He says, almost a warning as he gazes back at you, brows curling into a frown when you arch your eyebrows.

"That's a problem for tomorrow, okay? Come sit with me." You invite him, patting the high chair at your right, voice sweet and soft, like honey. It easily softens the exasperated glint in his eyes, and he sighs deeply before closing back the drawer.

You have to bite back a laugh when it squeaks. Johnny stared at it for a while longer, and you burrowed your face into your shoulder with a giggle. With a shake of his head, he finds you, large form settling by your side comically in that badly painted white high chair. It's much too small for him.

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long has it been for sale?" He asks again for your attention, watching you cut the tomatoes into four pieces. Your nail polish, a soft red, is slightly breaking on the edge after today's chore, and he pinches your thumb, moving it up and down under the light. You have a blister. That annoys him; you should never be in pain.

"Twelve years, I think. The previous owner was in a care facility for a while. It's in relatively good shape. The beams are still healthy."

"Walls dinnea make a home, hen." He grumbles, large fingers pushing into the side of your hand before he tugs the tomatoes in front of him, swiftly taking the knife out of your hand. "Someone came ta look at it?"

"No, not yet. Needs a bit of cleaning first, and then I need a plan." Your elbow presses into the counter, and your chin nestles into your palm as you watch him. The knife barely makes a sound as it slides into the plate.

You don't say another word for a while, simply enjoying the quiet as you watch Johnny skillfully use the knife on your tomatoes. Even with only one hand, he's doing it better than you are. Then, you turn and quietly slide the book in front of the two of you, abandoning your stubborn act. You don't say anything when you hear his snort and pointly ignore his look, and tap at the page so he can anticipate the rest of the recipe as you go and start taking care of the bruschetta.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You already doin' it." He says back without hesitation, and you push your shoulder into him at his teasing before seeing him nod. "Why do you help me?"

"Dinnea have better to dae."

It's a simple answer. While you believe it might be true, you don't think it's the truth either. Johnny doesn't seem the type of man who busies himself with other people's business, whether they are pregnant or not. From his manners, you don't deny he's polite and would never let you put your groceries away by yourself, but not to the point of restoring some stranger's old stable.

Your fingers reshape the bread, easily going through the motion as you let your eyes on him. Your nose twitches as you ponder it. You are eternally grateful for his help, really. But you know for certain there is something else. Another reason that makes him do it all, from cutting your tomatoes in that tiny high chair, to sanding the door of your dream stable.

For a moment, your eyes linger in front of you, hazy as you wonder. Does he look for a sense of stability? For a purpose? Or simply to occupy his days? Well, it's not any of your business, but you can't help yourself, trying to understand him, to discover every piece that built him. You know you shouldn't, and it's only a hypothesis anyway.

"Well, alright. You make good company so it's fine."

His fingers twitch around his knife, and the blade flutters over the chives at your words. He can feel the tip of his ears heating up at your compliment, and for a moment, he doesn't dare to look at you. Worried about what he will find.

When he does, though, under that little layer of sarcasm he brings out of you, Johnny finds honesty. And a smile - genuine, and pure. He's rooted to the damn chair, watching you, admiring you there, with a little apron tied around your neck.

You're the epitome of domestic life. Of civilian life. With that little thing tied around your waist, the brushing of your hair or whatever it is called, that make them so beautiful and shiny. No worries in your eyes when you turn your back on him, and soft fingers that linger on his arms.

If it's what awaits him, it can't be so bad.

"Even when I yell at yar kitchen?" He dissipates it, the bitter acceptance, pushing away the tension in his chest with what he does best - humour and a crooked grin.

"Yea', even when you yell at my kitchen." You chuckle, the edges of your eyes pinching slightly, and you do it again - that little scrunch of your nose. He thinks you're cute. Definitely too trusting, but rather cute.

The banter is easy with Johnny, keeping you skipping your steps, with a little glow in your face as he grills the bread in an oiled pan. Italians might despise you for this, but it's good, and you thought of bruschetta since you woke up this morning. You knew being pregnant could give you cravings, but not to this point.

With a ginger beer in hand, you walk behind Johnny, who's holding your plate, into the living room, where a very old TV is waiting for you and the most comfortable couch you've ever seen. Leo is there too, lying on the carpet by the fireplace, and you give him a few scratches before settling on the couch. Johnny is already there, lap spreading so hard that your knee bumps into his when you sit.

"So, ya said the bathroom and the kitchen. What else?"

"Mhm, the stairs creak. And I'd like to take out most of the paint on the furniture and varnish the wood. The heaters need a look, and the fireplaces, too." You think about it, lips pinching on the side as you unfold one thick cover before laying it on your legs, sensing Johnny's attention on you.

The television is running a show, and you can't understand half the words in it. The English teachers you had in school definitely didn't concern themselves with the slang or the different accents. But Scottish, surely, could easily make you feel like a fool. But you don't pay much attention, not when you hear Johnny asking you about what you want to do first.

"Well, the heaters and fireplace. I'll find someone tomorrow to come and look at it. Then, I'll have to buy some new furniture. Or a way to restore what's here."

A tingle slides on the bottom of your feet, and you mindlessly pass a piece of your ham to Leo as you push a warm tomato between your lips.

"Need a hand?"

"Mhm. Don't even know where to go."

He nods absentmindedly, curling a finger behind your ear to slick back some dishevelled strands of hair. Your eyes shift to his face, finding him there, relaxing, and his plate already empty. Johnny must have been starving, a big man like him doing work all day. Your lashes flutter when his fingers linger, his thumb passing over the arch of your jaw.

"Can't hav' strange men here when ya're alone, m'eudail."

His voice is similar to the echoes of thunder that swirl around in the mountains. It's a familiar sound in the back of your mind, one that makes this situation comfortable even if you don't know him. Because it's true, you don't know Johnny, hell, you don't even know his last name, but here you are, both of you. On your couch, sitting in front of the telly while he thumbs at your cheek, so close.

You smile, cheeks round as he presses into it with a grin, watching how your eyes light up momentarily.

"Guess I'll have to ask you to leave then."

He snorts, square shoulders shaking before he squeezes your chin in his hold. You swat at his wrist with amusement before he gathers your plate. The couch trembles as he rises up, making your body shift deeper into its comforts, and you snuggle beneath your blanket. Johnny pivots to look at you, and his shadow looms over you when he stands between you and the fireplace.

You're reminded of him, the first time you met. How he took your breath away. With the light coming from behind him, he looks bigger - stronger. Your breath halts for a second before he tilts himself closer, breaking the spell.

"Want sweets, hen?"

"Mhm?" You sigh, momentarily taken aback.

"Desserts." He repeats for you, not even missing a beat. Never making you feel stupid either, the same expression on his face, waiting for your answer with patience.

"Oh." You sigh, chin hitching up to gaze at his face before you offer him a little nod. "Yea', that would be nice. Do you want some tea?"

"I'll dae it, hen. Stay warm, aye?"

Johnny doesn't let you do much the rest of the evening. He said that since you cooked, he can do the rest. Dishes, the tea, and taking care of the fire by adding a few more wood. Don't have ta move bonnie, should stay comfortable. It makes you smile, and while in any other case, you would have put up a fight, he is your guest after all, you can see that Johnny needs it. To move around the place, never sitting down for long.

It almost gives you whiplash, but when you see him trudge around, looking out the windows, you force yourself to settle back. Your fingers curl around the mug, and you take a little mouthful as he closes the curtains, securing every entry point.

"What time tomorrow?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"I'll have to go to the city. Varnish and everythin'. What's the best time for you?"

Your eyes never leave him as he slides another curtain close, his silhouette flirting with the shadows of your house. You know he is looking at you, you can feel it - the weight of his eyes on your curled form. You wonder if he is surprised, or simply accepting what it implies, another day working around your place. If he's content with you, rely on him of your own accord. Making the first step his way.

"Nine-fifteen will do."

"Ok. I'll probably be on the phone with the contractors by then, so you come in, alright?"

"Yar door bett'r be locked, hen."

"I only keep it locked when I sleep." You answer, at peace with your own answer, not reacting when you hear him grumble. You can see him shake his head again, unhappy with your dangerous habits.

"I'll knock." He warns you, and you sigh, unamused, when he takes the teacup out of your hands.

You twist in your spot, throwing an arm on the back of the couch and watch him step into your kitchen. Your chin settles on your forearm as he cleans the place, putting everything back in its spot with perfection. You don't want to ask him about it; you don't want to bring back bad memories. But, you wonder what he was in the army if he had a title of his own, and why did he left and came here of all places.

You stay silent, knowing it isn't your place. If he wants to talk about it or share it with you, he will do it at his own pace.

You make the last step alone on the porch, and you find your hand cold from his absence when he slithers away in the darkness. With a gentle rub at your tummy, your door half open, you turn his way one last time, your eyes finding him with purpose.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yea'?" You ask, hoping, wondering if he would want to. Giving him an out, if he needs it, even if you already asked before.

His hands twitch at his side, the desire to hold you hitching under his skin. You look so peaceful. Your skin is soft and plump, with that little dew under your chin that he loves, and your knitted cardigan pushed closed around your torso. He wants to cradle you, keep you warm and safe in his arms, where he knows no one could ever pain you.

He gives you a nod, not finding the right words to answer you, and it makes the curls around his head sway prettily. You giggle before giving him a sweet wave and entering your home. Johnny takes a breath, keeping watch for a little while, seeing you moving around. Didn't even look back. You'll have to change your curtains soon because he can see you, back arched as you clean up the living room. Will have to add a few bolts to your door, too.

There is no hesitation when Johnny crosses the distance between your homes. His steps are silent, and his strong frame disappears in the shadows in swift motions. The animals, now used to his presence, barely react to him when he passes. He will search for a guard dog for you next week.

His boots press into the wooden planks of your porch. He sees the light in what he guesses is your bedroom. He stands there for a moment, watching your silhouette shift on the other side. Clothes are being taken off, and the sight of you leaves him rocking on his feet, looking more delicious than any delicacy he's ever had. And there is nothing he can truly see, only the curves of your hips and the sway of your flesh as you walk around. His shoulders tremble before his eyes watch the shutter start, and then the light is turned off.

It's with ease that he enters your sweet little home. Barely a few tries and your lock is off before he steps inside. He will reinforce your security, especially now that he knows you barely even lock your house. There is no sound here as he pushes the back door closed. The dog must be with you, good, he thinks. The smell of the fire fills his nose as he walks inside, eyes shifting about, catching sight of your open kitchen needing a good remodel, and then the living room. He settles into the seat there, a recliner, by your couch.

It is only day six of knowing you. And already, he feels himself needing to be here - to guard you. You give him purpose, a sense of self, during the day. Building you a home, the farm that you so dreamily wish to have. But in the darkness of the night, he feels restless, so far away from you. His bed was cold and empty, and he couldn't restrain the urge anymore, not after your adorable little goodbye.

See you tomorrow? Of course you will, hen. Where else will he be, if not by your side? Where else could he crawl to, if not you?

He settles rather quickly, his knife secured by his hip, one gun beneath his armpit, and the other hidden beneath his jeans. And when he closes his eyes, he can imagine you, see you there, resting gently in your bed.

Do you have a bed large enough for two, he wonders. Do you sleep there, your hands between your legs, or are they resting by your pillow? Do you wear one of these long little night dresses to bed? Or these see-through babydolls? Oh, you might rest bare. He has to take a deep breath through gritted teeth at the vision. He hopes the little one doesn't wake you too much during the night. His hands shift and linger down the armchairs as he lets his head fall backwards, pressing into the cushion.

His nostrils flare as he sees it, you, buried into your comforter, your mouth open as you breathe out peacefully. And your belly, oh, he wonders if the little one there would feel it if he cradles you for the night. If it could hear him when he tells a little bedtime story. He sighs. Only day six or seven now. It's past midnight. But now, all he can think of is you, your soft curves, and the softness of your hands that you are sacrificing to build a home for yourself and your baby.

He can't understand how anyone could leave you. You said something about wanting no one to have around, but you never quite pushed him away, either. His eyes shift to the ceiling, and his fingers tap against the armchair as he ponders the numerous possibilities. Abusive parents could create that fight-or-flight reaction you had when you first saw him, though you were leaning more toward flight, almost a foot back on the ground. Grooming could, too, with these controlling behaviours and dismissive tone. A partner who took you for granted, who forced you into a role you didn't want and had a hard time fighting away from. Hell, it could be a guy who wanted you to abort.

None of them are good. None of them could ever happen again under his watch.

His shoulder creaks when he jumps into his feet, unable to stay so far. He knows it's unreasonable, even a crime, really. Breaking and entering, that's what they call it. But it doesn't matter. Not when it's you. His feet briskly climb the stairs, avoiding any sound, his hand running across the wall until he reaches the end. His eyes move in the dark, and he can guess three doors. You've talked about a bathroom, and then your bedroom is on his right. Must be a nursery on his left.

The door is pushed only a few inches wide. A dim light made him press his back against the wall, palm grazing the back of your door as he looked inside meticulously. From where he stands, he has the end of your bed in his peripheral vision. There are no movements, apart from the crossing sound of your dog approaching. The old one doesn't bark when he pushes himself into the corridor; he simply comes to sniff at his shoes before turning back around.

Maybe he'll look for that guard dog tomorrow.

The sole of his shoes hovers over the ground of your bedroom as he takes a look inside. The fireplace is facing your bed. It's instinct, how he assesses your environment, the dresser there, covered in jewellery and a little palette of makeup. An antique chest, a wardrobe, and a few bags lying around.

As if you haven't taken proper time to settle in. He doesn't like that.

Then, his eyes find you. And it's better than his mind could have created. He can only see your face and that little bonnet thing around your hair to keep it soft. Your mouth is open, slightly pushed forward with each exhale you make, and there you are. Resting. One hand around the edge of the blanket over your comforter. Can see the little bump your feet make beneath it, and his heart shatters, seeing you curled in there, searching for warmth.

God, you're a bonnie lass. Temptation resting there, just out of reach, for now.

His fingers push the door closed again without a look, and he approaches one slow step. Johnny has time. You don't react to him. Don't react to Leo jumping by your side. His gloved palm finds your feet, lithering there, up and down before squeezing your little toes. Do you have nail polish there too?

His chin hitches up as his hand disappears beneath your sheets, pushing inside, in your reprieve until he finds them. His eyes blink, hooded, as he shelters one in his hand. Thumb caresses the sole of your foot, up and down, up and down again, and a little grunt leaves his throat when he feels himself twitching. His index stroke over your toes, passing through the crevices and the gristles, before circling your nail. Oh yeah, nail polish.

With one smooth gesture, he pushed your blanket back in place. Palming at your ankle, he times his breathing with yours, pupils dilating as he focuses on your mouth. He could devour you, really. Right now, he could push your cute underwear aside and have a taste - or give you his tip for now. Just a little. Maybe you wouldn't even wake up. The idea makes him chub up against his zipper. Johnny didn't know he'd like that.

His hand trails up your leg, circling your fragile knee before raking along your thigh. Leo wags his tail, his head lying by your shoulder, when Johnny sits down by your waist. Nails digging into the layers of your sheets, he feels it, the fat of your hip and kneads at it, respiration quickening. His boots press harder into your carpet as he leans over, his attention passing over your closed eyes, the arch of your nose and god, that dewy chin.

His lips find it, the little roll covering your jaw. First, a feathery kiss, before his beard scratches your skin. You whine. He's immobile until he feels you melting back into sleep. That's exactly why he needs to guard you, who don't even react when his hand cradles your nape, pushing into your flesh when his mouth opens over your temple. Your sweat is a little bitter, and he can taste your night cream, too. One last kiss, and he has to physically push himself away, hands clawing at his thighs when he raises back.

You'll need your beauty sleep for tomorrow.

His body circles your bed, and he secures your bay window before approaching the chair there, where today's garments rest, folded neatly. Good girl. Your grey little panties are hurriedly hidden in his pocket before your door opens and closes.

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niccolites · 2 days ago

Text

sentinel species - ii. rose

victorian, zombie apocalypse au, kyle garrick x fem!reader. read on ao3 here or masterlist here

The horse slows to a stop once you reach a beaten path. Up until now, you have been crossing fields, open plains that allowed Mr Garrick turn his head to take in the landscape. You could feel the turn of his neck above you, while you hid your face in his chest.

Now, you are on a dirt worn track, designed for carriages. You lean back enough to peer up at him, taking in the considering frown on his face. The horse doesn’t stop, continuing its light, melodic walk. “Are we going towards town?” you ask, voice crackling as you use it for the first time in hours. The sun has long since set, and the moon was trickling its way into the sky in its place.

Mr Garrick lowers his head to look at you. “Do you want to?” he asks, eyes open and searching. Under his gaze, you are struck with the way that you are sitting. Your side pressed into his front, his arm around your back. Bare hand on the silk of your sleeve, warm even through the fabric.

It’s not proper to be sitting so close to an unmarried man while you are similarly unbetrothed. You are torn between the circumstances that you find yourself in, and the thought of what will come after this. After life reinstates itself, after you find your mother, there will be a stain on your reputation for this. You imagine that Mr Evans will not want you, something that kindles a hope in you as it also leaves you feeling a little bereft.

“My mother - if she - ” you start and then stop. Swallow. “If she made it out, she would head home. I would like to check if that is alright?”

Mr Garrick gives you a small smile, the slight show of his teeth. “Of course, we can,” he soothes and you lose a tension that you didn’t know that you had in your shoulders. “My family, I would like to check on them as well, if possible.”

You nod, fervently. “Of course,” you say, relieved that he finds himself in a similar feeling. His family hadn’t been at the dance, but you imagined it wasn’t a comforting feeling if he was unaware of what was happening elsewhere. It was too easy to isolate the incident to the Oakwood estate, but you remember the creature as it ran through the field. It had come from somewhere.

Kyle gives you another smile, wider, before he frowns back down at the track. It’s a winding path, still open enough like the fields that you have crossed so far. However, closer, trees bending inwards, hands outstretched above you to block out the sky. You shiver, and feel Kyle’s hand flex, tuck you further into him.

“Well, it’s decided then,” he says, and he clicks his heels to knock the horse back into a walk after it stops to idle.

You watch the back of his hand, curled around the reins. The back of his knuckle is burst, blood sluggish now but you can see the stain of it on the horse’s back. It’s been running for a few hours now, and you've only just noticed.

You pull your handkerchief out of your collar but hover with it, uncertain, in the gap between your hands. You twist your fingers in the fabric.

“You don’t have to waste that on me,” Mr Garrick says, startling you out of your mind after a few moments of ruminating.

You twist your mouth, caught. It’s a pristine white fabric, which is most likely what Mr Garrick thinks that you are worried about. It’s not, it’s that it feels very forward to wrap his hand in a cloth that you had tucked in your bosom. You find yourself wanting to prove that you are not vain about material things like the white of a cloth.

It’s not like there is anyone else around to see. You give a furtive glance around before you act anyway, just in case. You gently touch your hand to the back of his wrist, feel the heat of his skin even through your glove. He lets go of the reins and flattens his hand against yours, content to let you tie the fabric around his knuckles. His fingers are long and pretty like the rest of him. You can feel the caught strength in them, enough to cause a swoop in your belly that you ignore.

The blood will likely stain the fabric, but you don’t mind. You start to draw your hand back, but Mr Garrick catches it before you can, his thumb on the centre of your palm. You still, let him smooth his thumb over the silk of your glove. All warm, heat that catches and spreads up through your veins.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. More intimate than you think you can bear.

“It’s the least I could do,” you reply, clumsily fluttering your hand back at him before you withdraw it and tuck it back into your lap. He hums in response, and picks the reins back up.

You continue in silence, the only sounds the soft breathing from Mr Garrick beneath your ear and the rustling of the woods as you start to leave behind the open ground of the fields. You keep your eyes open, peer out into the dark, eyes burning as you almost refuse to blink.

You vow to say something this time. If you see one of those creatures in the distance, you will tell Mr Garrick, and you will save him this time. The thought is soothing, keeps you awake even as it gets steadily darker. The trees are getting thicker, until the open fields are choked out and forgotten.

“You can sleep,” Mr Garrick murmurs. His head must tilt down, because you can feel the edge of his chin as it grazes the top of your head. You’ve never been close to a man like this. It’s almost choking, like every sense you have is set alight at the slightest movement. You can see the faint hair that is starting to grow at the bolt of his jaw. That, too, another heat to add to your boiling point.

“That’s alright,” you respond, resisting the urge to rub at your stinging eyes. “I’ll keep watch with you.”

He shifts on the saddle as if wanting to disagree but ultimately keeps quiet. You feel the fingers of his hand flex on your arm, tendons pulled and relaxing. You resist the urge to watch it, wanting to see the delicate bone beneath his skin. Feel his thumb smooth up and down the soft silk of your sleeve, mesmerising.

You stare out into the dark until you can’t, lulled into a stupor by the rhythmic rub of his thumb and the sway of the horse. You blink heavily again and again until the crack of a twig has you startling back into awareness.

The horse huffs and stills, and you scarcely breathe. Mr Garrick doesn’t move, his chest like stone against you. Moonlight carves spindly fingers down between tree branches, lighting up the faintest tree trunks around you.

A groan sounds out and you stifle a whimper, trying to see out into the dark. You think you see something move, but wonder if you are trying to make sense of the noise with some other sense.

What must have been a bark that started out in a human’s chest sounds out from behind you and you almost shriek when Mr Garrick harshly kicks his feet into the horse and you set off again. You cling to him as the horse runs with barely any care to his passengers, dirt kicked up behind you.

You peer over Mr Garrick’s shoulder and see it. A human face with blood around its mouth, haunted and hunting you. Its eyes are empty, soulless things that bore into you, mindless but certain. However fast it is, the horse easily outruns it, as not even seconds later, the woods eat the creature up and it is gone.

Mr Garrick doesn’t let up for the better part of a few miles before he finally stops, the horse huffing out big breaths. You’ve passed through most of the woods, you recognise the path at last, as the trees start to thin out and the smell of smoke starts to drift upward to greet the two of you.

You were pressed against Mr Garrick before, without much space between you given the size of the saddle which was meant for a single man. Now, you had your arms wrapped around his waist, you could feel his hand on the bend of your neck, skin on skin. Silly, to care about something like that after the creature that you saw. However, you can feel the calluses on his fingers and feel gooseflesh erupt over your body when his hand shifts and you feel the drag of them. Rough on soft skin, your mouth dries out as you realise that you want to arch into his touch like a cat.

“Sorry,” you murmur, shifting until you’re sitting a little more up than you were before. Mr Garrick’s hand tightens for a moment, and you feel your heartbeat ricochet as you imagine that he will not let you shift away. Then the moment passes, and you ignore that rabbit of your heartbeat, his grip lessening and sliding back into the safe territory of your sleeve.

“That’s alright, it’s been a long night,” he assures you, giving you a small smile that has you flushing. You feel breathless, even though you hadn’t been the one running. You smooth your hand over the horse’s mane, fruitlessly trying to soothe it as it continues to huff and slowly meander down the hill towards civilisation.

“What do you think those things are?” you ask.

Mr Garrick looks grim, giving a glance back over his shoulder to see if anything may be following you out of the trees. There isn’t, you were already watching. “I don’t know. They seem like men, but possessed. It’s not a sickness that I’ve ever seen.” You hum in contemplation, mouth twisting.

You wonder if you should be more hysterical, start shaking and shrieking about everything that has happened. Instead you feel a level of numbness that you observe with a clinical detachment. Like you were underwater, and watching yourself drown from the cliff edge.

You were telling yourself that if you found your mother, then everything would make sense again. The extreme violence that you had witnessed would be undone, unravelled until you were alright again, mind a clean slate.

It was a life raft that you were clinging to, a reunion with your mother was a distant island that you could see. Brought closer and closer with each step.

You can see the distant chimneys and roofs of your town. You crane your neck, futile, as if to see your mother through a distant window even though you were still half a mile away.

“Where is it that your family is?” you ask, turning your head to look at Mr Garrick. You lived in the centre of town, buried amongst cobblestones and all the other houses that belched up acrid smoke.

“Around there,” he tells you, pointing his hand out until you lean over to follow his line of sight. “Right along the edge of town.” Certainly easier to reach than your home, you think.

“Who will be there?” you ask, eyes tracing the faint outline of the houses that made up that section of town. More rooftops there than there are in your section of town.

“My father. My older sister - Isabella - and her husband, Theo. Their baby, and my younger sister who is also a baby,” he says. He gives you a boyish smile that you reciprocate, bashful in the wake of it. “Penny isn’t actually, but she acts like it most of the time.”

There’s so much warmth in his voice that you find yourself leaning towards it instinctively. Fire after a long chill. You turn back to the town and squint at the houses there again. “You don’t think what…what happened has reached here, do you?” you ask, eyes darting around again. Here it was open again before you reached the streets, easier to see anything coming.

“I hope not,” Mr Garrick answers. “But, I’m not sure. You live nearer the middle, don’t you?” You nod and he hums, thoughtful. “We’ll check your house, of course, but I think we should be careful. My sisters have spare clothes, or a cloak you can borrow. You’re…very bright,” he adds. You look down at yourself, at the bright silk that your mother had picked so that you would glow under lamplight.

“I suppose I am. The current situation wasn’t taken into account when the fabric was chosen,” you muse, startled when Mr Garrick laughs. You feel it, deep against your side. You give him an unbidden smile in return.

His house isn’t what you expected it to look like. Huddled in a street with other homes, no faint flicker of candle light in any of the windows. He points out the house that is his before the two of you stop at the end of the street. Wind whistles, dragging across roof slats and singing an empty song. No one is here, there isn't the hush of sleep here, it is the hush of desertion.

“We should go inside, if you would like to check,” you say, although he hasn’t made any move to leave. He nods, and leads the horse until you both come to a stop in front of his house.

He slides off first, reaches a hand up to help you down. He stands silent, hand still on yours as he watches the house. The polite vacuum that allows him to extend this touch to you is shrinking around you as the seconds drag on. You don’t want to disturb the moment that he seems to be having, and console yourself with the excuse that there isn’t any around to catch the two of you just now.

“Apologies,” Mr Garrick says, giving your hand a squeeze before he lets go. With a smile spared for you, he starts up the steps and unlocks the door.

The place is empty, that much is clear when you cross into it. Emptiness clogs each corner of the sitting room, collecting in the chairs that are gathered together in the first room you step into.

Mr Garrick takes the stairs, voice light as it calls out for his father. You hover just in from the doorway, letting it shut behind you. You want to light a candle, the faint light that can worm its way in from the window is not enough to illuminate the dark corners of this place.

Everything is closer than it is in your home. Wealth is defined by how far apart one’s belongings are, you realise. Your mother wasn’t as wealthy as she once was, however your home was an exhibit of a time that has since passed, to showcase money that you no longer had. All of your chaise lounges and settees were distant, spaced apart to show off how wide each of the rooms were.

Here, nothing is more than an inch apart. Standing just in front of the door, you can reach the first chair with your hand, feel the rough catch of fabric under your palm. You pull your hand back and frown at the layer of dust that you have picked up. You dust yourself off and stretch out your hand again, drag a finger down the side of the table sat in front of the chairs. Dust kicks up, a solid mass on your finger, which you find odd.

Mr Garrick reappears and shakes you out of your musings. “No one is here, hopefully they have gotten themselves somewhere safe,” he says, striding towards you with a bundle of fabric in his arms. “My father has a cabin out in the woods that he fishes at sometimes, he must’ve taken the girls there, potentially. There would’ve been some sign of…an altercation here, otherwise.”

“Yes,” you agree, shaking the dust off of your gloves. “The street does look abandoned, maybe they left with everyone else, too.”

Mr Garrick nods, smiling at your reassurance. “Yes,” he echoes, gazing down at you. A cut of moonlight arcs across his face, like a slice of a benevolent god who favours you for reasons that you don’t understand. “I brought you a cloak, stop you from shining in the dark.”

You take it, feel the weight of the fabric. “Thank you, are you sure it’s alright for me to have this?” you ask, uncertain about taking someone else’s belongings.

“It was left,” Mr Garrick points out, plucking the fabric back out of your hands and draping it around your shoulders, cinching the tie across your clavicle. You let him fuss over it, taking the time to blink up at him. It feels secret, like when you had watched him from the top of your stairs. Impossible to reconcile these two moments of the same man.

Unbidden, you have the urge to tell him that you saw him, that you heard his proposal. Like you’re deliberately hiding something between the two of you. You bite down and chew on the words until they crumble in your mouth, worthless paste. You decide not to bring it up until you know what your answer would have been.

“Shall we check your house?” Mr Garrick says, snapping you out of your reverie.

You nod, roll your shoulders to familiarise yourself with the new heavy weight that you have on them. “Yes, please,” you reply. Mr Garrick’s smile is just beneath the cut of moonlight, but you see it anyway.

Your house is equally as empty, but you stand in your drawing room, still, as if to lure movement back into the walls. You twist your gloves off and wring them between your hands. Twist, until you can feel the stitches pull.

You think of your mother, alone at the Oakwood’s estate. Try to put yourself in her perspective, try to figure out where she could have gone. Would she have gone with someone, the way that you have? Or stride out on her own, perhaps just with your footman to operate the carriage if she could find him?

It’s impossible to think that she may have been butchered like Mr Casings. So, you don’t. A page ripped out of the book, not even blank, but gone entirely.

It’s worse here than it was at Mr Garrick’s home. In the heart of town, you can hear the growls of something inhuman outside. Distant enough to not cause too much concern, but close enough that it was an oppressive force. Something was alive out there, and you didn’t understand it beyond its eagerness to kill and bite.

“It doesn’t seem like anyone has come back,” Mr Garrick reports, startling you as he approaches. He catches your shoulder mid-jump, cradles it in the palm of his hand. “There doesn’t seem to be any food missing, or clothes, if she came back here and left again.”

You twist your gloves even tighter. “I don’t know,” you say, uselessly. You know that isn’t a proper response, but don’t know what could be.

Mr Garrick watches you for a moment, face contemplative. Still beautiful, you wonder how your mother didn’t give him whatever it was that he wanted. “We could stay, see if she comes back. There’s a chance that she may have gone with some group, and they could be making their way here. Not everyone else was foolhardy enough to travel in the dark like we were,” he says, smoothes his hand around your shoulder until you give him an uncertain smile.

“Alright,” you agree, relaxing your hands and letting your gloves unravel. It feels like inaction, but the thought of doing anything that involved leaving now that the idea that she may be coming back has been planted was enough to have liquid fear shot through you. “Alright, yes, we’ve been up…all night, we could use the rest, right?”

Kyle nods, and you push your hair out of your face, suddenly energised.

“Alright, we kept all of Father’s clothes, so there are clothes that you can change into. We have a spare bedroom for whenever cousins or the like visit, so you are more than welcome to stay there, let me show you.”

You flutter around your house, in the world’s poorest tour. Mr Garrick is indulgent with you, letting you ramble, even when you are showing him the pantry and displaying the new butter churner that your cook recently brought in.

You leave him in the guest room and stand, listless, in your bedroom. You take off your new cloak with care and delicately lay it over your armchair. Your own dress is ripped off without care and thrown into the corner. You feel both exhausted and wired, like you need to sleep so bad that you never will.

You find a nightgown, pressed and left in a neat folded pile. An echo of another life. You pull it on and slump into bed, your body is stiff and unyielding.

There is a crack along the edge of your wall and you trace it with your eyes, wondering what you will do tomorrow. You imagine staying in this house, night after night, waiting for your mother to come and get you. Monsters prowling along the edge of your townhouse until they break in.

There is a howl from outside and you whimper in response. You’d make good prey, you can play the part well. You cry into your pillow, and imagine that your tears shine so pretty in the faint light from your window.

You finally fall asleep thinking of the bite of teeth and they glow like moonlight until they hit flesh.

You think you wake up a moment before you hear the scream. You sit up, body locking as if in preparation as the yell bounces in from outside.

Passivity freezes you before you are propelled into motion, discarding your blanket and darting over to your window. You peer out into the dark street, trying to find any motion.

The yell sounds again, but you cannot see where it is coming from.

Your door throws open and you whirl around, finding Mr Garrick standing there with a blade in his hand. He breathes your name, relief colouring it like something familiar. “You’re alright?” he states, but it comes out half a question.

“Yes, are you? Do you know who that is?” you ask, watching as he steps towards you, looks out the window over your shoulder.

“No, I can’t tell if it’s…one of those things,” he says, frowning out into the dark. “They sound human enough, even though I don’t think they are anymore.

Gooseflesh dimples your skin as the yell rings out again. You’d assumed it was a shout of pain, or someone signalling for help. Now, it just sounded like the sound of an animal. Humans reduced into madness, howling in the night. “What’s happening to them?” you ask, folding your arms around yourself.

“I don’t know,” Mr Garrick murmurs. He looks at you, about to say something when another yell cuts through the air. This one is distinctly human, a shout of pain that sets you jumping again.

You peer out of the window, feel the heat of Mr Garrick at your back as he does the same.

A moment of stillness, quiet. Then -

“SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

At the edge of the street comes a figure, hurtling down the cobblestones. Screaming the same thing over and over, spinning to shout it out at each of the houses directly. A shrieking plea, a desperation that you have never heard in real life.

You go to move, and bump into Mr Garrick. He catches your shoulders, and it feels more intimate that it’s your nightgown, the fabric thin enough that you can feel the heat of his palms onto your skin. “Where are you going?”

“That man needs help,” you say, confused. “He may be hurt, we should bring him in.”

“I’ll go, you should stay here,” Mr Garrick says, already letting you go and stepping away. “I’m not risking you.”

They are kind words, and you know you should listen, but you feel stricken at the idea of him going downstairs without you. You follow, but keep quiet. Kyle turns his head and doesn’t seem surprised to see you but his mouth pinches.

“Stay behind me,” he tells you and takes to the stairs, quick that has you scrambling after him. He has spent most of the night trying to soothe you, that you forget that this is the same man to tackle one of those creatures and crack its head into the floor.

Your courage wanes, but you try to keep pace, lingering in the hallway when Kyle reaches the entrance. The door opens and the shouting shoulders its way in and you reel back from it. “Over here man!” Mr Garrick calls and the shouting ceases for a moment as the figure darts towards safety.

You step out of the way as the man barrels inside and almost falls to the ground with his momentum as Mr Garrick shuts the door behind him and bolts it shut. You turn to him, hands out to console when you pause. “Mr Evans?” you ask, baffled.

He looks worse for wear. With blood staining his shirt, his trousers torn, he barely looks like himself. His hair that had been perfectly combed back at the ball only hours ago was a mess with dirt caked in it. He blinks at you as if he cannot see before your face seems to register. “Thank God,” he says, leaning heavily against the wall. “A welcome sight you are, my lady. The world has gone mad, there are devils wearing a man’s face out there.”

“We’re aware of what’s happened,” Mr Garrick says, stepping towards you. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t step away. You look up at him and he has an odd look on his face as he watches Mr Evans.

Mr Evans doesn’t seem to notice, looking moments from collapsing onto the floor. “Are you hurt?” you ask, stepping forward as if you would be able to catch him if he did. Mr Garrick echoes your movement, still close enough to brush against you.

“Nothing that a strong drink and a night's rest wouldn’t fix, if you were kind enough to oblige,” Mr Evans responds. He limps over to the bourbon that your mother kept in the corner after you gesture towards it.

Mr Garrick makes no move to follow so you sway forward before you say, stuck at his side. Mr Evans’ shouting has ceased but there is still the occasional howl or growl coming from outside, quieter but still present. “What is it?” you ask, glancing over at Mr Evans as he downs a glass and immediately refills it.

“We should leave in the morning,” Mr Garrick says, frowning. “It isn’t safe here, you can hear them, can’t you?”

You can, but you don’t know if you can bear leaving. “Where would we go?” you ask, trying not to look too against the idea, and likely failing.

“We could make for my father’s cabin, it should be enough out of the way to try and wait this out.” You blanch at the idea of going somewhere so remote with an unmarried man.

A thud snaps you out of your conversation, Mr Evans slumps against the wall. You think he may have been more hurt than he said, but a moment later a loud sore emits from him. “Do you think that blood is his?”

“I don't know what I hope it is,” Mr Garrick says, grimly. He doesn't say anything else, but he does help you drag Mr Evans onto one of the couches, at least.

The next morning finds you in a similar situation to the night before. Standing in your sitting room, waiting for someone who isn't there.

You hear someone approach you, and you turn to see Mr Garrick, watching you with a soft look on his face. “What if she comes back?” you ask, and his mouth turns down even further.

“We can leave a note, so she’ll know where to find us,” he offers, reaching out to smooth his hand over your shoulder. You can barely feel it through your cloak, but you shift out from under it. It was different when it was just the two of you, but Mr Evans is standing in the doorway watching. Attention was always such a stifling force, you hadn’t realised how much it lingered on you until it was back.

Mr Garrick lets his hand hover in the air before it drops back to his side. His face is fine and still. “Could you write the directions for me?” you ask, hating yourself for asking.

“Yes,” he agrees, and follows you towards the desk in the corner where you were taught to write and read.

You pen something short, tell your mother that you love her and that you will find her if she tries to find you. You leave a blank space for Mr Garrick to pen in the directions to his cabin and turn away as he writes them.

Letting Mr Garrick write this out, you walk over to Mr Evans as he leans against the wall and stares down at his shoes. It’s impossible to reconcile that this is the same man who was boring you at a party the night before. He is like a ghost of himself, already haunted. He looks sickly, blanched of any colour in his cheeks. He had at least washed off some of the blood that stained his skin. It hadn’t made him look any more well.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr Evans?” you ask, slipping your gloves on.

He barely seems to hear you, blinking heavily for a moment before his head jerks up. He seems startled at the sight of you, as if you were a stranger. “Apologies, are we setting off then?”

You swallow harshly, crossing your arms around yourself. “Yes, Mr Garrick knows of somewhere safe that we can go until this blows over.”

Mr Evans’s slips off of your face, trickling down to your collar and lingering there. Thick like molasses, his blinks stretching out until they linger, half-masted over his eyes.

“Mr Evans?” you ask.

“Alright,” Mr Garrick says, startling you as he approaches. “I’ve left the letter on the desk, your mother should see it if she returns here, and she will be able to find us. We can also come back, if we can, to check,” Mr Garrick offers. You give him a tremulous smile, which he seems to lean into. “We only have one horse, I say we return to my father’s house, the lady can wait there while we find another.” This is directed at Mr Evans, who barely seems to comprehend. “There was a footman that lived near us, he was permitted to keep a few horses for his master, he had a stable just outside of town for them.”

Mr Evans blinks blanky in response, which sets Mr Garrick scowling. “A good plan, you said that the cabin was that way out of town, yes?” you interject. Mr Garrick’s gaze returns to you and the frown slips off. “We should go then, it seems quieter outside.” You were also starting to lose your nerve and knew if you stayed for a moment longer that you would climb back upstairs to your bedroom and refuse to leave until you saw your mother again.

Dawn has chased away everything frightening in the world, and restored it to life as it was before. Eerily quiet, still, but you would welcome that over the senseless growling that echoed down the streets only hours before. You wondered if these new creatures had some sense of time, any semblance of the signifiers of the day.

Either way, you step closer to Mr Garrick as he holds your horse by the reins to guide it down the streets. Mr Evans took up the rear, head down as if to make sure his feet were where he left them.

It was a quick journey in the dark on horseback. On foot, with the sun starting to crawl out of the sky, it was a good chunk of an hour.

“You could take the horse, you don’t have to walk, “ Mr Garrick offers, offering his arm to you just after you set off.

“It feels rude,” you reply, but you take his arm which earns you a smile. It was cold, this early in the morning, and you would take what heat you could get. “Should we name her?” you add, watching the horse as it huffs. There had scarcely been any hay, given there wasn’t a traditional stable to keep the horses in, only a section to the side of the house for any carriage to linger. Your mother wasn’t fond of horses, but you liked the sway of their heads and the sound of their hooves on stone.

“I don’t have much practice with naming animals, my sisters always said I was rotten at it,” Mr Garrick muses, tucking your hand further into his elbow to ward off any chill. You bite back a smile, shy at his attentiveness.

“Why, what did you name them?” you ask. You pass by a baker’s and see the windows are all smashed, the tray that displayed fresh bread is empty. You suppress a shiver and shift closer to Kyle.

“My mother found a stray cat that she left a tray of food out for every night. The cat had a white circle around its eye, so I used to call her ‘Circle’,” Mr Garrick admits, regretfully. “Isabella used to smack me around the head if I called the cat that in front of her. She said it was the stupidest thing that she had ever heard.”

You giggle, trying to keep yourself hushed. “It isn’t the best,” you admit. Kyle gives you a grin, his head tilted down towards you.

It’s impossible to think that you are smiling again, after the way that you had felt as you left your home. Kyle seems to coax something out of you, a thread of sunlight into the open mouth of a cave. Luring, yet effortlessly.

The journey feels quick as Kyle entertains you with more stories of his childhood. You feel lighter, the streets are dead but nothing alive walks them besides your group, and you will take what you can get. Mr Evans doesn’t say anything, but you comfort yourself with the sound of his light but consistent footsteps behind you.

He’s survived something just like the rest of you, and if he needs peace, you want to give that to him.

Finally, you reach Mr Garrick’s home again, and you let him guide you up to the door. “We should only be gone for an hour,” Kyle assures you, leaning around you to open the front door. Then, he stays, half-curled around you as if to hide you from sight. “Don’t come out, for anyone, just in case.”

It’s an odd instruction, but you agree anyway, just to see him relax. His hand lifts and he only hesitates for a moment before he brushes a stray hair out of your face and behind your ear. Gentle, like you’ll blow away if he’s not delicate enough with you.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises and you nod again. Agree, making a vow the truth.

You linger in the doorway as he turns down and joins Mr Evans, as they continue down the road. Mr Evans turns his head to look back at you, pallid skin that shines faintly with sweat in the morning light. You have the strangest feeling that he doesn’t even recognise you.

The door clicks shut and the sunlight is cut off.

#kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #call of duty #nic writes #sentinel species #kyle garrick u are so beautiful i want youuuuuu #come gimme a smooch pleae

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avisofapatite · 3 days ago

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I never add directly to a post, but what I want to add would take too long to put in tags.

My immediate reaction reading this was assuming I would have done fabulously, but I decided since Bleak House is easy enough to find, I'd read the 7 paragraphs myself, try and grasp the meaning the best I could, and then return to read the study. I am not an English major, and I haven't performed academic work with literature since high school, so I wanted to see how I would fare. I have never actually read any of Dickens' work, and will admit to not successfully attempting any 19th century literature myself.

The passage did end up being more challenging than I had initially expected - it took a moment for me to adjust to some of the sentence structure Dickens used, and I found myself going over some of the passages a couple times to make sure I grasped everything. Most legal references I understood but some specifically 19thc British touchstones took some research (I understood the court setting, but needed to look up that the Chancery was specifically a property court, and was thrown off at first by Temple Bar thinking this referred to a legal bar before googling that name specifically). I had to find the definitions of about 3 words and came away feeling relatively confident in my comprehension.

Upon reading through the study, however, I was struck with a sudden understanding of how my trying best to read this text now had nothing in common to my approach doing the same in an academic setting. How I actually engaged with texts like this In School had me relating far more to the Approach of the readers having difficulty than I expected.

For instance, as I read the passage on my own, I jumped around a lot and went over passages multiple times, sometimes in fragments. The study required reading of the passage out loud from top to bottom, and I recall a specific moment in my schooling (in Grade 5) where I completely failed to comprehend a passage because of this format. However, I was never tested on my reading of texts in that manner after this age. Someone skilled in reading SHOULD be able to reliably comprehend things as they read them in the order it is presented to them - that in itself contains some part of the meaning! But I've only just realized I've never fostered that focus for challenging texts, relying on my ability to jump around the page, and that my schooling never stopped me from developing this habit.

The section of the study describing a strong reader made it clear to me I did not read that way in school, which has had lasting implications. While I would have preferred reading things properly, I often felt like I didn't have the time to properly read a text and would rely on my own being clever/online summary to fill in the gaps that I required. This feels like a problem coming from many sources - while I was certainly very busy with other work at that time, I also knew I could reliably receive a good grade despite not putting in the full effort, and perhaps this full effort would not have been so taxing if my reading skills had been more thoroughly exercised as I went through school.

I found myself reading the example of strong analysis realizing I failed to reach that particular depth of understanding, such being able to explicitly describe the idea of the crowd on the streets repeating the rhythms of a previous time, for instance, instead of just coming away with the image of the crowd jostling in the mud on that particular day. Worse of all, I realized on my own time, I would have been far more comfortable coming away from the text having put far less effort into its comprehension knowing that I wasn't about to be evaluated.

That specific notion of evaluation, and doing what is needed - and no more - to pass that evaluation I think is where the opportunity is lost for many. It certainly was for me, nevermind my personal tendency to spend more effort on cultivating the appearance of knowledge moreso than actual knowledge. I genuinely wonder whether I would have immediately fallen back on my mindset of trying to game the system with as much speed and little effort as humanly possible, assuming my inate skill would be enough to succeed, if I had been tested by the researchers in their setting instead of having done this little challenge on my own.

As someone in the 27-32 range that considers myself self-evidently literate, this did help me really examine my habits. But it was humbling to discover that if this system so successfully failed to train good habits into me Despite my ability to leap their hurdles, how impossible the challenge might be to those that at any point have had difficulty with reading and comprehension. The big question is how we can change the teaching of literacy to fix this. I'm going to be thinking about this for a while.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

#to those w read more: i added a bunch to this post #i tried the test myself to interesting results #i just had to try to do it myself #trying to learn how to admit poor skill despite how scary that feels when i built myself up on being mr cleverclogs #only way ill actually become intelligent and thoughtful as opposed to the poser im so scared ppl will discover i am #lmao

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salynaa · 2 days ago

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Sage of Truth x Reader!Fem

Warnings ; None, fluff, bad writing

———

It was one of those nights.

His desk was bathed in the flickering glow of a few candles and the soft rays of the moon filtering through the window. That light perfectly traced the features of his face, focused, leaning over a still, half-blank page.

His movements were precise as he continue to write, almost ritualistic, as if he had rehearsed these words a thousand times before committing them to paper. The only sound breaking the silence was the soft scratching of his quill, leaving behind words still wet with ink, waiting patiently to dry.

But he was not alone.

Under the moon’s gentle gaze, another figure sat close by him, as close as her chair would allow her. You had been watching him in silence for long minutes, moments shared in precious, intimate quiet. Yet, despite the tenderness of the scene, that stillness soon grew dull for you.

So, without a second thought, you reached out and gently removed the monocle resting on your lover’s face while he still had his eyes fixed on his parchment. He remained silent, yet the change in his posture say it all. In response, he simply set his quill aside, letting a few drops of ink fall onto the desk’s wooden surface. And, for the first time that evening, he gave you his full attention.

With a deliberate movement, always so absurdly precise but soft when it came to you, he tilted his head slightly, his calm gaze searching yours, as if trying to read the meaning behind your gesture.

He was only met with a smile as you proudly wore his monocle, accompanied with a delicate flush of pink decorating your cheeks.

Despite being himself the Sage of Truth, he found himself powerless at such a smile, especially knowing that he was the reason behind such emotion.

Despite himself, a thought brushed across his mind that he would never dare to speak out loud, "Not a single thought behind those eyes..." ,a teasing remark, half-formed, gentle in its irony, born from the softest affection.

Then, with a gesture still precise yet tender, his hands came to cradle your face. He took a few silent, almost sacred seconds to gaze at you,just as he had done so many times before, whether you had noticed or not.

His eyes first lingered on your nose, then slid across your cheeks, before getting lost in your eyes.

Ah… those eyes.

The very same ones that had bewitched him from the start. And despite the vastness of his knowledge, he had never been able to unravel the spell they held over him. What magic did they possess, that he could no longer bear a day without meeting their gaze? Without surrendering to them?

But then, a foolish yet persistent thought crept in, did he truly deserve to be looked at with such tenderness, he who had once been the cause of so many shattered lives?

Curious about his silence, your voice finally broke the spell that hung between you and his thoughts,

"Why are you looking at me like that? Can you really not see without your monocle?…" you asked, a playful curiosity in your voice, one he didn’t miss to catch.

He replied with a calm, one of the subtle sweetest composed tone like he always did when he talked to you, though it carried a subtle echo of the amusement due to your words,

"I'm afraid the answer you're looking for isn’t the one you want, ma cher…"

Then, slowly, he leaned in, his face drawing closer to yours, stopping just inches away, just enough to take one last look at you, as if he wanted to memorize every detail before giving in.

You answered by closing your eyes, as a ready to welcome his lips on yours, as they had met so many times before.

But instead of the kiss you anticipated, you felt only the lightest touch, barely brushing the edge of your mouth.

Perplexed, perhaps even a little offended, you opened your eyes.

His face was still there, just as serene… except now it bore that familiar amused smile.

You searched for a reason behind such a cruel tease. And then, the only explanation that made sense slipped from your lips,

"…So you really can’t see without your monocle?"

Yes, that must be it. He had simply missed your lips because of his poor vision. That thought comforted you, somewhat…

Amused by your innocent conclusion, a soft laugh escaped his lips.

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to let silence keep you finding the truth behind his words, as he so often loved to do.

Then, with playful intent, he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, then another to your cheek. And finally, his lips hovered just above yours again, barely brushing them in a tender torment he’d never admit to enjoying.

A second kiss, this time again at the corner of your mouth, his tease drew a quiet whine from you.

He chuckled softly, followed by soft words just above a whisper,

"My apologies, ma douce. I won’t keep you waiting , now…"

And this time, at last, his lip finally met yours.

———

J’EN PEUT PLUS DE L’ANGLAIS, eh c’était tellement mieux quand je l’ai écrit en français. Type shi🥀 mb for the writhing chat

#cookie run kingdom #cookierunkingdom #crk #cookie run x reader #self insert #crk x reader #crk x y/n #salynaa #crk x you #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk crk #light of knowledge

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 day ago

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One last one and this might be a little self projection because I hate this myself but;

Bob hates it when people enter his room unannounced, especially if they’ve got nothing to ask or say to him, like just coming into his room as if it wasn’t his room that he’s half tempted to fucking get a lock on it most days. John does this the most, and one time he might’ve been sent flying by a very agitated Bob, who might as well have been one breath away from letting the Void take over.

He likes to be left alone now and then, even more so if he’s spent most of the day with the team, going out or doing anything to preoccupy himself, then he’ll want to be left alone for the rest of the afternoon at the very least. It’s not a hard ask. He also hates it when people who’ve come into his room don’t shut the door, it grates on him and annoys him to the point where the lights will flicker as a reflection of his dwindling patience.

Thankfully most of the team respect privacy and leave him be, except John but John learns his lesson the second he got thrown out by an unseen force. Even if it’s the slightest bit ajar he’s huffy and irritated because it felt as though he had no privacy at all within the Tower.

You however have a pass because you’re Bob’s soft spot, know your boundaries with him and only ever come into his room when you’ve got something to give him or give back to him like a book. He’s much rather you stayed and keep him company, which you do now and then, but most of the time he’s happy to just be in your presence no matter how brief it might be.

Though then again you get a pass because it’s you -and sometimes his surrogate sister Yelena, who teases him for his obvious favouritism towards you- and half of the time when the door opens he hopes it’s you, only to be disheartened when it wasn’t as though he was a puppy waiting for its owner. Bob also dislikes it when it wasn’t just you and him in his room and people intrude on you both, giving them an unamused look from over your shoulder to tell them that they really shouldn’t have even opened the door. Three is a crowd as the saying goes.

He likes his alone time but he likes his alone time with you even more so, and so his mood spurs when the likes of Alexei keeps poking his head in to see if the ‘birds in love’ were doing anything worth spreading to the rest of the group. You could tell with how he breathed, his jaw tensing and his entire body language screamed to be left alone, so you have you shoo Alexei away before closing the door and let Bob bring himself back to calm.

‘I can leave if you need a minute.’ You tell him often, understanding that living with the team had it’s ups and downs for Bob, a man who was hyper independent through no fault of his own and was still taking time to adjust to living with others.

‘No.’ Bob says, grabbing your hand in his on impulse, intertwining your fingers. ‘They can leave, but you can stay here for as long as possible.’ You sit yourself back down on his bed, rest your head on his shoulder and allowed him to read his book aloud for you as peace washed over you both once more as the lights no longer flickered. It was golden.

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shoeistars · 1 day ago

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adrenaline rush !

incl. isagi, bachira, kunigami, reo, nagi, barou, rin, shidou

ʚଓ outline. there’s something different about the way he fucks you post match

ʚଓ w. 18+ content, minors dni, pro!characters, fem!bodied, read at your own discretion as I don’t do individual tagging for element of surprise

isagi !

It’s always the same. Not to say that Isagi had boring sex game— no, there is zero truth to that. Win, lose, draw, he had this primal feel to him once all was said and done on the pitch. Sweaty, a little flushed in the cheeks and ears, total tunnel vision because the one thing he wants after a game is a warm and wet pussy to sink into.

The hotel bed didn’t stand a chance, really. It has probably seen its fair share of fucking, has likely withheld many bumps and breaks. Each thrust caused an annoying creak to echo into the air, a small little cry for help that fell on deaf ears. He wasn’t the type to settle for a quick fuck but home was miles away and he was an impatient man. The walls were blank, the sheets wrinkling and coming undone from each corner of the mattress, bunching right underneath your spent body as he works you out further.

“Is there a reason why you’re bein’ quiet?” The rough cut of Isagi’s voice questions into your right ear, body mounted on top of yours as if to mimic that sweet and victorious moment of a predator capturing his dinner. There’s a rhythm to his hips as he plows you from behind, not quite hitting deep and merely focused on speed alone.

His hand, the one not curled loosely around your throat and threatening to cut off your oxygen supply, kneads at the crease of your hip meeting your thigh. It would feel like a rather loving touch if he weren’t battering into your guts to chase his own high. It goes off course and dips between your thighs, pawing gently at the mound of your hot cunt before introducing his middle and ring finger in a slippery dance against your clit.

“That’s fine, you don’t gotta say a thing,” He drawls on, choking on a groan at the feeling of you pulsing so delicately around his cock. That egoist that the field loves to see so much shines through even hours after he’s left the grass, after he’s ditched the cleats. It seeps out of his pores, it leaves his throat in the form of snark and cockiness. You’ve always told him how much you adored it when he got into his flow, anyway. “This pussy tells on you every fucking time.”

bachira !

Endorphins flooding his brain, Bachira can barely see straight. Every single win under his belt has felt the same, gave him that same smile and that familiar rush. There was nothing like reaching the tip of the iceberg and collecting yet another accomplishment in his career. He’s always been the type to celebrate by stretching the party, by chasing drinks and good food and enjoying company.

One of his favorite ways to celebrate a good and clean win is to have you spread out on the bed. As much as he misses his funky room back at home, the one filled with colors and his personality— the provided living quarters would have to suffice. Door locked, plenty of activity going on just outside. Bachira wasn’t himself if he weren’t living on the very edge.

Lips suctioned to your pussy, he can only smile at the feeling of sharp tugs assaulting his long hair. He’s still damp with sweat but you never seemed to mind, surely not when he was sucking you up like his last meal. He’s gotten the hang of going down on his girl after plenty of years, twisting and turning his tongue against your throbbing clit with technique. “Meguru, don’t stop,” you mewl rather loud, thighs twitching and toes curling against his shoulders.

“So loud,” he snickers against your pussy with glossy lips and lidded eyes, moaning softly against your folds before he’s pulling back to spit a thick glob onto your hole. His thumb dips down to smear it along your lips, biting his own at the erotic view before pushing the mess right back into your cunt. “Fuck, that’s pretty.”

The beautiful thing about a man as patient as Bachira was that he could do this for hours, sucking and licking and kissing. Nothing got him harder than getting you off, than suffocating in your cream and your scent. He had time.

kunigami !

Blue Lock as a whole ruined your boyfriend. He was never the same, never would be. There was a lack of spirit in him that was once his one unique quality. Everyone who knew Kunigami grew to adore him because he really was just a friendly face. Now, soccer and everything to do with the sport only brought out this nasty side to him.

The first time you were able to reunite was messy. Post game, he would normally stick to something easy. Nice dinner reservation, a little bit of harmless fun afterwards. That Kunigami was left in the goddamn dirt, replaced with someone who still loved but in such a drastically different way.

He was mean. Of course, you’d adapt. He would still remain loyal and considerate, would still make sure you were taken care of after all was said and done. There was just an animalistic dominance to him in the bedroom that was so unrecognizable to what once was. He was ferocious in the way he guided you down to your knees, slapping his thick and heavy dick against your cheek once, twice, three times for good measure.

Grunts and groans filled the room, never a quiet guy. The old Kunigami was gentle and even a bit timid but the way he fucks your face now is the opposite. Spit dribbling down your chin, throat nearly bulging with the head of his cock, gags so forcibly loud that they’d be leaving your voice hoarse. Your hands are shaky as they attempt to curl around the thickness of his quads, begging for a break. The sight only makes him scoff.

“Make me cum,” He demands, quiet yet filled with a sharpness that made you squeeze your thighs together. “Earn it.”

reo !

The time and place doesn’t matter— Reo will always be a sucker for missionary. He’s a yearner, he loves so deeply and a hundred wins could never compare to watching your face when he’s laying it down good. The furrow in your brow, the scrunch of your nose. Bliss always looked best on you and he just wouldn’t be him if he didn’t spoil you rotten.

Stupidly expensive chain dangling right in your face, the metal swaying with each hard thrust. Reo hasn’t blinked once since getting you on the leather sofa, focused on what you respond best to. Not a single twitch could go unnoticed by him and he’d be damned if he doesn’t get your cross-eyed, if he doesn’t get you singing by the time he’s done making a sloppy mess of you.

“So cute,” He whispers sweetly, a little tipsy from the after party that the two of you returned from just shy of an hour ago. Your makeup left messy trails and streaks all over but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t add to it all. Liquor staining his lips, he can’t help himself from diving down for a needy little kiss. Lips sliding against yours, just a ghost of a touch, almost missing and pecking at the corner of your mouth instead.

Your legs ache from how high they’re settled, heels propped on his shoulders. He’s gotten big since his first big steps at chasing a professional career, the protein doing what it was supposed to do. Your ogling of his physique was cut so short as he snuck a hand between your legs, circling at your clit with percision. He had a one track mind and that was to get you squirting, to get you feeling just as good as today has felt for him.

“Show me how wet this pussy gets for me,” Reo punctuates his plea with faster circles, deeper thrusts, unable to help the satisfied grin that tugs at his lips when you only grow louder. “Make me proud. Nut on my dick, know you can do it.”

nagi !

Not a lot of things come to impress Nagi Seishirou. He’s hard to capture the attention of, going through life with simplicity and preferring to stick to his guns. It was a shock to everyone who knew him when he landed a girlfriend in the first place. The same guy who disregarded everything that required the bare minimum amount of attention managed to score? It was almost too good to be true.

It was fair to assume that after years of learning how to be present, how to be a fair and decent boyfriend, he could never go back. Not after getting a taste of you, not after feeling the highs that you managed to pull straight out of him like a puppet to your string. You opened so many new doors, you were good for his mental.

The best way to spend a good night is to make it even better. Your thighs straddle his, the fancy little number you wore for such a big game ridden up and out of his way. Pussy leaking like a faucet, the sounds of you bouncing your hips is embarrassingly loud in the backseat of your car. The two of you just couldn’t wait.

“Look so good tonight, baby,” He practically slurs, pussydrunk and successfully knocked from all of the theatrics of the night. He can never seem to think straight once you’re on top of him like this, tits bouncing right in his face, wrapped around him like a serpent. “Know that? Did I already tell you? I’ll tell you a million times.”

Oh, how he would. He would do whatever the hell you want if you’d just stay like this, wrapped around him like a vise, squeezing him hotly. You were his dime piece and he’d be an utter fool to not bend at your every beck and call.

barou !

Naturally, his first order of business after hours of playing on the same standing grounds as a bunch of sweaty neanderthals is to hit the showers. There’s nothing that he hates more than the way his jersey sticks to his back like glue, the skin of his forehead dewy. What he wasn’t expecting was his little plus one to trail on in after him, clothes long ditched as you slot yourself into the tiny compact stalls of the stadium’s complementary showers.

You know him by now. You know that whether he ate a loss or devoured a victory that he wasn’t much of a talker after exerting himself in the hot sun. Nearly running on empty, this was the one and only time that the stupidly buff man was dead silent. Zero complaints left him as he wrapped a wet palm around the nape of your neck, brushing lazily at the hair there with his thumb, angling upwards until he could latch his lips to yours.

Slow kisses and gentle touches, there wasn’t much energy left for a rough fuck. Barou was a thorough lover at the end of the day, showing his gratitude of your endless support by making your pussy soak him sloppy. The sensuality made up for the lack of output, so tender and passionate in ways that screams his love without making him verbalize it. God forbid he ever did that.

“Oh, I know,” he purrs against your swollen bottom lip as he sinks in, sheer strength keeping you held in his arms, back against the cold tile of the shower. Your hearty whimpers bounce off of the walls and he swears it’s his favorite sound. It’s always a challenge to take such a thick cock and he’s nothing if not a gentleman. “It’s so deep, huh? You’re taking it so well, though.”

It always makes him bite back a grin of pride when your nails claw at his shoulders, leaving nasty marks into the meaty flesh— a last resort at gathering your bearings before he fucks you so out of your mind that you threaten to pass out every single time. The sounds are filthy as he pours every last bit of his effort into you, tiring you out to match.

rin !

Soccer invokes plenty of strong emotions out of Rin as a whole. The pitch is the one place where he can unleash everything, where it genuinely counts. Post match? He gets rather passionate, in his feelings, raw and open like a fresh cut. It’s clear that he puts his full effort into every little detail of his day, that he considers everything a waste if not done to the fullest.

Simply put, if you aren’t shaking purely from overstimulation and pleasure, he isn’t done. A man akin to a machine, stamina blessing him with several rounds in the tank, there’s no telling just how long he’ll keep you in the same position. Body pressed into the bed, twitching against the wrinkled sheets, weakly holding onto a pillow as your final saving grace.

“Shit, that’s it,” He hisses as soon as he feels the tight, hot grip of your cunt wringing him. It’s the fifth he’s managed to pull out of you, keeping you perfectly bent until you physically give out. Times like these, sweat glistening down your back and thighs quivering as if they’re ready to snap are his favorite.

A hand reaches until it hits skin. It runs along the nape of your neck, sticky and dewy yet so intimate. His fingers dip down to cup your chin, light in the way he forces you to look over your shoulder. Your eyes connect and it has you breaking all over again, doing your best to keep them open as you cum almost on instant. Balls clapping your swollen clit with the sheer angle he’s hitting, so deep in your guts that it hurts. You didn’t stand a chance against him.

No, you were the love of his goddamn life. The one person he looked for in a room full of people, the only one who’s seen every inch of his body. He could never be worthy of you if he couldn’t fuck you to sleep with ease.

shidou !

Shidou on the field and off of the field are arguably the same person. Still eccentric, still too inappropriate for his own good. He brings levels of excitement that are otherwise hard to reach and truly, it’s difficult to keep up with him. Marching to the beat of his own drum and seeking fulfillment is what gives him his drive, its fuel for his fire.

The hospitality was his favorite part of the Blue Lock journey. He outperformed majority of the selected players and he was rewarded in turn, given luxuries and spoiled to the nines with catering and amenities. His suite was huge and he’s already fucked you in every corner of it, every surface. It’s not his until it’s tainted with him, after all.

“Shit, I needed this after today,” His voice rasps in your ear, the hard plastic edge of the hot tub that he’s got you bent over successfully digging into your ribs. Bubbles and suds clap into the air with each thrust, water gently rocking into a splash as it spills past the confines and drips onto the concrete of the balcony. It was a beautiful night after a beautiful win and nothing could make this better for him. “Water’s so warm. Do you like it too? Huh, gorgeous?”

When a dick that long was forcing itself into you, in and out like a sick song, kissing your cervix with each hit— words were hard to come by. Moans and gasps rupture from your throat as you try to muster a nod, grasping at the slippery corner of the hot tub for dear life, his pelvis smacking against the globes of your ass hard enough to sting.

He stops, so cruel and mean, dick still fully lodged in your walls. Pressing deep, hugging your aching sides and tugging you into his chest, he plants sloppy wet kisses along your cheek. “C’mon,” Shidou sneers with a smile, downright evil in the way he brings a hand up to grip your face between his fingers. “Good girls speak when they’re spoken to.”

#bllk smut #bllk x reader #isagi smut #bachira smut #kunigami smut #reo smut #nagi smut #barou smut #rin smut #itoshi smut #rin itoshi smut #shidou smut #blue lock smut

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lichlordpinkerton · 2 days ago

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Excerpt from Catch-22 Chapter 23, "Nately's Old Man" by Joseph Heller

"America ,” he said, “will lose the war. And Italy will win it.” “America is the strongest and most prosperous nation on earth,” Nately informed him with lofty fervor and dignity. “And the American fighting man is second to none”.

“Exactly”, agreed the old man pleasantly, with a hint of taunting amusement. Italy, on the other hand, is one of the least prosperous nations on earth. And the Italian fighting man is probably second to all. And that’s exactly why my country is doing so well in this war while yours is doing so poorly.

Nately guffawed with surprise, then blushed apologetically for his impoliteness. “I’m sorry I laughed at you,” he said sincerely, and he continued in a tone of respectful condescension. “But Italy was occupied by the Germans and is now being occupied by us. You don’t call that doing very well, do you?”

“But of course I do,” exclaimed the old man cheerfully. “The Germans are being driven out, and we are still here. In a few years you will be gone, too, and we will still be here. You see, Italy is really a very poor and weak country, and that’s what makes us so strong. Italian soldiers are not dying anymore. But American and German officers are. I call that doing extremely well. Yes, I am certain that Italy will survive this war and still be in existence long after your own country has been destroyed.”

Nately could scarcely believe his ears. He had never heard such shocking blasphemies before, and he wondered with instinctive logic why the why G-men did not appear to lock the traitorous old man up. “America is not going to be destroyed!” he shouted passionately.

“Never?” prodded the old man softly.

“Well…” Nately faltered.

The old man laughed indulgently, holding in check a deeper, more explosive delight. His goading remained gentle. “Rome was destroyed, Greece was destroyed, Persia was destroyed, Spain was destroyed. All great countries are destroyed. Why not yours? How much longer do you really think your own country will last? Forever? Keep in mind that the earth itself is destined to be destroyed by the sun in twenty-five million years or so.

Nately squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, forever is a long time, I guess.”

“A million years?” persisted the old man with keen, sadistic zest. “A half million? The frog is almost five hundred million years old. Could you really say with much certainty that America, with all its strength and prosperity, with it’s fighting man that is second to none, and with its standard of living that is the highest in the world, will last as long as the… frog?”

If you genuinely believe that the fall of the American empire is impossible, then remember that a hundred years ago the British empire ruled over a quarter of the world's population and now controls less than one percent. Even if the "United States of America" as a nation doesn't go away, the collapse of an empire is entirely possible.

#catch 22 #american empire #land back

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fortress-rising · 7 hours ago

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Soldier, how does it feel to be Americas greatest hero? :)

Soldier, where did that poster even come from? Scratch that, I dont want to know. Carry on.

#team fortress 2 #tf2 ask blog #asks open #tf2 soldier #MOD: Oh Buff George Washington Pinup Poster. We're really in it now #long time no see. very sorry. its hard to get back into drawing when I've taken a 'break'. I graduated college and was suddenly hit with #a really bad mental health moment. Im fine. tried to drown my Brain Bad in Payday 2. Only succeeded in getting more brain rot #but I'm gonna work on answering asks that have been waiting for a long time now. And get the next comic page batch done. And I have #a celebratory drawing to finish. Promise I didnt forget about this blog. man im sleepy. (salutes)

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ldydeath · 2 days ago

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I Love It | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: You and Jiyong have a running bet on who can make who crack the first on his M.O.T.T.E tour. Who knew all it would take was a wig and some very suggestive dance moves? Word Count: 2k Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v., fluff at the end. Author's Note: This was requested by @nikolaikwon, hopefully I did you proud!

It had been going on all summer. Flirty jokes, longing glances, feelings you were both trying to ignore. You were Jiyong’s main dancer. You couldn’t afford to get into anything with him, fun or otherwise. He was also enlisting soon, there was no future for you, not one that ended happily at least.

It was getting to a point where you needed to do something, though. You were getting tired of the games. Maybe just one night wouldn’t hurt anything. You just needed him to crack. And you had the perfect idea.

You’d pulled the girls aside, explaining the outfit change for ‘I Love It’ that night, showed them the wigs too. They thought it was just a funny joke and had decided to do it. They had no idea what you were really planning.

The lights dimmed to start the song and you took your position, laying down on the stage. You could feel Jiyong’s eyes on you, he knew something was off but in the dark he couldn’t really tell what it was.

The music started, the lights came up and Jiyong blinked, a smirk on his lips. How could you look so fucking hot and goofy at the same time? The wigs were too much, but the outfit? Yeah, that would be his undoing. His eyes stayed on yours as you moved on the floor. He needed to look away. Otherwise he might just have you then and there on that stage.

He turned, trying to focus on anything other than your legs in the air. The wigs were doing their part to make you look just a little less than perfect, but unfortunately for him, it wasn’t working well enough.

He turned again, your wig flowing with your movements and he covered his face to stop from laughing. Yeah, you looked hot in that body suit, but the wig was keeping you balanced. He couldn’t take you seriously. He stood off to the side, his eyes staying on yours for longer than he liked. You noticed. You always did when he was looking at you. Your movements slow and deliberate as you slapped your hands on your thighs.

He couldn’t take it anymore. His mouth wide, forgetting he was on stage for a second as he ran over to you. Realizing where he was, he threw himself down on the ground, a grin on his face as he sang the next lines of his song. His eyes staying on you. This might as well be a love song to you at this point, and it was in its own way.

You were so close he could just reach out and touch you if he wanted too. You took a step back falling in line with the other dancers, a satisfied smirk on your face at Jiyong rolling around on the floor in front of you. He rolled over, crawling to you as if getting lost in the moment again. He’d take you now on this stage, fuck the consequences, if you’d have him.

He stood up slowly reaching out for you but you moved just out of touch. He bent down, to cover for his movement and to also adjust himself so nobody got a peak at just how much he was reacting to you. You raised a brow at him and he shrugged ever so slightly. His eyes stayed on you as he continued on with the song.

The song drew to a close and the lights went down, much to the relief of Jiyong. He grabbed you, flung you over his shoulder and ran off the stage. Your wig falling to the ground in the process as you laughed. He didn’t stop running until he was in his room. He eyed his crew and swallowed hard, forgetting they’d be in there.

“Everyone out.” His grip tightened on you and you watched helplessly as everyone left the room.

He locked the door as the last person ushered out quickly, before setting you down on the ground. You looked so much hotter now that the ridiculous wig was gone, it was almost too much for him to handle.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” His eyes roamed your body before locking on your eyes.

“Hilarious, actually.” You beamed, taking a step back from him.

“You’re supposed to run all the changes by me.” He acted annoyed, or as annoyed as he could muster.

“You gonna punish me?”

His eyes bore into yours as he crossed the room. His lips crashing onto yours hungrily. God, he’d been wanting to do this for months. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you to him as his tongue darted out, begging for entrance. You parted your lips, happy to oblige, his tongue massaging yours.

You let out a small whimper and Jiyong smirked. He may have caved first, but he’d always be able to claim that he could do that with a simple kiss.

He lowered himself on the couch, bringing you down on top of him and your hips brushed against him. The feeling too much, and Jiyong almost let out a moan - almost, but he refused to let you be his undoing anymore than you already had. His hand gripped your hair, pulling you away from him as his lips brushed your throat. He kissed down your neck, biting along the way, leaving tiny marks he hoped wouldn’t fade anytime soon. You were his, and he wanted everyone to see it.

His hand moved under your skirt and he sucked in a breath when he was met with your wet folds. He’d been expecting to meet the fabric of your panties. You smirked as his eyes locked on yours and his finger entered you. He pumped in and out of you hard, inserting another digit. His fingers curling inside of you as his thumb brushed your clit.

“Ji, fuck.” You moaned, your hips rocking in his hand.

His thumb moved faster, bringing you close to the edge, your breaths coming out in quick moans. He stopped, removing his fingers, his hand laying on your waist. Bringing you just close enough. You glared at him and he smirked. He was going to punish you alright.

“What the fuck?” You groaned.

“I think you owe me an apology.” He shrugged, leaning back on the couch.

“Oh?” Your brows raised and you slid off his lap, falling to your knees in front of him.

You unzipped his pants and pushed them down just slightly, freeing his aching cock. Your hand wrapped around his shaft and your lips hovered over him. You pumped him up and down slowly, your finger massaging over his tip before sliding back down. Jiyong sucked in a breath as your tongue darted out, licking the precum, before your mouth widened to take him in.

You took him in as far as you could before you gagged, your eyes filling with tears. Jiyong’s hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers gripping your hair, hard. His hips bucked, and he began thrusting in and out of your mouth slowly. Your moans vibrating off his cock. His head leaned back against the couch as he took a second to collect himself.

As good as this was, and trust him, it was the best he’d ever had, he didn’t want to come this way. He pulled your head back, your lips popping as you released yourself from his cock.

You moved to straddle his lap and lowered yourself on him slowly, taking him inch by inch until he had fully entered you. You let out a moan, that Jiyong quickly hushed by kissing you. Nobody needed to know what was happening in this room, not yet.

Your hands slid under his jacket, sliding it off of him, thankful that he didn’t have another shirt on underneath, your nails digging into his chest as your hips rocked against him in slow circles. Jiyong hissed as your nails tore this his flesh, maybe he could pass it off as a cat scratch later, and if not he didn’t care.

His hand moved to your thighs, lifting up gently before letting you slam back down, his hips thrusting into yours as yours moved against him. His hands moved up, tearing at your shirt until it ripped off you. He’d just make you another one, or you could switch to another outfit all together. Whatever. He lowered his head to your breast, his hand moving to your other one. His tongue swirled your nipple as his fingers gently pinched your other one.

“Ji, fuck.” You moaned.

He took that as his encouragement to continue and he kissed his way over to your other breast, making sure to give each one the same amount of attention.

“Gonna need you to come for me Aein, I can’t hold on for much longer.” Jiyong whispered against your skin.

You shuddered, your hips moving faster and Jiyong matched your movements, thrusting into you hard. His hands moving back to your thighs, gripping you so tight you were sure he would leave bruises.

You came loudly around him, your head falling back. His hand gripped your hair again, pulling you to him and he kissed you hard, biting down on your lip gently. His hips bucked into yours as he came inside you. You went to move off him but he held you in place, not ready for you to go yet. His dick twitching inside of you as he finished his orgasm. His lips stayed locked on yours, the kissing calming from a desperate to soft.

“That was” You trailed off, a small smile on your face.

“Yeah.” He breathed as you climbed off him. Smoothing out your skirt.

“Gonna need to borrow some clothes to get out of here.” Your hands moved to cover your bare chest.

Jiyong smirked as he zipped his pants back up. He stood up, sliding his jacket back on before walking over to you. He planted a soft kiss on your lips and moved your arms.

“Don’t hide from me.” You blushed at his words, but kept your arms down at your side.

Jiyong nodded, moving to his clothes rack, emerging a few seconds later with a simple t-shirt. It was one of his favorites, you’d recognized it right away. Jiyong and his Disney tees.

“You sure?” He nodded and you slipped the shirt over your head. “Feel like I should ask what we are.” You joked.

Jiyong snorted, his arms wrapping around you as his lips brushed yours softly. This was why he’d been avoiding his feelings for you. He knew he’d never get enough of you now.

“We’re whatever you want us to be.” He shrugged.

“Be still my heart.” You teased, your hand moving to rest on your chest.

“You know what I mean. I think it's obvious how we feel about each other. But it’s up to you. Do you want to be with me? Because I understand if you don’t. I’m kind of broken goods these days. And I’m enlisting soon. Not a huge selling point.” He shrugged.

“Hey, don’t do that.” Your hand moved to his cheek. “You are not broken, Jiyong. Are you kidding me? And I don’t care about enlistment. I care about you. You have me obsessed with you, no distance is ever going to change that. I’d wait for you, if you want someone to come home to. And I’ll remind you every day just how perfect you are. No more bad thoughts entering that pretty head of yours.”

“You’re perfect.” Jiyong leaned in, his lips brushing against yours gently. “There’s nobody else I’d want to come home to. The idea of that makes these next 18 months all the more bearable.”

“Come on. We have a show to finish.” Your hand brushed against his cheek gently before you let him go.

He watched you as you walked out of the room, questioning how he’d managed to get so lucky. This tour had started out a shit show but you’d made it bearable from the start. One of the only familiar people he’d had, coming from BigBang to join him on tour. You’d really stepped into a leadership role and he’d been lucky to have you along for the ride. Now he’d get to take you home with him when this was all over. Maybe everything wasn’t as damaged as he thought it was. Maybe with your help there were other pieces of himself you could help mend along the way.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy @bettelaboure

#g dragon x reader #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #kwon ji yong x reader #bigbang x reader #g dragon #gdragon #kwon jiyong #kwon ji yong #my fics #ili

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gatorbites-imagines · 2 days ago

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Dear gator.............I LOVE THE LAST POST WITH WOLVERINE!!!!

Sir.....may we get more of him???? Like the same AU or something else? Like reader is as old ad him and they (mostly Logan) finds comfort in R (his) arms? He knows that someone may live as long as him and that makes him happy as he knows he will outlive most of the x men in some way or another?

LOVE THE WAY YOU WRITE!!!

Logan Howlett x mutant male reader

Headcanons

If I remember correctly, I got this request after writing about feral mutant reader and Logan, so thats what im going with.

Maybe reader has a similar mutation to Logan, healing factor and all, he just doesn't have the adamantium bones. Hes got a quick healing factor though.

You two being equally old means you two have been together for a very, very long time. It means you two know each other like the back of your hands, and you two can coexist without needing to speak.

Being feral mutants also helps in that regard, as you two are able to communicate with scents. It has nothing to do with being feral mutants, but you guys can also just grunt or huff, and the other will know what you mean.

You two are probably kinda codependent after so long together. Sure, you guys split apart for periods of time to do your own thing, but you always end up back together.

Being apart for longer periods of time make you both itchy. Your friends and allies can always tell when this is happening, cuz you both get extra grumpy and grouchy.

Having a partner who's been there all along helps keep a lot of memories alive too, because things are worth remembering now.

Logan will always say he's forgotten the first time you two met, or when he fell in love. But those memories are still clear all these years later.

Being together for so long also means that you are each other's comfort. Somewhere you can both go and find solace and love when the world falls apart.

With you not having the protection of the adamantium, Logan will at times get antsy when on missions, especially when he sees you in pain from broken bones or the likes.

You and Logan will always scent each other. Its a very normal sight in the X-men to see you sitting on the couch, and Logan will stop behind you to rub his chin on the top of your head.

Or the times where you will snuffle Logans neck and shoulders before you start nibbling on him a little, just to make the scent stick longer.

Theres no his or yours, and all your friends and allies know this. When it comes to laundry, food or drinks, there is no need to struggle who owns it. Just dump it all in your shared spot.

This would probably result in Logan having a broader amount of outfits, outside of white tank tops, boots and jeans, since he will wear what you buy and wear. And vice-versa.

Logans a grumbly guy, we all know that, but he allows himself to be vulnerable with you.

Being together for so long, and having known each other from the very beginning, means that Logan feels he can be open and himself with you. Theres no need to pull up his defenses for someone whos been with him every step of the way.

You guys probably have similar trauma and have been through similar things, and you understand one another on a deeper level that cant be matched.

This is also why Logan allows himself to be such a cuddlebug when you guys are alone in your shared room, or whatever motel you two are staying at. Or even in some cave or tent in the middle of nowhere.

Aging as slowly as you guys do means you have lost a lot of people, and you will continue to lose people, a fact that never stops hurting.

But being able to be held by you, to hear your heart and smell your scent, to feel your warmth wrapped around him, makes it hurt a little less.

And of course, it goes your way too. No matter how much time you two spend apart, knowing that Logan will always be there, waiting for you.

Even the times where you guys have argued and not seen each other for years, you still accepted each other and just held on. This also just means you two are a lot more protective when things go down, but thats to be expected.

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idkyetxoxo · 2 days ago

Text

Five | Breathing Room | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.9k

Warnings - Mentions of injuries

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

I surfaced from the dark like someone breaking through thick ice—pain blooming faintly beneath my skin, dull but ever-present, like a wound that had forgotten how to close.

My lashes fluttered open, heavy and dry, and I took in the quiet hush of the room around me, shadows resting in the corners like sleeping cats.

A warm hand was wrapped around mine. Even before I turned my head, I knew who it was.

"Rhys," I whispered, my voice raw with disuse.

He jolted upright in the chair beside my bed, blinking as if he'd been pulled from a dream, or perhaps a nightmare.

"You're awake," he breathed, voice tight with relief and something else, something unspoken.

I nodded, the motion igniting a sharp flare of pain that rippled down my spine. I winced but didn't let it show.

"How long was I out?" I asked. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking any hint of time, morning, evening, night, it could've been any hour in any world, and I wouldn't have known.

"Two days," he said simply.

My mouth dropped open. "Two days?"

"Madja did what she could to heal you, but I... I insisted she give you a sleeping draught," he admitted, a flicker of guilt crossing his face.

"Rhys, you can't just—"

"I am your High Lord," he cut in sharply.

I raised a brow at him, ignoring the biting ache it sent across my skull. "And I am the sister of the arrogant High Lord who needed me to get him out of trouble more times than I can count when we were children."

A twitch of a smile ghosted across his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"You can't expect me not to be careful," he said, voice softening. "Not when Madja told me that the reason your body couldn't handle the damage is because... because you haven't let yourself heal. Not for years."

The words hung in the air like frost on glass. Fragile. Cold.

I didn't respond. Neither of us did.

Silence blanketed the room again, thick and humming with the weight of everything unsaid. It wrapped around us like the shadows lingering in the corners, waiting. Watching.

"Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time," I murmured after a while.

He didn't answer.

"Rhys," I said, sharper this time. When he still didn't meet my eyes, I knew. I just knew.

"You have a mate," I reminded him, my voice as firm as I could make it. "Go be with her. You don't need to play the overprotective brother right now. I'm fine."

"You're not—"

"I am," I snapped, more harshly than I intended. But my chest ached in a way no healer could fix, and I didn't want his pity. "Go. Be with Feyre. She needs you, and frankly, I want to go back to sleep. You're starting to irritate me."

He hesitated, torn, like his very bones resisted leaving. But he stood, slowly, and leaned over to press a kiss to my temple. His breath was warm against my skin, and the tenderness of it made something inside me crack.

Then he vanished in a shimmer of power, the room folding in on itself in his absence.

But I was not alone. Not really.

The moment Rhys was gone, the shadows came forward, silent and familiar. Azriel's shadows. They slipped through the cracks in the stone like smoke, curling around the bedposts, licking softly at the walls.

I didn't need to see him to know he knew I was alone again.

The House seemed to know what I needed before I could ask. A warm bath waited, steam curling lazily from the open door of the bathing chamber.

The shadows followed me, curling around my ankles as I moved, slow and stiff.

I peeled the bandages from my body, hating the way the scars mocked me in the mirror. I stepped into the water, the warmth swallowing me whole, and sank in until only my chin remained above the surface.

The shadows didn't leave. They never did.

They stayed—gentle, curious, as I let my head fall back, as the pain I had buried so deep clawed its way back up my throat.

Silent tears slipped down my cheeks, warm as the bathwater that cradled me. The shadows traced patterns on my skin, whisper-soft, like they could feel what I couldn't say aloud.

I closed my eyes and let myself feel it all.

The exhaustion. The ache. The guilt. Because Rhys was right. I had done this to myself.

I dressed slowly, each motion deliberate, careful, as though my limbs remembered pain even if my mind tried not to.

The House, kind as ever, didn't rush me. It laid out soft, worn clothes scented faintly of lavender and cedar, and as I slipped into them, it hummed quietly in the walls.

I wasn't sure if it was content or concerned.

The corridor outside my room was bathed in soft, golden light, the quiet kind that only came with late morning. I barely took two steps before colliding face-first into a solid, immovable wall of muscle.

I stumbled backwards, but strong, familiar hands steadied me before I could fall.

"You're leaving your room?" Azriel asked, not unkindly—just... concerned. Shadows coiled lazily around his shoulders, as if echoing the tension in his voice. With a quiet flick of his wrist, he reined them in.

I arched a brow. "Am I not supposed to?"

He hesitated. "Rhys said—"

"What Rhys doesn't know won't hurt him," I interrupted, breezing past him with a pat to his chest.

He sighed, falling into step behind me, but said nothing. The moment we rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, I stopped short.

"Mother above."

Cassian stood shirtless, elbow-deep in a massive sack of sugar, flour dusted through his hair like snow. There were streaks of what might've been butter across his cheek and batter smeared on the edge of his jaw.

He looked like a war god who'd lost a battle to baking supplies.

Azriel made a choking noise behind me.

Cassian whirled around, eyes wide with outrage. "Az, your shadows are useless! How am I supposed to surprise someone with a pie if that someone walks in?"

A few of the shadows, clearly offended, whipped forward and delivered a soft, but precise slap to his bare chest before flitting away, some curling around me in soft, cool tendrils, others rejoining Azriel like reprimanded cats.

"They like me better than him," I said with a grin, letting one of them swirl lazily around my finger. It hummed, almost purring in delight.

Cassian glared. "Well, you might as well come help me then."

I stepped into the kitchen, already rolling up my sleeves. I paused mid-roll, eyes narrowing. "Why are you shirtless?"

Cassian glanced down as if just now remembering. "Well, the apron got dirty, so I took it off. Then my shirt got dirty. So I took that off too."

I blinked at him. "Cass, that's literally what an apron is for."

To his credit, he had the grace to look sheepish. "Well... yes."

Azriel leaned against the far counter, his arms crossed, lips twitching. He was barely containing himself, and Cassian shot him a scowl.

I shook my head with a sigh, glancing around for something to wear.

"Alright then, what do I wear to help with this chaos?" I asked, tugging my sleeves higher—until the edge of a large, still-fading bruise peeked into view.

The room shifted almost instantly. The air quieted.

I caught Cassian's expression soften, and Azriel's eyes darken just a shade. My fingers stilled for a second, then quietly I rolled the fabric back down.

Silence continued. But then—Cassian.

"You could always go shirtless like me," he offered with a grin, tugging playfully at the hem of my shirt.

I laughed, the sound quiet but genuine. It felt like something inside me had cracked open.

Cassian. Always successful in finding a way to defuse the tension, to keep the heavy things from settling too long.

"What kind of pie are we making, exactly?" I asked, slipping into the rhythm of the kitchen with surprising ease.

"Blueberry," he declared proudly, gesturing toward a bowl piled high with dark fruit.

I peered at it. "Cass... those are blackberries."

He paused. Looked again. "...Oh."

That was it—Azriel cracked. He laughed, really laughed. The kind of sound that you didn't hear often, but when you did, it was like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

He tilted his head back, one hand on the counter for balance, as the sound echoed through the kitchen.

Cassian glared at him.

Azriel simply shook his head, still laughing as he pushed away from the counter. He started to leave, but not before glancing back at me, his smile warm and familiar.

Later that night, the rain came.

It began as a whisper against the windows, soft, tentative, like it wasn't sure if it was welcome. Then it grew bolder, steady, insistent, a rhythm that matched the pulsing ache still lingering behind my ribs.

I curled tighter beneath the blanket that the House had draped over me, the edges tucked close like an embrace, the fire crackling low in the fireplace.

The room was dim, cast in amber light and shadows, and for a moment, I let myself exist in that quiet. In that stillness.

Until the door opened, not harshly and not suddenly but with purpose.

A cascade of golden curls burst through the doorway like sunlight cutting through a storm.

Mor didn't hesitate. She crossed the room in seconds and dropped to her knees beside me, enveloping me in a hug so fierce I couldn't breathe but I didn't need to. Her scent, jasmine and citrus and something inherently her wrapped around me just as tightly as her arms did.

"Hello, Mor," I whispered into her shoulder, my voice muffled and worn.

She didn't answer immediately, just held me a beat longer, then pulled back and cupped my face gently between her hands, her eyes scanning mine like she needed to see with her own eyes that I was still here. Still me.

"Rhys told me," she said quietly, urgency softening into sorrow. "He told me everything. I came as soon as I could."

She brushed a strand of hair from my forehead and slid beneath the blanket without waiting for permission, as if she belonged there—because she did.

Because Mor had always known when words were too sharp, when silence said more, and when all someone needed was warmth and presence.

"I know," I murmured, leaning my head against hers as she rested it on my shoulder.

For a while, we didn't speak.

There was no pressure to. The only sound was the steady tap of rain against the glass and the occasional crackle of wood settling in the fire. Her fingers traced idle patterns on the blanket, mine curled loosely in my lap.

Eventually, her voice broke through the hush.

She told me about her day. Some ridiculous thing Cassian had said, the colour of the dress she'd nearly bought but didn't, the way the shopkeeper's dog had followed her out into the street.

Her words flowed like a stream, light, casual, healing in their simplicity.

She didn't bring him up. Not once.

Instead, she offered me pieces of her day, as if building a little world around me where the sharp edges couldn't reach.

The fire burned lower, the shadows lengthening, when the door opened again with a soft creak.

Azriel stepped inside, quiet as a breeze, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere in the way only he could. He didn't say anything, just walked over and knelt beside me, offering a steaming mug with both hands.

"Madja said you should drink this," he said, his voice low, roughened with sleep or worry or both.

The mug was warm against my fingers. I looked up at him, and for a moment, our eyes met. His shadows curled gently around his shoulders, as if watching me too.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He nodded once, then glanced at Mor and stood, giving me a fleeting look of softness, one that told me everything he didn't say.

Then he left, just as quietly as he'd come, the door clicking shut behind him like a secret.

I drank the tea in slow sips, the warmth of it unfurling something tightly coiled inside me. Mor didn't speak anymore. She just stayed there, shoulder to shoulder with me.

When the mug was empty, I set it down with trembling fingers and sank deeper into the cushions, the exhaustion in my bones finally winning out.

Mor moved then, gently pulling the blanket higher, tucking it around me with a care so soft it made my throat ache. She stood, brushing a hand once through my hair, and turned toward the door.

She didn't leave with the whirlwind she came in on. No, this time, she slipped out like starlight fading at dawn.

And I let the rain sing me to sleep.

Much later that night, long after the fire had died down to embers and the rain had softened to a gentle lullaby against the windows, a different kind of darkness entered the room.

It was quiet, slipping in without fanfare, without intent to disturb.

Rhys was there, seated in the same worn chair near the bed, elbows on his knees, chin cradled in his hands. He watched me sleep, not like a High Lord watching over his subject, but like a brother clinging to the sight of someone he almost lost.

A flicker of movement, just the shuffle of the blanket as I turned restlessly was all that broke the stillness for a time. That, and the slow, unsteady rhythm of my breathing.

The door creaked open. It was nearly soundless, but Rhys looked up anyway. He always did.

Shadows slipped in first, silent scouts of a master who followed seconds later, tall and cloaked in midnight.

Azriel.

He froze when he saw Rhys, like a stag caught beneath a hunter's arrow, startled and unguarded.

His shadows had lied—no, not lied. They had simply missed the presence of the High Lord, wrapped as he was in grief and silence.

Even the most loyal of spies could be deceived by heartache that didn't move or speak.

Azriel hadn't come to speak, hadn't come to confess or plan. He came to check, to make sure I was still breathing, still safe, still here.

That was all.

Rhys leaned back in the chair, not startled, not surprised. He just looked tired, tired in a way that power couldn't fix, that centuries of wisdom couldn't soothe.

"She's stubborn," Rhys said, voice soft as moonlight, laced with fondness and sorrow. "Not that I'm shocked. She is my sister, after all."

Azriel stepped farther into the room, his steps silent like always. "She was raised alongside three males who would raze the world for her," he said quietly. "And a mother who loved her more than the stars."

The silence that followed was heavy. It wasn't awkward. It was grief. Shared. Carried. Etched into the bones of both males like a scar that would never fade.

Azriel spoke again, his voice lower, the words hard-earned.

"We tried," he said, and already it cracked at the edges. "We all tried, Rhys. After you left... she unravelled. She smiled at first, for the others. Said she was fine. But then... she drank. She cried. Raged at nothing, at everything. Locked herself in her room for days. And then... she met him."

He paused, his shadows curling tight around his boots like living sorrow.

"She fought him at first. I know she did. She fought the charm, the lies, the abuse. Because she's—her. But then something in her just... stopped." His voice caught, and he glanced at me, at the slow rise and fall of my chest beneath the blankets.

Relief flickered there in his eyes, but it warred with something else. Regret. Fury. Guilt.

"She blamed herself for everything," he continued. "For your absence. For Daeron's cruelty. She wouldn't hear otherwise. We told her over and over that she wasn't the one to blame—but you know how she is. Once she believes she deserves the pain... there's no pulling her back."

Rhys's eyes closed. His breath was steady, but his fingers clenched into his knees.

"She's always carried more than she ever should have," he said after a moment. "She did it when our mother died. Took the blame like it was hers to bear. And after... after what Tamlin did—there were pieces of her I never knew how to put back together."

Azriel's shadows twitched, agitated, as if remembering, as if tasting that memory on the air.

"She never told me everything," Rhys said softly. "About what happened when she visited that last time. But I saw her after. The way she wouldn't let me hold her, even when she was sobbing into the floor."

Azriel's fists curled at his sides, his wings shifting behind him like restless thunderclouds.

Both males let the silence return for a while. Not cold now just quiet. Shared.

"Daeron?" Rhys asked at last, though his voice was already laced with dread.

Azriel didn't flinch. He just clenched his jaw. "At the Court of Nightmares. Where he'll stay. I'll keep him there until she tells me what she wants me to do."

A pause. "And I'll do it."

Rhys nodded turning back to watch me, his fist curling and uncurling on his lap.

"Go to Feyre," Azriel added softly, gaze never leaving the bed. "She needs you. I'll stay."

A heartbeat of hesitation, and then Rhys leaned down, pressed a kiss to my temple, and vanishing into the night.

The moment the soft echo of his magic faded, Azriel moved.

He claimed the empty chair like it had been waiting for him all along, wings folding neatly behind him, shadows wrapping around his ankles like loyal hounds lying at their master's feet.

He didn't touch me. Didn't speak. He just watched. Watched as I slept, still, at peace for once.

Azriel finally let himself breathe. His brother was safe. His family was healing.

And the female he loved beyond reason was here, alive, asleep, still whole, even if she didn't believe it.

A/n - So, we've got some normalcy—yay! I really wanted to write a struggling Cassian baking, because honestly, I feel like that's canon... at least to me :)

We've got Azriel being a mother hen, caring as always, but the real heart of this chapter is the ending, where he and Rhys finally sit down and talk about everything. Some parts are still a bit elusive, but don't worry, it's all for good reasons!!

The next chapter is cute and fluffy (for a bit), but it definitely goes downhill after that, so consider this your pre-warning x

I also have finished writing and editing this whole story completely so i might post updates every 3 days, idk if that’s something you’d prefer?

As always, I hope you enjoyed it! <3

(i’m also insane so over the last week i have written a whole other Azriel story 👀 daughter of autumn, accidental pregnancy but it’s still in early editing stages, just thought i’d let yous know 😝)

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86 @saamanthaag3 @whydohumansss @xlosttdreamss @bookishwondersworld @plants-w0rld

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13thpythagoras · 3 days ago

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valid question, thank you for asking!

From what I've seen, it's consensus that Neanderthals ate a diet that was high enough percent in meat to change their physiology, such that they were about 50-100x stronger than a h. s. sapien at the same time. I'm drawing broad new-ish(?) conclusions from that consensus view.

All I'm positing is this likely also had an effect on their psychology.

I had an anon in my asks that got lost saying this study proves they weren't carnivores because they sometimes only ate rabbits. I'm like ... just failing to see how it's controversial to suggest the Neanderthals' diet may have (likely) had psychological impacts in addition to the physiological changes we already note in the above study and many others like it. I'm seeing it as wide consensus they had a high-meat diet relative to h. s. sapiens.

I invite any researcher to study the human timeline and note we had a bottleneck in population 900k years ago down to roughly 1,250 individuals, we bounced back though and later split from the lineage that became Neanderthals/Denisovans about 600-800k ya, the first constructed buildings have been discovered in Africa c 400k ya, h. s. sapiens emerges 250-200k ya, from Africa arrives in America 120k ya, Australia 65k ya, and Europe 40k ya- why did it take h. s. sapiens so long to make it to one of the nearest continents to Africa, Europe?...which, during ice ages, may have even seen a dry Mediterranean sea, easily traversible? ... seems suspicious that these carniverous apex predators densely populating Europe for 300k years may have had something to do with h. s. sapiens' difficulty in gaining a foothold in Europe, while by contrast it's looking like Asia was much less densely populated by Denisovans.

Anyway it's a suspicion! I'm curious to learn more and maintain an open mind but I think it's funny to watch folks look at Neanderthals, an animal that literally had an enlarged liver to handle all the extra meat in its diet, these animals ate so much meat in the short span they diverged from us modern humans that they became 50-100x stronger than us on average, and could chomp through our literal bones, people are saying Neanderthals were these romantic cuddly guys. Seems unlikely to me. Modern humanity wasn't the strongest so we filled a niche called being the smartest.

We see articles like this that can only conjecture humans and neanderthals peacefully cohabitated for maybe a few thousand years while in context, Neanderthals doninated Europe for over 300,000 years. If there's any agenda that I am sensing here, it's an agenda to paint the Neanderthals as a cuddly lil teddy bear, who we co- lived with in villages the entire time that we shared a history, when, in reality, it was just less than 1% of the evidence towards that type of hypothesis with in my view closer to 99% of the evidence being that Neanderthals murdered and raped humans out of localized existence for roughly 99% of our shared history, and of course this is history that existed before language and law and morality and conception of murder or rape, so these are literally wild beings who I don't judge, I'm just trying to accurately describe what happened. I'm very curious to continue genuine discussion and I'm not here to escalate any mockery, but I'm here to learn and stay respectful. Cheers!

Again above, this really is only one percent of our shared history to claim a few thousand years of coexistence... when the Neanderthals have been in Europe closer to 300,000 years, h.s. sapiens only existing for roughly 200k years, most of which time we couldn't expand into Europe, seems like there was a hard barrier against the expansion of h. s. sapiens into Europe called Neanderthals...

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

#and obvs if one has extra carniverous ancestry it could be a blind spot to watch out for

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anything-pov · 17 hours ago

Note

Since the person didn't answer i'll request

An Emily X Reader SOFT LAUNCH

where the BAU slowly finds out that Emily is in a relationship (w/a woman)

reader not apart of bau(maybe a chef??)

;))

Thanks for the request 🫦 Enjoy! 😉

The Soft Launch 🚀

For weeks, the BAU had been on alert. It started small, cute, funny little, cryptic Instagram stories from Emily.

A photo of her hand over another, fingers intertwined beside a wine glass and a plate of what looked like the most divine pasta any of them had ever seen.

No caption. Just a timestamp and a playlist linked, “Melt into You, Slow Jazz Sundays.” Then came the lunches. Homemade. Artisan, even. JJ had noticed it first.

“Emily,” she murmured one afternoon, during their usual break between rough cases, "did you pack that yourself?" Emily's eyes cast down to the perfectly layered beetroot and goat cheese tart in a glass container, simply shrugging.

"Got lucky."

Morgan, of course, had smelled something fishy when a bouquet of rosemary, not flowers, rosemary, had shown up in Emily's office with a note attached, "Don't forget the salt this time, baby. -Y."

But no one had answers. Just assumptions.

Then came the night at Rossi's, a few weeks later.

The house was buzzing with laughter, expensive liquor and the warm hum of an early spring evening. Rossi was holding one of his infamous parties, the kind where the wine flowed like a river.

Strauss had gotten tipsy enough to sing Piano Man on the baby grand. Rossi had, apparently, spared no expense on the food this time. "Hired someone big," he said with a smirk to JJ as he poured her another.

"Almost impossible to book, but I pulled strings." Emily, nursing her scotch, froze, "Who?" Rossi grinned, holding his glass a little tighter with excitement.

"Y/N Y/L/N. Apparently she trained in Paris and Tokyo and is probably going to get her second Michelin star before thirty." Emily's glass paused at her lips.

"What?" Rossi looked her over, "You've heard of her?" Emily blinked once, swallowing her worry, "You could say that." And then, like fate tipping its might hat, Y/N walked into the room from the kitchen.

Carrying an amuse-bouche like it was a crown jewel. She had short, tousled hair tucked behind one ear, arms inked with delicate fine-line tattoos, a lavender sprig, a sunflower, a French knife, and a crescent moon.

She wore her pristine chef's jacket rolled at the sleeves, her apron tied snug around a frame that was compact but clearly muscular. She glowed. And when her eyes met Emily's dark irises...

Everything stopped.

The room, the noise, the laughter, every bit of it melted. Y/N lit up, face breaking into the warmest smile and she crossed the space in a few long strides before stopping just shy of Emily's side.

"...Babe," she whispered, "Didn't realise you were here."

Emily looked dazed, then chuckled, running a hand through her hair, "Neither did I." Y/N leaned in and kissed her temple, and the collective BAU jaw hit the floor in unison.

"Holy..." Garcia whispered from across the table, "That's the chef?"

"THAT'S the mystery girlfriend?" Morgan mouthed to the blonde. Y/N turned to the group, cheeks slightly pink but utterly composed. "Hi. I'm Y/N. Sorry for the surprise. I wasn't told who the event was for."

Her eyes flicked to Rossi, "Your assistant booked me under 'D. Rossi Enterprises.' Very sneaky." Y/N smiled to the older man. "You're the Y/N?" JJ blinked, "The pasta queen from Instagram?"

Y/N laughed, nodding her head gently, "Guilty."

And just like that, any awkwardness vanished. Y/N floated back to the kitchen like she was born there, commanding heat and flame and plating like it was an artwork.

Emily, never far from the archway between kitchen and dining room, watched with an expression none of them had ever seen on her. Not even during a case crack.

Admiration.

Adoration.

The soft kind of awe that made her cheeks flush and her lips curl even when she didn't know she was smiling.

At one point, music drifted from the speakers, and Y/N, mid-sear on scallops, turned with a grin and swayed her hips to the beat. She danced around the kitchen like it was a small stage, a pan in one hand and a plating tweezer in the other.

"Is she dancing?" Reid asked in a whisper, "While cooking?" He turned to Garcia, the blonde shrugging her colourful shoulders, "Gordon Ramsay would cry," She whispered back, "Happy tears."

Then came the food.

A roasted duck breast with blackberry glaze, served over parsnip puree and heirloom carrots that had somehow sculpted into tiny roses.

Pasta with lemon cream and shaved bottarga. Each plate was a piece of art, every bite more transcendent than the last. A moan escaping every FBI agent's lips.

As dessert was served, something chocolate and impossibly airy, Emily stood and joined Y/N in the kitchen, slipping an arm around her waist.

"Can I help?" Emily murmured against the shell of Y/N's ear, Y/N just smiled, still focused on plating. "You already are." And when Emily kissed her cheek in full view of the team, Y/N leaned into it without a second thought.

Rossi raised a glass, "To Chief Emily Prentiss, and her not so secret anymore girlfriend." The team clinked glasses, JJ still wide eyed, Morgan nodding with impressed approval and Garcia already on her phone trying to find an open reservation.

- - -

Later, when the dishes were done and Y/N was tucked under Emily's arm on the porch with a glass of wine, Emily whispered, "Soft launch, huh?"

Y/N just turned to her and smiled, "Felt more like a firework finale..." Emily kissed her slow, like gratitude, like peace, like home. "Couldn't be prouder and more in love with you."

#criminal minds #emily prentiss #ao3 writer #emily prentiss is cute #emily prentiss x reader #chef #bau #bau team #emily prentiss' girlfriend #wylix #wylix answers

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writingunderneathawillow · 10 hours ago

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blue valentine

- the four times bucky makes you cry + the one time you make him cry content warnings: heavy angst, bucky’s trauma, mental health plays a big part here, depression, ptsd, unwanted advances towards reader (not bucky), accidental violence against reader, crying, insecurities, hurt/comfort, very minor thunderbolts* spoilers word count: 3.3k a/n: inspired by nessa barrett’s song blue valentine, lyrics are in italics, this is unedited cause i’m lazy but i’ll try to get around to it tomorrow

you play it so damn cool, 'cause baby, you are Bucky was a quiet lover. He would send you flowers at the end of the week, little gifts on special occasions and he’d spend time with you, either tucked away in tranquil corners of restaurants or curled up together in dark corners and sequestered rooms of the tower. Most of the time however, you spent at your apartment. He had told you he was a private person when you met, and you had understood that. Sometimes you wanted to show him off just a little – introduce him to your parents and friends, kiss his cheek on his birthday – but you were patient and held out on such things. Instead, you relished in your shared secrecy. Keeping things just to yourself had its benefits as well. Most of the time.

But once you hit the six-months-mark in your relationship, things got a little rocky. Your friends were pushing to meet him, and you were eager to share your joy with them. Bucky protested the way only he could: With smooth words and even smoother kisses. “Doll, I just want us to stay us for a little longer. I like having you all to myself,” he explained, his voice dipped in soft honey. He pulled you in closer and kissed the corner of your mouth. His stubble tickled your skin and managed to produce a little giggle from your lips. “Well, baby, you still have all of me to yourself even if you meet some of my friends. They’re really curious about you and wanna know who I spend all of my time with,” you retorted and pushed him away just a little to look at him. Those ocean blue eyes, usually filled with so much warmth when he looked at you, clouded just a tiny bit when he noticed your reluctance to drop the topic.

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, and you felt the need to shrink away under his piercing stare, but you didn’t give up. “They’d love you.” “Sweetheart,” he began, “I wanna meet them. That’s not it. I just- I think I’m not ready to go there yet.” Something in you cracked – just a little. It would be easy to smooth it over, to fill the fracture in your heart and piece it back together, if he just added a few more soothing words, so that you wouldn’t feel like an idiot for wanting your boyfriend to meet your loved ones. But his lips remained sealed and he simply ran a hand over your cheek. “Yeah?” He asked once he had noticed that you hadn’t answered.

No. Not yeah. The words almost spilled out, but you clamped your teeth shut against each other, biting away the tears which threatened to fall. “Okay, baby,” you said instead and nodded for good measure, ignoring the blistering pain, lit by insecurities, that burned its way through your mind. Bucky didn’t notice the way your waterline began to swim. He either genuinely thought that things were fine this way or he chose to ignore the way you mumbled a quick excuse to take a shower. Either option worsened the hurt you were already feeling.

In the bathroom you let the tears fall. You turned on the shower and stripped off your clothes as the salt streamed down your face. Your brain was working overtime as you wondered what was holding him back. Six months was already a long time to not have met your friends, but now, turning down your explicit request – it stung even more. Little by little, moments of the last half year came back to you, rushing onto you like a thunderstorm. His birthday when you had not been allowed to throw a party for him (“I’m fine celebrating just with my best girl”). Turned down dinner invitations with his friends (“You’ll meet them soon, doll, don’t worry, just not tonight”). A quick getaway from the bar he had taken you to once he had spotted Sam (“I’ll introduce you soon but not now, it’s not right”). The shower hid your sobs and blended right into your tears, so when you stepped out and rejoined Bucky in your bedroom, you made up some story about getting soap in your eyes to explain away the red rims. I burn red for you Just a few weeks later, he splintered your already cracked heart. A simple night out, just the two of you of course, had gone sideways. A guy in a bar, drunk out of his mind and an asshole in general just to top it off, had wandering hands. While Bucky sat at one of the tables, you had begged him to let you choose a drink for him and after successfully convincing him, you had made your way to the bartender. The drunk idiot next to you called out to you, shouting over the music to ask for, or much rather demand, your number. Despite ignoring him and then outright rejecting him, he didn’t get the hint and refused to give up. His hands were on your arm for less than five seconds before he was ripped away with the flash of vibranium arm and his head collided with a brick wall. Bucky’s chest heaved as he landed a few punches, two to the gut and multiple to the creep’s face, before all three of you were thrown out of the bar. For a second you didn’t recognise the man before you. Fire raged in his eyes as he wrapped his metal fist around your wrist and pulled you down the street – to what he presumed safety. “Baby,” you winced, trying to free your arm from his tight grip. “Baby, please let go.” But he didn’t hear you. His body shielded you from the outside world when he led you, practically teared you, into an alleyway. Pushed against the wall, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, he frantically checked you for injuries and stopped abruptly when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes. “Sweetheart?” He asked, neck craning to search for threats, “What? What is it?” You wiggled your fingers hopelessly and whispered: “You’re hurting me.” No other feeling will ever compare to the one that swallowed you whole once your words had processed in his mind. His entire face dropped, and he put about ten feet between the two of you. His gaze was glued to your arm where angry red marks, shaped and moulded to his fingerprints, sat accusatory. “Sweetheart, I’m- I’m so sorry,” he murmured and stepped forwards, but he stopped himself before closing any real distance. “I’m- I didn’t mean to- I just saw his hands on you and I- fuck, I’m so sorry.” You exhaled deeply, trying to collect yourself, and wiped away the streaks on your face. “It’s okay, Bucky,” you mumbled and walked towards him. He shook his head and took another step back only to collide with the wall. “No, it’s not okay. I- fuck- I hurt you.” Bucky’s voice trembled and his hands – both metal and flesh – closed into fists. “I’m so fucking sorry. I… I can’t explain it and there’s no excuse, but I- I saw how he touched you and it- I-,” he stumbled over his words, trying to make you understand, not seeing that you already did. “I saw red. Nothing else. The only thing on my mind was getting you outta there.”

“I get it,” you replied gently and pulled your sleeves down, a feeble attempt at hiding the remnants of his grip. You managed a smile and softened your voice. “It’s not your fault. But we’re safe. We’re okay. Alright?” Feels like nobody knows The L-word had been on the tip of your tongue for months now. Pretty much since you had started dating. Bucky was easy to fall for. It took a little more effort to stay there with his closed off demeanour and reluctance to fully enter your world – he still hadn’t offered to introduce you to his friends and turned down any instance where he could have met yours. But it was worth it to you. You were royally whipped for him. So, the word dangled between the two of you, unspoken but mutually felt – or so you hoped. It was another late night, cozied up together on your bed while a movie played in the background. Neither of you was paying much attention to the plot, instead the focus had drifted into a heated make-out session. His hands rested below your shirt, warmth seeping into your skin as he traced shapes onto your bare back. You pulled away for a few seconds to take him in. Lips kissed rosy and swollen, a faint trace of a cocky smile on his face. His hair was messy from how often you had run your hands through it and a love-drunk haze veiled his eyes.

It felt right to say it then. There was no doubt in you, no fears that you might be knocking on a closed door. You breathed in deeply and placed another sweet kiss on his cheek before you said it. “I love you.”

He froze. You felt every single one of his muscles come to a halt below you. The thighs that had supported your weight on his lap went taut with tension and his fingers stopped moving.

You had heard of fight or flight before, experienced it yourself a couple of times and had seen it in action on Bucky. But he had always chosen fight so far. A punch thrown, a blow landed, a bullet shot. But he had never frozen. He sat below you, eyes trained on a spot behind you, and you were wondering if you needed to call Sam. Or 911. He seemed almost catatonic, like a deer in headlights. You wished you were the deer and the headlights would come a little faster towards you.

“Bucky?” You asked quietly, slowly easing off of his lap and his head snapped to you so quickly that it made you jump. “What?” His voice was hoarse, and you prayed that the ground would open up to swallow you. “Did, uh, did you hear me?” You hated the way your voice shook, already feeling the prickling in your eyes.

He didn’t answer but he nodded slowly. You hadn’t confessed your love to that many people yet in your life, but this was certainly the worst way it had ever gone. “Uh, okay,” you whispered. There was a sharp crack on the last syllable of your words, and you instinctively covered your mouth with your hands. You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to guilt-trip him into saying it back. You just wanted him to feel it, too. “Doll,” he began, an apologetic tone tinging his voice, but you interrupted him. “No, no, Bucky, I’m- I’m sorry, I, uh, you don’t need to say it back. It’s okay.”

It really, really wasn’t. Nine months, that’s how long you two were together now. Nine months of getting to know each other in and out, of spending days on end with each other and learning to love one another – at least that’s what you had thought. You scrambled up from the couch, clutching the hem of your shirt in an attempt to bring yourself back to earth and to hinder the tears from falling. Bucky stayed in his spot, his eyes helplessly tracking your movements as you increased the distance between the two of you – not enough to translate the emotional distance you felt right now.

“Sweetheart, it’s not- fuck, I mean, it’s not that I don’t… you know. But I… I can’t,” Bucky urged quietly. His words made little sense to your mind as it was consumed by grief. Grief for what should have been. “It’s fine,” you maintained and as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you to undermine your words, a single tear breached forward and slipped down your cheek. Do you really love me? Or just love to make me cry?

The following days were cruel. Both of you shut down completely. Conversations were rare and seeing each other even rarer. You walked through your own apartment like a ghost, staring at your phone like it might light up with an apology, or an explanation or anything. But no, radio silence. You heard from Bucky twice. The first time, he sent you a quick text to tell you that he was needed for a mission and would be back in a few days. Then, the second message came once he’d returned from the mission, asking you if he could come over. A ‘we need to talk’- text was rarely a good sign but you did. You needed to talk. It had been a sleepless night for you already, so you said yes, despite the fact that it was a little after 1 a.m. and anxiety rolled over you in waves at the thought of him ending everything you two had worked towards. The knock on your front door was accompanied by the loud boom of thunder. Rain hit the windows almost horizontally and wind rattled the glass. When you opened the door, you saw that Bucky had just barely escaped the worst of the storm. A few drops pearled down from his leather jacket onto your door mat and you – curse your stupid heart – immediately ushered him inside and went to get him a towel.

The silence stretched in between you. He dried off quickly but kept his shoes on. One foot out the door already. His boots squeaked as he walked towards you, and you saw it in his eyes. This would be your worst heartbreak to date. “Doll,” that wretched nickname, which usually gave you butterflies, now turned your stomach around, “I think… it’s… I-“

You listened to his stammers, his attempts at forming a sentence. Bucky usually seemed like the type of guy to have prepared a speech on the way here, but he was at a loss for words. He seemed like he was trying to spare you the heartache but there were no words invented for that. “Do you want to break up with me?” You asked bluntly. He looked at the floor, then at you and then back at the floor. Barely perceptible, he shook his head. “No.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “But we should.” For a second, you closed your eyes. Blood rushed through your ears, quieting everything around you, and for just a moment you could pretend that he wasn’t here. That he hadn’t just said that. “Why?” You deserved to know at least that. You didn’t want to be left with no explanation, only the what-ifs and if-onlys to keep you comfort. Another sigh, and you felt propelled to scream in his face. To yell at him, to slap him and to throw him out of your apartment. “I can’t do this- us,” he stammered. “Why, Bucky? Why?” You tried to swallow the tears, tried to suppress the voice crack but the air in your lungs didn’t suffice, not with the lump in your throat.

He couldn’t look at you, instead he faintly shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t know. I just…,” he trailed off, gesturing loosely to you before dropping his arms to his sides. “Do you not love me? Did I do something?” “No, sweeth-, no, that’s not it.” “Then what?” “I want to want this but I…,” he shrugged helplessly and for a second you caught his eyes, filled with despair and vulnerability. “But you don’t,” you finished his sentence for him. He shook his head again and this time kept up the eye contact. “No, I just can’t.” More tears fell and you wiped at them furiously, rubbing the skin on your cheeks raw. When you looked at him again, the only thing you saw was self-hatred. And you couldn’t stand it. You turned around. You heard movements, and begged God, the universe, anyone that he’d walk to you. The door slammed. Lying next to you, ‘cause all you ever do is make me blue The continuous pitter patter of the rain lulled you to sleep in the early morning hours, the sky just shy of turning orange.

The tears had only found their end once you fell into a restless dream. Splatters of the fight, mixed with distorted visions of a future with Bucky that seemed out of reach forever broke forth from your subconscious and kept you from getting any rest. Half drifted off, you registered the sounds of your door opening but you were in too deep to fully distinguish between your dream and the real world. But the warmth was real. The dip of the mattress was real. The shaky hand, flesh not metal, that rested timidly on your arm, was real. You woke with a flinch, and it took a few seconds for your eyes to clear enough to see Bucky. Disoriented and questioning if you were maybe hallucinating, you sat up. But no, he truly was here. Your vocal cords didn’t cooperate as you tried to say his name “I’m sorry.” He looked at you, and what you would have thought were leftovers of the rain, turned out to be tears on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he repeated as you stayed quiet. “You’re back,” you finally managed to say, the disbelief in your words unmistakable. “Yeah,” he confirmed quietly, “I shouldn’t have left in the first place.” “Then why did you?” He stayed silent for a beat, then began talking. “I broke your heart. And I couldn’t keep looking at you while you were… looking at me like that.” You tried to intercept, but he raised his hand slowly, asking you to let him continue. “I should have stayed. Because I want to. I want to be in your life. I just don’t know if I can allow myself to do that.” You shifted in bed, straightening up a little. “I want you. I… I love you,” he whispered, “But I don’t get to have good things. Good people like you. They die or they leave. And I can’t let that happen to you. I need you to live forever.”

Theoretically, you would do anything for him. But that was a request you couldn’t fulfil. “Bucky,” you began, but he shook his head again. “No, I know. I know, okay? It’s unfair of me to say that. But it’s true. I won’t survive if you die, or if you leave. And that scares me. So, I pushed you away. And I’m sorry for that. But I just… I can’t put you through that. A life with me is not something you want.” “That’s not your choice,” you implored quietly. Now it was your turn to shush him when he tried to protest. “No, Bucky, really. It’s not your choice. It wasn’t even my choice. But I fell for you. I love you and if I could have chosen, I’d do it again.” “I can’t give you anything. Stability. Promises. A future.” “I don’t want anything. I just want you.” Your words came out a little louder, a little harsher. But something had to penetrate that thick wall in his head that he had spent way too long building. “I want you. Now. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. When you make me laugh and even when you make me cry.” You leaned forward and gently grabbed his chin, swiping at the tears that had made their descent into his beard. “Do you hear me?” “Yes, ma’am. I hear you. I just… I don’t know how to accept it.” “I’ll help you. I’ll make you accept it. Now, come lie down.” He shrugged of his jacket and took off his boots. Then, slowly he eased himself into bed next to you and after a moment of hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry for making you cry,” he whispered against your hair. “It’s okay. You cried, too,” you replied quietly and pressed a kiss against his skin.

thank you for reading :) gentle reminder that likes are more than appreciated but comments and reblogs make the dream work

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iceman-kazansky · 3 days ago

Text

Smiles, Sun, and Unsaid Feelings

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Requested by: anon, by ask

Request: "will you be writing any Mika Hakkinen or Kimi Raikkonen fics?"

Pairings: Kimi Raikkonen x f!reader

Warnings: Probably unrealistic dialogue, alcohol consumed, Nando is a flirt, 2006 F1 season

Word count: 1.9k

A/n: This kinda took awhile. I was going to write this a week ago (for the 7th,) and I had it ALMOST finished but had school shit thrown on me and now I'm away on holiday. So, what better time to do it then now?

Taglist: @anamiad00msday

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Kimi was a tough nut to crack.

He was aloof, appearing closed off to all onlookers. He was difficult for press and didn't have much of an opinion on anything, always giving short answers to in depth questions. Kimi didn't mind, though, as long as it kept nosy reporters and crowded cameras out of his face, he'd do anything.

Another factor of his personality was, in short, a lack of friends. Sure, he had plenty of acquaintances, but were they really friends? They didn’t know what he was like outside of racing. His personal life.

It wasn't that the iceman didn't want friends, rather that he couldn't be bothered to make new ones.

But he also was beyond content keeping many people in the acquaintance zone. He deeply cherished his privacy.

He stood off to the side of the garage, getting ready for qualifying.

The 2006 season was mid way through when Montoya left Mclaren for good.

Kimi didn't necessarily feel too down about it, he had remained purely cordial with the Columbian.

He saw you step into the garage, clad in racing gear with a helmet tucked under your arm and pressed to your side. At first, he didn't believe you were his team mate. Perhaps an engineer or a mechanic, but a fellow driver? No way.

You were the first to introduce yourself to him. Sauntering up to him without a speck of hesitancy, you reached out and offered to shake hands.

“Hi!” You said, voice cheery.

It was then that you smiled. You beamed a hearty smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Kimi could've sworn he'd been blinded. Teeth so bright they seemed to shine and shimmer. He'd never seen something so.. so bright. Friendly. Outgoing.

He didn't realize it, but from that moment onward, he was hooked.

Kimi didn't return the smile, only offering a small nod to you. His ears burned red hot and he felt strangely awkward.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Kimi wasn't particularly interested in being friends with you. He had made that much clear. Or atleast, that's what you'd made out his reserved persona as.

But you were determined.

Hot summer sun beat down on you, feeling like every second you stood under its gaze you darkened with tan.

So, what better day for a cold snack?

With two ice-cream cones in hand, you weaved through the many people on the grid to your team garage.

You managed to get close to Kimi, standing beside him. Gently nudging him with your shoulder you presented one of the cold treats to him.

For a long minute he just stared, ice blue eyes flickering from you to the ice cream cone. It looked like he was contemplating or considering something, his brows pinched together and a quizzical look fell into his gaze.

Eventually, Kimi took the ice cream cone, mumbling– or grumbling, you weren't quite sure– a very quiet ‘thank you’.

But what you could've swore you'd seen on his face a moment before was just an ounce of shock. And that was enough to keep you determined to befriend the reserved driver even more.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥

The minute you'd climbed out of your car you looked for Kimi.

Your team had reported that he'd had some technical malfunction mid lap but said nothing else.

It was only after the fact that you exited your car that you found out he had walked off the track and went straight to his yacht.

You imagined he'd be upset over the race; no racer would have been jumping with joy after his incident. Kimi had made it well over half way through the race before unfortunately ending up out on lap 50 due to a mechanical issue.

So, doing the only thing you thought suitable, you sought him out– bringing an offering that was in hope of comforting him and being a good friend.

Or atleast, being a good friend is what you'd told yourself. That there was nothing besides friendly intentions, is what you resorted to claiming. Only, your heart had it twisted. Your emotions had already acted like a fishing hook, thrown straight into the flesh of your heart by his cool blue eyes and ocean vast personality. Kimi had you hooked.

Others may not agree with the ‘ocean vast’, but they were very wrong. Kimi was unique. He was reserved yet still cared about those around him. He wasn't outgoing, eager to meet new people, but he wasn't disinterested in maintaining a friend once you'd gotten there. Sure, it may have taken a bit more effort on your side, but before long you'd chipped through that glacier-tough outside to discover his real self. The one he had put aside for friends only, tucked away from media and press and the other competitors. Kimi wasn't as he appeared, he never had been and it only took a bit of time and observation skills to see that.

Before long, you were at his yacht. Kimi looked shocked when you appeared on the ramp of his boat, still clad in your racing gear and a smile on your face. “Hey,” you greeted, raising a hand slightly to showcase the items you'd run to get as soon as you'd found out about his incident.

In your hand sparkled a bottle of liquor, glinting under the sun. Then, Kimi grinned. His lips tilted up and he genuinely smiled. The action almost made you drop the bottle in shock, luckily, however, you managed to snap out of it and keep your grip on the glass. He may have been feeling upset, but your inclination of bringing a comfort of sorts had him feeling grateful beyond his own words.

And his smile was worth a thousand words to you.

You were welcomed onto Kimi's boat then, the two of you cracking open the liquor and sitting in the shade provided by the boat.

The liquor goes by quicker than you'd imagined.

By the bottom of the bottle you've moved closer, sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressing together while your hands almost touch, lingering a hair's breadth away from each other.

You converse animatedly with Kimi, even if you're the one doing a majority of the talking.

Kimi didn't mind it, though. His head, which previously felt weighted by the loud swirling thoughts, had cleared. Something likely because of your presence.

You're mid story, telling him about some childhood thing you remember when he closes that distance with his hand.

You stop talking, shocked by his action. In your chest, your heart does somersaults, flipping and beating wildly against your ribs. Your eyes dart down to his hand, which tentatively touches yours. Slowly, you reciprocate the action, moving to shift your hand into his. He spreads his fingers and you take the initiative to lace them together.

For Kimi, it's a grounding tactic and a way to show how grateful he is for you. He'd never been one for words, so instead he chose to show his emotion by holding your hand.

Nobody says anything, instead taking the moment silently. Neither of you know what it means to the other, or how the action mirrors an unknown, unspoken affection that’d been brewing for a while.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

The end of the season rolled up quickly. The Monaco incident was far from forgotten to either of you, rather pushed away by the lightning-paced world of Formula 1. It was the evening after Brazil, the final race of the season.

Most of the drivers had gone out to a local bar, deciding to get shitfaced in celebration of what they would argue a successful season.

Kimi sips on a Hardwall Long, a drink of gin and grapefruit soda. The bitter yet sweet mixture dances on his lips as he swallows a mouthful.

Across the bar, you sip your own drink. You know Kimi is here, but you're content while off on your own or meeting new people.

A presence makes itself known to you, leaning against the bartop and flashing a charming smile at you. Immediately, you recognize the face of the Championship winner and fellow driver, Fernando Alonso. His hair peeks out from behind his ears, brown locks waving hello.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks politely, gesturing to your almost empty glass. When he speaks, his Spanish accent is thick and rather nice on your ears.

But you don't care for the Spaniards' speech, you've already got your own accented man – whose voice lingers even now in the back of your mind,– to charm your ears.

You smile at Fernando, but politely decline, “I'm good but thank you, Nando. Congratulations on winning the championship, by the way.”

Little did you know that on the other side of the bar, you've caught none other than The Iceman's attention.

It's rare for the Fin to change expressions often– he's simply a man wearing a neutral face most of the time. But as of now, his eyes have narrowed uncharacteristically more, face pulling together in an expression of pure jealousy. Though, Kimi wouldn't really admit that out loud.

Fernando doesn't stick around too long after that, he just flashes you another smile and makes a comment about ‘still being there if you change your mind, hermosa’ before slipping away.

It isn't long before another figure stands beside you, only this time he seems.. off.

You turn your eyes to look at Kimi. He's got this subtle, sour look on his face, like he's just sucked on a lemon. It's unnatural on him, something you're unaccustomed with.

“Is everything alright, Kimi?” you ask, feeling concern.

He doesn't look at you, instead glaring at some object across the bar. “What did he want?”

“Alonso?” you ask, eyeing Kimi suspiciously, “he just wanted to buy me a drink.”

Kimi's eyes dart to the bar top, where a half-finished drink of yours sits. You can see his jaw clench while he simply hums.

“Let me take you on a date.”

“What?”

Kimi stares at you now, icy blue eyes trained on yours. He's serious and there isn't a speck of joke or jab in his speech.

“I promise it'll be better than whatever that.. Kusipää,” the foreign word slides off his tongue smoothly, alien to your ears, “has to offer.”

To say you were speechless was an understatement. Out of everything you expected to come from Kimi's mouth, his offer to take you on a date was not one of them. It wasn't even in the ballpark.

“He didn't ask me on a date,” you say, feeling confused. This whole thing feels confusing and like a big misunderstanding. Like a trick.

“My offer still stands.”

Something in his voice has you doubting your previous thought. How could he sound so sincere and be deceiving? It would be far-fetched. Even more so when you meet his gaze and see the genuine ask present in his eyes.

“Then I'd be honoured, Kimi,” you say, smiling at last. Your heart has taken that leap of faith.

He nods, and for a split second a smile graces his lips. You're thrown back to Monaco, even just for a short time, where he's smiling at you and you're smiling at him with booze in hand. He checks his phone before turning back to you, “let's get out of this place.”

The night was still young, and outside of the bar, within the city of Sao Paulõ, it was alive. Kimi extended his hand and you took it instantly, letting him lead you out of the bar.

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